The Non-Dad Stuff

There’s a term I’ve been hearing lately. Staycation. This is when you take a vacation, but you stay at home. “Stay at home” + “Vacation” = “Staycation”. It’s like Brangelina (Brad Pitt + Angelina *drool* Jolie) or Speidi (pronounced spidey for Heidi *idiot* Montag and Spencer *douchenozzle idiot* Pratt).

Well, I’m going on vacation soon and I’m wondering if there’s a word for the middle area between a vacation and a staycation. We’re not going to Spain or Australia (who would want to right now anyway? It’s Winter over there!), and we’re not exactly staying home. Instead, we’re going to chillax (relax + chill) with our friends (married couple) at their Summer cottage for nine days.

If two, or more, guys were to go to Vegas together (no homo), they should call it a bro-cation.

Do you think gay people go on gaycation together?

When Sarah kicks me out of the house and forces me to hang out with friends (so I can let loose and get out of dad-mode or husband-mode, and yes, she really does this), I’m going to start calling it a daycation.

I’m not even going to touch laycation. You can draw your own conclusions there.

If I ever watch Transformers 1 & 2, Armageddon, The Rock and Bad Boys all in one day, that’ll be a Baycation.

And if I ever hang out with Henry Winkler (the Fonz), I’m going to tell everyone that I’m on ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyycation.

Well, this series of posts took a strange turn. The intention was to simply explain how Sarah and I met. Then, I planned to jump to present day and the title of these posts would make sense. I guess the "I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo" still works with what I’ve written, but that wasn’t the plan.

If you need to be refreshed on my take of how Sarah and I met, read part one again, or read below for the condensed version.

I met Sarah because she was manager of the apartment complex (I paid my rent to her). She worked at a different property and had recently transferred to the one I was living at. I went to the office one day to drop off the rent check, and that’s when I saw Sarah. I remember thinking, "DAY-UMMMMMM," but didn’t say anything aloud, aside from telling her that I didn’t need a receipt.

One day, I decided to go talk to her. I did what most men do, I started everything on a lie. I lived in a two-bedroom apartment and told Sarah that I was thinking about downgrading to a single bedroom. You know, because I was single and didn’t need the extra space. The lie was telling her that I needed or wanted a one bedroom. I was, in fact, quite happy with the space I had. I didn’t lie about my status though. I told the married woman that I just couldn’t do the back-and-forth thing with her anymore and that she needed to either make things right with her husband, or find other arrangements. This innocent lie led to a bit of small talk. I asked Sarah about her weekend and she said something about having gone skydiving because it was her birthday, so I then shared my skydiving story as well.

When I figured it was a good time to take my exit (and leave her wanting more), I said "Well, it’s too bad I missed your birthday. I’ll have to take you out and buy you a drink sometime."

Recently, Sarah, Tyler and myself were all sitting in the kitchen. I mentioned something to Sarah about the fact that I never really had any "game" with the ladies.

"What do you mean?"

I explained, "Well, I went to school with Mary, I worked with Teidda, I worked with Shannon, and you were my landlord. I never really went out and ‘picked up chicks.’"

Sarah said, "I never knew you worked with Teidda."

"Yup."

This is when Sarah decided to take my pride, my ego, or whatever it is inside a person to make them feel like a man and crush it into a million tiny pieces.

"Oh. I thought you were a weirdo when you came in."

My response came out as a violent expulsion of air. "WHAT?!"

Sarah went on to mock my "oh. I missed your birthday? I’ll have to take you out…" line, with exaggerated facial expressions and arm movements. I’m surprised she didn’t go fully over the top and form her thumb and forefinger on each hand into a gun and say "pow, pow" as she mockingly shot the air between us.

Sarah and I continued to hang out almost every day. We eventually started keeping a spare toothbrush at each of our apartments. I told her that I loved her before she said it to me, and she actually didn’t say it for another month or so. When she did finally say those three words, she was so embarrassed that she ran away from me. I had to chase her through her parents’ house and into her sister’s room, where she finally conceded that I was her boyfriend.

Sarah was offered a job in Fort Wayne, Indiana about a month later. We still had two apartments and were technically living separately, but spent most nights together. If we went to Fort Wayne, we’d move in together. If we stayed, we’d continue business as usual. Sarah told me that she wanted to try it out but if I didn’t want to move down there, she would stay. I wasn’t unhappy in my current job, but was becoming less and less enthused with it. Contrary to my doctor’s advice on what was healthy for me, I told Sarah that I would move with her. Sarah took the position and, for the first time in my adult life, I became dependent on another person.

After the move, I printed off fifty copies of my résumé, put on a suit, grabbed a map and went on the hunt. Unfortunately for the sake of this story, I can’t remember how long it took me to find a job, but it was somewhere between two and six weeks. I’m actually inclined to say it was much less than that even.

I found a doctor in Fort Wayne who changed my meds again. This newest Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor, aside from a very common – and very unfortunate – side effect, brought along some new ones that I was unprepared for. Soon after taking my prescribed dosage, I found myself strung-out, for lack of a better term. I was high-energy, couldn’t focus and would sometimes ramble on and on, jumping from one topic to another. Later, I would feel empty and want to hurt myself. The strange thing about it, to me, was that it wasn’t a depressed "I want to end the pain" thing. Instead, it was as if I just had a NEED to hurt myself. To Sarah and my co-workers who, on many occasions asked "what was wrong" with me, I joked about my behavior and told them I felt great. Truthfully, I was terrified. My doctor dismissed my concerns and said I needed to give the meds more time to stabilize in my system.

I became more and more irrational and distant from Sarah. I lost my temper at a moments notice and would shout insults at her. Sometimes, she would return my shouts, but not to throw insults. She just wanted me to hear her. Most times, though, she would tell me that she didn’t understand what was going on with me.

The day I told Sarah that I was moving out, I immediately wanted to take it back, but didn’t. With her unflinching desire to help me and care for me, she put aside her anger and pain and rented an apartment to me in an adjacent building. She helped me pack, she helped me move my stuff, and she helped me unpack. Then she told me she couldn’t bear to be in contact with me anymore because it hurt too much.

At that very instant, it all became real. I had been walking down this path for months, but never stopped to look around and figure out just where in the hell I was. When I finally moved my eyes from the tips of my toes to really draw in my surroundings, I found myself in a new apartment. All alone. How did I let it get this far? And quite frankly, how could I have fucked things up this bad?

Three days later, I begged Sarah to take me back. She refused. I hurt her too badly and for too long for her to take me back just because I "didn’t like being alone for one weekend," especially since I left her alone for months. Her words cut deep. Again, I asked her to take me back, and again she declined. I asked her for something, anything, because I couldn’t accept losing her. Mercifully, she relented a bit, and told me that she wouldn’t take me back, but she would give me a chance to prove myself to her. I gratefully accepted and set to work rebuilding what I had carelessly ruined.

Without even a courtesy call to my doctor, I stopped taking my meds. The information sheet warned – heavily – against discontinuing use without properly weaning down the dosage. My mind and emotions endured two weeks of utter hell while dealing with withdrawal symptoms. Eventually, the fog in my head cleared, and my emotions were once again "felt".

I still have bouts of depression every few months. I tell Sarah that I’m feeling down and she understands. She hugs me more, she tells me she loves me more and she waits for me to feel better. I feed off of her words and support while I wait for the darkness to pass.

This is part two of a three part series. If you haven’t read part one yet, make sure you do so here first.

A fact about me that is not known to many people is that I was married previously. I can’t refer to her as my highschool sweetheart, because we didn’t go to the same school. We started dating while I was in highschool though. We worked together at a pizza joint I lovingly refer to as Little Sleazers. It was one of my favorite jobs ever. Little responsibility, an awesome manager, and cool co-workers. Never mind the fact that I made little money, didn’t have a reliable car, and usually worked the closing shift. Have you ever used public transit (city buses) in a high-crime city (Flint, Michigan) at night? I don’t recommend it.

We dated for a few years, then moved to Kalamazoo for a job promotion (I was no longer at Sleazers). Soon after, we engaged and married. A year after we married, things went downhill, fast. We both had our faults that, when compounded, led to us heading in different directions with our lives. She moved out and left me in the apartment, lonely and broken.

A victim to my own thoughts and emotions, I felt less and less connected with the real world. First, I wished for death much in the same way that a traditional emo teenager will when their parents ground them or cancel their WoW account*. Soon, I fantasized on how I would do something like that. Eventually, I found myself actually planning my own permanent escape. Fear gripped me as I realized exactly what I was doing. I immediately called my doctor’s office, and resolved myself to make it to the appointment.

My doctor made me answer a questionnaire. The third question read "Do you ever want to hurt yourself or have thoughts of suicide?"

I completely broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. I suddenly wanted to lie and get out of there, quick. Through my tear-blurred vision I located the box marked ‘yes’, colored it in, and read the next question.

"Do you ever cry uncontrollably, at seemingly random times?"

The doctor and I spoke at length about my symptoms and all the events that have happened in my life. I told that I’ve struggled with depressive thoughts since I was sixteen or so, maybe earlier. We finally decided to try meds, just long enough to get me through the pain of the break-up.

They had an immediate effect, but not exactly what we were hoping for. Without the meds, I experienced extreme highs (manic) and extreme lows (depressive). The anticipation was that the meds would make the highs a little lower, and the lows a little higher, to the level that "normal" people operate on. Instead of dulling the extremes of my emotions, the initial meds simply turned my emotions off. I didn’t feel pain, sadness or hurt. Unfortunately, I also didn’t feel happiness, or surprise, or care.

We changed meds a few times so we could "find the one that works" for me. I noticed no difference between them, but weaning off of one and on to another is something I never want to experience again. It felt like the emotional equivalent of airplane turbulence. Where I would normally feel upset over dropping food on the floor, I would instead fly into a rage and wanted to physically hurt other people. I would scream in my empty apartment, and feel pure euphoria moments later, for no apparent reason.

Being on the meds helped clear my thoughts so I could mentally work through all my problems. That motivated me to file the divorce papers. That also helped me understand that my current arrangement was going nowhere fast. I dumped my married girlfriend, divorced my wife and concentrated on moving forward.

[to be continued]

* Seriously, watch the video. WEIRD

This is part one of a three part series.

I met Sarah almost exactly six years ago. I lived in an apartment in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I would like to say that I was (airquote) single (/airquote) at the time, but the truth is that I was kinda/sorta dating a married woman who was kinda/sorta staying with me. I was also on some pretty hardcore antidepressant meds. So, obviously, this was a healthy situation. The care that I felt towards the married woman quickly turned to something more sinister. She couldn’t decide what she wanted, where she wanted to be, or who she wanted to be with. Yet, she always ended up back at my apartment. And I always let her in. The nice guy in me refused to leave her without a place to sleep.

I met Sarah because she was manager of the apartment complex (I paid my rent to her). She worked at a different property and had recently transferred to the one I was living at. I went to the office one day to drop off the rent check, and that’s when I saw Sarah. I remember thinking, "DAY-UMMMMMM," but didn’t say anything aloud, aside from telling her that I didn’t need a receipt.

Around that time, I started the next of many anti-depressants because the previous drug wasn’t working. This new one they put me on turned me into a thoughtless, feelingless zombie. I would literally sit on my patio and stare at the sky for hours at a time. It was eerily similar to the guy from Office Space, after he got hypnotized. After a few weeks, the drugs equalized in my system. I could feel again, but my emotions had the volume turned way down. Sarah would walk by from time to time, and I found myself thinking about her more often.

One day, I decided to go talk to her. I did what most men do, I started everything on a lie. I lived in a two-bedroom apartment and told Sarah that I was thinking about downgrading to a single bedroom. You know, because I was single and didn’t need the extra space. The lie was telling her that I needed or wanted a one bedroom. I was, in fact, quite happy with the space I had. I didn’t lie about my status though. I told the married woman that I just couldn’t do the back-and-forth thing with her anymore and that she needed to either make things right with her husband, or find other arrangements. This innocent lie led to a bit of small talk. I asked Sarah about her weekend and she said something about having gone skydiving because it was her birthday, so I then shared my skydiving story as well.

When I figured it was a good time to take my exit (and leave her wanting more), I said "Well, it’s too bad I missed your birthday. I’ll have to take you out and buy you a drink sometime."

Shortly after, the married woman came over. I was sitting on the patio when she walked up. The meds I was on left me with little inhibition, so I started the conversation as she neared me.

"I don’t care," I said.

"What? I wanted to tell you-".

I continued, "You’re like a virus."

"What?!"

"A virus. You’re like a virus, and I’m tired of being sick."

"What does that even mean? I came here to tell you that I wanted to be with you."

I spread my hands in front of me and shrugged my shoulders.

After staring at me for a couple moments and seeing the complete absence of emotion on my face she yelled, "You’re an asshole!"

She stormed off in a fashion that reminded me of those people that speedwalk through the shopping mall in the mornings before all the stores open. Moments later, the sound of her tires screaming on the pavement marked her exit from my life.

By this point, Sarah and I had done nothing more than hang out, with maybe a little kissing here and there. We went on more dates and had a few more making out sessions as the weeks passed. She refused to refer to me as her boyfriend because she (airquote) hated titles (/airquote). Anytime I even hinted at anything more between us, she would shoot me down with a single sentence.

"Not while you’re married."

[to be continued]

NOTE: I did not hit on Sarah the same day that I broke it off with the married woman. I told her previously that I was done with her crap. It was later that I finally decided to talk to Sarah. The married woman stopped back over at some point (I assume because her husband told her to screw off as well) to talk to me. That was the day I called her a virus. Thanks for asking me to clarify that, Sarah.

A note to my readers: if you have any intentions of watching Crank 2: High Voltage, DON’T. Listen to me, do not watch that movie. If you still intend on watching it, read the following at your own risk.

I should have known that I was in for a treat of a movie when some as-yet-unnamed thugs scooped the still-living body of Chev Chelios – who had just fallen thousands of feet from a helicopter, landed on a car, bounced about a hundred feet back into the air and crashed back onto the road – into a black van using a snow shovel. A snow shovel. This was all within the first two minutes of the film.

Then there was the stripper who got shot in the boobs, which then began oozing silicone. And there was an extreme close-up of a horse’s cock that spanned the roughly 40 foot wide screen. There was a Godzilla-like fight sequence. There was a guy who cut off his own nipples – on orders of his boss, the guy ain’t crazy you know – and was later seen sporting a Band-Aid over each removed nipple. Some random thug was sodomized with a shotgun. Oh, and there was a talking head. Like, a head was separated from a body, had been placed into an aquarium with goo and wires, and was talking.

I know that reading the above paragraph will have many people checking to see if that movie is playing in their local theater, it does sound awesome as I re-read what I just typed, but it was horrible. Horrible.

A few occasions found Sarah and I looking at each other in disbelief. We actually chose that movie for our date night. At one point, she asked me if we missed some sort of disclaimer message saying that “for optimal viewing experience, please eat a bag of mushrooms.” Unfortunately, there was no such disclaimer.

I am extremely forgiving with movies. Sarah will vouch for the fact that I find 99% of movies enjoyable. I’ve watched plenty of “not good” movies and quite a few bad movies, but I enjoy and appreciate watching movies, good or bad. But Crank 2: High Voltage is beyond bad. And for this, it has made it onto my list titled The 5 Worst Movies Ever. The full list is as follows.

The 5 Worst Movies Ever
5.
4. REPO: The Genetic Opera (IMDb)
3. Leprechaun 3 (IMDb)
2. Freddy Got Fingered (IMDb)
1. Crank 2: High Voltage (IMDb)

The list is a perfect illustration of how forgiving I am with regards to movies. Of all the movies I’ve ever watched, I can’t think of a fifth movie that I absolutely hate. Although I am fairly certain that if I were to watch Gigli or Glitter, I’d fill the last slot.

I should have walked out of the movie and snuck into a different one. The only reason I can give for why I didn’t is that the other eight people in the theater didn’t leave either.

Crank 2, you owe me for the cost of two movie tickets ($17), a babysitter and, if the technology is ever created, 85 minutes of my life.

There was one funny line in the movie that I must share. Chev Chelios was on the hood of a car being driven by two Chinese dudes (bad guys). One of the Chinese guys was yelling at Chev – inviting him to have relations with himself, I believe. Chev said, ” Did you drop some change? I just heard a chink.”