Beta Testing Adulthood

I hesitate to say apropos of nothing when it comes to my current thought cache but as an avid ADHD fella, I admit some of today will be random. Unless this is your first article, none of that should surprise you.

Last night I had occasion to enjoy some much-needed time playing music with one of my lifetime best friends. Granted we didn’t meet until college but some friends you just pick up where you left off – no matter what life events happened in between. We were rusty but we played some damn fine music. I know I cannot let droughts like this one happen again.

There is so much in life to be savored. We once had a band and it was good. We were good. We didn’t start that way but we were getting that way. But not everything works out the way we planned. While our overall sound and feel were getting better, we weren’t making money and the following we had was growing very slowly (that said, we did have a core group of kickass fans). We put in a lot of work in that basement and it started to pay off.

I used to be bitter about the ending. I didn’t understand it. I was so angry at times. We had a collection of about 20 original songs at that point and about 4 covers we could nail. Granted not all the 20 originals were good, but several were. I will always wonder what would have happened if we’d made it work and took it further. On the rare occasion I reencounter the discs from those days I am wowed by the evolution we underwent in a few short years. I just couldn’t understand it.

I think I do now. It has taken a lot for me to get there. Some of the group needed to be truly professional musicians (making a living). We were very much amateurs learning. Some needed creative individuality. In a band it can be hard to retain your own artistic identity. When the songs or the sound pull a certain direction it’s hard to maintain parity of your style, especially as that style is maturing and evolving. Sometimes we need to travel alone to learn the world.

I took it hard. For whatever reason my 21-year-old ass was cranking out new music like a factory. I’ve been looking back on some of my Danuscripts from the time and I have been paring down some of the more massive ones. Songs with 9 verses can be a little hard to hook listeners with. I’ve not been in a band since. In all reality I have written precious little music in the same vein that I did then. To put together a group is a tedious task. And finding people that you really connect with? That is like traveling to Mars. A few years ago I dropped a note in a busker’s money jar in case he was ever looking for a jam partner. Guessing he preferred the solo scene. That was my attempt at breaking out.

Last night was therapeutic. And it offered me the perspective I so often overlook. I was reminded of people I knew long ago. Again, being an ADHD man, I so often assumed that anything short of direct verbal confirmation of their liking me meant they did not. I very often thought I was “too much.” I know I can be for some people. I’m pretty self-conscious about it (or at least insecure). Generally I resolve this for myself by thinking, “go find less.” But in conversations last night I learned that those insecurities were mine and mine alone. As well they were wrong.

But of late I have been emerging from my creative cave. I have found more encouragement along this renewed journey than I could have ever imagined.

I am grateful and humbled to have felt those feelings again. It was a performative and aural catharsis. There are those around me who would not let me forget it needed to happen. To them I am equally grateful. I know those among the friend group who have joked in the past how we would threaten to get together but those promises never translated to reality. It is a good day to change the entrenched habits.

And in picking up the ancient Danuscript, I have begun breathing life into that music too. While I had a prolific production capacity in those days, the addition of some wisdom is proving to be very good for the music. The callouses are coming back. And the music is sounding good.

I’ve even started songwriting a little again. It is a very slow process now. With wisdom comes a lot of self-censorship. I find I kill a thread before I have let it flesh out. I am trying to stop that but it has been a long couple decades since I did this. I’m encouraged that little ditties on the strings are finding bars and hooks. I remember this part. The lyrics will start to drop in here and there. Then comes the body anagram, finding the core tenet, and it’s time to tell a story.

These days I keep the guitar close and a piece of paper or a little notebook in my pocket to catch the prose when it surfaces.

It is cool as shit to tell people you were in a band. It’s a privilege I’m fortunate to know. Not just a basement band. Not some cover band. We were in a band that went somewhere. Our last show had several hundred people cheering for us. And my bandmates went on to continue creating incredible art. It’s beautiful for me to think about.

I hope you find the melody in your day today. I patched a few old holes in my soul and found some chords I’d forgotten. I owe the cosmos and a visit with my old bandmate for this one.

I’ve never been a dog person. I grew up with exclusively cats as pets. I had fish once but that experiment didn’t last long. I consider a lot of the current dog ownership trend in America to be a bit of a fad. Not all of it, of course. I’m a big fan of stray rescue organizations and those who work to the welfare of animals.

I could give my thoughts on people who compare dog ownership to parenting but I fear that would only serve to further dilute my ever-shrinking circle of social influence.

Manina was different. She didn’t slobber everywhere. When she had an accident in the house it was clearly an accident and she gave you a look like, “I’m sorry man, there wasn’t anything anyone could have done.” With a few notable exceptions she wasn’t prone to overturning trash cans. She didn’t chew up shoes or damage property. She was a good dog.

She did shed. Holy shit did she shed. I had her cremated with the idea I could distribute her ashes in a few places. But to be fair, anywhere she visited retains a piece of her in the hair she left there. It was light enough to float on air in perpetuity. If it found a fabric seat, it embedded itself like those plastic tag attachment things on new garments.

I can say with a high degree of confidence that there remains hair of Manina in: the Missouri woods, a hotel at the Indiana/Ohio border, 2 vehicles, Germany (her hair literally floated up out of a suitcase), an old brick house in Shaw in St Louis, a house in Douglassville, PA., my house in RoFo, PA., and on every piece of clothing I own. Her hair was especially fond of attaching to the suits I wear for work.

Anyone who knew her knew her gentle soul. She hated only 2 things in this world, all other dogs in existence (save Junebug Keller) and the central vacuum in my old house. She didn’t mind water, although she didn’t really go jumping in it, either. Sudden sounds made her jumpy in her early years, but later in life, she was deaf and therefore immune. She wasn’t a “barker” although she was known to act tough when the front door was open and she could see out the screen door.

She was a herder. If she needed something she wouldn’t jump around and act a fool, she would instead use her snout to redirect you towards it. While it could be maddening it was also endearing. She knew she needed to protect the kiddos and she did a fine job of it. If there was any perceived threat she would put herself between the kid and the threat. But she didn’t have to bark. She just perked her ears and closed her mouth. That was enough.

She was my first dog. She didn’t alleviate me of the discomfort I feel around other peoples’ dog’s when they jump up on you or come running at you. I grew up in a neighborhood where, until the gentrification set in, a lot of dogs people kept for protection and the dogs were mean as hell. Stray dogs could be rabid. And there was more than one instance I had to deal with one of those mean guard dogs on the loose.

But, she showed me the personality of a dog. She showed me the why; ‘maybe their dog barks at me, but maybe their dog just doesn’t know me.’ Once you see a dog has personality, it becomes a lot easier to, at minimum, tolerate and often like other dogs.*

Whether she was saying her piece to passing cars in the city or lounging in the shade on an impromptu backpacking trip, she was always there. In her last few weeks she preferred the comfort of her memory foam sleeping pad (her hips needed it) to always placing herself among the group. But a lot of the time she was still there. You always had to check where you were stepping when you got off the couch as she liked to nestle right under where feet overhung.

She could be counted on to get in front of you in the kitchen when you were moving around cooking things. A stern “MANINA” and pointed hand directing her out of the kitchen usually resolved this although it was temporary. She was always on automatic vacuum patrol for any potentially dropped food – especially meat. When she was in the kitchen during a cooking session she was holding out for something that could be caught in midair (although this was a rare occurrence for her. Remember, she was a herder -not a fetcher).

Few things in our lives have united us and touched us as much as she did. She came into the picture in 2009. My daughter was one year old, if that. My son was born the next year. So, as memory goes, she is all they have known. They have never known our house without a dog. The stillness is unsettling. She was our “average Pyrenees.” We called her that because she came from Great Pyrenees Rescue. But if there was any Pyrenees in that dog, it was in the hair. Her mutt mixture definitely included some golden, and we assume something that looked like a chow but was into herding. Beyond that, she was just Manina.

I don’t remember why we named her Manina. Maybe my daughter mumbled it? But we later learned the word meant “little hand.” And she was. She really really was. We took her through a lot and she was always there with wagging tail, rancid breath, and a perky disposition to get us through.

I am not alone in this, but I shall miss her very much.

Godspeed, Manina. I hope your hips are better and you are chasing bunnies in the afterlife with little abandon.

Sweet Jesus. I should be better at this. Sorry all, I have made you wait six weeks on this. A lot to unpack but nothing unusal. Well. I was added to a Blueprint article? https://www.bpcmag.com/case-studies/dan-keller-tower-health/?fbclid=IwAR0LW1hIFHmvcgZFYRxJy5R_uhhnYzH-WI5VP12Ru14RjXkgqH4ARBNo28Y

It is always lovely to be recognized. But sweet Jesus, how are we still judging the same settled science? We are way past the “is it real phase” and we are in the “go ahead and open the pool 3 weeks early” phase.

The problem is no longer that we need to have understanding as much as we have to have empathy. Today was another in a long line of thinning in the Towers.

How much stress should one carry?

The portion above this line was written previously and abandoned. Below picks back up…

Wow. I know I was frustrated when I started this post. Reading it now, some time later, a lot of things have happened and revealed to me just how stressed I was. Sometimes you don’t remember swimming but find yourself drenched. That’s where I was. In a hotel in a town where people don’t go unless they have business in that town I was trying to enjoy some solace. The burger was really good. The room was pretty good although traveling solo is pretty lame.

I was at a conference to get continuing education credits. But I was also at a conference to meet a guy who held the key to the future of a hospital. I’m not going to go into that but let’s just say it was a very professionally consequential meeting for me. I was surrounded by smart albeit awkward engineering folks and a host of salespeople. The salespeople were there to plant seeds for the purchase of their wares. Some sold firestopping. Others sold solutions to common problems in hospital engineering. There were people repping air handler manufacturers. A few hermetic furniture upholstery reps were in the house. Architects and engineers were in abundance.

We got the notification of another round of layoffs while I was at the conference. I swear this has to be round 50 since the pandemic started. I understand the why of it but it still stings. Someone I worked with was in this round. I wasn’t a fan of any of the reductions in force but this one hit home more. Add to that while I am walking around this thing I am overhearing some folks talk about global warming. They “don’t think it is going to last.” They think it’s a fluke. Of course the engineers at the event know it’s not. All I can think is “JFC how much proof do you need? Will a charred lifeless husk of a planet convince you?”

Add to that some other minor issues and I was a bit pressurized. One of the reps gave me a stress ball shaped like a hard hat.

I guess I needed it. In retrospect I probably could have turned it into a diamond. We all had to deal with the pandemic. But for those of us in hospitals we came out of it only to find the entire industry in sharp contraction with huge fiscal gaps. Half the staff seems expendable while we can’t find the other half to hire so we’re renting them at a massive markup. It’s hard. I know some people are making travel wages and there are companies making money off them as well. Meanwhile 30 year support employees get the axe. Our thoughts and prayers and hearts and minds can only go out so many times. After a while it seems a silly exercise.

And I felt myself get really tired. Like you feel you’re climbing a mountain that is actually a treadmill. No matter how many rocks you summit you’re getting nowhere. To people outside the industry I think this must look like professional pedantry. It’s just business, right? To us the pandemic didn’t feel like business. And we’re tired. The burnout rate in the industry has skyrocketed. The New Oxford Dictionary defines burnout as, “physical or mental collapse caused by overwork or stress. “high levels of professionalism that may result in burnout”

Apparently, I was closer than I thought.

I found myself falling back on bad coping skills. And everyone just went on like everything is fine. As an industry we are chopping into the bone looking for more fat to trim.

This last week I had my deus ex machina. The extent and effects of my internalized stress (not to mention anxiety) was put in front of my face. I have better ways to deal with the stress but I wasn’t doing them. I was letting it just gnaw at me like swimming with a bunch of piranhas with dull teeth.

I forgot some important things. I remember them now.

Sometimes our struggles look to others like we’re just absent. We can look like anthracite-grade assholes. We can forget to celebrate the good things in life…unless we’re hit with them like a bat.

I guess I overestimated how much I can absorb and process without help. I got this though.

If you know someone close to burnout or living with chronic professional stress I wish I knew what to tell you. I can’t say I know how to resolve it. My solution does not involve me switching jobs or anything like that. I just restored some work/life balance and changed a few habits. I may have to do this a few times for it to stick. But I know it can work. Don’t let it sink you. If you love them and if you can, don’t let them sink either. As a practitioner I can tell you we don’t want to.

I’ve been here before. I’ve kept precious things here. I’m not the first to have it. I’ve tried tins, cups, velveteen boxes, repurposed antiques, hand-me-downs, mass-produced organizers, barrel boxes, road cases, stackers, and even reused old shoe boxes. But I am just so fond of this rusty box. It had been around a while. It has seen things. It has lived life far beyond mine. I likely won’t know all the places it has been or everything it has held. It fits in my hand. I love the texture.

Did it hold weapons in a war? Did it hold something being sent somewhere else? Did it once protect a great treasure? Will it move on after me? Will it hold things for someone else? How many lifetimes?

I like that it came to me having been places. It is unique and has history. It has stories. It has been there to see things built and things torn apart. It has been at someone’s side and it has been put away with little regard. But it made it to me. I can’t say what drew me to it. Was it utility? Texture? Function?

It was none of these things and all of them. I find I adore it. I’m not sure why I find this one so unique. It just kind of hit me. I have several and while not all the same they bear some similarity. But this one just feels good when I pick it up. I don’t worry about it getting damaged or failing me. I was sitting earlier today with my hand on it. I was lost in thought. I found myself tracing the texture. It’s not as big as most of my other cases. But today it is perfect.

I’m not always as present or attentive to my things. ADHD will do that to ya. In many ways I have let things slipshod sly as my mind wanders. But I like taking this time today. I like knowing this is mine. I like knowing others did not hold its value. Some parts smooth and some rough. This has seen life.

I could paint it. I could remove the evidence of its travels. I could blend the roughness and make it look new. But that wouldn’t be right. It’s uniqueness is why I like it. I am thinking I will lacquer it. I don’t want it to change. I want to know it exactly as it is today. It has rusted enough. It has been taken for granted enough. Its patina is perfection. And I want it to remain.

I am fond of it. That is all I need.

“Oh I exercise control in all things, Ms. [Sherwin Williams].”

As I wander the halls of the hospital I am reminded of the fickle habits of humans. I have a unique ability to determine the last time a hospital was renovated by looking at its random architectural features for a few seconds. The beige era began and closed out the taupe age around 2007. And then every hospital began turning a variant of “Investor Tan” starting most often in the ED (or ER for you civilian folks).

Walking though this khaki collective that is yet another hospital desperate for fresh paint I find my mind wandering as it is prone to do. “Who had this idea? Was it one person who convinced everyone else it was a great idea? Was there science behind it? I can say with certainty that beige does not soothe me. Was it some weird corporate concoction? Was the country just really short on grey/black tint but overstocked on gold?”

I like to think he/she/they was/were the precursor to what we now call an influencer who caught the last vestige of Boomer social décor dominance in society. They named a boring-ass beige color “Tuscan Twilight” or “The Warmth of Crema” and proceeded to add white and brown accent colors to a palette card for the paint stores to pimp.

They arranged photos of various groups intentionally selected to appear both diverse and happy. Lots of white sweaters, button-up flannels or oxfords with the sleeves rolled up, and smiles so white just looking at them slams your irises shut.

Pictures that subliminally say “look how well-adjusted and happy we are in our serene terrene.” You know the shot. It’s the one where you have to wait till the end to figure out if they are selling a reverse mortgage, credit union membership, flaccid penis pills, or life insurance for nanna while she can still pass a physical.

If I didn’t know better I would think using Softer Tan or Impressive Ivory will lighten my teeth. ‘Don’t change you, change what’s around you!’

Sorry for that tangent. But to me these trends are absurd. Purple tells me it was the 1990s. Mildly-warm greys and cool whites tells me it was the last 5 years. Browns tells me 1970s. Plum or peach tells me 1980s. Pink tells me it’s just a dated OB ward* (I’ll come back to this in another post). But in every case the theme is consistent; as a species we really struggle with regional or sectoral industrial identity independence. We suck at it, actually.

Tangent 2

I once interviewed with a hospital system on the Atlantic coast in Rhode Island. They served actual lobster every Tuesday. To patients, the public, the staff, they served beautiful lobster tables. Why? Because in this fishing town lobster was everywhere like beef is in Nebraska. And being a land-raised man by upbringing who loves lobster, I was like, “is this heaven?” Now THAT is some regional identity! But of course the hallways were painted Believable Buff.

We want to show our independence and highlight ways we are unique in this life (queue local sports team). I know a LOT about this one. Born and raised in St. Louis and transplanted to Philadelphia- these cities live and breathe their independence. But they all painted their hospital hallways beige in the aughts. I know because I was there for the painting of the former and I’m currently trying to repaint the latter. For colors these days I am focusing on brand identity. While I do inject some individuality based on the facility I am also pretty color blind so I avoid getting too radical. But I also don’t want to look like everybody else. Blech. How boring.

“I don’t think I’d fit in here. Look at me.” -Anastasia Steele: 

Tangent 3

I’m not trying to sell myself as a rabid nonconformist. There are definitely times I want to fit in. But it is much less at my age than it once was. I am often frustrated at my generation’s seeming desperation to package conformity or uniformity as the only way to be considered worthy. That need to blend can be internalized. Think of the “be all you can be” slogan the Army used to rock. Then as generations started shifting toward individuality they too switched with the slogan “an army of one.” Considering the way my kids’ generation is that slogan will soon be “I don’t give a fuck about your stripes, my stars sparkle.” I say that with a knowing grin of affection for their nonconformity. I was never that brave.

But I also can’t abide that ☝ shite. In the humble opinion of this socially-stunted engineer, it is time to let the institution reflect the population. Stop trying to make everything look the damned same. We have been doing this going on 60 years and all we are doing is erasing the differences that make traveling worthwhile.

I recognize my privilege here. I am in a financial position to choose where I live (mostly). But I am not really advocating for myself. If I can’t buy it I assure you I can build it. But I am advocating for those that can’t. Those that don’t have the money or the skills or inclination. Basically, let’s stop boxing humans up in the cheapest or most generic trend we can find. Yes artisan and craftsman work is more expensive. But it doesn’t take much to give our lives some individuality.

Multiple-Tangent Conclusion

Okay, I know that moved around a lot. But in all reality there are a lot of connections. I hope to do some actual academic research on this topic and come back for a follow-up piece with cooler words. Bottom line; be your true self. Be unique. Ditch the Uggz, paint over the beige with something that pops (just no wallpaper!), and admit that pumpkin spice is kinda gross. Take a stand for something today and never accept mediocrity. You are a cool carbon unit and I want to hear your ideas.

Until then, love each other and have a good night.

In this life, we are faced with have-tos and want-tos. Generally, the want-to list is long and somewhat under-attended. The have-to list, on the other hand, is unyielding and constant. Topping that list is daunting work. I still struggle with the idea that our value has to be quantified in our work. But that idea is drilled into us from a young age.

Think about it. At school, we were given perfect attendance awards to reward us for not taking time off. We are pushed to be a good cog. I know I have at times prided myself on how little time off I took from work. I remember taking solace knowing the boss saw me at work before him and at the end of the day he left before I did.

And what do I have to show for that? Not a damned thing. I haven’t been paid by the hour in a long time. To be honest, my current productivity is in many ways driven by my commitment to the industry I’m in. Even more so Im driven by competition with myself. There is no harsher critic of me than I am.

I recently enjoyed a brief run of not questioning the safety of my job status. To be honest, I feel wonks like are more likely to worry about it than feel secure in it these days. The industry (hell, most of them) is (are) constantly in crisis. It is so goddamned exhausting. I’m at that junction between paying off the pains of early career and really building a savings base. In other words, I’m not ravaged by debt, but I’m not holding onto an amazing parachute either. Sidenote: if you’re against student loan reform, kindly go fuck yourself.

We have reached an interesting tipping point in late-stage capitalism. When we were transitioning from an agrarian economy to an industrial, we could live with unsafe working conditions and pollution. When we asked for reasonable wages, we were told to go to school and get a professional executive job. Then, when enough started doing that , labor became too costly, and we started outsourcing the dirty stuff. Now we have to figure out; do we have a product?

Without a product, we don’t have business. If we don’t have business, we don’t have work. What do we do?

Well, we could make sure everyone in the country has a subsistence living. But we won’t do that because….socialism? We could subsidize industry to promote good jobs, but that pads pockets. We could keep doing what we are, which is building deck chairs for the Titanic, or if in the office, writing policies and procedures for building Titanic deck chairs.

Or we could at least consider the notion that we kinda fucked things up. We want to be the greatest generation, so we keep going to war. We want to believe everything is fine so we keep watching bullshit “jobs” reports. And we are all temporarily embarrassed millionaires simping for Elon Musks and pretending we can afford to own a home today.

I hate to say it, but a market readjustment may he the only way we actually get our shit together. As long as we keep voting in asshats who are determined to wreck the bus rather that work toward the common good we should expect more of the same.

I’ve been used a little bit of late. And I’m speaking about the professional world. It has me pissed off. It has me reexamine things in my life. I want to purge stuff. I want to lighten the boat so she turns more swiftly. I want to….I don’t know. I just know earlier today I was ready to start throwing away boxes without looking in them. To me, that’s jarring. Today I did herculean lifts at my job. I solved more than one brain should have to handle (when it’s my vintage brain anyway). And tonight I imagine my cortex a smoking ruin. Maybe some sleep will help.

In the middle of a thrift store I find myself full of questions. What conversations were had over these dining tables? What is the story behind the “Eat, Drink, and BE MARRIED” piece of wall decor? Are they still married? Did anyone actually hang that hideous thing in their house? What things have happened on the couch I sit upon? Who the hell was such an Andy Williams fan?

It’s a fun place to spend a Saturday morning. People sound joyous in here. Some are putting their lives back together. Some are filling out the fringes. Some are making by the by. Some are making a date out of it.

My daughter is running around like a kid in Candyland as she picks out décor for the room she just fixed up. The sofa I’m sitting on is one of her picks. I’m almost certain it won’t fit up the galley-sized staircase that leads to said room. But I can’t say no to her big beaming eyes and smile. She’s growing up too damned fast. And as for me physically relocating this sofa, I’m certain my orthopedist is going to benefit financially from the endeavor.

I’m with my girlfriend, who is painstakingly investigating every single title in the cookbook section. Bonus kid #1 is wingman to Josie’s sofa search. Bonus kid #2 is scanning through books, having fully tossed the toy section looking for his next nerf-mod entrepreneurial endeavor.

My questions continue. Who wears that outfit? Why are half the cookbooks in that section diet cookbooks? How did Josie locate this Henri Mancini album (good score btw)? Why is there a school desk here? Holy cripes there’s a bunch of puzzles for sale. How much of this stuff is donated by well-wishers, by the good-intentioned, and how much is from the estate of those whom have left us?

Virtually everyone in the store, with exception to my tag-popping sofa search party, are fully decked out in Philadelphia Eagles gear. The Superbowl is tomorrow and the entirety of southeast Pennsylvania, southwest New Jersey, and northern Delaware are all electrified for this game.

It’s nice, really. Everyone is in a great mood. The sun is out for the first time in what feels like six months, and green things are starting to pop out of the soil.

I needed this today. I needed to be surrounded by it. This last week started off great but came off the rails later on. In one instance I even helped it. Old coping mechanisms can be like cement overshoes. And today, I found out a coworker died. It was sudden, but it sounds like he didn’t suffer. I hope not. He was a good man, and even in his later years, he worked circles around the younger guys. He left work this morning at 7, having done 3rd shift. His relief said he was cracking jokes and totally normal. He died 2 hours later.

Life moves really fast sometimes. I’m glad I got to know him. I’m glad he didn’t suffer. Godspeed Rich, if anyone earned a rest you did.

And today I’m glad for the sound of laughter all around me. I sometimes forget just how therapeutic it can be.

I hope something gives you a reason to laugh today.

Are you comfortable talking about manipulation? In this sense I’m talking about you being manipulated (exception for those who prefer to be the manipulator). Do you know it when it happens? Are you a little susceptible, or are you very susceptible to it? Do you know your vulnerable points and your insecurities? Most importantly, do you know when someone you trust is using them to manipulate you or gaslight you? It isn’t always easy to tell when they walk into your life (or you into theirs).

Strap in, dear reader. This promises to be a very weird way to make my point, but I think it will make a lot of sense if you’re a nerd (and all too often-a sucker) like me. You see, I can’t help but believe there is an inherent good and altruism in all of us. I try not to label people with permanent stigmas such as “evil,” “criminal,” or “bad.” Notice I said I try. I am not persistent in every case. This gap is actually an internalized trauma response learned from the receipt of battle scars aplenty both external and internal. This brings us to the odd theme I have chosen to make my point.

There is only so much dancing on copyright lines I can get away with on here so you will have to make your own soundtrack. I strongly recommend James Horner’s masterpiece “Wrath of Khan” movie soundtrack. It has mariner-esque and classic “versus” theatricals woven into the notes themselves. And how does the manipulator feel about us wandering up with our defenses down but ready to trust them? Should we have our defenses down?

They may tell you they admire you. They may tell you they need you. They may hire you. They may tell you they love you. They may praise you. And it feels so damned good. If you’re like me and were raised in chaos or caretaking those platitudes might as well be a drug or currency. You want to just let it envelop you. You want to believe it is all true. If it is true then you look like kind of a badass. “Am I the best lover?” “Am I the best [job title] they’ve ever had?” “Am I the smartest?” “Am I the most handsome/beautiful?” Still…there is a voice in your head saying…

But the attraction to this praise proves too alluring. You jump in. It proves to be everything you sought…at first. BTW- most of what I am flinging here can be cross referenced in psychology journals and/or the DSM-V. I have myriad personal examples of this but my former boss was a true prodigy. Once he had you, you were his plaything like a cat with a toy.

“WAIT! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? This wasn’t what I signed up for! I thought you loved/respected/promoted/believed in me? Maybe if I try harder?” Hook, line, and sinker my dear friend. At times you may realize you are being manipulated and even intentionally (or just uncaringly) hurt now. Defense?

You’re too late, my friend. The hooks are in, the push~pull cycle has begun, and next comes the damage.

But there is a snippet I have not mentioned. In those initial phases during the love bombing and the praise, the narcissist was mapping you. It is an awful but likely subconscious habit of the manipulative person. At least the mapping part is unconscious, but the hurt that it is used to bring about is handled through intentional cognitive dissonance and a complete inability to take accountability. This isn’t all that hard as these people aren’t all that good with empathy (they mostly or completely lack it). On the rare occasion they feel it, they find it so painful and so caustic they find a way to subdue and escape it either through relational satiation or more bad behavior. Speaking of that… where were we? Oh yeah, testing and strategic attacks.

At this point, you are probably wondering how you got into this and why this is happening. Or you are stupified by the devastating hurt just visited on you. It can be sudden, or it can be cumulative over many microaggressions.

At this point those who care about you likely will speak up about it. Like “dude, that’s a nasty emotional gash you have there.”

When it finally comes to an end or a cease fire you are somewhere between hurt and devastated. At this point, and especially if you are new to it, you are examining what you did wrong. And I can virtually promise you your tormentor is not going to stop you. To them, this is your fault… you had it coming. If you had been a better employee, if you had lived up to your promise, if you were a better lover, if you were better looking, if you were slimmer, if you were cooler, if you weren’t……just…..so……..you, then this wouldn’t have happened.

In a recent conversation with a prolific writer friend of mine I used the phrase “emotional shelling.” It seems fitting to use that here. As you go through the repeated push~pull cycles you will likely be able to see these attacks more for what they are over time. The problem remains that they still hurt and they will still drive you to: get more credentialed, go back to school, become a gym rat, and so on. Anything to get back that original drug you felt during the pull.

Time for a little detour here. After a few cycles of this toxic orbit you may start seeking ways to retaliate. With a narcissistic boss you might shop yourself to other employers. Be careful here. They love a game of chicken. They may call your bluff. Or if they do fight to keep you I promise you they will make you pay for it later (remember Hannah Waddingham’s amazing interaction with Higgins in Ted Lasso, “I know how this works, you’ll come back, grovel for your job and I’ll give it to you. But I’ll make your life just a little bit worse.”). And if it happens to be a lover you might decide to try to make them jealous. This ends in one of two ways also. They either call your bluff or…

…you may succeed. But if you are successful I’d advise you to build up a fund for replacement dishes and tires. To be fair, both of you are forging trauma bonds at this point. Two wrongs don’t make a right. What’s more, you have taken these hurt rituals and cast them into cycles.

This can go on in perpetuity. There can be good (or at minimum not-awful) periods. Life still has to be lived while you are dancing in this ring. Why? Because the toxic now feels normal. You are invested. Maybe the job has promoted you just enough to keep you, but not enough to advance somewhere else. Maybe you are so economically dependent on it that you can’t go without even a week of pay transitioning to a new job. Maybe your loyalty has been bought with some sort of reclaimable bonus or tuition reimbursement contract that holds you in servitude. Or maybe you are in a relationship where kids and / or property are involved. There are any number of reasons why we don’t break out. But the toxic cycles take an accumulation in tears and chronic stress.

To quote a Doobie Brothers album name, “What were once vices are now habits.”

Soooooo what now? Well, you can go on in perpetuity, and many pairings do. You can mutually go your own ways (this is painfully unlikely to happen but can – especially in a romantic relationship where both partners can recognize the toxicity and agree to put something, someone, or others above themselves). Or one party can try to exit independently – with terribly predictable results (common in workplace situations).

The Codep Fixer can try to leave with the above being the result. Or…

the Narc/Manip can leave with this being the result (James Tiberius screaming “KHAN” is the Codep in this example).

If you decide to break the cycle, there are some bits of information and possibly some advice I can offer.

Information: this is going to hurt like hell. There is no way around it. You are essentially addicted to this person or situation and the chaos. The built cycles are diecast and breaking them will feel like a small death. You will have to grieve it. You will be hit pretty hard by how smoothly they seem to move on. You will wonder if they actually ever felt anything for you. You will wonder how it was so damned easy for them. Know this; in any relationship with a narcissist they were ready and planning to move on long before you even knew what was happening. For them, waiting to move on or not moving on means dwelling on the actual feelings or nature of the situation and there is no way they are going to let that happen. This person has built a defensive wall around their ability to feel unpleasant things and will they use anything including human shields to reinforce it. In addition, vanity is a big deal to them. They cannot allow themselves to feel undeserving or unwanted. They will plug any holes in the wall with new people. Moreover they will flaunt it. Vanity doesn’t do much good if you don’t show off.

I don’t mean this post to come across as purely critical. They hurt, too. They probably always have. But they have a level of conditioned avoidance that means they’d rather live in a perpetual hum of moderate pain than suffer instances of sharp situational pain. It is okay to feel for them, but you have to feel more for you! It is time to pick up the pieces and move forward. It’s time to fix you.

Tis the season to write about Christmas and good will. It’s the season…but not the day. I will try to knock out something more Christmas-y in the coming week.

If ever the day arrives where I understand humanity I think I will faint. That’s a macro statement. I had this thought while standing in front of a Giant (a NE grocery chain) supermarket in a gentle rainstorm. The weather was lovely to me – but I’m a pluviophile. I was struck how much everyone was rushing around and acting as if the rain were acid. I get it, I am in the minority on this thing about loving rain.

I found myself in a state of ponderance which is a $0.25 cent word for a poor-man’s observation of the world and building (or modifying/reinforcing) a philosophy. I don’t mean to seem as though I stood in a state of judgement. Far from it. I wasn’t looking at these folks as if they were somehow wrong. I think I was more upset with this culture we have created where we have to scurry everywhere and cannot take the time to take in the moment. Hell, modern psychology has several treatments that focus specifically on living in the moment. DBT and CBT therapies both leverage this as a core principle of their matrices.

Why not stop and enjoy the rain? Why not jump in the puddles? I know – wet socks and all that. But still, have we willfully sacrificed every part of our younger selves for this bullshit maturity we now have? Personally I think the stiff upper lip and the constant time management in the face of life happening around us is a pretty silly look.

I didn’t start this post to be some sort of boiled-down carpe diem thing but it is going to have some of that essence. It is more like seize the love. In fact, my original thought process centered around the particulate composition of the parking lot puddle water. Parking lots are notoriously filthy surfaces. Add water to it and you get puddles and these puddles are dirty. The water pulls the filth of the lot to the puddles like a border collie herding sheep. Inevitably a car tire finds the puddle and spreads the water like an orbital rubber Moses.

After a brief moment of separation the parted water rushes back together to return balance to the body of the puddle. In that moment the path of the tire is briefly replaced by clear water – the force of the tire having sent the lighter sediment further than the water. But of course this purity doesn’t last. The sediment rushes back a moment later fogging the clear space suspended in the water like a dark-themed snow globe.

I took the peculiarity of our rushed existence into consideration standing there at the overhang just outside the door where they display the snow shovels and fresh Christmas wreaths (yes, I am that weirdo). Make that puddle a metaphor for our life experiences and holy hell you have a lot to think about! How many things would you not have jumped into had the water been calm but you could see the suspended sediment? What if the sediment had settled but your arrival disturbed it and now you’re immersed? How many situations have we flung ourselves into right after the tire exited? “The water in the center is clear so it all must be clear!!! Wait. What the fuck? What’s all this other stuff?” -Me over and over

Take it from me, dear reader, I am one existential-puddle-jumping sonofabitch.

Sometimes I underestimated the sediment. Sometimes I was reckless. Still other times I was just focused on the crystal-clear water in the middle right after Michelin’s exit and then when the sediment returned was hesitant to admit that I might be in over my head. Those are the times I most identify with Wile E. Coyote when he holds up the little sign bearing some iteration of “I’m screwed.”

The worst is when your entry into a puddle sends filthy water flying and hits someone else. Nobody wants your existential soup. The puddle water is kinda gross and ruins khakis. I know I have caused a lot of collateral damage jumping in the people pools. Unfortunately we can’t always keep this existence clean and still live our lives. But the past is the past and we can’t change it so we have to make our peace with it.

I imagined what cognitive dissonance would be needed to convince one to drink the water. It didn’t take me long to reach my conclusion; not much if any. Sure no sane and well-watered person would slurp up a puddle of road sludge and emissions dust [metaphor]. What if you were dying of thirst? Your only qualifier would be that it be wet. Beyond that you don’t have many scruples or conditions [metaphor]. What if life had recently left you dehydrated? Sure, you would like cleaner water but this looks pretty good in a pinch. Besides, the water in the middle where that Chevy just rolled is super-clean [metaphor]!

Of course I’m alluding to things like love, affection, kindness, empathy, comfort, support and the other messes of the heart we find ourselves coexisting with our fellow humans. You get it. You’ve stayed with me this long so I won’t insult your intelligence by breaking it down further.

Just know this; you are worthy of all those things and we all make splashes. Learn from them of course but don’t stop playing in the rain. Don’t let yourself become jaded. You be you and make a mess or two {tips cap to Ted Geisel}.

You knew I was going to take this puddle & rainstorm bit and make it about our emotional selves and existentialism; didn’t you? I simply wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to tie modern urbanist urgency to skipping the childhood pleasure of making impulsive emotional decisions…in metaphors surrounding poor hardscape drainage.

But if you read this far you already knew the deal and I thank you.

A rite of passage for any St Louisan is a trip to Ted Drew’s in November for a Christmas tree. The tree lot is straight out of Charlie Brown. It is on the parking lot of a famous St Louis frozen custard Elysium that all us St Lou-natics adore. The frozen custard is the best on this planet (there is no discussion to be had here- it is simple fact). The frozen custard is a year-round staple of the 314 but the tree lot is a winter treat. In this writer’s opinion, peppermint bark concretes are the crème anglaise congelée of the gods (although at TDs, it flies under the “Cindermint” slogan). There is always a roaring fire pit and the scent of Douglas fir and fresh pine are enough to knock you over. I find myself pausing in sensory nostalgia at this very moment.

Walking the lot you note that some of the trees are designated a “Dottie.” Named after the second generation owner’s wife, these are considered the choicest trees on the lot. I never carried the bread to buy one of these beauties until I decided to splurge in 2019. I bought my first Dottie. A towering scotch pine specimen, it could have played a supporting role in photo from a Bing Crosby album cover. With a puffed chest I felt pride emanating from my sap-covered hands as I hoisted her atop the Explorer and tied her down to return to what would shortly become an urban winter wonderland. When you drive through the Lou and have a Dottie on the luggage rack, you hold your head high.

The kids will remember such experiences with great fondness someday (I tell myself), but at that moment they are too busy processing the 20 ounces of sweetened frozen milkfat they just consumed to take in the significance of the moment. This is a pretty big part of why I wanted to become a dad. I love the establishment and continuance of family traditions. While I get the humor that is Clark Griswold I also identify with his blind interest in family. Note: looking back at the Griswold collection there are a LOT of problems there that as a youth I did not consider so. Christy Brinkley is great and all, and like all 1980’s boys I had that crush, but the ease of succumbing to infidelity temptation in the face of a stunning and committed Beverly D’ Angelo kinda sucks.

Sorry, I’ll stop screwing around here. I brought home my first Dottie. I played the dad hero (even if no one actually called me that). With a full heart, sap-covered hands, and a feeling of Christmas cheer I carried the tree into the house. I placed the Dottie in the stand and locked it down to decorate. After orbiting it with a thousand lights, tinsel, and every ornament we could find, we stood back and looked at the majesty of it. I turned off the lights that first night and as I did I admired this symbol, adorned as had been the case dating back to the days of Pagan religious dominance, and I considered my work well done.

The next morning I rose with a deep breath and wandered downstairs to begin the day. I filled a pitcher of water and meandered to the tree to give it a drink. As I knelt to fill the basin I brushed the branches needles they fell like snow. “Wait. That doesn’t feel right. Those feel dry. This tree was fine last night.” After further examination I surmised that the tree might be dead. But it didn’t make sense as I had sawn the base before I put it in the stand and I had placed food in the water before we decorated. So I came to the conclusion that if I watered it enough somehow it would spring back to life and everything would be fine.

By the end of week one the thing was clearly dead and then some. Well…it was to any sane person. However, I had determined through cognitive dissonance that this thing would be fine somehow. And as an added bonus I didn’t have to add any more water! The water level wasn’t changing anymore. At this point we were tacitly accepting the tree’s state as we ensured no ignition sources were in the area. But we still treated it as if it were alive and healthy. By God I was NOT undoing this one and decorating another one!

It is worth noting this particular Christmas month was a weird one to begin with. There was nothing normal about late 2019. But dammit I was not budging on this ONE THING. I was going to have something normal! It should come as no surprise that the presence of this tree did not make anything suddenly become normal. And then when January came I had to admit it…this tree had been dead for over a month. This magnificent Dottie that had felt lush and soft on the tree lot was in the final stages of hospice on the roof of my car. I was driving a bleeder when I did that south city slow cruise to show off my Dottie. And just to make sure I didn’t have any misconceptions, that damned tree, who had been the soothsayer of the surreal Christmas yet to come, dropped every damned pine needle it had. The path to the back door looked like the forest floor. I filled an entire kitchen trash bag with needles. For mise en scene, it was the size of three or four large sleeping bags.

So where the hell am I going with this? I can tell you that this tree was a fluke. The Dottie retains its reputation as one of the best tree grades available in the Lou. Everyone I have spoken to who has purchased a Dottie cannot say enough good things. But mine died at the same speed a peeled avocado browns. And moreover, nothing was going to stop it. I had done everything right. I had bought the right tree of the right pedigree from the right place and I had taken all right steps only to watch it flatline in record time. I had tried to will it back to life with everything I had but to no avail.

My point is this; you can do everything right things still go wrong. You can take all the right steps and give yourself the best odds only for fate to help remind you of your place in the grand scheme. Nature and the macrocosm have a way of righting the ship when any one of us begins to think we really know what the hell is going on or that we have complete control.

But you know what? When I look back on that Christmas I remember the kids and I on the couch making fun of our Santa hats. I remember introducing Aiden to “Men At Work.” I remember wrapping the gigantic front bush (also known as the “70’s Bush”) in net lighting for the first time. It was really beautiful. I now go to tree farms to get the trees fresh. And I am always looking for more opportunities to make memories. Dottie serves as a reminder that in what was a shit year, I didn’t give up. Love can persevere any trial we encounter.

Today I can smell the Fraser fir in my sunroom filling the house with that delightful scent. My life has endured many changes and that Christmas marked the crux of many such changes. 2022 was a year of many changes also. 2023 is promising to be a great one if the last few months have been any indication.

Dottie, thanks for giving me the placeholder I needed for that year. You were perfectly imperfect and you set the bar low enough that every Christmas will be better than that one. I hate taking the W when it is made that easy but I’m definitely not above it.