I wish I had never....

I have really wanted to blog but everything I write turns out sounding bitter and generally ugly so I've not published anything I've written for a while.

I had a post about a birthday party we went to at a house that was filthy...which although not bitter per se, in reality didn't need to be retold. In fact it was over a week ago and I am still struggling with some of the images.

So this morning I'm up at 5:30 am thinking about all the Persian rugs I have in the attic. I have spent literally spent thousands of dollars on rugs that now lay in mouth balls wrapped in green hefty bags.

With the girls and the animals I've put the lion's share away. Each rug is a work of art and having them in the house brought light and color, yet I couldn't stomach having them ruined. It is my hope the roof rats don't enjoy snacking on them.

So I'm thinking - fuck- why did I buy all those rugs...it's 5:30 on a Saturday.

When I was a kid my dad's favorite phrase was 'I wish I had never...' and then fill in the blank.

I never heard him say he 'wished he had never...' had children or moved from Iowa to California, but other than those two things he pretty much covered everything else. Every house, every car, there was no purchase made that was not subjected to 'I wish I had never...'.

Regret.

So now I have it...thinking about rugs I bought from my sister-in -law's Iranian ex boy friend was the first regret of the day.

For me there is a constant stream of regrets running through my mind on a continual basis, like the news crawl on CNN.

'...I should have not left that hamster outside in the habitrail when I was in the sixth grade...' and then there's '...I should have gone away to college...'

Its always there, flowing through my head, a transparency over whatever else I'm doing.

Since my father regretted the vast majority of his decisions he backed into life, where as I decided to move forward- but we were left with virtually the same result.

I thought if I was more deliberate it might somehow change for me, that his regret was somehow linked to his seemingly lack of control over his life, a turtle on his back.

Now I think it has to do with our inability to allow for mistakes, because in that we are both the same - my father and I- we don't allow mistakes for ourselves or others.

I don't want my daughter's to make mistakes, but I certainly would never want them to know it.

To forgive your own mistakes is to live without the burden of regret, and it is a burden I truly don't want for either of them.

About 5 days before Joe took his own life I knew he was depressed, but didn't know to what extent. I specifically asked Gioconda about it.

"He wouldn't kill himself, right...," are the exact words I said to her.

"No way. I've seen him so much worse, and besides he's Catholic," she replied.

So we know how this turns out, 5 days later I find myself standing behind yellow police tape outside his house hearing the news, and then life was turned on its head.

The profound consequence of that day left all of us unraveled, a weight around our necks, which is never removed but coped with...

There was something in me that told me Joe was near the edge, but I didn't act.

I should have told him that he needed to be strong for Julien who was leaving for this freshman year at Cal the next week, and explain to him how terrible it would be for Aidan to loose his father at the age of 11.

I could have told him it would be the unmooring of his own mother, and how his sons would struggle to understand why he would leave them in that manner. How they would all be left untethered.

I should have told him it would fundamentally change Gioconda, robbing her of her optimism, and that she would be filled with her own regret- how she would miss him- how they would all miss him -

But I never said any of that to Joe....

So this regret dwarfs the others - really....

Today is 9/25/2010. This day holds no other significance to me other than the following:

I'm going to forgive Joe's mistake...and I'm going to forgive mine....all of mine.

Moving forward deliberately....

The Manner of my Death

My dad tells me no matter what he doesn't want a memorial service after he dies.

I have every intention of defying his wish, but I get it. The thought of people sitting around being sad your dead is unappealing to me as well. In fact, I think this is the most major drawback about being a parent, it limits the possibility my death will simply go unnoticed.

Certainly, I would have to outlive my immediate family, but I could be gone a full year before I think any of my nephews or the boys would really notice, but now with my daughters being here I wont be able to slip under the radar so easily.

I contemplate my own death at least once a day, and have since I can remember. Once I had a dream I was on a plane that was about to crash, knowing I had only minutes left to live I looked at the person next to me, who happened to be a very cute girl and asked her if she wanted to hold my hand.

The last minutes of our lives we were sharing, in retrospect, I should have asked her to kiss me, but based on the circumstances, impending death, it seemed inappropriate.

So as I sat there holding the hand of a cute girl before I died the last thing I thought was...this is how it ends.

Really.

I didn't think about loved ones, or things I had wished had accomplished- I didn't panic, I wasn't desperate, if anything I felt at peace knowing the manner of my death.

My preoccupation with death is one of those things I'm reluctant to discuss with others. I don't want a terrifying death. Arguably a plane crash is terrifying, yet by terrifying I mean I don't want to be taken hostage by a zombie, or disemboweled by a grizzly -that kind of terrifying.

Since nearly every day someone asks me if I have a disease, I've concluded I could have a slow death if it was painless. The draw back to the slow death is its really hard to make vacation or concert plans, so theres that.

Yet it gives you some time to shore up your life...but maybe its better to be sitting next to a really cute girl and holding her hand.

Uncle Clint

My dad stayed at my house last weekend as we were in a beach house in Newport for Gioconda's birthday.

Luckily my dad loves dogs, and he takes really good care of all the animals, and he was able to ride his bike around the Rose bowl which he enjoyed.

He also cleans up my yard, which is a huge benefit.

So I called him yesterday to thank him and he says, " Are you feeling ok."

I know immediately what he is referring to.

"You've lost a lot of weight."

He's right I have. Around the girls started walking I began loosing weight, and since October have lost over 30 lbs.

Now I eat about a quarter of what I used to eat, and although I have been able to maintain at 134 lb people ask me nearly every single day if I've lost more weight.

Since I've been anticipating gaining the weight back I haven't updated any of my clothes, so I'm an 8 wearing a 12-14, which I think compounds the perception I am suffering from a disease.

And then it gets me thinking, maybe I am.

Objectively I have all the characteristics of someone who should be filled with cancer.

I can be incredibly resentful, bitter and petty. I never look on the bright side, or think everything will work out fine. Although not negative per se, I am certainly no optimist.

A few weeks back my mom was in Iowa and informed me my great uncle Clinton , my grandfathers only remaining sibling, died and since she was in town she would be attending the funeral.


"Was he sick? ," I asked.

"He was 92, he died of being 92," she replied.

On the paternal side of my family the concept of "happy" was certainly not in the lexicon; however, even by the standards of people who never felt any form of joy on any level, this dude was considered really unhappy.

My sister's theory was that he was secretly gay. She bases this on a picture of him shown at the funeral in which he looks somewhat feminine.

"That explains why he was so unhappy," she reasoned. I think it is more than that, I'm not secretly gay yet I struggle to obtain a level of just ok.

Uncle Clint was married to some unfortunate woman, who divorced him sometime in the 70's, they had two sons one of which did not attend the service.

I golfed with him a few times, which he appeared to moderately enjoy. I try to enjoy golfing, but in all honesty find it stressful.

My family suffers from a low to moderate level of anxiety on a consistent basis, and I have clung to this legacy.

Since my daughters are not burdened with my genetics I am hopeful they will not suffer from this same plight.

My Uncle Clint didn't die of cancer at 92, although objectively he had all the qualities of someone who should have been filled with cancer.

This has lead me consider the possibility disease may just be afraid to reside inside me....so I may be onto something.