February 26: Bobwhite, RW, Unhappiness, Gas Stove

Earlier a bobwhite had cried from the orchardside cliff, now here, now there, and his round notes swelled sorrowfully over the meadow.  A bobwhite who is still calling in summer is lorn; he has never found a mate.  When I first read this piece of information, every bobwhite call I heard sounded tinged with desperation, suicidally miserable . . .

Like Dillard, I never knew this little tidbit about bobwhites.  Summer mornings, when I heard bobwhites whistling in the sunlight, I always thought they were hungry or happy.  I translated each "bob-white!" into something like "free worm!" or "bright light!"  I never really thought they were singing "razor!" or "gas stove!"  Yet, there it is.  The sound of misery in the natural world.

I've been thinking a lot about sorrow tonight.  You see, I have a person very close to me who is absolutely the most miserable person I know.  Let's call her RW.  RW never smiles or laughs, and, when she sees other people enjoying themselves, she gets angry.  RW wants everyone to be as unhappy as she is.

This evening, I had a disagreement with RW.  My son was having a small temper tantrum, and, instead of letting me handle the situation, RW had to hover and stare and inject her venom into the proceedings.  The result was a shouting match between RW and myself.  And the thing that pissed me off the most:  RW, in the midst of the hollering and swearing, actually looked like she was enjoying herself.

A part of me feels bad for RW.  I know she's sad and angry and unstable.  But there's another part of me that just wants to run her over with my car.  She has a way of bringing out the worst in me.  I'm usually fairly easygoing.  I don't lose my temper very often.  I prefer calm and reason.  That pretty much goes down the toilet when I'm around RW.  Five minutes in her presence and I'm Charles Manson.

I have to remind myself constantly that there's a whole lot of sorrow behind RW's actions.  She lost a lot this past year (including a close family member).  She's pissed at God for that.  She has panic attacks at work.  At home, she mopes and mumbles and bitches.  All the time.  It's like being around a bobwhite in summer--a looped recording of "bob-white!" that plays incessantly.  Lorn and desperate.

I am trying not to hate RW right now, and I am failing miserably.  I love her, but I just can't stand being around her.  Funny thing is, I don't thing RW likes being around RW very much, either.  She simply won't or can't let herself be happy.

There is no happily ever after to this post.  After our little dispute earlier this evening, there weren't any apologies exchanged.  We simply ignored each other.  And now I'm at home, blogging about bobwhites and misery.

Saint Marty will probably wake up hearing bobwhites calling in the snow tomorrow morning:  bob-white!--kiss my ass!--bob-white!--you suck!--bob-white!--fuck you!--bob-white, bob-white!

I needed a good laugh . . .

November 24: Radio Recording, Snow Again, "Web" Dip

I recorded my Christmas essay at the radio station this afternoon.  I'd practiced reading it several times, so I knew the places where I needed to slow down, take my time, over-enunciate.  I sat down in the recording booth, took a deep breath, and did it.  One take.  No mistakes.  Hans, the guy from the radio station who is in charge of these little recording sessions, hit a button when I was done, smiled at me, and said, "You suck."  I have been known as one-take Marty for a while.

In a few minutes, I'm taking my six-year-old son to religion class.  It's supposed to snow tonight (there're all kinds of snow advisories in place), so I'm expecting my car to be a snow sculpture by the time the prayer service starts at the end of the night. I'm not looking forward to moving snow tomorrow morning.  I'm hoping, somehow, the snow skips over my little city in the Upper Peninsula.  It can go east, west, north, or south.  I don't care.  If I don't have to blow snow at 5 a.m., I will be a happy saint.

That being said, I have a feeling that I will be shoveling in the morning.  Of course, I'm going to have to ask the question:

Will we buried in snow tomorrow morning?

And the answer, for better or worse, from the book of Charlotte:

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Mr. Arable.  "Tell us."

Well, there you go.  A definitive "who knows?"

Saint Marty loves living with uncertainty.

It's an ugly map

July 30: Shut Up, You Suck, Prayer for Happiness

"I said I'm not going back to school.  You can do what you want to do, but I'm not going back to school," she said.  "So shut up."  It was the first time she ever told me to shut up.  It sounded terrible.  God, it sounded terrible.  It sounded worse than swearing.  She still wouldn't look at me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or something, she wouldn't let me.

Phoebe is pissed at Holden in the above paragraph, and she shows her anger with words.  She tells her brother to "shut up."  When words like that come out of kids' mouths, it does sound worse than swearing.  Holden's right.  Phoebe's "shut up" is Holden's "fuck you."

My four-year-old son is similar to Phoebe when he gets angry.  Last week, we were visiting my sister-in-law.  When it was time to leave, my son decided he wanted to stay.  When I informed him he didn't really have the option to remain behind, my son stomped away from me and yelled, "Well, you suck!  Your car sucks!  I don't want to go home!  Home sucks!"  Every time he said the word "suck," I wanted to die.

Yes, I know my son was only throwing a temper tantrum, and I know my son is only four years old.  But I've been struggling over the last week or so to feel content with my life.  So, today, I'm going to pray a Please-Don't-Let-My-Life-Suck Prayer.  You could also call it a Prayer for Happiness.

Dear God of all things that don't suck,

Hi.  It's me again.  The guy whose son thinks everything sucks.  (By the way, I didn't teach him that.)

I'm writing to ask for happiness.  I'm not talking about J. K. Rowling-sized happiness.  I don't need a billion dollars.  (I wouldn't turn that down, if it's in Your plan, though.)  I just want some small piece of happiness.  For instance, I entered a poetry chapbook contest a while ago.  Winning that contest would totally not suck.

I'm not demanding anything.  I'm not greedy.  All I want is something good to happen in my life.  Something that doesn't suck.  You've already taken away the job at the university and given me an $800 repair on my car.  How about a small, insignificant success?  Something that will make my son realize I don't suck, that I drive an OK car, and that our house isn't a roach motel.

I know You're busy, so I'll make it easy for You:  poetry chapbook, thousand-dollar prize, publication.  That not too much to ask.  We can talk about bigger things later.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

At least in my son's opinion...