On Manipulation and Cleaning Up Your Act (Blog #1039)

This afternoon I cleaned my room from top to bottom. Every book came off its shelf and was wiped down. Every knickknack came off its perch and was dusted. I pulled out my trundle bed and cleaned under there. (Talk about gross.) I even took apart the fan I turn on every night for white noise and cleaned it. You know how it’s difficult to clean a fan. Well, now mine is spic and span. No more dust on the blades. No more hairs wrapped around the propeller shaft. And whereas all of this took time, it was worth it. Sitting in my room now, I feel lighter, brighter.

God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.

Here’s something. Last week I did some yard work for a new client. Before agreeing to the job, I said, “I charge this much an hour,” and they said, “That’s great.” Well, it was a big job. Over the course of two days, I raked and bagged forty-six large bags of leaves in their backyard. When I finished I said, “I can take these bags around front if you’d like,” and they said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” I said, “if you think you’re going to want me to move the bags later, I’d rather do it now than come back.”

Again they said, “Don’t worry about it.”

So I totaled my hours, and they paid me. Also, they gave me a fire pit off their back porch. “You can have it if you’d like it,” they said. “I never use it.” And whereas I kept hearing my therapist say, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” I said, “Sure, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it off your hands.”

So I loaded it in my car, and that was that.

Or so I thought. What I mean is that this afternoon my client texted and said, “If you would put the leaves by the curb for pickup, that would be cool. They pick up Tuesday.” Well, something felt off to me about this, I guess because they didn’t actually ASK me to move the leaves. They just said, “That would be cool.” I mean, I think it’d be cool if someone would bring me breakfast in bed every day, but so far that hasn’t happened. Anyway, trying to determine if they wanted a favor or an employee, I replied, “I can do it later today. Also, it’ll probably be an additional one to two hours of labor/cost. Is that good?”

To which they replied, “Not really. I’m pretty tapped out. I can do it. Or we can call it a trade for the fire pit.”

Then they added, “Either way, I’m good.”

I responded, “I understand. And as I understood it, the fire pit was a gift. I’m happy to bring it back.”

“Oh no,” they said. “It’s fine. Enjoy it. It was just sitting there. Total misunderstanding.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you. Good luck with everything.”

Y’all, I hate shit like this, when someone refuses to be direct. When someone says one thing but means another. When someone gives you a gift and later uses it as a tool for manipulation. This is why more and more it’s important for me to be as clear in my personal and professional dealings as possible. “This is how much I charge an hour. I’d rather move the bags now than come back later. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” This being said, I understand that, especially in the south, it’s extremely difficult for people to ask for what they want in plain terms. It’s MUCH easier to say, “If you don’t mind, that’d be cool.”

Alas, having played the indirect game for decades, I get it. I really do. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve hinted or subtly suggested my wants and needs, especially in terms of money, work, and compensation. Indeed, not all that long ago I would have driven my ass to Fort Smith and broken my back hauling forty-six bags of leaves from this lady’s backyard to her front yard, all the time HOPING she intended to pay me. Instead of just asking up front, “Are you going to pay me?”

Here’s the great thing about being up front. It gives someone a chance to say yes or no. Likewise, it saves a lot of time and drama. Today when my client (um, former client) said, “That’s not really good,” the rest of my day opened up. Because I certainly wasn’t going to spend three to four hours of my life driving across the bridge, working, and later cleaning myself up without pay.

You know, because it would have been a “cool” thing to do.

The lesson that I continue to learn is that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Does this mean that you should suspect everyone’s motives. No, I don’t think so. People are kind and do kind things every day. But, as Jesus said, be wise as serpents. Meaning that when a total stranger offers you a gift and later uses it as leverage, don’t be surprised. Meaning that in the future I could just ask, “Does this come with any strings attached?” And then the person could be honest. They could say, “No, I’d really like to get rid of it.” Or, “Yes, I was hoping you’d lower your rate or come back to move the bags for free.”

Getting back to the idea of manipulation, I think it’s important to call things for what they are. This being said, MOST of us have private agendas, so I don’t blame anyone for being indirect or trying to get me to do free work by way of guilt or any other strategy. I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. Still, it simply doesn’t work for me anymore. I prefer the direct, honest truth. Along these lines, no conversation about manipulation would be complete without pointing out (what should be) the obvious–it takes two to Tango, and it takes two to manipulate. What I mean is that someone can TRY to manipulate you, but you have to be complicit in their manipulation in order for it to work. Meaning you have to also be indirect, you have to FEEL guilty, and you have to DO the thing they’re asking you to. (Of course, if you do the thing with a conscious motive, like, “I’ll do this for free so they’ll like me and be my friend,” you’re also being manipulative. As Byron Katie would say–checkmate.)

So who’s fault would it have been had I gone to move the bags of leaves today and gotten stiffed? Mine. Because I would have known better, especially since my gut had alerted me to a problem.

All this to say that THIS is what the journey of self-discovery and growing up looks like. In fairy tales the hero faces giants and dragons, but in real life we face our clients, friends, and families. Better said, we face the fears and issues that our clients, friends, and families bring up in us. (And they face the ones we bring up in them.) Is this difficult? One the one hand, yes. It’s hell. It means being responsible and accountable for everything that happens in your life, or at least being responsible and accountable for the way you handle it. On the other hand, cleaning up your act (your communication, your life) is no more difficult than cleaning up your room. What I mean is that it happens one knickknack or interaction at a time.

Does this TAKE time?

Of course, but it’s worth it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff.

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Dandelions Beware! (Blog #739)

This afternoon I had a follow-up appointment with my knee surgeon. Literally, I was in and out of the office in ten minutes. “I’m on a roll today,” he said. Anyway, he said everything looked good, that the scar was healing properly and that my knee will continue to swell off and on for a year, which is how long it will take to get my full strength back. He also said that now or in a couple more weeks I can start hopping, even jumping rope (woo). At six months (currently it’s been three and a half), I can swim. “You’re doing good,” he said. I can tell by how you’re walking. I’m not worried about a guy like you with your muscle tone. If you were a soccer or basketball player, I’d tell you to start doing warm-up drills. Come back at six or seven months, and we’ll have this talk again.”

Did you notice the part where he said I had muscle tone?

When I got back home, I was in a mood to work. Two days ago my dad and I started digging up gopher dirt from our flowerbeds (and redistributing it to holes in the backyard), so I finished that project. Then I mowed the front yard, then the backyard. With a push mower. And whereas the front yard wasn’t that bad, our backyard is so big, the progress was slow. For scale, it was like vacuuming the carpet in my bedroom in one-inch strips. I must have made fifty passes. Still, think of all the calories I burned. Which is why I ate Taco Bell later. I thought, I’ve been sweating for three hours. I can handle the guacamole.

After the burrito break, I edged. However, our weed eater is apparently a piece of crap, and I had to keep restarting it. In retrospect, I would have been better off just giving our weeds a strong talking to. (You there–that’s right, the dandelion–stop growing!) All in all, today’s work took four hours, since I had to make one trip to the gas station and another to Walmart (for weed eater line and oil). And whereas the yard looks fabulous (Dad said it looks as good as it ever has, and since I didn’t take a picture, you’ll have to take his word for it), I’m absolutely worn out. Exhausted. Plus, I can tell I got some sun. That always takes it out of you. Granted, I used sunscreen (SPF 50), but was a little late putting it on.

So we’ll see what my shoulders look like tomorrow.

I wore a tank top.

Grr.

While I was working in the yard, our neighbor walked across the street with a giant homemade apple pie in his hands. Another neighbor gave it to him. I told him it looked delicious. Well, later he brought me (and my parents) a piece. “I started feeling guilty,” he said.

This is further proof that emotions are a good thing.

This evening I cleaned myself, then I cleaned my clothes. That is, I did laundry. My last load, which includes the tennis shoes I used to mow the lawn this afternoon (er, I mowed with a mower, but I wore the shoes on my feet because I’m not a complete savage), is drying now. So there, all my major chores for the week are done. Although I probably will take another shower before the week is over.

Probably.

Now it’s almost midnight. Just before I started blogging, I ate my piece of apple pie, and I can feel my insulin kicking in. A nap sounds nice. A nine-hour nap, that is. Okay. How to end this? This afternoon, in the thick of mowing and the heat of the sun, I started to mentally grouse. I thought, This is harder than it was when I was a teenager. But then I remembered that four short months ago I was on crutches, and a year ago I was barely over a three-month-long sinus infection and two rounds of the flu and thought, I’m glad I can do this at all. It feels great to be outside. I’m really proud of my progress. Yes, things are looking up. This is just the beginning of good things.

Dandelions beware!

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t pick and choose what you receive from life, and you can’t always accurately label something as bad.

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On Nothing Happening Today (Blog #717)

This evening my dad and I went to the gym then stopped to pick up supper–sub sandwiches. When we got home, I asked my mom, “What did we miss?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nothing?” I replied. “NOTHING happened while we were gone?”

This is a game we play sometimes, me and my family. Obviously, SOMETHING happened. Something came on the television, the dog barked, the toilet flushed. Maybe nothing remarkable happened, but something happened. I’m sure of it. Something, after all, is always happening. Still, when I sat down to blog I thought, I don’t know what to say. NOTHING happened today.

This afternoon my dad, in his own words, got “a burr up his butt” and did some yard work. That is, he saw our neighbor trimming their bushes and thought he should too. So he trimmed our crepe myrtle, which needed it; it was beginning to look like something out of The Addams Family, overgrown and full of horror. Then Dad said, “Maybe in the next day or two we can bundle up the branches and haul them off.”

“Let’s just do it right now,” I said. (I don’t know what came over me.)

So that’s what we did. Well, you know how one thing leads to another. The next thing I knew we were on the side of the house (the crepe myrtle is in the front) pulling up privet and dead hydrangea bushes, which I thought looked like Medusa’s head. Then our other neighbor, who works for the city, came over and said if we’d pile everything up by the side of the road, he’d haul it off.

“You won’t pick it up right here?” Dad said.

Y’all, we filled three fifty-five gallon trash bags full of yard debris. Plus, there were the crepe myrtle remains, which I’d tied together with rope. No kidding, I did so much manual labor, I actually broke a sweat. (I’m sure Dad did too.) And whereas that may sound like a complaint, it’s not. For one thing, because of my knee injury, I haven’t been able to break a sweat in months. But today I did! (I’m not saying I smelled great.) For another, the sun was hot enough FOR me to break a sweat. Spring is literally days away. Praise Peter, Paul, and Mary.

Bye, winter! Don’t let the equinox hit cha where the good lord split cha.

Two weeks from yesterday will mark two full years of daily blogging. That will be 730 posts (tonight’s is #717). Recently I’ve been going back and re-reading all my entries. I’m currently at #38. And whereas I’m often critical of my work, I haven’t been. Sure, there are things I’d do differently now, but I’ve actually been enjoying what I created–the funny moments, the tender moments, the honest moments. Indeed, I thought one of my least favorite posts was #19, but when I re-read it, I found plenty to enjoy and be proud of. Was it my best work? No, but what I did in our front yard today wasn’t my best work either, but it was still worthwhile, still an improvement over doing NOTHING.

This is something I’ve learned over the last two years. Often I’ll think, I have NOTHING to say, but if I take time to sit down and write, SOMETHING good will happen, SOMETHING good will come out, even if it’s one simple phrase, one clever joke. Plus, there’s the discipline itself, the act of practicing. And even if you’re not in love with your work, you never know what will speak to someone else. Hell, Emily Dickinson wanted her work destroyed. I can only assume she thought it wasn’t anything remarkable. But look at what the world got. Geez. Artists are such self-critical hard-asses.

Lately I’ve been reading about attention and the idea that we often hyper-focus on whatever we’re doing–raking leaves out of a flower garden, let’s say–but that we have the ability to tune into everything that’s going on around us. For example, this afternoon while working in the yard, I not only noticed what I was doing, but also noticed the sound of cars driving by, the feel of sweat on my skin, the sensation of my feet on the ground, and the smell of the moist dirt. My point, again, is that SOMETHING is always happening. And not that you have to recount every damn detail of your life whenever someone asks you what you did yesterday, but I think it’s important to remember–

So much is constantly happening that it would be impossible to recount.

My therapist says the important work we do is the work that nobody notices. For example, I’ve spent a lot of time these last five years working on my interior, cleaning up the past, connecting with my heart, and creating healthy boundaries. And whereas none of this has paid my bills or kept me warm at night, it has made me a better human. However, because I’m so focused on being productive–teaching dance, cleaning the yard, working out–that on days when I don’t do those things and instead stay home and watch Netflix, I too often say, “Nothing happened; I didn’t DO anything today.” But what about the fact that I was more patient with myself on Monday, more patient with a stranger on Tuesday?

Isn’t that something? Isn’t that remarkable?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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A Mixed Bag (Blog #174)

Yesterday morning, after three days of yard work and finding a possum in my bed the night before, I called waste management in Fayetteville to schedule a pick-up for all the tree branches piled by the curb in Ray’s front yard. Stuff like this makes me nervous because I usually feel as if I’m an imposition. My side of the conversation always sounds like, “Uh–I’ve got these–tree branches–I’m sorry if having trees makes me a bad person–but these branches fell and are dead–and could you–maybe, possibly, if you’re not busy–come get them?” At least that’s how it feels on the inside. Anyway, the nice lady at the trash department said sure, they’d come get them in a couple days, so long as everything was by the curb and nothing was over twelve feet long or more than so many inches wide.

Check, check, check.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “There can’t be anything ABOVE the pile for fourteen feet.”

I thought, Shit. There’s a tree AND a power line over the pile of branches–the REALLY BIG pile of branches that’s not going to move itself.

Did I say shit?

After all the yard work/hard work, the thought of moving that pile was more than I could handle, so I decided to run some errands and give it a minute. Since I had sinus surgery in February, I’d been meaning to drop off a cookie cake for the doctor and his office. I mean, they were amazing and my life is a hundred times better than it was before. Y’all, if you haven’t tried breathing, you should–it rocks. Anyway, I’d been trying to come up with a cute saying or something clever to put on the cookie cake. Like, I did this once before for my dermatologist’s office after the little warts that had been on my face for over a year FINALLY disappeared. That cake said, “I’m happy to report that I can’t find a wart.”

Cute, right?

Well, despite the fact that I’m a writer and an all-around creative guy, I couldn’t come up with squat for the sinus doctor. Uh, gee, it’s nice to breathe. Nobody knows noses like you do. (Strike one, strike two.) So this weekend I gave up and decided I didn’t have to be cute and that I should just go ahead and order the damn cake and have it say, “Thank you.” (Short and to the point.) So I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and–I’m not kidding–exactly as someone answered, the idea showed up.

I said, “Yes, I’d like a cake that says, ‘Thanks (exclamation point). You’re a breath of fresh air.’ And please don’t spell ‘you’re’ wrong.”

All that to say that after finding out those branches were piled in the wrong spot, I delivered the cake to my doctor’s office. Afterwards I was starving, so I stopped at Village Inn, ate breakfast, and drank a lot of coffee. Y’all, it’s amazing what pancakes and caffeine can do. I thought, Okay, that pile of branches isn’t so big. I can move that.

Fortunately, Jesse helped. We got it done in less than an hour. After we picked up the scraps and swept the sidewalk, it was like magic, as if the pile of branches had never been there in the first place.

Here’s the new pile, on the side of the house. Hopefully it will also disappear before the week is over. Also, if I never see a pile of branches like this again, it’ll be too soon.

Today I’ve been smelling my arm pits a lot. I decided to try again with better eating, so I went to Walmart earlier to buy groceries, and every now and then I’d sneak my nose over by my shoulder, lift my arm as if reaching for something on the top shelf, and sniff. As I’ve said before, they used to smell like–I don’t know–bleach or ammonia, anything but a turn-on. Well, I’ve been using a deodorant cream I read about online, so twice a day I’ve been smearing it under my arms and everywhere else that doesn’t see the sun. I don’t want to speak to soon, but I think the cream is working. It has boric acid in it, so as a bonus I don’t have any cockroaches on my–well–you know. That being said, the cream has its own distinct odor, so I keep trying to sort out all the aromas. Honestly, I feel like a child picking at a scab.

Leave it alone, Marcus.

The first time I blogged about my mom having cancer, I discovered a mouse in the house. Since then, we’ve all seen the mouse running around, putting his feet up on the divan, smoking cigars, and generally making himself at home. Mom says there’s more than one. We’ve had traps set out, but nothing has worked. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the whole thing, it’s been easier to give the little assholes a high-five than reset the traps or try something different. But tonight at Walmart I thought, I can do this, and bought new traps. Then when I got home–get this shit–one of the mice was actually stuck on a glue pad behind a chair in the living room.

And it was still alive.

Squeaking.

I’m just going to say it.

Dad pulled the mouse off the glue pad, the mouse bit Dad’s finger, and Dad put the mouse down the garbage disposal (and turned it on).

It was kind of awful.

I still have a mixed bag of feelings about it.

Dad’s finger should be fine.

Just a while ago my mom and I had a long talk about cancer and depression. She has both and says depression is worse. I don’t have either, but I believe her. All of it is tough to watch, but that’s life. Today our neighbor brought Mom a scarf to wear on her head, and Mom said she was planning to Google how to fashion it. Pulling the scarf out of the sack, I tied it around my head like a bandana. Mom said, “Or I guess I could just ask my gay son.” Then she laughed, which was wonderful to hear.

Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life.

I don’t know why life works the way it does. You spend months with warts on your face, a smell in your arm pits, or a mouse in your house, and then one day it’s gone like a pile of branches that’s been picked up, cleaned up, and moved somewhere else. Or maybe you spend half a year trying to think of something to say on a cookie cake, and the moment you let go is the moment the thing shows up. I guess all of us deal with problems of all shapes and sizes. One minute we look at whatever it is and think, I can’t–it’s too much. Then we eat breakfast, maybe go for a walk, and we realize we can. Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That’s life. In the process, we find out we’re stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is at the heart of healing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We think of hope as something pristine, but hope is haggard like we are.

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I Wasn’t Having It (Blog #172)

Today was a day of small miracles, if there is such a thing. This morning started with therapy, and my therapist gave me two new labels. When we discussed a boy, she said, “He’s beneath you. Come on–you’re a diva.” Then later we talked about the fact that I work my ass off in and out of therapy, and she said, “You’re a boss–you just don’t own it. But you’re a fucking boss.” I mean–diva and boss–I’ll take both those labels. Still, I’m hoping being a diva doesn’t require me to buy high heels or start getting pedicures on a regular basis. That might be more than I can handle, especially since I’ve always thought of myself as “gay from the ankles up.”

Last night after I blogged, a couple of Ray and Jesse’s neighbors came over and hung out on the porch. Jesse told them that I’d done a ton of work in the backyard, and I said, “It’s a work in progress, but it’s a lot better.” One of the neighbors said, “Sounds like someone is a perfectionist,” and I said, “Nailed it!” Then he said, “Well, it takes one to know one.” I told my therapist about this exchange, and she said, “That’s the teeter-totter some of us are on. We want praise but don’t know what to do with it.” Later she said perfectionism is actually pretty useful when cleaning up a yard or remodeling a house, but it becomes a problem when it’s your “daily driver.”

After therapy, I went to a couple lumber supply companies in search of a threshold for Ray’s door. I told the guy at the first place that I needed one that was pretty wide, but he said they didn’t carry anything. When I asked if he knew of where I could find what I needed, he suggested Googling it. (Gee, that’s helpful.) I said, “Thank you,” but rolled my eyes when I walked out and thought of the time my therapist told me I don’t tolerate stupid people very well. Fortunately, the guy at the next place knew what to do, so a specialty piece is on order and should be here this week.

Some things, it seems, are a process.

Back at Ray’s house I swept the sidewalks, gave myself at least one blister, and started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just as I was going around the house to hose off some sidewalk dirt, a couple guys in a truck pulled up and asked if I needed the tree branches around the roof cut back. Well, Ray had stopped by from work, and we ended up hiring them to trim the trees and–and, and, and–move all the tree branches I’d piled up around the house to the front. They actually offered to haul it all off (for an additional fee, of course), but said we could save money by calling the city.

First I’m a diva and then help with yard work. Miracle, miracle.

Ray said he was initially skeptical of the guys in the truck, but we both agreed they ended up being a god-send. They worked for two or three hours, did what they’d said they’d do, and saved me and Ray a ton of work. Oh, and they bought me a Gatorade, so we’re pretty much friends for life. Also, when I cut my leg on a ceramic pot, the guy’s puppy licked the blood off, so that was sweet. And gross. Yeah–dog spit–it was sweet and gross. So tonight I went to Walgreen’s and got some Bandaids and antibiotic ointment.

After the guys left, I continued to pick up shit and tie up loose ends. Then Jesse and I replaced the section of wire fence that got crushed when a tree fell on it. That was my last chore of the day, and when it was my turn to swing the hammer, my arms were like, “Seriously?” But we finished–Jesse, me, and my tired arms. Go team.

When Ray got home from work, we all decided we were fungry (that’s Ray’s word for “fucking hungry”), so we walked to the food trucks on College and ate at Big Sexy Food. Jesse got a super-duper grilled cheese, and Ray and I both got hamburgers topped with macaroni and cheese. Talk about another miracle. And they actually branded the burger–like you would a cow. How cool is that? And look at the free koozie that comes with every meal. Seriously, it’s good I don’t live a block away from this place because I’d be there all the time and I’m assuming their food is not–what’s the word?–healthy.

But OMG does it taste good.

When we got back to the house, Ray offered me the use of his bathtub, which, y’all, is big enough to host a dinner party. Oh my gosh, it was glorious. That being said, the hot water and bath salts quickly awkened every cut and scrape on my body (ouch), then proceeded to suck what little life was in me–out. I felt like a rag doll. When I finished, Ray said, “You’ll sleep well tonight,” and all the fibers of my being said, “Amen.”

Recently I met a woman for the first time, and she was totally awkward and weird. She was a friend of a friend of a friend or whatever. (I’m intentionally being vague because everyone knows everyone these days.) But we were at dinner together, and in the context of my eating a lot of food, she said, “You’re a big guy.” Well, she’d been rude earlier in the evening, so I did something rather out of character and said, “Watch it, lady.” The she started to back pedal and said, “Well, I’m short–I meant you’re tall. How tall are you?”

My face stone cold, I said, “I’m as tall as I am.”

You know when someone crosses a line. You may not want to admit it, but you know.

Today I told my therapist this story in the context of small victories, speaking my truth, and not being a people-pleaser. She said, “Way to go. You weren’t having it.” I’ve thought about that phrase today–not having it. For the last few years, I’ve actively worked toward “less bullshit, more peace,” and so much of that journey has been about what I’m willing and not willing to put up with. Less and less, I’m willing “to have” someone else’s bad behavior. Likewise, I look at Ray’s yard and the gigantic pile of brush by the curb and realize we weren’t having that either. Those branches’ days were numbered.

Currently my body is saying, “We’ve had enough yard work.”

Whether it’s with an overgrown yard or a bad relationship, I think we all need to get fed up now and then and say, “I’m not having it.” Of course, like all the work around Ray’s house, putting your foot down is usually a process–two steps forward, one step back. But I think we all know when something needs to be done. We all know when someone crosses a line, even though we often let it slide in the name of social graces or being “nice.” But you know. You may not want to admit it, but you know. Personally, I’m learning that being authentic and true to yourself, even in everyday interactions, is its own kind of small miracle, right up there with macaroni and cheese hamburgers–less tasty perhaps, but certainly better for you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

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Complete in This Moment (Blog #171)

I hate to assume what God thinks about anything, but people do it all the time, so I really don’t think God intended me for manual labor. I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world, but I think I’m better suited for television. I’d even be willing to be a donut taster, if that’s a thing. But after two days of working in my friend Ray’s yard–all while wearing unattractive velcro shoes and smelling like a mixture of sunscreen, Deep Woods Off, and any dog shit I may have stepped in–I definitely don’t want to make a career out of picking up sticks and weed whacking. All that being said, I’m grateful that my body was able to function today without the aid of crutches or pain killers.

So that’s something.

Fortunately, Ray’s not a hard taskmaster, and I got to sleep in until noon today. Finding some coffee in the pot, I woke up slowly and was ready to work by one, which is when it started raining–a lot. Of course, rain is a real bitch when you’re trying to work in the yard because yards are outside. So instead I worked inside tightening up cabinet doors with power tools, and Ray said I’d make a good lesbian if my hair were only shorter. Then I went to Lowe’s and Home Depot in search of the threshold piece we need, which neither place had. Apparently Ray’s threshold is wider than normal because it’s older construction. That means a trip to a specialty store tomorrow or ordering something custom.

Shortly after I got back from The Fruitless Threshold Search of 2017, it stopped raining, so I raked the front yard and bagged up all the junk. On the one hand, I think it was easier because everything was wet and stuck together. On the other hand, everything was wet and stuck together. But I got it all done. Now I just need to clean the sidewalks, which I’m hoping will be dry enough tomorrow to sweep off. Granted, this plan is contingent on my body not staging a complete rebellion.

I spent the rest of the work day in the backyard, which at first glance appeared to be in need of a machete and a machine gun. My main project was to tear down a contraption where Ray used to keep chickens and a pig named General MacArthur. I thought it resembled an Army bunker, but it was basically was a pen made of t-posts, PVC pipe, chicken wire, and enough zip ties to make for a really kinky Friday night. (That’s a sex joke, Mom. Some people like to be tied up. Don’t worry–I’m not one of them.) The other goal was to repair a section of fence where a tree fell. Essentially, it showed up uninvited and screwed things up real good. (I’ve dated people with this pattern of behavior.)

Here’s a picture of the fallen tree and jacked-up fence. Notice the animal pen in the background.

I told Jesse these projects were a pain in the ass–or, more accurately–a pain in my ass. I was able to break up some of the limbs from the dead tree to pile on the side of the house, but the tree itself was about the size of a junior light pole. (Thank God for those peanut butter crackers I ate this afternoon for energy.) The 2×4 holding up the wire fence was obviously broken, and since the wire was crushed, I tore that out too. But the 2×4 along the ground where the wire attached was covered with ivy, so I had to tear that mess out in order to attach new wire. Then I moved on to the animal pen, and I can’t even find the words. Maybe it gave me PTSD because I’m sweating just thinking about it. The t-posts wouldn’t budge, and everything else came apart about as easily as chewing gum comes out of my nephew’s hair. I said, “Fuck,” a lot. But here’s a picture of the day’s progress. More shall be done tomorrow, since I quit today when it started raining again and someone said, “Tacos.”

I don’t think the picture really does these cuts and scrapes on my forearms justice. I didn’t take a picture of the fallen tree debris, but here’s a picture of the destroyed chicken house/pig pen and all the wreckage from the rest of the backyard. Ray said, “I’ve never seen someone with so much energy.” I said, “That’s not energy–that’s determination.” Honestly, I felt like it was Man vs. Nature, me against inertia. I told Ray, “I’m exercising my self-will over your property.”

Today I’ve thought a lot about all the things that are beyond my control. My original plan was to fix the threshold, mend the fence, and finish the backyard today. But then it rained–and rained again later–so there was only so much I could do. Additionally, some of the chicken wire was buried under a wall of rocks, the t-posts were at least two feet in the ground, and I’m only one person. (This is really hard for me to admit.) I’d love to say that everything will be “perfect” before I leave tomorrow, but I just don’t know. Even if the weather and my body cooperate, there will still be huge piles of brush left, since we don’t currently have a way to haul that off.

My therapist says I have an issue with “completion.” I like things “finished.” (I have it on pretty good authority that Jesus felt this way too, since his last words during Round 1 were, “It is finished.”) If I work in a yard, I want it to be “done,” and if I break up or have a fight with someone, I want us to be “okay.” Of course, this isn’t the way life works. You can’t always clean out a jungle in a weekend, and some relationships take time to mend, if they mend at all. But perhaps this is the gift of time, which teaches us to slow down, not work so hard, and let things unfold as they do. For surely there is wisdom in falling rain and growing ivy, just as there is wisdom in cutting back bushes and mending fences, wisdom that reminds us life is bigger than what we can control, nothing is ever truly done, and all things–including us–are complete in this moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is.

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Doing Something Even If It’s Wrong (Blog #170)

It’s two in the morning, and after a full day of yard work/hard work, Daddy is officially tired. For the last two hours, I’ve been sitting on the porch with my friend Jesse, drinking beer and generally enjoying myself despite the fact that my entire body has been saying, “What the fuck, man?” all day long. I just took a shower, and now I’m a different skin color. Despite all my efforts under the water, I’m pretty sure I still have black boogers inside my nostrils. You know how it is when you work in the dirt. Now I’m sitting at Ray and Jesse’s dining room table, which is odd, since I’m used to writing in a bed or a chair. But it’s nice because I can rest my elbows in front of me and keep my head from hitting the keyboard.

Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight. I’m should have just enough energy to walk ten steps to the bed in the next room.

When I got to Ray and Jesse’s, we spent some time making a plan and making a list of needed supplies. Then Ray and I went to Lowe’s, filled up the back of his SUV with mulch and such, and returned to the house. For a while, I stalled. Honestly, I was overwhelmed by all the work to do, especially the side of the house, Hellcat Alley. At one time it was a beautiful garden. Ray is an Old Catholic priest, and the garden is designed in the shape of a cross with a quadrant on each side. But as I understand it, one day Ray came home and said, “I can’t do this anymore,” and the garden went to hell in a handbasket. I think a similar thing happened about twenty years ago with my father and his fashion choices.

Here’s a picture of the Back Forty before I started.

I used to work at summer camp with a guy named Trey. Trey was southern in the best possible way and was always saying things like, “Don’t skinny dip with snapping turtles,” or, “Well, spit on the fire and call the dogs–I’m home.” One day after all the kids in his cabin had finished eating lunch, Trey’s assistant counselor, Hardy, just sat at the table, basically with his thumb up his butt. Trey threw up his hands and said,” Hardy, do something even if it’s wrong.”

So not knowing exactly where to start with Fayetteville’s Jungle, I told myself, Do something even if it’s wrong, and primed the weed eater. Headphones in my ears, weed eating to the beat, I felt like a dancing Rambo in the Amazon. Three and a half hours–and a mower, a yard rake, and several bags of trash–later, we started to see signs of progress. The plan is to put down mulch in the four quadrants around the cross, and we got the black tarp/mesh stuff laid down today, along with what mulch we had. The rest of the mulch comes tomorrow–seventy more bags. I swear, there’s a reason so many high school students work in the lawn care business. Their backs actually function.

About the time I moved on to edging and mowing the rest of Ray’s lawn (not pictured), a couple in a really cool car drove up. Turns out it was a 1966 MG, and they’d just come from a British car show. Anyway, they saw the portable storage unit outside the house, said they’d always loved the property, and were wondering if I was moving in. I said, “No, I’m helping some friends move out, but the house is for sale if you’d like to talk to the owner. I’ll go get him.” They said, “We don’t want to keep you from your work.” I said, “Believe me–I don’t mind the break.”

So while Ray showed the couple inside, I took a selfie with their car because that’s not weird or creepy.

I worked on the rest of the yard until I ran out of daylight, so tomorrow I’ll finish raking the front yard and move on to the back. The back used to be a literal pig pen and chicken coop, and there’s a section of the wire fence that’s been crushed by a fallen tree, so that should be fun. But don’t worry, I brought my anti-inflammatories. Anyway, tonight while Jesse went for Chinese take out, I started work on a rotten threshold in the kitchen. (Have tools, will travel.) Here’s a picture of the threshold after I tore out the rotten wood. EEK.

Unfortunately, neither I nor Ray own a circular saw, which means I had to cut the 1×8 and 2×8 I used with a hacksaw. This after I spent all my energy in the yard. Poor planning on my part, I admit. Anyway, when I started, I had only one hand on the saw. Then I had two hands on the saw. Then I started praying. Dear God, please part this board in two. I know rivers are more your thing, but maybe you could branch out just this once–for me.

Here’s where we are now. The threshold piece we bought at Lowe’s today wasn’t wide enough to cover the new wood, even though we got one of the widest options. So I’ll go back tomorrow in hopes that they’ve stocked a new item. Since I’m assuming that will not be the case, I may need to return to the lord in prayer and ask for just one more favor.

Here’s a door-frame pun I just thought of. In a hurry to cross my threshold? Go ahead–step on it!

I crack me up.

You know you’re tired when there’s delicious Chinese food in front of you, but raising your fork to your mouth is so challenging that you consider simply going hungry. I thought, If my friends weren’t here, I’d lay the side of my face on this table and shovel my General Tso’s Chicken into my mouth with my bare hands. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. But whatever would I do with this Egg Drop Soup? (Somehow I managed with my utensils.) Fortunately, the food perked me up, at least enough to drag my ass to the porch for a couple of hours. And I guess being tired (and a few beers) isn’t the worst thing for writing, since I’ve hit a thousand words in forty minutes. That’s serious record time.

But how to end this?

It takes forty years in captivity for seas to part.

So many times today I thought, This is too much, I don’t know what to do. I guess behind those thoughts was another one maybe you’ve heard before–I can’t. My experience with thoughts like these is that they don’t just apply to yard work. Thoughts and beliefs like these, I guess, are rather like the sunglasses I wore all day today–they make everything darker. That means that when I consider writing a book, getting published, and realizing some of my dreams, those thoughts show up just like they did today while I was moving rocks around and wondering if the weeds I just whacked were poison ivy. Even with this blog, sometimes I think, I can’t do this anymore. But I’m reminded that doing something, even if it’s wrong, is better than standing around with your thumb up your butt. After all, blogs and books are written one word at a time. Stories in a leather-bound book and before-and-after pictures may lead you to believe that miracles happen in an instant, but it takes forty years in captivity and many small steps in the right direction for seas to part.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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Cheering Each Other On (Blog #169)

Currently it’s before midnight. Mom and Dad are watching television, I’m doing laundry, and the most interesting thing we’ve talked about all day is how much dog hair the vacuum cleaner sucked up earlier this week. I mean, I saw the evidence in the yard this morning–it looked like a toupee. Anyway, it’s not exactly a Friday night to be envied, but I’m planning on getting up early tomorrow, and that’s why I’m writing now and not watching Netflix with my imaginary boyfriend.

Speaking of which.

For my birthday two different friends sent me a GIF of Zac Efron blowing a kiss and winking at the same time. One of them posted it on Facebook, which–I often forget–my mom is a member of. So the next day my mom referenced the GIF and said (and I quote), “I bet you could look at that all day.” (Take all the time you need to stop laughing.) I said, “Aren’t you cute?”

See what I missed out on by staying in the closet so long?

I’m planning to get up earlier than normal tomorrow in order to do yard word for a friend. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, mostly because I’m used to getting up about the time the sun is going down, and it’s pretty difficult to weed eat a lawn by the light of the crescent moon. Plus, yard work is hard work. The older I get, the more drugs it requires. Most importantly, I don’t really have the clothes for it. When I had my estate sale last year, I got rid of all my yard work and painting clothes, said, “Fuck this shit,” and haven’t looked back since.

Until today.

Leave it to a homosexual to get hired for yard work and wonder what he’s going to wear. I actually thought about going to Walmart tonight to buy some crappy clothes that I wouldn’t have to worry about messing up. But then I remembered I have a pair of shorts that are falling apart and a four-dollar v-neck t-shirt I’m really not in love with. I thought, Okay, but what am I going to do for shoes? Well, my dad’s feet are smaller than mine, but–on a long shot–I asked if he had any old shoes that would fit me, and he did. Turns out it’s handy to have an aunt who works at a hotel where she periodically gets to raid the lost and found.

So, to the–I’m assuming–elderly gentleman with slightly wide feet who left your velcro shoes in Van Buren, thank you. My fashion standards have officially be lowered. As for you dear reader, if you happen to see me in said velcro shoes this weekend, please pretend you don’t know me.

Tonight I taught a dance lesson to a student who can be pretty tough on themselves. I mean, as a dance instructor, it’s pretty common to hear someone say, “I’ll never get this.” In response, part of me is always cheerleading at work, saying, “You can do it,” so it usually feels like I’m one pom-pom away from sleeping with the quarterback. (Wouldn’t that be nice?) Sometimes people think all my encouragement is bullshit, just an act to earn a dollar, but it’s not. Almost without fail, people exceed their own expectations (and I get to be right). Often less than fifteen minutes after doubting themselves, they’re doing the thing they just said they couldn’t.

I say, “See, you did it!” (Raw raw sis boom bah!)

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to do it again.” (GOOOOOOOO team.)

As a teacher, self-talk like this is hard to hear. Having worked with hundreds and thousands of students, I absolutely know that anyone can learn to dance. At least they can learn to dance better. In over fifteen years of teaching, only once have I thought, How did you walk up the stairs? Here’s your money back. Use it to go bowling. But even that couple, who only came to one class, could have improved. It would have just been a matter of desire, practice, and time. And really, it hurts to see capable, talented, intelligent students put themselves down and not believe in themselves.

So.

A couple days ago one of my friends sent me an email. In short, he said that after reading several of my blogs, he walked away with the crazy notion that sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough or good-looking enough. He said, “If I’ve misjudged that, I apologize.” Uh, no, you read that right. My friend then shared something a friend of his once shared. He said, “If you could only see yourself like I see you, like many other people see you, you’d never think another negative thought about yourself again.” Then he added, “You are more than your body.”

I haven’t written my friend back yet, but his email has been such a beautiful reminder to be kind to myself. Just today I’ve felt not good enough, not good-looking enough, and overwhelmed because–I don’t know–pick a reason. Some days, some years, you’re single, living with your parents, carrying a few extra pounds.

I don’t know why it’s easier to see beauty and potential in someone else than it is to see it in yourself. I have friends that I could easily forward that email to, people I think the world of and love without condition, and I can Hip Hip Hooray all day long for my dance students. But sometimes it’s difficult to extend that unconditional love and can-do spirit to myself. Still, it’s getting better, and I’m grateful we’re in this together, holding each other up, cheering each other on, and blowing each other kisses–whatever it takes to remember how beautiful we all are–even in velcro shoes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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