July 11: Sunburned, New Poem, My Daughter

I had a pretty restless night.  Because of my hours in the sun yesterday, I ended up getting a moderate sunburn.  I hate getting sunburned.  In bed last night, I just couldn't get comfortable.  At one point, right around two o'clock in the morning, I actually contemplated getting up and taking a cold shower.  My legs itch and sting.  My face feels as tight as a Lady Gaga dress.  My neck aches.

Yes, I have a raccoon sunburn!

Needless to say, I was pretty tired when I got to work this morning.  For a few minutes, I just sat at my computer, drooling.  I actually drooled, left a little wet spot on my shirt.  I had to get up, do some filing, guzzle a can of Diet Mountain Dew, and run a few laps around the office.  I'm much better now, but I really didn't think I was going to make it today.

Yesterday, while I was sitting at the pool, broiling myself, my daughter was having an argument with one of her friends in the water.  Apparently, the friend was upset because my daughter didn't invite her to go to the fireworks with her on Saturday night.  Her friend was floating around, sulking.  Maybe because I was hot and miserable, I got really annoyed.  I literally had to force myself to ignore the situation.  My daughter kept apologizing, and her friend kept ignoring her.  It took an act of God for me to keep my mouth shut.

My daughter and her friends

Of course, by the end of the afternoon, they were laughing and playing together, as if nothing happened, but I couldn't get over my daughter's need to grovel for her friend's forgiveness when she did absolutely nothing wrong.  Self esteem is such a strange creature.  Perhaps, because I'm a little older (OK, a LOT older), I'm less willing to beg for friendship.  I'm sure, when I was my daughter's age, acceptance was a life-or-death thing.  The only time I feel the need for that kind of acceptance now is when I write a poem.

Which brings me to today's poem, which is about my daughter and her friend and hurt and acceptance.  I've been stewing about the scene for a whole day now.  (My daughter has probably already forgotten about the whole disagreement.)  I'm hoping this poem will exorcise my anger.

Saint Marty needs to go rub some Solarcaine on his forehead now.

Sunburn

My ten-year-old daughter’s best friend hates her, floats around the swimming pool, ignores my daughter’s pleas.  “Talk to me.”  I listen from my lounge chair, eyes closed.  The sun sinks into my face, arms, legs.  Turns my skin tight and pink.  I try to ignore my daughter’s voice as it grows louder, more desperate.  “It’s not my fault.”  I’m used to these tectonic rifts, will let my daughter tread water, save herself.  The pool, green and cool as a frog’s back, would soothe my body’s heat, replace burn with shadow, moss, the cool loam of forest floor after weeks of wildfire.  But to interfere in my daughter’s battle with a splash or wave or eclipse of water would upset the delicate ecosystem being reestablished.  I open my eyes, watch my daughter and her friend drift away, deeper and deeper, my daughter’s voice, a thrum in the July afternoon.  Like cicada.  “I didn’t mean it.”  I wonder if her tongue will sting tonight the way my neck will.  If her words will blaze in the dark, keep her awake, remind her how many times she said “I’m sorry” as her friend left her red, hurting.  Craving aloe.

July 10--Take Two: New Cartoon, Eating Cheetos, Relaxing

Compared to yesterday, today (July 10) was an absolute geologic time period.  I played in the band for worship this morning, took my son home for a nap, helped my daughter practice for her piano lesson, and then took my daughter and her friends swimming.

That's it.

Now, I'm waiting for dinner at my mom and dad's house.  Hamburgers and stir fry.  While I was sitting at the pool, I drew a new cartoon--the first one with color.  I figure it's Sunday, and most of the cartoons are in full color.  What the hell?

I'm going to take it easy for the rest of the night.  By the tingling on my legs, I don't think I applied enough sun screen poolside.  I'm going to be hurting tonight or tomorrow morning.

Saint Marty is done on one side.  Flip him over and sear the other side.

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 10--Take One: Race, Parade, Fireworks, New Cartoon

Sorry I didn't post yesterday, July 9.  Time just ran screaming from me.  In the morning, I ran a two-mile race with my family.  I took fourth place in my age bracket--older than dirt, male.  My daughter took fourth in her age bracket--ten to twelve, female.  My son, whom I pushed in a stroller, took first place in his age bracket--one to five, male.  He got a medal.  And my wife walked the whole way with her sister and our niece and nephew.  They got the congratulations-you-finished places in their respective age brackets.

Then I rode on a parade float for church.  I played keyboard in our praise band.  That was a blast, but hot as Hades.  Afterward, I took a nap.  (Remember my age bracket.)

I played organ for mass, gobbled down some pizza, and took my daughter and her friend to some fireworks.  That's a thumbnail sketch of July 9.

Saint Marty did take a few minutes to draw a cartoon at the fireworks.

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 8: Race Tomorrow, Decorating Float, Parade

It's going to be a busy weekend.  Tomorrow morning, I'm running a two-mile race with my daughter and son.  I participate in this race every year.  It's a benefit for the local chapter of Big Brothers Big Sisters.  I'll be pushing my son in a stroller.  From what I remember of the race course last year, there's only one really nasty hill to navigate.  Of course, that hill comes almost at the end of the entire thing, when you're ready to die.  My daughter, a few years ago, had a complete meltdown in the middle of the race because I forgot to bring her bottle of water.  There we were, in the woods, my daughter screaming and crying and sitting on the ground.  Not a good scene.

Last year's Fun Run.  I'm in there somewhere.

Tonight, I have to decorate a float for a parade tomorrow.  Usually, I avoid being a part of parades.  I prefer to sit on a curb and collect the candy that's thrown.  However, the band of which I'm a member was asked to play on a float.  I'm doing it for Jesus.  I'm hoping tonight's preparations won't take too long.

Last year's parade

My wife's twentieth class reunion is taking place Saturday night, as well.  She hasn't received an invitation, doesn't know where it's being held.  Supposedly, her class has a float in the parade.  She can't find out anything about that, either.  She wants to go the reunion instead of the fireworks tomorrow night.  I hate those kinds of events.  Plus, our daughter will be really disappointed if she doesn't get to go to the fireworks.  That's another worry.

However, my biggest worry today is about money.  During the summers, I don't teach at the university.  Being an adjunct, I'm a contract instructor.  That means, every semester, I have to sign a new contract.  I'm never guaranteed anything.  Well, when the checks stop coming from the university about mid-April, things start getting really lean, financially.  This summer, we've had three huge car repairs, totalling over $2,000.  Those repairs, coupled with the normal monthly bills, have depleted our savings account substantially.  For some reason, today I've found myself in an absolute state of panic about money.  It's grocery day, and we also have to pay the water bill, which I just realized was overdue.  I don't get another paycheck until next Friday.

I don't know why I'm sharing all this information with you.  Worry, especially money worries, tend to really throw me off-balance.  I often hear stories about people who are at the end of their ropes, financially, and hand their concerns over to God; those stories usually end with some unexpected check arriving in the mail or a forgotten loan that's suddenly repaid in the nick of time.  I have a really hard time turning things over to God like that.  I'm not sure if it's a problem with faith or trust or fear.  It's probably all of those things rolled into one, huge, sweaty ball of worry.  I've been trying to relax, pry my fingers off the steering wheel, so to speak.  It's tough.  I like to be in the driver's seat.

This weekend is going to be a complete lesson in letting go.

Saint Marty hopes he survives.

I'm trying.