Any Day Now

So it's been a LONG time since I've updated. I get it. Things have been busy. To illustrate, I'm a business bankruptcy and restructuring lawyer. GM and Chrysler both filed chapter 11 in the last month. Good for business, bad for free time.

This is probably going to be my last post before my first born -- the person that started all this madness (E117, not the crumbling domestic economy) -- arrives.

Any day now.

Cold feet? Nope. I'm ready.

Game on.

(Why do I feel like my confident euphoria is headed for an interruption like this?)

If Walls Could Talk

Today I awoke to a steel-gray Cleveland sky. Before long it opened, dropping its contents in a persistent stream of semi-spring raindrops. After my wife went to work, I packed my laptop and set off to find a new coffee house. The one I frequented for a number of years recently closed, dying a slow death along with the local economy.

I splashed along in my car block by block, without any luck. I soon made my way to an older part of town, close to Cleveland proper, hoping to find a diamond in the rough. I prefer smaller coffee houses that are off the beaten path. The kind where the term "regular" still applies, and where regulars need only talk about the weather or current events when ordering, because their made-to-order coffee was prepared from memory the second they entered.

I craned my neck, inspecting storefront after passing storefront, hoping to find my new home away from home. But I didn't. Instead, I began to notice a prevailing trend of empty stores and vacant homes. I imagined the structures in their prime, bustling with the vigor of day-to-day life. Children standing in line for an afternoon matinee at the movie theatre; local politics being debated by free-timers at outdoor restaurants and cafes; families and neighbors enjoying company on roomy, shade-cooled front porches, as smoke billowed upward from a nearby grill.

But now I saw none of that.

The theater sat dormant, its only occupants the ghosts roaming up and down rows of dusty seats behind dirty windows and peeling paint. There were no customers at the restaurants and cafes. A few still had tables resting out front, missing the comfort of conversation and hoping someday they'd again be noticed. Perhaps the saddest sight of all, the house that somebody used to call a home, was now reduced to a mere address. Its windows, the eyes through which I'm certain countless holiday meals could be witnessed by the casual passer-by, were shuttered with plywood. The house mourned as rain pelted gently warping boards, causing rusted tears to streak downward from weathered nail heads.

These structures, which somehow managed to be both modest and majestic in the not-too-distant past, now are nothing more than sad reminders of better times. Where did we go wrong? I thought. How did we find ourselves in this place? How could all of this history just disappear as if it never existed? A flash of lightning and steady bass rumble of thunder brought me back from wherever my mind wandered. I turned and headed for home.

Today I set out searching for a new coffee house. What I found was a story deserving of a better ending.

What Was Your Best Job Ever?

I hope when you answer this question, it's with the job you have now. I'm not so fortunate. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, I really do. But it doesn't top the list. It's a distant second to the number one slot.

I was an unemployed college student looking to earn some extra walking-around money. Because I had no skills to speak of, I killed time working for a temp agency. One day I'd be answering phones for a pushy executive who looked at me with eyes that said "Why didn't the agency send that pretty college girl back?" Another day I'd be assembling cardboard boxes -- all day long. But for the the trained chimpanzee working next to me, that assignment would've been a real bore. He was on union (PETA) strike from his regular gig with Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. Nice fella.

One day, during my lunch break at a particularly terrible assignment, I received a call from an "unknown" number on the caller I.D. I answered.

"Hello."

"Good afternoon. Are you a male between the ages of 18 and 25 with annual income of less than $10,000?" the pleasant, female voice on the other end queried.

"Yep." I wondered why she felt the need to rub it in.

"Fantastic. Are you available between the hours of 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. tomorrow and willing to give us your opinion on a couple of products we're market testing?"

This question was difficult. For those of you who've led the reckless, unpredictable life of a temporary employee, you know that the only thing certain is uncertainty itself. For all I knew, I could be modeling swimwear for Men's Health the next day (or I could be back assembling cardboard boxes with the chimpanzee). "Gee, I don't . . . "

Before I got any further, she cut me off. "It pays $15 per hour and lunch is provided."

"Done. What's your address?"

That day I traded in my semi-stable summer career as a temp for the life of a Demographically-Unique Market Representative (DUMR). The gamble paid off.

My first morning of work entailed eating a variety of processed cheese spreads and telling a host of marketing analysts "what I thought" about each one. Then, after my free lunch, they sat me down in front of television after television, asking which picture I liked best. When the whistle blew after four hours, they handed me a check for 60 bucks (more than I made in an eight-hour day as a temp) and sent me on my way. It was almost too good to be true. These people actually paid me to eat cheese spread and watch television.

Virtually unemployable college students must've been in high demand that summer because my good fortune continued. The analysts kept calling with new and better challenges. Lay on this couch; listen to this radio; taste this foodstuff; and, above all, tell us what you think. I tested everything short of non-FDA-approved drugs (although for 15 bucks an hour and a free lunch, I probably would've considered it had they asked).

Summer eventually drew to a close and returning to college forced me into early retirement as a DUMR. To this day, however, whenever the curious "unknown" number lights up my caller I.D., I wonder whether it's my old friends at the focus group calling to return me to the active roster. It never is, and I know it never will be.

On a more serious note, if you're unemployed and reading this, hang in there. Don't give up on yourself. Don't give up on anything. We're experiencing some very dark economic times right now. As with all tunnels, I'm certain there's light at the end of this one. Until we get there, though, we'll have to rely on the uniquely human ability to illuminate our pathway with hope, and navigate it with faith.

What's Your Idea of Hell?

Everybody's had the discussion "What happens when you die?" Although I'm pretty sure everybody can agree on an idea of Heaven, what about Hell? I'd submit that some facet of Hell has to include you sitting alone on stage in front of a darkened auditorium. On the wall behind you is a movie screen -- maybe even an IMAX. In front of you sits every single person you ever knew during your life. You wonder what's going on. All you hear is the crackle of candy wrappers opening and the crunch of fresh popcorn. Then, when you least expect it, the movie begins. Its title?

Everything You did while Alone During Your Entire Life

Be good, boys and girls. Hell is a terrible, terrible place.

The Sound of Music Part I: From Mr. Rogers to Hineyville

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. To the four or so people who actually read Exit 117, as well as the 15 to 20 who just like the pretty pictures, please forgive me. I’ve no good excuse.

I’ve been traveling a good deal for work lately and, as a result, have had a number of business dinners. As most people will attest, conversations at business dinners typically entail news, weather and sports. They’re remarkably similar to your local newscast served over a steak. The other night, however, somebody brought up the topic of music. In particular, this person opined that everybody associates certain songs with certain events in their life. This drew a pregnant pause, followed by a couple of uneasy chuckles and a prompt change of subject back to sports. The table’s reaction told me this guy might be on to something.

After spending 15 minutes or so considering what songs I associate with particular events in my life, I realized two things. First, there are so many songs that I have to break this topic down into three parts. Second, although I’m about as open of a person as they come, I’m embarrassed and terrified of the words about to hit these pages.

All the more reason to toss them out there.

So now, in no particular order, here are songs I associate with various events in my life. For some reason, more of these involve me dancing (or attempting to dance) than I care to admit. For those of you who enjoy the links, right-click to open them in a new window and avoid navigating away from this page while viewing their content.

The Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood Theme Song: Dancing with Mom

I wasn’t smooth. I wasn’t polished. And I certainly wasn’t Clark Gable.

I was barely four.

And when Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood came on at three o’clock every afternoon, this four-year-old was lucky enough to get a dance with his Mom. Wherever she was, Mom dropped what she was doing and made her way into the living room and my open arms. As Fred Rogers put his shoes on in the background, she’d steady my arrhythmic gallop, pick me up, and spin me to Cloud Nine—singing along all the while.

I hope moms still dance with their kids these days. They probably don’t know how much it means. Heck, when the DJ asked what song my Mom and I wanted to dance to at my wedding, I almost suggested the Mr. Rogers theme song. But when I realized my Mom probably couldn’t pick me up any longer, I figured there wasn’t much point to it.

The Village People’s Macho Man: Entertaining my Sisters and a Bunch of Strangers

Where Mom left off, my older sisters picked up. One of their favorite pastimes was putting the Village People on the turn-table and letting me cut a rug for them and their friends to the tune of Macho Man. I’d parade around flexing my twiggy arms and proclaiming my macho-ness to a bedroom-full of pretty much complete strangers (at least to me). This mucho macho man was a celebrity in his own right, and he didn’t have to don an Indian headdress or leather chaps to make it happen either.

Can you believe people actually thought those guys were gay?

Michael Jackson’s Beat It: My First (and Last) Dance Recital

It was 1985 and break-dancing fever was peaking in suburbia. Every middle-class white kid my age had a piece of cardboard in their garage earmarked for backspins, and I was no exception. But there was one problem:

I sucked at break-dancing.

To illustrate, I almost lost consciousness during my inaugural backspin. Not because of the g-forces created when new parachute pants meet slick cardboard, but because I hit my head on the lawnmower. At best, I could pull off a painfully awkward version of "The Robot," which looked more like a semi-greased Tin Man coming to life in the Wizard of Oz.

So what did I do to keep up with all my breakin’ friends? Sign up for break-dancing lessons at the community center, of course.

Fast forward.

Ten weeks worth of lessons later, break-dancing was no longer cool. On the upside, however, I was no better at break-dancing. But that didn’t change the fact that, as with all such classes, mine culminated in an all-hands-on-deck recital. You know the kind. Where ill-at-ease parents cheer awkwardly for talentless tots, all the while praying to God their kid doesn’t sign up for the intermediate course in whatever they happen to be performing murderously at the time.

The big night arrived and I took the stage with the rest of my classmates before an audience that seemed to consist of the entire town. We were dressed identically in parachute pants complemented by single “Michael Jackson” gloves that shone in the spotlight. Despite our uniform attire, however, the instant Beat It started to play I realized I was very different from all the others. Why?

Because I knew I sucked at break-dancing.

Since it was too late to fake an injury or otherwise bow out, I did what any self-respecting sucky break-dancer would do. I made my way to the darkest corner of the stage I could find and did The Robot to the best of my ability. And when it came time for me to bust out my solo backspin? I tried it.

What the hell? There weren’t any lawn mowers around.

Poison’s Every Rose Has Its Thorn: The Quest for Hiney

I was in the seventh grade—right around the time hormones start making boys think less about baseball and a more about what transpires in the girls locker room. Every couple of months our school would have canteens entailing a darkened gymnasium, a DJ and the occasional, ever-so-coveted “slow song.” Slow songs were like gold to pubescent boys. If you played your cards right, you could do the one thing you and your friends talked about weeks in advance of the canteen:

TOUCH HINEY.

A lot of planning went into this. First, you had to find a girl to dance with you. I won’t even go into steps two and three, because for dorks like me the balance of the process was moot until I could surpass this initial hurdle. I’d been to a couple of canteens without luck. I either lacked the nerve to ask girls to dance or, when I did, they simply said “no.” And it wasn’t even the polite “no” coupled with a remotely plausible excuse such as I’d love to dance with you, but I have to go feed the gorillas at the zoo right now. (By my estimate, girls don’t develop the ability to let boys down easy until high school.)

When the spring canteen rolled around, my situation was dire. I was about to enter eighth grade and it seemed everybody had touched hiney but me.

Enter Lisa H.

Lisa H. sat in front of me in Spanish class and, for some odd reason, actually talked to me (in English). After half a semester of wooing Lisa H. with my ability to conjugate Spanish verbs, I decided to ask her to dance at the spring canteen. In fact, when a couple of other suitors began taking interest, I determined to “lock in” my position by asking her to dance a week before the canteen.

As we settled into Spanish class one afternoon, I made my move. Being too chicken to ask her face-to-face, I decided to do it by way of note. It was pretty simple:

Dance at canteen? Check one: Yes ___ No ___ Maybe ___

When the teacher turned to face the blackboard, I flipped the note over Lisa H.’s shoulder and onto her desk. I held my breath. If this didn’t work, I was certain I’d never touch any hiney but my own (and that didn’t count).

A few minutes passed without feedback of any kind. This is bad I thought. This is very bad. I’d already begun to evaluate the likelihood of getting a dance with our school’s foreign exchange student when Lisa H. dropped her pencil on the floor. While descending to retrieve it, her outstretched hand returned the note. I grasped eagerly, opening it with the vigor of a child on Christmas morning. Afraid to look, I could barely read her response through squinted eyes.


TO BE CONTINUED.

Safety Worth the Price of Admission

Today was my second installment in wife-mandated childbirth and parenting courses. On the agenda: Child Safety (a/k/a Why It's Bad to Let Your Kid Drink Turpentine in an Unharnessed Child Seat).

Our instructor was a middle-aged fireman/paramedic that clearly took pride in his work. So much so that he opened his presentation by describing how he is a "Certified Child Seat Specialist." Given that it was early Sunday morning, I thought this was his humorous way of rousing interest from a roomful of parents-to-be who'd rather be doing something else right then. Reading the paper, going to church, having breakfast, or even doing recreational long-division are a few more appealing alternatives that come to mind. But ten minutes later, after learning how many child seats one most install to earn the title "Certified Child Seat Specialist," I realized this guy was as serious as the Understanding Stroke poster on the wall next to me.

It was then that my Inner Eighth-Grader -- who's never up before noon -- decided to show up for class after all.

What a dork. This guy's all happy about being a "Certified Child Seat Specialist." I'll bet he's a "Certified Wiener" too.

Ugh. I didn't need to hear from him today. I tried to shut him up, but his dopey delivery of "Certified Wiener" made me giggle pathetically.

How hard could it be to put in a stupid car seat? Insert Tab A into Slot B, pull seat belt and viola -- safe baby! You need to get out of here. The Beavis and Butthead marathon starts in 15 minutes, man.

I'm glad I ignored him.

One hour and [only] two car seats later, I knew exactly why there are Certified Child Seat Specialists in this world. The complexity of these devices amazes me. Some hook up underneath the car seat, others through the seat belt; some tighten from the rear, others the front; some slope, while still others recline; where one detaches, another is fixed. I had Transformers that weren't as complex as these things.

But that's just installation. There are also rules you have to follow.

Children less than one year and up to 20 pounds must be in the center of the backseat facing the back of the vehicle at a 45-degree angle. If at forty-four degrees, you ask?

Dead baby.

Children over one year and between 20 and 40 pounds must be in the center of the back seat with a five-point chest harness clipped at armpit level. If the harness is slightly below the armpit?

Dead baby.

Children over 40 pounds but less than eight years or 4' 9" in height must be in a harnessed booster chair in the center of the back seat facing forward. If you dare putting a normal seat belt on one of these giants? You guessed it.

Dead baby.

Terrified and yet awe inspired by his knowledge, I wondered why our instructor volunteered to waste his Sunday morning with a dolt like me? Surely this man had something better to do with his command of preventative automotive safety. For Pete's sake, NASCAR calls.

After a brief recess, we left vehicular dangers in the dust for one closer to home:




Wait, sorry, this is what I meant:

Our instructor spent a few minutes with the basics. Things like: Don't leave your child alone with an open gas can. And: If your child eats rat poison, you should call 9-1-1 before ordering the pizza. Or: If you give your child syrup of ipecac, this might happen.

These seem like real no-brainers, right?

I agree.

So, imagine my surprise when I look up from my magazine and see half the class taking notes.

And I'm not talking an underline here or there, I'm talking actual verbatim transcription. I observed one parent-to-be vigorously scribbling every word our fearless leader had to say about poison. I could almost hear her:

Okay, nope, do not let baby drink lamp oil -- that's bad. Got it. What's that he's got in his hand now? Yeah, that's bleach. Is that -- okay nope, nope, he's putting that in the "bad" pile. No bleach for baby -- got it. Darn it, what did he say about aftershave? Bad? No, wait, wait -- it smells good, so it can't be all that bad. I better ask him after class.

She paused momentarily to quizzically survey her peers. Why isn't everybody else writing all this down? She shook her head. Dummies. Their poor kids will be lucky to see four.

At that moment, I learned the most valuable information yet: I might not be as far behind on the old parenting curve as I once believed. I danced inside knowing my child would be safe. Yes, my child would be safe.

And that alone was worth the price of admission.

Dr. Feelgood and the Inverted Nipples

Sounds like a fairy tale doesn't it?

Tonight, my wife and I went to the hospital for "A Night with the Anesthesiologist." It was pretty much what I expected for an introductory birthing class: a roomful of skittish first-time parents ready to believe anything they're told--as long as it's what they want to hear.

It started with a nurse disarming the crowd with a pretty entertaining snippet of mid-80s Bill Cosby on childbirth. I have to give it to the guy. After 20+ years he somehow managed to calm the nerves of dozens of women braced to be halved by fleshy tax deductions, and even caused stiff-lipped men to unfold arms and almost look happy to be there. Thanks, Bill.

Once the nurse had us where she wanted, the sell was on. Dr. Feelgood took the stage, pushing his product with lines like "We want you to feel pressure, not pain" and "If you want to try it alone, then that's your choice; but when you're ready to quit, we'll be waiting . . . ." It was masterful. In just 15 minutes, this guy silenced all skeptics. Heads nodded in unison, without regard for minor potential side effects like blood patches, persistent epidural headaches and, of course, paralysis after an under-supervised, overworked, slightly-hung-over resident punches that needle through a tad too far. Risks be damned.

I'm not saying that my wife and I didn't bite hook, line and sinker, because we did. All I'm saying is that Dr. Feelgood illustrated how a dash of humor, an ounce of fear and a reasonable prospect of pain can sell almost anything.

But the true entertainment had yet to begin. After Dr. Feelgood numbed us up, he relinquished the floor to the nurse for an hour-and-a-half journey through "what to expect" when you get to the hospital. This was nothing short of grueling. But it was all worth it when when I heard the excited utterance "At this point you'll get to meet with the Lactation Consultant" roll off her tongue.

The repressed eighth-grader in me didn't stand a chance.

My shoulders bobbed rhythmically with snickers. I turned to my wife and quizzically mouthed "Lactation Consultant," if only to gage her own disbelief at this career path. She took no notice. She was too busy defending me by returning the dagger-like stares of her pregnant counterparts. (I love that woman.)

No sooner than I put my inner eighth-grader back in detention, it happened again. "If you have inverted nipples, you must tell your Lactation Consultant immediately." I couldn't pay for juvenile humor like this. But then, after finally settling down again, it hit me: What the hell are inverted nipples? Does my wife have them? Do I have them? (Not that it matters, but it would be good to know if I did.)

I tried hard to let it go. Believe me, I tried hard.

But just as my inner-adult began screaming "Don't raise your hand--for the love of God do not raise your hand!" I, of course, raised my hand. Before uttering a word, the look of horror in my wife's eyes told me she knew precisely what was about to come out of my mouth.

"What exactly do 'inverted nipples' look like?"

An awkward silence followed. I looked to a nearby husband for support, but his quick glance away told me I was going it alone on this one. He probably has inverted nipples, I thought.

The nurse finally recovered from my curve ball and realized that the question, while stupid, nevertheless was in good faith. She gently explained that a nipple is inverted when, instead of pointing outward, it's retracted into the breast. Sounds reasonable, I thought. Fortunately for me, the classroom portion of our evening ended before I could ask whether men too can have inverted nipples. (It turns out they can: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inverted_nipple.)

So that was it. Overall, I'd say that our first childbirth and parenting course was nothing short of a swimming success. If anything, it gave me a reason to look forward to "Breastfeeding Basics," a course I once feared would be a real bore.

My Blossoming Education

I haven’t set foot in a classroom in almost a decade. After nabbing my last diploma, I figured the next time I went back to school it’d be to teach or, alternatively, give a court-ordered “what not to do with your life” speech to a bunch of semi-conscious teenagers. But nobody told me there were courses on childbirth and parenting, let alone that I’d have a wife Hell bent on taking them—all of them. While spending a couple of touchy-feely hours with a host of other expectant parents seemed about as appealing as this:

I nevertheless decided to suck it up for my wife’s sake. I knew not what I’d done.

No sooner than I agreed to go get smart on kids did a Ph.D load of baby classes appear in my e-mail. I’m signed up for everything from “Child CPR” (admittedly valuable) to “Breastfeeding Basics” (hard to imagine anything more uncomfortable unless, of course, the instructor is one’s own mother).

Soup-to-nuts, start-to-finish, I’ve got it all coming my way. So I figure it’s only fair for me to report accordingly on my blossoming education. It all starts tomorrow, when we go painless with Dr. Feelgood in “A Night with the Anesthesiologist.” It should be exciting, particularly if they hand out samples.

The Beginning of Exit 117

Let’s start with what prompted this Blog.

Hop in the nearest Delorean and tap in September 16, 2008. Eighty-eight miles per hour later and you’ll find me sitting in my office in downtown Cleveland, Ohio.

I look like I’m about to throw up.

For the contemporary history buffs, September 16th, give or take, marked the beginning of a series of severe market downturns plummeting the U.S. Economy into its current doldrums—and I just made the mistake of checking my stock portfolio. “Mortgage madness” was at its end, AIG was about to crumble behind Lehman Brothers and banks everywhere panicked. The whole house was going up in flames; thanks to the Internet, I had not only skin in the game but a front row seat to the slaughter. I knew then what it must be like to own the Cleveland Browns.

I was taking it about as well as anybody who just lost almost half their meager net worth. I thought about some of the older guys in our office. In a matter of minutes they traded well-deserved retirement for another five-year tour in corporate America. Economic conscription—what a bitch.

At least I’m young, I thought. Plenty of time to rebound. It was also reassuring that I didn’t have kids to worry about. No diapers to buy or tuition to pay. Nada. Save for the wedding ring on my finger, I was a free man.

I’d been married almost seven years to the day. Life was good. But after seven years, one thing was missing. For her, it was children; for me, a Porsche. And since not even the finest German engineering can outpace a biological clock, you can guess where household priorities lay. (For the record, I couldn’t afford a Porsche anyhow—but I’d have settled for four wheels and new car smell.)

We’d been “trying” for about a year without luck. I know some couples wait far longer, but after watching basketball, baseball and now football season go buy without luck, I’d pretty much grown used to the fact that we might go it alone in this journey. I can’t say I was devastated. In fact, until the market crashed, the notion of possibly retiring early was increasingly appealing. I looked forward to us sailing around the world; running with bulls in Pamplona; sipping Mai Tais to setting—and rising—Maui suns. Essentially living every American Express commercial I’d ever seen. What’s in your wallet?

I guess that's a Capital One question, but either way, the answer was easy: nothing. Okay, so I’m being a bit dramatic, but that’s how I felt.

When I arrived home that evening, my wife greeted me at the door. This is nice, I thought. But nice became mystical when I noticed the rocks glass filled with bourbon in her hand. I was speechless. She finally gets it, I thought. Seven years and I finally broke this bronco. I kissed her and eagerly took my prize—but not so eagerly as to impart “special occasion” status on the moment—I wanted her to believe this was part of our routine going forward.

I went upstairs and headed straight to the office to check snail mail. She followed quietly, as did our two dogs. I still grumbled to myself about the market, and a stack of new bills sitting on the desk didn’t help my mood. After polishing off the bourbon, I rose from the desk and turned. An outstretched hand stopped me in my tracks. In it was a white rod that looked like the handle of a toothbrush.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Look at it” she said.

I flipped it over and saw a window with two pink lines in it—one prominent and another barely visible. “What does this mean?”

“Here,” she thrust a box at me, “read this.” The box essentially said “One line = no baby, two lines = baby.” Words simple enough for even a frightened teenager to understand. It’s amazing I didn’t even flinch. When I get pocket aces at a poker table, I’m giddier than a girl who just got her first kiss from the starting quarterback. But when I learn my wife is having a baby, my demeanor is impermeable—stone cold.

Shock is an amazing thing.

I wish I could say what happened next was one of my finest moments as a husband. I wish I could say that whoever happens to be directing The Life of E117 queued up romantic background music, against which my wife and I celebrated our newfound joy with a tearful embrace.

But I can’t.

“You peed on this, right?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” my wife responded. Even the dogs looked like they knew the answer to that one.

“Gross.” I paused, further inspecting the pee-wand with upturned nose. “You know, that second line is awfully light. Why don’t you take it again tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

And so began my life as a father—which brings me to this Blog.

I’m still not entirely sure why I’m writing Exit 117, but the events of September 16, 2008, definitely had something to do with it. Maybe it’s because I need somewhere to “put” everything going through my head, and a journal just isn’t cutting it. Maybe it’s because I want some sort of record that my kid can tease me about in years to come. Maybe it’s because I just need something better to do than stare at the ceiling at 2:18 a.m.

But who cares? Nobody’s reading this anyhow.