Today, I woke up at 8:05am and while rubbing out the crusty mucus deposits around my eyes a clear thirty minutes after I was supposed to already be at work hitting the keyboard, I was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. I got dressed without taking a shower and made my way to the fish tank still half asleep to feed those little creatures who are so dependent on me for their very survival. As I sprinkled the fish food flakes into the tank of water, a veritable glass prison, I tried to imagine what those little fish might be thinking.

Cleo, you, a Gold Gurami with beautiful orange and neon blue color, oh I had such plans for you, I was going to get a guy-fish for you…maybe we could have gotten you a plaster cast castle in a respectable corner of the tank, next to the hard working sucker fish that keep the glass clean, the schools are really good in that part of tank-town, or so they tell me. You and your guy-fish could have had your 2.5 or 20 fish fry and eked out a beautiful life in that warm corner of the English Basement. Could have, would have, should have…that is until I found out yesterday that beautiful Cleo IS actually a guy-fish…that nerdy fish specialist at the local Pets-Mart sure knew how to quash my designs for fish utopia. So, today, Cleo has been renamed Leo, because as the “deciderer” of all things fishy, I said so - that’s why. Their fate is in my hands, if I forget to feed them for a couple of days, they will die - and I’m a known fish killer, having dispatched my twins’ fish a couple of months ago - I am to be feared. Their purpose in life is to entertain me, how sad. Then, I thought to myself, wait, I am not in control of my own life…my life, and my busy schedule controls me, and that is sad.

So, as I watched the two red tipped Tetra’s rudely brush by Cleo, I mean Leo, and pounce on the food in a shark-like manner, I made a determination to do my part to attain that Uber Man status that Friedrich Nietzsche prophesized about over a hundred years ago. We control our own fate, of this I’m certain. Sure, genetics and environment have something to do with one’s ultimate success in life, but once those cards are dealt it is up to us to make the most of what we’ve been given. Through self discovery and self awareness it is up to us to identify our weaknesses and our strengths in our genetic makeup and to build a life within our pre-determined environment that takes those factors into consideration. So, I just need to get off my lazy ass and do something about it. I won’t wait for someone or something to “save” me, instead like those red tipped Tetra’s I will fight for every scrap I can find on the floor, any clue that helps me attain greater self awareness, greater discipline to achieve the goals I have set aside for myself.

So, if I am to become that Uber Man, or Mini-Uber Man, I will need to lay out all the areas of my life that require improvement. Let’s see, maybe I’ll focus on these categories and break them down into more manageable themes: Day Job, Parenting, Self-Improvement and Business…that should cover it. Day Job: I will motivate and actually get some work done before Friday comes around otherwise, that project due at the end of November will bite me in the ass. Parenting: I will try to participate in the lives of my kids more often. Maybe, I will try to volunteer during the school day once and a while - need to look into that. I will work on more educational projects with them - similar to the Paper Mache Volcano. I will take them on day trips to get them to spend quality time with me and my parents and find a way to set aside all the road blocks and excuses that my Ex has put into place to prevent me from doing so. Self-Improvement: I will do some sort of self-improvement activity throughout the week to keep my mind and body balanced. Business: I will work on getting my online business back on track and take the necessary steps to create new online businesses…after all, these online businesses are my ticket out of this 40 Hour Labor Camp.

By the time I made it into work at 8:30am, I did not feel very guilty about my tardiness however, maybe because I knew that the Warden was out attending some meeting in another state and wouldn’t return until after lunch. Okay, I will implement these steps to improve my life, starting on Friday…Wait, I’m taking a day off on Friday - I’ll label that part of my “Self-Improvement”…Okay, starting this next Monday the Mini-Uber Man shall rise from the ashes.

Back in January of 2008, I created a Paper Mache Volcano, another chapter in my quest to pique Mini-A and Mini-B’s imagination and generate an interest in the world around them - away from toys and video games. I hoped to engage their minds with a tangible experience that would teach them something new in a fun way. Upon completing the project they quickly integrated this volcano into their imaginary world of plastic dinosaurs and action figures and shared it with their friends. And yes, I have fun.

Anyway, this is how I made our Paper Mache Volcano:

Materials:

• 1 square of cardboard: approx. 25 inches by 25 inches
• 4 triangular pieces of cardboard. The base of each triangle should be about 10 inches wide and each side should be about 15 inches long
• 1 plastic bottle: approx 8 inches tall
• Strips of newspaper: approximately 1.5 inches wide
• Newspapers
• Masking tape
• Plaster Strips
• 1 big bowl
• Flour and water
• Brown, green, and red paint
• Green moss
• baking soda
• vinegar
• food coloring

Directions:

1. Place the bottle in the center of the cardboard
2. Create the volcano skeleton framework: cut four triangular sections (the base should be about 10 inches wide and each side should be about 15 inches long) of cardboard and attach them to each side of the bottle in a fluted way by taping the 10 inch base each triangular cardboard section to the cardboard base. The point on the other side of each triangular cardboard section should meet at the top of the plastic bottle, just under the “lip” of the bottle. Crumble up a bunch of newspapers into balls and fill the volcano skeleton’s framework to give its frame some form. Tape the newspapers to the framework, this will add texture and shape to the volcano.
3. Run strips of masking tape from the top of the bottle to various points near the edge of the cardboard to secure the bottle in place. Try to make them equidistant from the bottle
4. Dip strips of the newspaper into the mixture.
5. Run it between 2 fingers to take off any excess mixture. Drape the strips between the masking tape strips.
6. Once the entire volcano skeleton framework has been covered, let it dry over night.

When you wake up in the morning, you will be impressed by your handi-work, but, alas, your task is not over. Though you have seemingly built a mountain out of nothing, you are still a mortal in your kids’ eyes, okay, maybe you’ve attained “hero” status at this point - they can see your vision of the perfect volcano…it’s just not painted yet, and we all know, that kids love colors, and colors add dimension and texture to your work.

So, it’s very important to paint the volcano as realistically as possible (no primary colors - try using “Fall” colors) remember, you need to make this volcano cooler than any toy they will possibly ever buy, it’s you against Toys R’ Us. If you win, your kids will want to make more projects with you and you will enjoy old fashioned substantive quality time with your babies and establish an ever lasting bond with them…if you lose, you will end up spending a lot of money on potentially defective and hazardous plastic toys made in China.

Okay, so now, let’s paint the completed volcano. Add the paint in layers and imagine a jungle vegetation on a black rock volcano. Add the greens first, the browns next, and then blend the paints to make it look realistic, the transition of the paints should be subtle. Now, you can follow up with the finishing touch the red lava. In the end the red lava should contrast starkly with the more natural and mundane looking vegetation you painted earlier. Add green moss along the base of the volcano.

Add color highlights to further blend colors and create the illusion of topical variations in soil on the volcano. Congratulations - 48 hours later, you have a nice looking paper mache volcano. Sit back take a photo and enjoy the moment - because it won’t look this nice after the kids get their hands on it. Alas - you can now name your volcano and hand it over to the little people…Mt. Bondwithdada…thought to be dormant…until recent seismic activity indicated that it would soon erupt….

Erupt the volcano: Place four tablespoons of baking soda into the plastic bottle, then add 1 cup of vinegar to the bottle, the volcano should begin “erupting” within seconds. January 22, 2008 - Mt. Bondwithdada violently erupts. Volcano eruption in soaking tub…makes it a lot easier to clean up afterwards. Mini-A and Mini-B, standing in hallway - scared that eruption will destroy their home along with their toys and art supplies - and perhaps maim their intrepid Father. Mini-A: “Daddy - maybe you should ask Mommy for permission first”.

Eruption number two…
Mini-B: “Dad-da, I thought it was going to throw lava all over the room”.
Me: “No babe, this is just a demonstration in a controlled environment, no harm will come to your mind or body and your toys will be safe too”.
*Adding way too much vinegar and baking soda*

Eruption number three….disappointment sets in.
Mini-A: “Dad, can I go on the dot.com and play “Echo-Raiders”.
Me: “Um, okay - let’s try to get to level ten this time”.

Let me say a few words about my daily schedule. To say that I spend a lot of time in my car would be an understatement. I have a 2000 Volkswagen Jetta and I spend about $500 a month on gas in it. I paid it off a couple of years ago and it’s probably only worth around $4,000 now, but it’s one of the few assets I can actually say that I own and I do take some pride in that. For the most accurate depiction I can give of the relationship I have with my car, let me refer to a quote from the movie “Full Metal Jacket” - and substitute the word “car” for every instance of “rifle”:

“This is my [car]. There are many like it but this one is mine. My [car] is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my [car] is useless. Without my [car] I am useless. I must [drive] my [car] true. I must [drive] straighter than my enemy, who is trying to [drive faster than] me. I must [drive past] him before he [drives past] me. I will. Before God I swear this creed: my [car] and myself are defenders of my country, we are the masters of our enemy, we are the saviors of my life. So be it, until there is no enemy, but peace. Amen.”

Yes, I suppose that I am an aggressive driver on some level - though I do think I’ve mellowed with age. So, I spend a lot of time in my car, thinking, listening to music or to National Public Radio or talking on the phone, texting or even chatting on my Crackberry yes, I’m a bad seed, but what can I do, I’m a very busy man. Since the separation from my Ex, back in January 2007, I have lived quite a nomadic existence in my attempt to visit my kids on a regular basis despite the tension between my Ex and me. I moved out of the home we shared together to live with my parents about a thirty minute drive away and have been living in the “English Basement” of their home ever since.

I used to visit my kids every day of the week until I nearly burned out from the exhaustion of the drive. Now, I visit them four days a week - Tuesdays and Thursdays after work until 8:30pm and Saturdays and Sundays from 4pm to about 8:30 or 9:00pm and have followed this schedule for about six months.

I probably spend about three hours a day in my car. Do I like driving so much you might ask? In a strange way, I think I do enjoy driving. During the time I spend in my car I actually have time to myself, to my own thoughts, to review my life and decide what I suck at and need to improve, to sing out loud, to talk to friends or family on the phone, to keep my mind engaged, and to practice my motor-skills.

Over the years, the Jetta has gotten banged up a bit. My ex damaged the side of the car pulling out of the garage; a tree once fell and shattered the back window, my son jammed the cd/cassette interface with coins at age two, effectively short-circuiting the car’s computer; and I have had some memorable traffic violations in that car as well. That being said, look forward to the day I can trade it in for a BMW M3, until then, however, I must acknowledge that the 2000 Volkswagen Jetta is my car, and although there are many like it…this one is mine…my little sanctuary on wheels.

I used to feel invincible as a younger, twenty-something single man without children. However, with the birth of my twins through in-vitro fertilization, I now see the fragility of life and often suffer moments of despair whenever my children struggle…

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
~Elizabeth Stone

So, I have two beautiful seven year old twins, one boy and one girl. I will call my son Mini-A and my daughter Mini-B. My daughter, Mini-B, has a disability called Selective Mutism, commonly referred to as extreme social anxiety and misunderstood by many as a form of shyness. Children with Selective Mutism often don’t exhibit any characteristics of the disability until they begin interacting with other children, usually around the age of two or three. Interestingly, when placed in social or public situations children with Selective Mutism can become completely paralyzed by their social anxiety, to the point that the enveloping social fear prevents them from uttering a single word or even moving a muscle.

REFERENCE:
http://www.selectivemutism.org/faq/faqs/what-is-selective-mutism-sm

We first noticed this social anxiety behavior in Mini-B around the time when she was three years old. My wife had just started participating in social events with our twins, taking them to group play dates with other neighborhood toddlers whose parents she had met at the park or local coffee shop. However, Mini-B had difficulty interacting with the other children in these play dates and would not communicate her intentions with words or body language. Instead, out of frustration, she would often display aggressive behavior and it was not uncommon for me to get a call from my distraught wife telling me how Mini-B had bitten a little girl or boy during a play date.

As the frequency of play dates grew, so did the biting incidents, to the point that Mini-B had acquired the notoriety of being the “Biting Twin”. Mini-B’s cult of personality struck fear in the neighborhood toddler community, many of whom could display the indelible bite marks of my golden haired princess if pressed for evidence. As a result, Mini-B and Mini-A were no longer invited to attend group play dates and the two would spend their days with their mother, playing at home, at the park or visiting with the children of a few trusted friends - playing under the watchful eye of my wife.

At this point, we did not know about Selective Mutism, and so the following year we enrolled Mini-B and Mini-A in a soccer league, hoping a shared activity with her brother would help Mini-B overcome her “shyness”. I remember going to the Saturday morning soccer matches and watching as she stood completely still in the middle of the grassy field, straight as an arrow, as a flurry of orange and black clad clumsy toddlers ran by her, kicking and pushing each other in pursuit of the elusive leather ball…amidst all this, Mini-B remained immobile as a statue.

After the soccer season, we decided that maybe Mini-B just needed to participate in more feminine activities, like Ballet. Unfortunately, the ballet experience proved even more traumatic. During the class, while the other little girls practiced their pirouettes and hopping exercises, Mini-B would get on her knees and slowly crawl towards the glass window in a cat-like manner, refusing to participate. We tried enrolling her in other activities including gym classes, art classes, music classes and summer camps, with little success.

Later, during her pre-school years, we learned of Selective Mutism and began seeking treatment for her disability as soon as she enrolled in kinder garden. Now in first grade, Mini-B has limited interaction with her fellow classmates. She participates in class with the assistance of a state appointed education specialist, who along with regular visits to her psychologist and psychiatrist, help her cope with her disability.  My Ex, told me that Mini-B’s psychiatrist prescribed medication for her Selective Mutism last week and today she and I will meet with Mini-B’s psychiatrist to discuss the implications of this decision and how it might help our “Biting Twin”, firmly chomp down and leave her indelible mark on this silent bully.

…And so I’m back to the daily grind, my salvation snubbed, with my inglorious return to earth by those Aliens…They smelled like ass anyway.

Today I submitted my “Third Quarter Accomplishments” for work, a creative writing exercise justifying to my boss why I should still remain gainfully employed. Once upon a time, I would have stressed out about this task, now I don’t try to justify myself, my work or my views to anyone anymore…well, at least not as much as I have done in the past. What changed? I’m not sure. I think a lot has to do with my perspective on life and my evolving definition of what is important. That book by Richard Carlson, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff and Its All Small Stuff” comes to mind. Now, I have never read that book, but it does sound like a good read if you’re into self-help books (which I’m not). Anyway, I do appreciate the premise that “it’s all small stuff” in the end.

So although I do stress out to varying degrees about my mortgage, my growing debt, the emotional stability of my Ex, and the welfare and health of my Kids, my girlfriend’s future, the prosperity of my online business, improving my tennis game, and keeping my day job (to the extent that I appreciate still having one), I also realize that I have limited control over any of these things – okay, except maybe my tennis game. In the past I tried to control every aspect of my life and attempted to live up to the “ideal” that my parents had brainwashed me into believing as normal. My parents, along with those “G” and “PG” rated movies, Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street and Saturday morning cartoons all conspired to fabricate another reality - each an accomplice in the creation of the shiny happy primary-colored facade that I protected for so many years.

I’m not sure when the first crack in that façade occurred, maybe when at the age of eight I first remember hearing my parents argue or maybe when I saw my first dead animal on the road and realized that cute furry things don’t exactly survive the impact of high velocity rubber weighted down by a two ton metal carriage - Looney Tunes characters apparently did not have those much glorified regenerative powers that we were led to believe.

“Small stuff” and the idea that we are so small and insignificant relative to the world around us, comforts me in a strange way. This notion makes me think of the song “Stories of the Street” from one of my favorite song writers, Leonard Cohen. An excerpt, pretty much sums it up:

“With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl…I balance on a wishing well that all men call the world…We are so small between the stars, so large against the sky,
and lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye.”

A little bit of faith in myself and my beliefs (the hexagram) and the strength I get from the companionship of my friends and loved ones (the girl) helps me to navigate through the trials and tribulations in this world while attempting to attain my goals and dreams (the wishing well) among the opportunities found in this place (the world). Although in the big picture, I am insignificant (so small between the stars), by recognizing this, I no longer try to change the world around me. Instead I make the best of my insignificance by attempting to positively impact the people closest to me - a matter of perspective (so large against the sky). And so, lost among the throngs of people whom I share this world with, I try to catch the eye of those who might see things in a similar light.

Okay, enough of the hocus pocus. At any rate, my perspective changed, and during the last thirty years I went from idealistic…to pessimistic…to realistic…to optimistic…and so, here I am, not sweating the small stuff, working hard at developing those things and people that matter most to me while giving them the necessary space and time to grow and mature on their own.

With age, I have learned to appreciate adages and proverbs that I found silly as a child. Once regarded as merely the impractical phrases my parents, teachers or other authority figures used to gently and verbally chastise me, these same proverbs and adages now follow and comfort me. And like an old friend with whom I have shared a common experience I know the message each brings has meaning in my life.

One Spanish proverb comes to mind when summing up my free time:

“The busy man is troubled with but one devil; the idle man by a thousand”

I have only one devil and my devil has a name…Time. And though I have made every effort to control him with the use of calendars, watches, alarms and automatic reminders, somehow, he always seems one tick ahead of me as I toil about my mundane activities looking for a respite from life. I don’t think Time ever threatened me while growing up…in fact, I think I had too much time and often complained of sheer boredom, from elementary school right up until I graduated from college. In those idle times, the “thousand little devils” would manifest themselves through insecurities or self-doubts pertaining to my place and purpose in this complex world.

These little devils paralyzed me and created cracks in the brightly multi-colored façade of the idealized life I had envisioned for myself. Years passed and the network of cracks destroyed the idealized enclosure I had used to protect and shelter my childhood. Then, after a low point I chose to rebuild the façade in a manner better suited to highlight my strengths and protect my weaknesses while still coveting those idealistic notions that brought me strength and comfort as a little one. In so doing, the thousand little devils transformed themselves into one nemesis, one devil…Time. I battle Time for my kids, for my girlfriend, for my online business, for my parents, for my siblings and for projects I began full of promise but never devoted enough effort to see through to completion.

And so the battle continues and every now and then, I take a cheap shot…I kick that devil between the legs, poke him in the eye or give him a wedgie in the form of a day off of work, a diversion in the park, a match of tennis, a game of freeze tag with my twins, or a walk through the Farmer’s market with my girlfriend. My vain attempt to get an upper hand, to lose myself for a moment, to catch my breath as if to say…”Dude, can you give me just a little bit of space now?”.

He approaches me with an eye for malice.

CHEECH: “What are you in for? I’m going to dominate your ass”

ME: “I have a pretty long rap sheet boss - you do not want to mess with me, ’cause I will fuck you up. But, if you must know, I’m in for getting a college and master’s degree, buying a house, buying two cars, paying $40,000 for successful In-Vitro fertilization, buying thousands of toys, supporting a stay at home mom who tries to convince me that my real name is “Asshole” and pushes the envelope when it comes to using up my credit, and other minor financial infractions, like running an online business in order to pay-off revolving debt that would make your rubbery lips curl.”

With that, Cheech walks away, there will be no “domination” attempt today, the “debt talk” frightens him and he knows I’m Bad Ass. Though, I’m sure I’ll get into another “no-holds” barred wrestling match later, as I have on many past occasions with this ruffian.

Cheech what a nice boy…actually, he’s more like a big, happy, muscle…he’s my three year old Boxer dog, sometimes referred to as my “brother”, and no, he doesn’t talk - although, I do think he tries to, on those occasions when he attempts to “dominate” me…there’s nothing quite like waking up in the morning with a dog standing over you, testicles, hanging in the wind. In reality, Cheech is not exactly mine…he’s my parents’ dog, so, yes, I am living with my parents now…in their English basement…”my” English basement. But, the English basement and my dungeon living is a whole other story, another chapter in my absurd existence. So, let’s get back to the topic of work.

It makes me a little angry when I think about how long I’ve worked at the same job (ten years) and how I have spent more time with my colleagues than with my own kids…WTF is up with that? Who decided to make the 40 hour workweek a standard anyway? Why not 20 hours? Why not 10? Now that I think about it, I only get about 5 hours worth of work done anyway (many times less) and spend the rest of the time doing other “stuff” (exhibit A: this blog) and feeling extremely guilty doing so in the process - okay, maybe not that guilty, actually, not guilty at all, just frustrated.

Shit, it almost makes more sense to marry a colleague and have your kids work at the office - one happy family. How frustrating, when I think of all of the productive things I could be doing with my time instead…playing with my kids, going to a museum with my girlfriend, playing a tennis match, working on my online business, sleeping or catching up on some movie classics or painting that masterpiece I’ve had in the back of my mind for the last two years…so much to do, so little time.

So, each morning I approach the 40 Hour Labor Camp as if planning a jail break from a penal colony. I will do my time, follow the rules, I will obey the warden (who is working from home today, incidentally) drink the hot piss they call coffee and eat the shitty grub from the cafeteria, while setting into place my grand escape plan…ten online business and I’m free. So, far, I have created one…got to stay focused.

When asked why I play tennis now, after nearly thirteen years of not touching a racket, I say flippantly, that I needed a reason to quit smoking.  In truth, tennis has become a microcosm of my life, an effort to improve myself, my mental toughness, my technical acumen, my physical prowess, and my stress release, all in the controlled environment of a 78 foot by 27 foot court, governed by simple rules dating back to 1873.

As a teenager, when I first took up the sport, I played because I enjoyed the individualistic aspect of the game.  At that time my game mostly relied on the vigor and strength of my youth and an average all around technical game.  I won or lost as a result of my own efforts and I could not blame others for my poor performance.   If my game sucked, then only I alone could improve it. Accountability, what a concept, it has dominated my character throughout my life…more on this later.

With age, I have grown to appreciate the more subtle aspects of the game and have taken a piece-meal approach to improving my technique: the driving forehand, the first serve, the second serve, the volley, the driving backhand, the slice forehand, the slice backhand, the lob, and my net game.  I can draw parallels between each of these aspects of the game and events in my life.  I believe each improvement in my game brings insight into how I might improve the other more pressing activities in my life.

So, I am not a team player…I am an artist who prefers to control his own destiny, paint his own picture, play his own game, whether I’m participating in a sport or in the broader stage of life. And so, I have chosen tennis as my “life sport” and will seek to improve my game and apply those lessons to my life with every loss I suffer.