On a Final Note - An obituary for my Dad, John Talick

John Hal Talick, loving husband, awesome dad, avid golfer and devoted Red Wings fan, passed away on March 13^th, 2015 in Redondo Beach, CA.

John worked for the United States Postal Service for 38 years and, as if thumbing his nose in the face of every flu warning ever, he never took a sick day. At 18, John and his excellent work ethic started unloading mail trucks on the nightshift. Even after he broke his collarbone, he showed up for work the next night. It was no surprise that he ended up running the place as District Manager of Southeastern Michigan in Detroit. Quite possibly because he never took a sick day.

He loved his work. He loved his people, too. He genuinely cared. He knew somehow that life wasn’t fair to those who needed fairness the most. So, he became justice personified for the people on his team. He didn’t see gender or color, he saw potential, he gave people opportunity, guidance, and encouragement, which led to something far greater than money. It led to their own long-term prosperity. As a result, his fans arrived in droves to his retirement party.

John gave money to the homeless in the conventional ways of supporting shelters and other charities but also in the actual boots-on-the-ground way. He learned the names of the people he saw on the street, talked to them, and handed over tens and twenties in parting. Every time he went to Joe Louis Arena he met up with Max who was in a wheelchair after having lost both his legs. They talked about the Wings’ playoff chances, while he slipped Max a twenty and a pint of whiskey. Then, they shook hands. It’s a safe bet Max would have been at his retirement party if he could have found a ride.

After he retired from the USPS, Netflix came calling. Netflix, notorious for hiring rock star performers, soon realized they hired a legend who changed the game. He fielded phone calls at 3am, flew all over the country at the beck and call of Reed Hastings, and before he left on his own accord, he managed to institute a change in how employees are compensated. This policy was affectionately and privately referred to as “The Talick Raise.” He then took his last swig of scotch, his last bite of filet mignon, and waved a fine farewell to his Netflix family, heading back to the 1^st tee on the Nicklaus Private course in La Quinta, CA. He was always happiest when he was within tapping distance of the pin.

He married his wife, Gail, in 1976, and together they spent many happy years at Leon’s on Saturdays for breakfast, at their cottage on Lake Chemung, golfing on courses around Michigan and California, and caring for a giant, furry black cat named Captain whom they adopted after he was abandoned.

He adored his daughter, which might explain why no man was good enough for her until she met Mike, his soon-to-be son-in-law. Dad and Mike spent many hours sitting on the couch together quietly reading their phones and making occasional sports remarks. The mutual affection was downright overflowing.

He was a big fan of the Quarter Pounder with Cheese, SNL episodes from the 70s, Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas Special, and happy hour at Shanghai Red’s on Fridays.

He loved Tom Petty, Jackson Brown and War to name a few, and hated pretty much any music written after 1972 with the baffling yet sweet exception of Sarah McLachlin, for whom he took the extreme measure of buying tickets to Lilith Fair so that he could see her live.

John loved Red Wings hockey like some men love their country. With unwavering loyalty, steadfast support and always yearning for victory. He loved the players like family, and knew their stats, their hometowns, and their best plays on the ice. He died harboring a deep, abiding grudge against the Colorado Avalanche’s Claude Lemieux for breaking Kris Draper’s jaw during Game 6 of the Western Conference finals in 1997. And he was there in person for every single Stanley Cup the Red Wings hoisted over their heads in the modern day era. When that ticker tape fell, he stood in the stands with his arms crossed and a big smile on his face, nodding along, proud of his boys.

In 2010, after he moved out to La Quinta, CA to live happily on the sun-splashed, perfectly manicured grounds of PGA West, he constantly cursed Time Warner cable for not broadcasting the Red Wings games in HD in the desert, a curse we hope Time Warner hears.

John lived on his own terms. He had goals and he reached them and loved helping other people do the same, although he could never quite help his daughter fix her golf swing, a regret she’ll have to live with.

He is survived by his beautiful and loving wife, Gail; his adoring, opinionated daughter, Carrie; his soon-to-be son-in-law Mike Ayotte; and his soon-to-be granddaughter Charlotte Ayotte, who loved accompanying him on morning walks in Hawaii to get coffee, as long as he also bought her a hot chocolate. He is also survived by his sister, Mary Ellen Kopf, his nieces Carolyn Kopf and Sandra Burch, and his cousin Shirley Ostholm.

Intelligent, kind, generous and loving, John will always be missed and he will remain an inspiration to his wife, daughter and countless others.

May the fairways be greener than you imagined and may your drives be forever right down the middle. We love you. Go Wings.

Join us on April 19^th at 10am, for a mass at Sacred Heart Parish in Detroit where John’s named will be mentioned in Memoriam. Immediately following the mass, we will convene at The Town Pump Tavern to celebrate John’s life. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Maldo E. Talick Scholarship fund at Wayne State University.

Condolences can be sent to Gail Talick at 57690 Interlachen, La Quinta, CA 92253 or gtalick@yahoo.com or to Carrie Talick at ctalick@yahoo.com

The Quick Fix

When I was a kid, we never had a microwave oven. That marvel of early 70s modern technology that everyone seemed to simultaneously purchase, adore and tout, never graced our kitchen counter. No beeping. No Popcorn button. No reheating leftovers in 23 seconds flat.

No, we did things the old fashioned way because my Mom was convinced that the microwave oven was unhealthy in some way, even though she was clearly enamored with it. She would commandeer the magic machine to warm up her coffee whenever she visited her friend, Judy. Then she would inspect and judge the contents of the cup, convinced there was a change in its taste.

For us kids, the wonders of microwaved food fed our curiosity. Why, when heating spaghetti, did the inside remain cool while the edges were as hot as molten magma? What happens if you put tinfoil in it? How fast can it heat a pudding cup before exploding?

But even given these microwave mysteries, I never missed not having a microwave. In fact, I took pride in the fact that I still made my corn in a pot, with water, and I waited for that water to boil, like a normal person. It made me feel superior to cook real food on the stove or in an oven instead of “nuking” my meatloaf.

The microwave clearly had limitations, too. It made tortillas and pizza crust spongy. It failed miserably at chicken by turning a perfectly good thigh into a rubbery hockey puck of poultry. And it definitely didn’t do French fries any favors.

So I scoffed. A microwave would never find a place in my home.

But then, my Mom was diagnosed with cancer. It doesn’t matter what kind. It was the kind that ate away at her body and her peace of mind in equal measure. She lost fifteen pounds in a month. Then she lost another ten. I could see her vibrant spirit beginning to fade with every doctor visit, like petals falling off a flower. The doctors told her she needed to eat. Keeping her weight up meant she could fight when she needed to. Food gave her energy, pacified her worries, and gave her the glucose, proteins and carbohydrates she needed to wake up and fight another day. But it takes an appetite for a cancer patient to eat. And that is the one thing cancer patients simply don’t have.

So, we got a microwave. Because when my Mom got hungry it was a fleeting, elusive appetite that demanded immediate action otherwise it would go back into hiding for days. Hers was the fickle, stubborn Scarlet O’Hara of stomachs.

But when it did show up, her appetite gave me hope. It was one of those small, irrational signs that made me think things were getting better. For instance, one evening I had to shave her legs. The hair on her legs was getting so long her vanity kicked in. My 21-year-old naïve brain was so willing to grasp onto the smallest glimmers of hope that I thought if the hair on her legs kept growing, that must mean her body intends to stick around for awhile. She sat on the toilet, propped up by a pillow as I took a clean razor to her pale, hairy legs. It was a happy moment between us. I failed to make the connection that involuntary body functions keep going, sometimes even after someone dies, and that other cancer patients are not completely hairless. Coping strategies of the heart.

Oatmeal was a big star in those moments of appetite sneak attacks. Spoonfuls of buttered and brown-sugared goodness delivered life giving nutrients, or at least calories, to her ever-shrinking frame. Another favorite was fingerling potatoes with butter and sour cream. Simple carbohydrates eased our complicated emotions. These hurriedly heated dishes would satiate her and put her to sleep. They would ease my mind and allow me an hour or two of cancer-free thought while I zoned out on reruns of Law & Order.

It’s no secret I’ve got a few extra pounds on my bones. But I can’t help thinking that my weight might be rooted in a subconscious fear of watching her get weaker and feeling utterly helpless. To me, skinny means sick.

I’ve since softened my stance on microwaves and their nuclear cooking methods. But I still don’t trust them. The only time I ever really use them is to heat up water in record time to make French Press coffee.

But now, my Dad is sick. And just like my Mom before him, he’s lost fifteen pounds. And all I can think about is buying him a microwave so I can make him oatmeal and potatoes with butter and sour cream. I want those fifteen pounds back. I want his health back. I want Mom back, too. The microwave did not provide a miracle. But it did give us a way to warm up food and stoke hope in the moment. And at least we had that.

Brilliant and Ordinary walk into a bar...

Brilliant stalks into the bar, upset. Ordinary is sitting on the furthest bar stool with a small container of red, ripe strawberries in front of him. Brilliant takes the stool next to him.

“Life is hell,” Brilliant says. His shoulders sag, he picks up a drink straw and starts fiddling with it.

“You’re a real day brightener,” Ordinary says as he takes a sip of his beer.

“Well it is! I’m a failure! Another dream down the drain!”

“Try again,” Ordinary says, plainly.

“There is no sadder state than the death of the dream!”

“And no greater triumph than trying again,” says Ordinary.

Brilliant looks over at Ordinary, annoyed by his lack of compassion for his sorry state.

“Don’t you have dreams? What is your passion?”

“Right now? Strawberries.”

“Oh! You’re going to start a strawberry farm? Revolutionize organic farming?”

“No. I’m just going to eat these here strawberries.” Ordinary bites into a strawberry. Pink juice runs down his fingers. He licks his fingers and picks up another one. He looks at Brilliant and smiles.

“No one will ever accuse you of having a higher vision. That’s not a dream! That’s not a passion! That’s a snack.”

“Call it whatever you like. But perhaps this is my version of a small scale passion when compared with the heights of yours.”

“What’s wrong with big, brilliant dreams?”

“Nothing. Just like there’s nothing wrong with small, immediately attainable dreams.”

“You don’t get me.” Brilliance tosses his straw over the bar in surrender.

“Listen, don’t come into my quiet little corner of the world dragging all of your messy neuroses and try to put it on me. I can see Angst came with you. He’s hanging out over there by the jukebox threatening to put on old Pearl Jam tunes.”

Brilliant looks over and sees Angst inserting quarters into the jukebox. Soon Jeremy by Pearl Jam comes on.

“So you feel satisfied? Just...eating strawberries?” Brilliant asks skeptically.

“Right now, yes. But I’m not like you. I’m Ordinary. You’re Brilliant,” Ordinary says with a slightly patronizing tone.

“I’m also a little tormented. But that’s what it takes to do great things.”

“That’s one philosophy. I do small things beautifully. You know who knows it? Me. And I’m good with that.”

“But I don’t want to be Ordinary.”

“You’re not. You’re Brilliant.”

“But, don’t you want to be me?”

“No,” Ordinary says emphatically, “I want to be me. Ordinary.”

“You can’t be serious,” Brilliant scoffs.

Ordinary turns to Brilliant, levels his gaze and says, “Listen, you arrogant shit, I give you some leeway because you’re Brilliant but it doesn’t give you the right to be Superior. So, let me put it this way. You’re Brilliant in part because I’m Ordinary. Because every book must have a reader. Every poem must have a heart that understands it. Every joke must have someone to laugh at it. For every piece of art, someone who appreciates it. Don’t you see? I’m just as important as you are. Without me, you can’t be you.”

Brilliant sits in silence, as if smacked in the face with a 2x4. Ordinary goes back to eating his strawberries.

"That was brilliant," says Brilliant.

"I have my moments," says Ordinary.

“So, I can go on being Brilliant?” Brilliant asks, rather sheepishly.

“Keep on keepin’ on.”

“And you’ll go on being Ordinary?”

“Yep.”

“Sorry.”

Ordinary gives Brilliant a warm smile and says, “It’s okay. You’re Brilliant. But sometimes you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Brilliant then asks, “Can I have a strawberry?”

“Sure.” Ordinary slides the strawberries over to Brilliant.

Brilliant bites into the juicy, sweet fruit and for the first time, he understands exactly what Ordinary is talking about.

“By the way, tell Angst he’s not invited to my pool parties. Contentment is going to be there and they don’t get along.”

“Roger that,“ Brilliant says as he reaches for another strawberry.

Don't call him a pony.

At first, people stare. It’s not every day you see a grown man traveling in a dinky cart drawn by a miniature chestnut-colored horse down the posh streets of the East Bay neighborhood of Crestview, California. Not unless there’s a parade going on. Which there isn’t.

Normally, I drive a Prius. Not because I want to. I hate Priuses. But because “it makes sense,” according to my wife who drives our Mercedes SLK 250. We also have a Ford Explorer, a much more definitively manly car. But we also have a teenaged daughter who is much safer driving a vehicle like that. So, the Prius is how I get around. That is, when I’m not in my little horse cart hauled by “The General.”

Originally his name was “McLovin’.” The owner, a stoner from Humboldt county who had a buzz on homegrown herb called “Outdoor Church” and an affinity for the movie Superbad, deemed him so when his uncle talked him into trading a pound of product for the miniature horse. Our daughter, for whom this animal was intended, mercifully did not get the reference. So, his name then became “Bandit.” A proper, friendly, western-y type horse name. That lasted for about two weeks until our diminutive horse started getting surly around the other full-size horses. That’s when the entire stable staff started calling him “The General.”

My wife and I (and by that I mean myself, alone, with no other financial help) spend a small fortune for horse room and board. Lately, the staff at Roughriders Stables called us to talk about The General’s attitude problem. He’s ornery, selfish and an overall asshole to the other horses. He somehow breaks into the other stables and eats the other horses’ food. This feat requires unlatching not one, but two “horse-proof” gates. The stable hands have no idea how he does it. I personally think this also makes him a genius. I’m considering teaching him how to talk. This is a testament to our relationship from that first contentious day.

About a year ago, my sweet fifteen-year-old daughter started to develop a love for horses. Showing the first signs of interest in anything beyond ask.fm and Snapchat, my wife and I leaped at the chance to foster a good, old-fashioned hobby for her that didn’t require a Genius Bar appointment or contraceptives. We bought books on horses, horse figurines, and ordered every horse-themed DVD on Netflix. A friendly warning here: Repeated viewings of My Friend Flicka will drive a man to drink a half bottle of Scotch in one sitting. So, I suppose looking back on it now, it seemed inevitable.

My wife started secretly trolling horse auction sites. It didn’t help that California Chrome was all over the news. An unassuming stable in Central California had sired a horse with an obscure bloodline. He was sold for a pittance in the Thoroughbred world. Yet, the horse turned out to be a champion, winning the Kentucky Derby and then the Preakness. The Triple Crown was in his sights. Deemed “The People’s Horse” for his humble beginnings and astonishing success, California Chrome had given unknown breeders a brand of hope they had scarcely experienced before. And sent my wife on her own determined search for equine greatness. However, Anne claimed that her search was altruistic. Our daughter was having a tough time in school. Anne reasoned that pets could help a child through the tough teenage years. I rebutted that surely a guinea pig could offer the same comfort or even, and I said this with all the trepidation that comes with a future of hairballs and Fancy Feast barfed up on my carpet, a cat. But it was too late. They were leaving that Saturday morning to drive two hours north to “take a look” at a horse. I strongly protested. I stated that a horse was not practical in any sense. The work. The money. The commitment. Didn’t these things live to be, like, thirty? I stood strong and put my foot down.

But I think we’ve already established that I had no real control over my life.

Three hours later, I get a call from my wife. “Hi. We bought a horse.” My anger at being patently ignored put more force in my voice than normal and I was surprised to hear myself bellow, “God damn it, Anne!” “Oh calm down. It’s a miniature one.” I think she felt that because it was not a full-size horse, that this was some kind of warped compromise. “We are NOT getting a pony!” I bellowed louder. The line remained eerily silent. Maybe the bellowing had worked. Finally she said in a clipped, indifferent tone, “Don’t call him a pony.” And then she hung up.

Frustrated and utterly dismissed, I angrily tapped the finicky call back button on my iPhone and waited for her to answer. At the last possible ring, she picked up. “I AM NOT going up there to get it,” I said, hoping this would thwart her plans. “Fine,” she said. Her voice had an unnerving calmness to it. I waited for more. An explanation or instruction or cue, so I mimicked her, “Fine?” “I got it covered. I don’t need you.” Stinging words for any man to hear as it strikes at the heart of our greatest fear; that deep down women believe we’re only good for siring children. Or opening pickle jars. Resigned, I finally said, “Anne, you cannot get that horse home without my help and a trailer. Don’t get any crazy ideas.” She hung up again.

She had no trailer, no bona fide or legal horse carrier in her possession. But Anne had an idea and a strain of genetic stubbornness that was rivaled only by the deep, momentary lunacy this act would take. My wife, an educated, decent, mannered woman of privilege descended from Texas oil money, decided that the best way to get this shrimpy horse home was to drive it there. In the back of our 2009 Ford Explorer.

Given its small stature, the theory was that the miniature horse was going to lie down in the back, like a Great Dane. It would buckle its knobby knees, and nestle into the horse blanket and have a lovely ride south. But that’s the thing about theories. The horse did not lie down. There was no nestling. Anne could not bully this animal into doing what she wanted. She had effectively met her match. The only more poetic turn would have been if it had been a miniature bull. The horse stood there, cramped, terrified and angry as hell in the back of the Ford Explorer riding at a steady 55 miles per hour for 113 miles down the I-5 freeway.

Now, any Californian can tell you that driving a torpid 55 miles an hour down the I-5 freeway is taking your life in your hands. Big rigs barrel down on slower travelers, they honk, they swerve, they go screaming by while flipping the bird. The big rigs own the road on the I-5 as it is a major trucking route from the fertile farming communities of the north to the ever-demanding masses of Los Angeles. Driving with the flow of truck traffic, which is somewhere near the speed of light, is well advised.

But Anne had no choice. The horse wasn’t steady enough for them to go any faster. It wasn’t long before a pair of big rigs barreled down, one on each side. The horse, rightfully sensing imminent death, came unglued. He let out a panicked whinny and then his squat legs kicked hard at the back of the SUV. The rear window shattered just as another Semi roared by letting out three thunderous horn blasts.

And then all hell broke loose. Anne and my daughter first heard what sounded like a garden hose on full blast as the distinct and overpowering smell of horse urine permeated the cabin of the Explorer. Anne tried to roll down the windows but the noise only made the animal freak out further. In fear, or perhaps in protest of its horrifying circumstances, the miniature horse let loose its bowels in a slurry across the entire back of the SUV. Fresh, runny, and hay-scented yet foul smelling manure dripped from the walls and remaining windows. It started to congeal all over the back seat. Gagging and sweaty, Anne blasted the air hoping that cooling it down would diminish the stinking horror in the back seat. Impervious to her circumstances, she continued down the I-5 toward Crestview on what would become the worst road trip in living memory. For the humans, and the horse.

It was then that I received a text from my daughter with five of the most powerful words I’ve ever read. Words that would delineate a shift in my world as I knew it.

The text read, “Mom says you were right.”

The Ford Explorer has never recovered. It still smells faintly of horseshit but my daughter doesn’t seem to mind. She gallivants all over town telling her hilarious horse story. Although, she’s lost interest in the horse itself. This isn’t completely her fault. After all, it’s a miniature horse. You can’t ride it, or jump it, or show it. There’s really only one thing this horse breed was meant to do.

The General and I come to a stop at our local farm-to-table restaurant & wine bar. I step out of my cart and tie him up to the patio railing. The General starts munching on the sustainable local kale growing out of the flower boxes next to the entrance. Horrified, a flustered waiter approaches us.

“You can’t tie up your pony here, sir.”

I look back and watch The General happily mowing through the butternut squash in an adjacent flower box.

Like a proud father, I tilt my head and say, “Don’t call him a pony.”

The beautiful impermanence of everything

Yesterday, on a foggy morning at the beach, 7-year-old Charlotte and I decided to build a sand castle. She instructed me that we had to go down to the wetter sand. We had beach buckets and shovels for the task. While we filled out buckets and built our castle, Charlotte was humming and singing. When it was done, we assessed our work and we were proud of little lopsided castle with a moat.

I said, “It’s a good castle.”

“Yep!” And then Charlotte said, “I want to destroy it.”

“Whoa. Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Oh…okay.” I watched her trounce and stomp all over our castle and then she ran in a huge circle, chased a couple seagulls, and came back and sat down, out of breath with a wide open smile.

“Let’s build another one!”

I was puzzled. I had flashbacks of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke when the warden forced him to dig a hole, and then immediately fill it back up, over and over again. The pointlessness of this task nearly broke Cool Hand Luke. I could relate. Except that I wasn’t in a Florida prison camp.

I asked, “Why build it if we just destroy it?”

“It’s fun,” she said.

It took me a moment, as I stared at the detritus of our freshly made sand castle, to realize the true Zen mastery of her actions.

I’m used to producing things, making thing, creating things. When I write copy, I then seek approval from other people.  If they like it, it’s a high. If they don’t, I feel dejected.

But not Charlotte. She didn’t need anyone’s approval. She simply built the castle because it was a good way to spend time. As I sat filling up plastic buckets with more sand, I tried to work out why this was so unsettling.

Perhaps it was because this was a reminder of the impermanence of everything. If the sand castle was left intact (like houses or property or legacies or first novels) then it’s a thumbprint, proof that we were here and did something that left a mark.  Very adult thinking.

You know what kids think? “The sand feels good on my hands.” “Look at the dolphins!” “I love that Carrie is spending time with me.” “Let’s sing a song!”

Here she was enjoying life. And here I was trying to understand it.

Adults tend to accrue things. Whether it’s houses or bowling trophies or crocodile skin purses or meaningless awards. All visible measures of success. But what are the visible measures of happiness?

I know it when I see it.

And I’m witnessing one right now, as she tucks her hair behind her ear and gets back to work on a new moat. Charlotte derives happiness from the action, not the accomplishment. She embraces the impermanence of the moment, gives it a big hug, and takes the memory with her instead.

And she’s on to something. Because even when the castle is gone, and we have dusted the sand off our clothes, I can still feel the cool fog on my cheeks, and hear the sound of the waves gently crumbling on the shore, I can still live in that moment that I shared with a little girl who knew how to have fun. And suddenly, the lightness of my soul comes fluttering back to rest on my mind like a butterfly, and for a moment, I am a 7-year-old again.

It’s time for popsicles.

At a loss for words...

When it comes to ad writing, I’ve got some game. I can be efficient, fluid, lyrical, sales-y, straightforward, irreverent, wry, poignant, English or ironic. I can write in the voice of a Muppet or a Manservant, and every possible voice in between. Even the boring ones. Whatever you want, I can get it done. Snap, crackle, pop. But when faced with loftier writing goals, like a good story that entertains and/or delivers a message, well, those writing muscles, much like my underutilized triceps, are on the verge of atrophy.

I have proof.

Exhibit A I was reading an excerpt from a National Book Award winner yesterday. She described a teenaged boy this way: “Tanner had a blithe sense of entitlement, a certainty that he was destined for an undefined brand of greatness.”

I chuckled at the accuracy of this characterization, as it was the epitome of every teenaged boy I know.

But in a moment of private horror, I realized I had to look up the word “blithe”. I thought it meant “agile”. Nope. It means “cheerful indifference” or “happy”.

Blithe. I used to know this word. Much like I used to know “adroit” and “torpor” and “fecund.”

Now, words like these, the ones that authors use regularly to enhance an idea, or to richly describe a character, these words are like frozen kernels of corn that have fallen under my fridge. They used to be part of something bigger. Once useful, now forgotten, they just lie there, thawing out and waiting to be joined by the frozen peas “diaphanous” and “apocryphal.”

Texting and chatting has changed our language so drastically that one might question if the above-mentioned words are still important, usable words. And the answer is YES, DAMNIT. We cannot let ourselves devolve into a society where educated adults use shortened non-words like “Totes”, “Awesome” or “Mad” to describe every damn thing.

But personal opinion aside, if you want to write, you need the tools. And vocabulary is the most essential.

Exhibit B I have this scene in my head that I tried to write. Two kids are in a mountain tunnel as a train approaches. I actually, for a millisecond, began to write, “As the train roared into the darkness toward us, it sounded like a freight train.”

There is no need to point out the obvious and glaring fact that it is a truly shitty simile. In fact, I am well aware that this could be featured in one of those “15 Worst Similes and Metaphors by U.S. high School Students.” But, it’s also part of a Bruce Springsteen lyric.

Like I said, the muscle is on the verge of atrophy. Scheduling an appointment with simile trainer right now.

Exhibit C I’m working with a writer. An actual author. We’re working on ad copy and it’s a great gig. I pointed to her ten seconds ago and said, “Quick, what does ‘blithe’ mean?” Without skipping a beat she said, “happy.”

Which I am not.

Closing argument

Keith Richards was once asked if talent ever goes away and his response was, “Yes, it goes away. But it’s the last thing to go away.”

Somehow, I find this encouraging. Whether I have talent or not is irrelevant. It’s the attempt to do something more. And I still believe there is always beauty in the attempt.

So I shall attempt to drag myself out of this torpor and over to the computer where I shall adroitly compose a better simile for the train in the tunnel while trying to fully realize my fecund years of creativity.

I might be sore for the next few days.

Failure: It's an option

For all of you out there who thought I would never finish the Lavaman Triathlon in Hawaii, I would just like to say…. good call!

It’s true. I didn’t finish the race. I didn’t even start the race.

I could give you at least five semi-valid excuses for not doing the race but it all boils down to the fact that my heart (and certainly all of my joints) was not in to it.

I grappled with the decision not to do the race for a long time. And, looking back on it, I did fail. But failure is a funny thing. Failure has always taught me more about myself than success. It causes a self examination of my own motivation, or lack there of. It forces me to consider how I change as time marches on. It makes me ask if I like who I am. And if not, why not? If so, why so?

All this contemplative thought brought me back here. To my quiet little blog. To my place in the world where I can toss stones in the form of essays over the abyss and see if they make a splash.

I seriously considered abandoning this blog because I had focused so much of it on my ongoing training vs. living life battle and the dumb race. But then I realized there are other things I want to talk about. Like how the best moments are always the unplanned ones, or why collaboration always sounds like a good idea, unless of course you want to come up with good ideas, or my deep need to explain some choices on my Netflix queue. I know they sound like random thoughts right now but I promise I’ll bring them around to a make a point. About something. At least, that’s the dream.

So, I’m back! I hope my readership is still intact - I’m talking to you Mom, Dad, Mike and random stranger in Pennsylvania!

Ah, it's good to be back, xo C

A cure for what ails me.

I apologize for the radio silence, Notes-From-the-Coasters! It’s been a while since my last post and I know all three of my readers have been chomping at the bit to see how my sub-standard training/living life thing is going. Thanks, Dad and Mom and random stranger from Pennsylvania!

So let’s start with good news! Injury Report Update!

Achilles Heel 

Virtually pain-free. I can flex it, point my toes with it, walk on it, and swivel it. It works so well I’m convinced someone performed bionic surgery on me in my sleep….uh, honey?

Knees

The apricot-sized swelling that my meniscus so kindly produces any time I exert any physical energy has gone down considerably to the point where they look like normal knees. Normal knees!

Hip

Went from constantly screaming for Vicodin and a heating pad down to a mild murmur stifled by wine and good conversation.

So, overall a remarkable improvement from where I was a mere few weeks ago! What, pray tell, could bring on this turnabout of non-painful events?

Accupuncture? Massage? Massive amounts of painkillers? Blood doping?

Nope.

Laziness. Lethargy. “Couch Butt” as my favorite Finnish Aunt would refer to it. I’ve been doing a whole bunch of nothing. My most strenuous activity has been hauling up Target bags full of Halloween decorations from my car to the front door or uncorking a bottle of Cabernet.

I know. I’m as shocked and dismayed as you are.

A sedentary lifestyle seems to agree with my joints and tendons. Evidently, they like being lazy. My shins would agree that they could happily sit around watching episodes of Chopped and Dexter ‘til the cows come home. They apparently have no fear of atrophy.

See, I had a birthday last week.  And nothing throws a good workout routine off kilter like, uh, a reason. Any reason, really. But my birthday served as a damn good one.

As we get older, we come to understand that our birthdays change. They aren’t celebrated with the same verve and glee as when we were, say, seven years old. But, even though there was no Faygo Red Pop, or pool party, or silly string or homemade cake with Betty Crocker Milk Chocolate Frosting, it was still one of the best birthdays I’ve had…which magically turned into a week, plus a day or two.

I am still so in love with all of my people. From the ones I’ve known all my life, to the more recent additions, I say thank you for giving me the best gift a girl can have: an excuse not to work out. I love you all.

So, now that the party, the afterglow and the hangover are over, it’s time to get back to business. As much as my body parts would prefer I remain slothful and lazy, my stupid heart is just aching to get going again. So long, Couch Butt. It’s time to get in the pool. Or on the bike. Or on the treadmill.

Onward.

Results, running and relativity.

I did the 10K. I ran most of it and walked a little too. Why you ask? Because there are more hills on that Godforsaken course race than any other I can remember. Hills with at least an 11% grade! As a result, my knees and shins seized up and have since refused to work properly and I have some unfamiliar pain in my heel. But, as my friend Sarah wisely pointed out, “Runners are the lifeblood of orthopedic surgeons.” ;

So, there I was trudging up Rosecrans Avenue Saturday morning thinking about something, anything to block out the searing pain in my shins when I ended up thinking about all the love and support I received from people. I want to take a moment to highlight those who offered their version of pep talks this weekend.

;

CAN DO SPIRIT

"Great job, CT! Being sore just means the training is paying off!" – Christy Anderson

;

BEEN THERE DONE THAT SPIRIT

"Oh yeah. I ran that race once. I think I finished in 47 minutes." – Robert Woodie

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DRILL SARGEANT SPIRIT

"Suck it up, Talick. It’s only a 10K." – Ryan Brierley

;

BLIND MOTHERLY LOVE SUPPORT

"You can do anything! You can do everything! I believe in you! Take Advil!" – Momma G

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NURTURING PARTNER WHO WANTED TO MAKE SURE I’D GO TO BEER GARDEN SPIRIT

"I’ll go to the store and get champagne. Put your feet up. Don’t move. I’m proud of you." - Mike "Stein" Ayotte ;

And possibly my favorite, as I was laying on the couch massaging my calf muscles:

;

SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL, CUT-THROUGH-THE-SHIT SPIRIT

"You risked your life for nothing." – Charlotte James Ayotte (accompanied by concerned and slightly pissed expression)

;

I couldn’t help but laugh. The fact that Charlotte thought this was so epic that it was a mortality risk made me realize that Ryan Brierley was right. Its just a lousy 10k. Suck it up, Talick.

;

Sure, I’m proud of myself. But I’m also proud of myself when my bra matches my underwear. It’s all relative.

;

I finished the race at 1:11. Right next to an 84-year-old man wearing a headband. Rock on, you silver-haired stud.

;

Okay, I’m off to buy an ace bandage.

The tank of motivation, running on empty.

I signed up to run the Hometown Fair 10k in Manhattan Beach tomorrow. I’ve been running about three days a week. So, theoretically, I should feel good going into this race.  

But, that’s the thing about theories.

I’m in good enough shape to finish a 10k. I might need to stick to a strict diet of beer and Advil afterward but I’m pretty sure I can finish it. The question is, will I enjoy it. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m having a problem with motivation.

Anyone who runs races knows this is true: It’s a mind game.

My body can do it no matter how much I bitch about my injuries or lament about sore hips and strained muscles. I actually believe part of my pain is psychosomatic. Meaning, I’m inventing the pain in my body with my mind.

Basically, my mind is in a ‘take no prisoners’ battle between the lazy, shiftless version of myself that wants to watch Jeopardy and sip Chardonnay (read: enjoy life) versus the lion-hearted competitor version of me that wants to push to the finish line no matter what my shin splints say (read: earn self pride). Clearly, I’m at war.

I can see both sides. I’m definitely doing the race. Half of me hopes to run the whole thing without stopping to walk once. The other half says, “Who cares if you walk?”

And that's the rub. Really. Who cares?

I did the Mud run for nine years straight. A 10k race on the grounds of Camp Pendleton that challenges runners with hay bales, trails, fire hoses, creeks, sand, a swim across a lake, tunnels and of course, the mud pits. Every year, I slogged through that mud, fighting through pain and tired muscles to cross that finish line. And every year, I was reborn in that mud, a reminder that I was still vital, still alive and still willing to thumb my nose at the reaper and say, “Tell your story walking, pal.” I was lucky enough to have people at the finish line waiting for me. I was grateful for their presence and they made the joy of the moment great. But in the end, the person I was trying to please was me.

So do I still need to make myself proud?

No. Not in the same way. I will finish this race. And I’ll feel good. But my pride comes from a different place now. From the hugs I get from people I love, to the things I learn, to the things I write, and somehow slogging through mud doesn’t have the same appeal.

This applies not just to this race, but to the Lavaman too. Obviously, a little soul searching is in order. Hopefully I’ll find my answers as I’m trudging up Rosecrans at 8am tomorrow morning.

And if I walk a little bit, who cares?

Age. Wiping it's feet on my dreams.

Random physical pain associated with the aging is completely lost on young people. With their resilient muscles and limitless cardiovascular abilities, it’s no wonder when you try to tell a youngster (anyone under 30) that you wake up with aches and pains simply from sleeping, it causes the same reaction as if you’ve just sprouted a horn from your forehead. I have never had to confront my age as frequently or as brutally as I’ve had to since I started training for this stupid race.

The pitfalls of working out at this age (Just guess, okay? My TV had a dial not a remote, we had “the” phone and it was in the kitchen sporting a really long cord, I had several pairs of legwarmers, I loved Laverne & Shirley) is that injuries blindside you. There you are, diligently trying to get in shape, doing the same workouts you’ve done before and suddenly, your ankle hurts. Your hip feels like it has inexplicably come out of its socket. Your knee swells up. And, out of nowhere, tendons start screaming that they’re sore and need to sit in the Jacuzzi.

It’s a bitch getting old.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

INJURY REPORT!

Shin splints (both shins)

Akin to someone driving wooden splints into muscle tissue, this is searing, unending pain in my shins begins to scream during the first mile of a run and doesn’t shut up until I’m done.

The Right Achilles Tendon

I believe we still use it as a metaphor for a fatal weakness. “Red Velvet cupcakes are her Achilles’ heel of desserts.” Well, mine is the sort of hell that started from playing tennis. Unendingly sore and often stiff. Like rigor mortis is setting in.

The Left Ankle.

Ugly but important. The ankle’s job is to keep me upright and stable enough to walk. When I’m walking, it holds 1.5 times my body weight. When I’m running, it’s designed to hold eight times my body weight. Eight times!  Its mutiny is justified.

The Right Hip

My friend, Karin is convinced that once you break a hip, you’re a goner. Looking at people who have broken hips, it does seem like it’s the first step toward the dirt nap. I’m pretty sure my hip muscles are separating from the bone every time I run over three miles. Say a prayer.

Knees

A tiny piece of cartilage called the meniscus likes to come out and announce it’s torn presence with authority. So, at the end of every run, my meniscus are the size of apricots sticking out of my knee. Welcome to the knee brace. Next, crutches!

So, to sum up, Age is wiping its nasty feet on my dreams. At this rate, if you whisper “CrossFit” in my general direction my hamstring will spasm.

All this working out at the gym has led me to spot a trend. It seems we’re all working out so much harder these days. Women and men are taking cardio kickboxing and barre method classes, torturing themselves on Pilates machines and taking excruciating TRX classes often all in ONE DAY. CrossFit training is the hot workout of the moment so I took a complimentary class. That shit is HARD. It rendered me disabled for 72 hours where my activity consisted of hobbling to the bathroom for more Advil.

I remember when a bike ride on a beach cruiser followed by some half-hearted sit-ups was considered a fair workout. Now, it seems like if you’re not vomiting in your mouth a little during your workout, you’re not “feeling the burn.”

To this I say, pppfffffffft.

I think being in shape feels truly great and we should all strive to get daily exercise. But some people just take it too far. Perhaps they feel that this is the last thing they can totally control in this day and age. And to some extent they’re right. But honestly, all I can think when I look at some dude who is in stupid good, magazine cover shape is, “Don’t you have any hobbies?” Pick up a guitar. Learn Russian. Have a drink (not a Miller 64) and talk to people. There is more to developing yourself than shirt-stretching muscle mass or flat abs.

But then the reality hits me. I have  to be one of those people. At least in the short term. So, injuries withstanding, I shall carry on. Do what you say, say what you do.

It’s a powerful thing that I try to follow.

Onward.

Hard lessons from the weekend

The hardest part my training schedule is reigning in my weekend fun. Blame it on wine. No, wait. Wine is not the real enemy here. It’s happiness. Happiness is the downfall of my training.  

Friends, barbecues, sunsets, outdoor movie nights, hilarious conversations, and football. Wine goes well with all of these activities to say nothing of the natural pairing of a cold beer after an ocean swim. Damn you, moments filled with utter happiness! Damn you.

Along this journey so far, I’m getting in touch with myself again. I feel the burn and the pain of the workouts, I feel the guilt of missing one and the satisfaction of completing one. Another delightful surprise is rediscovering that my body parts can talk to me. And in some cases, scream.

For instance, this is what will happen on tonight’s run.

Stomach: Here’s a little throw up for you. That’s for the wine you drank last night. Payback is a bitch.

Lungs: It burns. It burns in here! Where is all the air? Are we in some sort of decompression chamber?

Legs: We supported your idiotic decision to play tennis as if you had the skills of Sharapova yesterday, but we’re not going one step more than three miles today. If the Brain gets on it’s power trip, prepare for collapse. You’re not 25 years old anymore.

Brain: Keep going! What? No, no, I’m pretty sure we’re still 25 years old! Ignore the legs, those whiners have been giving us shit for years.

Heart: Sure, now you regret those French fries. Also, stop with the Elton John already.  Play something by Public Enemy or Jay-Z….. much better. Okay, let’s do this.

So, me and my body parts are going to finish this run, have a sensible dinner and bask in the afterglow of a weekend of happiness and a horrible but necessary workout.

Onward.

Lavaman 101

Some background information on Lavaman….  

Support is key when you’re facing a challenge like this one. So, upon hearing the news that I signed up for this race, my Dad offered the ever-encouraging words, “You’re nuts.”

He might be right.

The Lavaman is an Olympic-sized triathlon. It consists of a one-mile swim, a 25-mile bike ride and a 6.2-mile run. In that order. Each leg of this race is hard in a different way. The swim is in the ocean where we contend with waves, rip tides and reef sharks. The bike route is so notoriously windy that every year some poor cyclist is nearly blasted into the Pacific. And then there’s the run through lava fields which, logically so, makes it feel approximately twenty degrees hotter than the surface of the sun.

After perusing the Lavaman website I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. There were pictures at the finish line of all these extremely fit, athletic types with big muscles, lean torsos and huge smiles.

These are not my people.

My people run 5ks for the free beer at the end of it. My people consider boogie boarding a good workout. My people ride beach cruisers to the pub where they order buffalo wings. Needless to say, we’re a happy bunch.

Somehow, I have to bridge this gap between the athletes and the fun bunch.

I consulted my athletic friend Christy, an accomplished runner and triathlete who wins races instead of just finishing them without going into cardiac arrest (my humble goal). She strongly suggested we bike 50 miles one weekend and possibly do a half marathon.

One of the main reasons I chose to do a triathlon is because swimming in the open ocean and biking in high winds sounds MORE FUN than running 13.5 miles in a row.

So, no. I’m not doing that.

Even though it’s good advice. I’ve ignored good advice before and lived to tell about it. The message was clear, however. We need to train hard for long periods of time.

I’m working up to it slowly  - running 3.2 miles three times a week right now, plus a bike or a swim where I can fit it in. This is a smart strategy at my age where snapping an Achilles or dislocating a shoulder is not wholly out of the question. At this rate, come March of next year, I should be able to survive the plane ride to Hawaii.

So, unlike many a training blog that catalogues physical triumphs and strange new diet regimens adopted by triathlete zombies trying to become superhuman for a day, I’m taking a different route.

I’m the new breed of athlete in training. The quasi-dedicated, retardedly optimistic, wine-loving, slow-training, life-enjoying one. You know me. You ARE me.

I’m counting on my will to survive. That should at least get me to the run. Then, I’m betting on my Finnish pride coupled with a deep desire for a cold beer to get me to the finish line.

At least that’s the theory.

The Stuff of Life

Shoes in the middle of the hallway. Purse on the floor. Stacks of papers on the kitchen table. Empty coffee cups on the counter. The Stuff of Life.

Some people I know are in the good (some might call it anal) habit of putting all their stuff away the minute they get home. I am not one of those people. I’m more of a, “I’ll get to it in a minute, I need a glass of wine first,” kind of person.

Of course, when you live alone, your stuff becomes invisible to you. As long as I can find my bra in the morning and clear a spot on the coffee table for my wine glass, I’m happy. Stuff? What stuff? I can see the TV fine from here! Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a slob. You won’t find rotting food in between the couch cushions or grime in my bathroom but let’s just say I don’t lose sleep over a sinkful of dirty dishes.

Eventually, I get around to cleaning up my stuff and putting it where it belongs. Four days is usually the time limit on “Stuff Pile-up.”

But to other people, specifically my significant other, my beloved stuff just looks like little piles of shit all over the house. It can be maddening. But upon closer inspection, he is just like me; his stuff is invisible to him too. The truth is we’re both guilty and most times we can rise above the stuff (read: mess) and love our moments we have together. This I consider healthy.

I have a deeply held belief that a super clean house is a sign of an insane mind. Perhaps a non-violent psychopathic preoccupation. Some brand of crazy that results in gleaming countertops and tables perpetually polished with Pledge. I can’t relax in a room like that. I need a little clutter. A little mess. A little wax on a table from candles burned the night before is a sign of a good conversation. Empty wine glasses on the deck usually mean good music was played and no one wanted to go to bed.

Messiness and stuff is a sign that a house has life in it. A sign that it’s loved and enjoyed. A sign that there are bigger things to worry about than crushed goldfish crackers on the kitchen floor.

The best things in life aren’t perfect, but rather, a big jumble of beautiful messiness. Rumpled sheets, cookie crumbs, beer rings, remnants of cheese on cutting boards, lip gloss on wine glasses, flip flops tossed on the deck, stubble on a smiling face, and sand in the tub after a day at the beach. All of this messiness is the happy detritus of a life well lived and deeply enjoyed.

There will always be dirty dishes and clothes to be folded and a place and time for making things neat. But sometimes, the messiness of life, and letting things be, turn out to be the neatest.

Now, if I could only convince my significant other that all my stuff lying around is the clearest evidence that I’m happy and secure and in love with him and our lives. I suspect chances will improve when I go clean the cat box.

School shouldn't be confused with parenting. And vice versa.

This week is “Screen Free Week” for my little family. Charlotte, our resident first-grader, came home and announced, with a surprisingly amount of glee, that Ms. Ladd (her teacher) instituted a ban on all TV watching. Additionally, we could not play on our iPhones, iPads or computers unless it was work-related. At the end of the week, Charlotte gets a certificate. That explains the glee.

What the fuck.

Sure, on the surface this sounds like a good idea. We don’t need TV! We can play games, talk, read! Not surprisingly, most parents are happy to follow this Draconian order because they feel it’s the kick in the pants they need to get their kid weaned off the truly mind-melting shows on Disney Channel and Nickelodeon.  Which speaks to a larger truth: These parents already feel guilty.

The school uses that emotional truth as a tactic to get families to comply. They dangle a worthless certificate in front of the first-graders and they dangle shame in the faces of the adults. Smart. You don’t expect psychological warfare from a first grade teacher.

Charlotte also brought home a ‘helpful’ page full of stats meant to be informational:

‘Time children spend watching commercials per year: 256 hrs”

“Time children spend having meaningful conversation with their parent per year: 38 minutes.”

Oh, please. 38 minutes might be accurate because kids don’t like meaningful conversations. They want to talk about boogers and candy and farting in the tub. It’s really not that fascinating.

But the real issue here is that the school is trying to “parent” our kids. During school, they can put my kid through calisthenics, math quizzes and ban all TV forever in the class room if they want. But the minute my kid leaves that schoolyard, they are not allowed to tell me what to do and how to spend time with my kid. It’s one step too far.

You don’t see me barging in to classrooms telling the teacher how to properly teach kids multiplication. That’s because she’s better at it than I am. And parents deserve the same respect.

At the very least “Screen Free Week” is intrusive and bossy. But at it’s most offensive, it’s insulting to parents because it assumes that the parent already allows way too much TV.

The truth is, it’s 2012. Technology is an integral part of our lives. We cannot fool ourselves into believing it’s 1955 again.  And who would want to?? Not all TV is bad. TV can be educational, informative, opinion-changing and truly moving. We have learned a lot from the shows we watch. Especially when we’re not tuned to Disney or Nickelodeon.

Cutting back on TV and finding other ways to spend time with your kids is a good idea. But let parents get there on their own. The point can be made with a more moderate request, for instance, to ask families to try one “Screen Free Night” every week.

But then again, I still say it’s an infringement on my civil rights. I went through elementary, high school and college. I’ve earned my god-given right to watch “Chopped” any time I fucking want to. And I can be a good parent at the same time.

Once parents get over their guilt, they’ll feel the same way.

Now, where’s the remote?

P.S. The fact that this ban happened during the NBA playoffs has in no way added to the vitriol of this post. But Ms. Ladd can suck it.

Life as I know it.

A lot has changed since last year. In April 30th of 2011, I was sitting at a pool in Maui crying into my pina colada over a British coward. Since then, I've met the true man of my dreams, my hero, best friend, partner and soulmate. He comes complete with a six-year-old precocious, smart, loving daughter. And me? Well, I've finally begun to understand the meaning and power of love, trust and compromise.

Here I will celebrate, cope, muse, rant and write out the contents of my head. Which will include topics including but not limited to: road rage, making the perfect seafood risotto, buying plastic beach toys, wanderlust, the incredible healing powers of a glass of Chardonnay, exes, the need for quiet time, the fear (and then blessings) of change, the unfairness of adult acne, the important of thread count and midnight dance parties to the best vinyl money can buy I. So.... all the fun stuff.

Thanks for stopping by.