I know you meant well, but the path to hell? You laid some bricks on it yesterday.

Agalia and I were killing a few minutes waiting for Diane and DJ, going to look through the discounted Christmas magic in your newly constructed, seasonal wonderland. Fake trees and shiny stuff.

On the way my daughter and I both caught site of one of your hired self-confidence crushers, an older man in a puffy red suit, white wig and saggy white beard, walking around, mingling with customers.

Agalia’s eyes lit up.

We went right over and said hello. After a brief introduction, your Santa asked Agalia if she’d been good.

Agalia said she had.

“But have you been really good?” he asked, gloved finger pointed all the way down to her nose.

More meekly, she replied yes again.

(In a tone of disbelief) “Are you sure? Reeaallly good?”

Agalia sort of nodded. I could see her wheels turning, her vision of snowmen, new dolls, candy canes and family play crashing down, right here in Wal*Mart at this unexpected Judgment Day. She thought she’d been good, but Santa must’ve thought otherwise or he wouldn’t have been hammering away at her.

With her eyes beginning to tear up to the fourth (increasingly accusatory) iteration of Santa’s question, finger shaking in her face, he finally relented and asked her what she wanted for Christmas.

But the damage had been done. We quickly parted ways, Diane and I spending the remainder of our shopping trip explaining how some of Santa’s helpers (especially those found at Wal*Mart) are particularly dim-witted, but he’s so short on staff this time of year that sometimes even the unqualified get jobs.

She’s four, so she may have bought it. And even if she didn’t, she’ll get over it. But she shouldn’t have to.

You blew it.

Oh, and you have a big, stuffed Minnie Mouse covered in little girl snot in one of your toy bins. So there.

First time ever.

When I was in college, Thanksgiving was a nervous time for me. Our first trimester ended the week before Thanksgiving, which meant I spent much of the week of Thanksgiving sweating the mail carrier and her delivery of my grades.

That feeling of impending judgment is now permanently tattooed on my psyche like a screaming, flaming skull. My bowels pretty much lock up like brakes on an icy street this time of year.

As usual, we tried to prevent family from bringing their dogs. Ours aren’t welcome in other’s homes, so it only seems fair. Plus, our dogs do not eat long-dead animals then promptly vomit them up all over carpet. Or poop them out on the carpet. Or require emergency surgery because of something they ate. Or run across a freshly shampooed rug moments after frolicking in mud. There was no way we were having barfing, pooping, mud-running dogs over to our house.

As usual, we ended up playing host to two additional dogs, anyway.

Agalia and Diane made pumpkin pie. Also a first. Agalia loved it. So did the guests.

After seeing and smelling it, DJ spent the next few days repeatedly asking “Punka pie?” It was adorable right up to the 923rd time he asked. Then my head exploded.

And he fell in love with Grandma Clay. She was also smitten, drawing up divorce papers right there at our kitchen table so she could run away with DJ in his plastic pickup truck, age difference and incest laws be damned. DJ spent the better part of the visit looking coyly toward Grandma Clay, pointing to the spot next to him on the couch and calling her over with his sweetest “Shit, Gamma.”

With this newly bloomed love, we’re hoping the value of the Christmas presents will also be going up a notch. Gotta get something for losing our only son to my mother.

And in the ongoing saga of unrequited love, Grandpa Clay did his Abominable Snowman bit to Agalia’s Daffy Duck. Grandpa’s got a truly brilliant mechanical mind and tries to apply those same laws of mechanics to interpersonal relationships. It’s kinda like painting with wrenches, and it usually results in him not picking up signs like Agalia leaning hard against his embraces while on his lap; he just holds her more tightly. And pats her and loves her and holds her and hugs her. And for some reason, he named her George.

We crushed the turkey, then went on to dessert.

My sister brought a cake and a pie. Hard to believe that if you mix up tetrasodium pyrophosphate, sorbitan monostearate and propylene glycol (isn’t that what I just poured into my radiator last week?*), it ends up tasting like chocolate heaven.

At bedtime Agalia got to hear stories read by people that are more fun than Mom and Dad. And by “people that are more fun than Mom and Dad” I mean pretty much anyone that is not Mom or Dad.

By the weekend, everyone had left.

As expected, after they were gone I had to clean the visitor’s dog shit out of the yard where our children play.

At least they left behind some wine.

* Turns out it is.

True.

If you’re a blogger, do you ever have those moments where several shards of old, broken glass align themselves in your mind in such a way that when you peer through the green haze of those dirty layers of melted silica, an interesting connection is made between things that on the surface seem totally unrelated? The refracted light revealing something only you can see? You know, kinda like the last time you smoked weed and watched Pink Floyd’s The Wall?

Only now you’re not in college. And you’re not high. And you only have a few seconds to jot the idea down as a blog draft before you have to intervene between two children running through the house tethered together by a jump rope. And you pray that the next time you see the post title those same shards of glass will realign and cause an epiphanous deja vu.

Yeah. That’s pretty much what happened with this post. Only someone took a hammer to those pieces of glass, so I really don’t remember how the first line of this post is related to what I’m about to say.

Sometimes I wish I was Dr. Greg House: so brilliant in my chosen profession that I can be a drug-addicted, egomaniacal prick that does virtually everything I can to get fired yet still get paid the big dollars, because I’m THAT GOOD.

In fact, I’m man-crushing on him enough that I plan to ignore my family on Thanksgiving and watch the full 24 hour House marathon. I’ll stop shaving today, and on Thursday I’ll commandeer the plastic stethoscope and look-in-ear thingy from Agalia’s doctor kit, then I’ll run to the store for a couple bottles of Vicodin Tic-Tacs to complete the ensemble.

Thanksgiving’s gonna rock.

I bet you thought this post was gonna be dirty. Dirty is as dirty does. Err, takes one to know one. That’s still not it. You get the point, right? That you’re the dirty one? You’d better go look at this.

It’s allowed me to get caught up with all of my regular blog reads, which has been great.  It’s also been intimidating.  So many bloggers out there, some for profit, some just for fun, are such fantastic writers.  Some use an economy of words but shape them so expertly that you still get whomped in the face with the content.  Some weave a detailed, delicate tapestry, sparing neither keystrokes nor textures in telling their stories.

I read them, then I go over to my own blog, looking through the 72 drafts sitting there like misfit Christmas toys waiting to be fixed, and I wonder “What the hell am I doing?  I can’t write like these people.”

And then every so often an angel comes around and picks me up.  And maybe this angel’s a bad angel and is blowing smoke up my ass, just for fun.  Just to see if I’ll keep embarrassing myself with my writing.  Or maybe this angel’s suffering from a temporary lapse in what’s usually excellent judgement, placing compliments in a warm, blanketed basket at my doorstep.

Whatever the case, it’s working.  Makes me feel like I’m not an idiot for continuing what sometimes feels like a charade.   And in the last few days I’ve been lucky enough to receive two such compliments wrapped in swaddling clothes.

To Momisodes and The Cheek Of God:

Thank you.

So you already know that I went to the doctor yesterday. I thought I might fill in some of the details and catch you up to now. But first I should mention: my grandfather died of Hodgkin’s in his late 50’s. That seems relevant to note.

As I drove to the doctor’s office, alternately driving over the speed limit (that I might understand my fate a few seconds sooner and use those few seconds to begin my Fight just a skoshe early), and under the speed limit (that I might live a few more seconds in blissful ignorance of identity of the thing that’s been slowly sapping the Chi from my body), I did what most people probably do: try to cut a deal with God.

Having already Googled leukemia survival rate and lymphoma survival rate and sucked down the search results like a college-aged beer-bonger, I felt like I had enough knowledge to cut a decent deal with Him. It seemed crazy to me that as part of what I’d put on the table for our deal was my having the very disease that killed my Grandfather. But in the 30+ years since my grandfather passed there must have been significant advances in treatment and those advances have probably even made it to the push pin-sized rural towns like the one where he lived. And died. Those advances have improved survival rates enough that I thought I’d have strong odds of coming out alive where my grandfather did not.

I sat in the exam room, laying out the timeline of symptoms. The doc checked me over physically (am I supposed to have to drop my pants every time I see the doctor? And what does THAT have to do with my fatigue?), then asked me a series of questions. They were the questions I was afraid he might ask, questions about symptoms of the two things I really didn’t want to be diagnosed with. I knew the questions by heart because as I’d said before, I’d been flailing away on Google (and Wikipedia) the previous four hours on those diseases. I mention to the doc that I know those are some of the symptoms of leukemia and/or lymphoma. I mention my grandfather.

It looks like he and I were on the same page; this might be something awful. He sets up a blood draw in the adjoining room, tries to offer reassurance that it isn’t something terrible, but that we should “check just to make sure.” As he leaves he tells me that if the blood tests come out normal, they’ll send me a letter. If there’s a problem I’ll get a phone call. On the way to the blood draw the nurse tells me the results will be in within 24 hours, likely the next morning; some results might even come in later the same night.

So I go home, tell Diane what the doctor said, desperately hoping the phone will lay in it’s cradle and just stay asleep. And it did. Through the night, anyway.

I wake up today (Thursday), feeling kinda shitty, kinda like I have on and off for the last 40 days. It’s a school day for Agalia and it’s also the day for DJ’s tumbling class run around, jump, fall, laugh and scream class. I know I’ll gnaw my arms off if I sit at home, waiting for the phone not to ring, so I decide to tag along, hoping for a diversion. DJ’s infectious laughs and over-animated arm pumps as he runs are too much for me to resist; I take off my shoes and join him and Diane on the giant mat, grateful for something to occupy my thoughts, if only for a little while.

DJ’s class ends, Agalia’s ends soon afterward and we pile into the minivan and head for home. On the way I must look like I’ve got the thousand yard stare. Diane notices, rubs my leg and asks “You OK?”

“Yeah, just hoping there aren’t any messages on the answering machine when we get home.”

“Right” she says. “No messages.”

As I pull the minivan into the garage I feel as though my parents are waiting inside and every single report card I’ve ever received is sitting on a table next to them. Only the grades are pass/fail. Or in this case, zero/one. It takes some effort on my part to not leave the entire family in the van as I rush into the house to look at that answering machine. But I hold my shit together and remove Agalia’s buckle and lower her to the garage floor, following her into the house. I remind her to go sit in the kitchen and take off her coat and shoes. Diane brings DJ into the house and we both round the corner of the refrigerator at the same time to catch a glimpse of the answering machine.

We both pray for a zero.

Our prayers are not answered.

At this most ridiculous of moments I hear a calm voice in my head that tells me my children will learn how to deal with stressful situations by watching how their parents deal with stressful situations. I tell that voice it’s probably right, but please shutthefuckup. Then the signal’s lost and all I hear is static. LOUD static. I tell Agalia that daddy needs to make a phonecall and that mom will start working on making her lunch. I leave the room with phone in hand, shaking just a little.

It should be law that people calling in for medical test results get a hotline number to call. A number that doesn’t put you into the Limbo Queue of Easy Listening, giving you just enough time to think about the cold, white rooms and sea foam green machinery you might be getting acquainted with over the next few months, on your way to an early grave.

As I sit on hold, listening to the alternating sounds of muzak and a friendly nurse reminding me to stop bothering them and look shit up online (”Did you know you can find lots of answers to your time-wasting questions on our website?”), I have to keep telling myself to stay focused. This might be really bad news, but I’m going to need to be sharp, ask a lot of questions and get as many details as I possibly can. That static in my head has turned into hundreds of loud, screechy voices, so staying sharp may not be possible.

I get transferred to a nurse who looks up my results and begins to read.  “Everything looks fine…” I partially exhale. “…except your fasting blood sugar level was kinda high.”

“Uh, I wasn’t fasting. In fact, I’d just eaten dinner before I came over.”

Realizing the only problem from the full blood workup was a small mistake on their part, the remaining air exits my lungs like the ballast from a supertanker. The walls of our bedroom bow outward from the added air volume. “We’re going to want you to come in for a follow-up test in a week.”

Like cotton candy, all the worry just melts. “Yeah, whatever. I’m sure my sugar levels are fine, but I’ll come in whenever you need for a follow-up.”

So here I sit, Thursday afternoon. Still feel like shit sometimes, but I don’t have leukemia. Or lymphoma. It’s a pretty good day.

Of course the answer was not what I was hoping for. Sure, it could be an ongoing viral blah-blah, or a resistant sinus infection. Or mono. Or one of the diseases from my first list, leukemia.  Could also be lymphoma.

So I called the doc and came in for some blood work.  My doctor is great, I have a nice rapport with him, he explains everything, doesn’t discount my concerns.  So he set up some blood work, the results of which should be in within 24 hours.

Guess who’s not going to be sleeping much over the next 24 hours?

The economy hasn’t been great the last two years, and it’s been especially slow in the last 1-2 months. Even so, at the end of this season the Clay family bank account will be just a bit fuller than it was a year ago.

For me this is a huge relief. For you to understand why, I need to take your hand and walk you down memory lane. Sorry if my hands are a little rough.

Unlike most small business start-ups, when I launched mine there was almost no risk. No downside. Diane was earning a very nice income and full benefits, so even if the business was a total failure, so long as we didn’t deplete our personal accounts funding the business, we were insulated. No amount of failure would impact us so much that we couldn’t still live comfortably.

But there’s an inherent problem with that sort of arrangement. At least as I look back on it, I realize it was a problem for me.

I tend to be good under pressure. In high school and college I was the consummate test taker. If I had C level knowledge of a course, I’d test to an B. I infuriated those students who worked twice as hard as me but tended to fade on test day. In urgent situations the world seemed to slow down for me, allowing me to make calculated judgments about my next steps. I’ve even avoided a couple car wrecks in my life because of it.

But the Ben to that Jerry for me is that without pressure, I resemble oatmeal cookie dough. Kinda shapeless and lumpy. Without some urgent need screaming in my ears, warning of disaster that hinged on my next misstep, I tend to pull my engine out of gear and just coast, gazing about, waiting for something to inspire me to action.

Almost ten years into owning my business and I’d never had the need to succeed. A blob of oatmeal was running a business. And I thought I was doing pretty well.

I wasn’t.

Shortly after Agalia was born Diane and I decided that one of us was going to stay at home and raise our beautiful little girl. Our opinions broke along traditional gender lines. Though Diane was the primary breadwinner by a wide margin, she wanted to be a mom. A mom like her mom. A mom that’s always there for field trips, sammiges or just to rub an owie. And I needed to be the man. The breadwinner. The person who stands on the front porch of his home with feet shoulder-width apart, fists on hips, gazing at something distant in the sky, provider and protector of all that’s within.

Trouble is, it was a job I was now completely unqualified for. Too many years were spent making bad pricing decisions, bad purchasing decisions, bad personnel management and generally being blasé about money. And then there were the hookers and the cocaine. Kidding. Just wanted to see if you were still with me.

I’d spent too much time in a hole of unsuccessfulness to know how to climb out and start making money. And it showed. Since Agalia had been born and Diane quit her job, our bank accounts had been steadily dwindling each year. Diane had even worked out a deal with her former employer to do some at-home freelance stuff, but it still wasn’t enough.

It seemed like I was sick to my stomach all of the time, worried about how or even if we were going to be able to turn this thing around. Would we have to sell our house? Should I sell off the assets of the business and find a regular job? And with the economy in a tailspin, how could we ever improve our situation? Though I don’t think I’d ever do it, my mind began running through scenarios where I could get the life insurance to pay off without it looking like suicide.

I’d like to tell you that my resurrection as a small business owner was all my doing. And if you met me in person, I’d probably spin the story that way. But it happened for a lot reasons. Pressure was one. Imagining coming home from work and telling the kids there was nothing to eat today because Dad didn’t sell a project, or because we didn’t build the project at a profit was a pretty strong motivator.

But I also got cheap. Ever notice how many of the wealthy people you know can crack nuts between their ass cheeks they’re so tight? Instead of looking for ways to be the gregarious entrepreneur who’s generous with his money, I hired Scrooge as a mentor. I sold off any equipment we weren’t actively using and kept older equipment working long past it’s normal serviceable life. I trimmed staff and began asking more of the people that were left.

But even that’s not the whole story of why our wallets are a little fuller this year. Diane deserves a very large share of credit. She continues to work from home part time while doing all the things those Supermoms you read about do. She’s probably contributing 25-30% of the family income by working 10-20 hours per week, doing teleconferences while entertaining two small children, hammering away at a laptop keyboard whenever the kids are asleep.

And if Scrooge was my mentor in doing things on the cheap, Diane had to be Scrooge’s assistant. She keeps the family fed, clothed and full of activities in and outside of the home, all on an insanely small budget. And the most amazing part is I’d never know the difference. We do more things, eat better and enjoy the same quality of life as we ever have and all of it while spending less money. Crazy.

We’re not loaded. Closer to UNloaded. And the economic outlook is not great (though I’m hoping an Obama administration will inspire people to pull out those checkbooks and scratch out big ones to me). But if Diane can keep watching the expenses like a hawk and I can keep the pressure on myself to improve, we may just survive this whole family experiment.

Oh, and on a side note, I’ll be creating my own theme for this blog in the next few months, and the change will include some ads. You know, to pay for hosting, Agalia’s preschool, DJ’s stitches, some clothes for Diane, my Lamborghini upgrade to an ‘02 pickup truck. After having read this post, I’m not sure how in good conscience you wouldn’t click on a few of them. You don’t have to, I’m just sayin’. Who’s it hurt to make a few clickies?

The mold test results are in.  Anyone have room for a cute little family of four to crash for awhile?

The second run of antibiotics wrapped up on Monday. As of Monday morning, I still had that awesome nausea that was preventing me from eating anything but the most bland foods, and I still felt like doing the raise the roof move was going to just about kill me. Diane had mentioned that ever since I put the temperature/relative humidity thingamajig in DJ’s room, the humidity in there has been reading way high.

So I went right out to the store.

I bought three kits. I’m pretty sure when the tests are done we’ll need to tear our house down to prevent the death of the entire family. They also offer tests to show you have lead in your water, radon in your air (used it), asbestos in your insulation, lead in your toys or cracks in your butt. They test everything.

In the meantime, I thought I might look into the other drug my doctor gave me to resolve my hypochondria worrisome symptoms. In my most recent visit he’d given me both the second antibiotics prescription and a freebie of Patanase, an inhaler-based allergy medicine that comes with the following published side effects:

• Headaches
• Nosebleeds
• Sores in your nose
• Hole in your nasal septum
• Creation of second breathing orifice, typically centered on your forehead

The second breathing orifice thing sounded cool, like I could be Aquaman. But hole in my nasal septum, too? Screw you, Patanase. I decided to try my Zyrtec. Within a few hours the majority of symptoms were absent. Now all I need are a couple more drugs for the last couple symptoms and I’ll qualify for one of those days-of-the-week drug holder thingies.