Fight For Your Right

I always knock before I walk into my sixteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom. Gender issues aside, I remember how my parents never allowed that courtesy, because, it was their roof and their rules, damn it. So, I got what I deserved when I entered a few days ago.

My sixteen-year-old daughter and I share a love of music, different types mind you, so we’re both usually wearing ear buds while singing or dancing to our favorite songs. Like her, I will play tunes on my computer, my iPod, or in the car and lose myself in the lyrics or guitar riffs. When the music is from my time as a teenager, memories will flood and I’ll become familiar with that time in my life I first heard the song or what was going on around me.

The door knob to my daughter’s room is always ice cold. I’m usually carrying towels or trash or cups so I dread the touch of the knob. When I see the door isn’t closed all the way I breathe easier. After I knocked twice, it occurred to me she had to be asleep or listening to her iPod. I ignored this realization and acted like a lame parent. I bumped open the door with a butt cheek and there she was, dancing and singing and enjoying whatever her ear buds were offering. Her look of surprise and disdain transported me.

Rainy days as a kid meant I had to stay inside. Sometimes friends came over, but since my house was almost a mile away from most of my pals, it meant I would be alone in my room. I don’t recall the edict, but I wasn’t allowed to lock my door. I don’t know if my parents thought I was taking the movie Scarface too seriously and running a cocaine ring out of my place or if they were jealous of my record and cassette collection but that was their mandate. When I was channeling my inner Diamond David Lee Roth or perfecting my air Jimmy Page, I’d go into my closet. Go ahead, make your jokes. Done?

The closet was tiny. My three daughters’ closets are of similar size to the one I performed in, so they don’t hang out in them. They just shove their junk in and go lock their velvet-roped bedroom doors. But my closet had to be a dancefloor, rock and roll stage, and an awards podium. My lame parents caught me, deep in fantasy, wonder and The Beastie Boys Licensed To Ill. My glares were dagger-filled.

I wanted to hug my daughter and tell her I was sorry. I knew how embarrassed and angry she felt to have me interrupt her Taylor Swift dance party. I cared about her stabby glower. It made me think long and hard about the kind of parent I really am versus the one I seem to not be. I’m lame and I need to yell over the knock. The immediate future of my oldest daughter’s life will be amazing for her imagination. Every teenager deserves their bedroom inner sanctum of fantasy, wonder and make-believe superstardom.

****blogger’s note****

This is a personal post designed for Write On Edge’s RememebeRED memoir:  

After I finished laughing, I started thinking. So often in our lives, defining moments occur when our past and our present or our future clash. For this week’s RemembeRED prompt, write a memoir post describing such a time and the results.

While writing, remember to bring us into the moment and let us experience it with you.

I’m going to be generous and give you 521 words.

Today’s song is what was playing in my bedroom, a lot, at age sixteen. My mom never took away my best prono mag but From’s The Beastie Boys’s 1986 debut album Licensed to Ill, here’s (You’ve Got To) Fight For Right (To Party)

Animal

The mommy’s crying in the corner of the couch next to her computer. I guess what her and the daddy were talking about is true. You’re not coming back.

It’s warm inside this box. I’m glad they haven’t taken me downstairs in the cold, damp basement. It was neat of you to try to pull me out and play with me the other night. I heard your cries and I wanted to snuggle.

I liked your warmth. It was cold on the floor until you came to sit on me. Sharing your snacks and picking on your little sister were a blast. There’s still some frayed pieces of fur that I haven’t lost. They remind me of the time you thought I was your ball or your food or the daddy’s sock. That was funny when you took it from him and came to hide it inside of me. He was so mad.

The other kitten, your little sister, doesn’t pay much attention to me. Maybe I can scoot myself up high in this box and get the mommy or the daddy to show me off to her.

So long, my friend. I’m miss your black fur and prickly teeth. You were sweet and fun.

RIP Jerri the kitten, March 2011 to January 23, 2012

Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?

The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”

This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.

Today’s song is kind of weird and I doubt even my own family members will understand the choice. I wanted to go with something that coincided with Jerri the kitten’s short life. Neon Trees’ Animal was one of the biggest pop songs of 2011. It played a couple of times she was in the car going to the vet to be looked over. For me, it’s how I’ll remember her.

House of Cards

I brought my passion to work this morning. I like my job, at times, I’m quite fond of it; but I’m in lust over the stack of notebooks in the corner of my cubicle. My girlfriend, this novel I’ve written, is distracting me.

My wife approves of my mistress. In fact, she’s been pushing me to be more involved with her. I first crossed a line, or I should say a “t”, 11 months ago, today. In early December, we celebrated our star crossed relationship when I wrote her climax.

On breaks, when ideas strike, and maybe even trips to the bathroom, the novel and I will dalliance. She isn’t the first other woman of words with whom I’ve slept.

Fifteen years ago, I wrote a story with a similar theme – a man finds out he’s not who he thought he was – but I couldn’t consumate the relationship. In fact, in December 1996, after months of writing, I wrote a sentence that now drives me.

“By the end of 1997 you will finish your book and be a writer.”

The reasons why are moot. By the spring of the following year, I broke my resolution. There was an argument. There was a garbage can. There was a break up. The novel was history.

That episode is influencing my current state. It’s the engine that’s revving me to finish this book. What’s also happening now, is maturity, undeniable support from my wife, and, well, excuse my bravado, this novel is pretty damn good.

There are times when I want to quit. The process of fine tuning something so personal is how insanity should be defined. I’ve had to be talked off the ledge of deletion more than once. There are times when I wonder why I’m even doing this.

I thought about the broken promise to myself from 15 years earlier, yesterday, as I sat in a hospital awaiting word on a relative’s health condition. When good news arrived, I relaxed a bit and thought about what was important in achieving my goal.

I’m staring at these notebooks as if they were a house of cards. I hope I don’t pick the wrong one.

I’m lucky to have a wife that lets me have a girlfriend. These crazy robots aren’t going to publish themselves.

****blogger’s note***

This is my personal response to Write On Edge’s:  RemembeRED – Unfulfilled

 

In the morning, the bubbling glasses of champagne were flat and warm, scattered around without exuberant laughter and anticipation of the New Year filling the room with hope.

Welcoming in the new year brings resolutions and goals to the forefront of people’s minds; resolutions are written in secret or shouted from rooftops or proclaimed pointless.

Whether or not you’re clutching a scribbled copy of something you wrote at 11:55 p.m. on December 31st, it seems likely that, at some point, you set a goal for yourself that wasn’t realized in exactly the way you expected.

This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted”.

The word limit is 400 words.

 Today’s song is from the great Radiohead. It’s about an affair. It doesn’t end well. Hope mine has a better fate. Here’s House of Cards.

Mission Ridiculous

Our mission was dangerous but we chose to accept it. We huddled in the bathroom and made the plan. A 12 year old girl who wouldn’t stop grinning, a 4 year old girl who wouldn’t stop asking questions, a 5 year old girl who thought she was in charge and a 38 year old man who couldn’t stop shaking. We were the motliest of crews trying to do something special. Each person had lines to say, positions to maintain, and ways to get the reaction from our target.

 

“Are we good with everything, I asked?”

 

The 12 year old. codename Tay, shook her head and looked at her co-conspirators with confidence. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I knew the reaction to our plot, but I wanted everything to be precise.

 

We walked out of the echo chamber that the girls called a potty. I was sure our intended heard every word. The 5 year old, code name Bug, turned to all of us.

 

“Ok, just do what you’re supposed to do, say what you’re supposed to say and don’t mess up, ok?”

 

Three sets of eyes rolled and we made funny faces at Bug, who thought she was boss. The girls had the prop in their little hands. A small box containing our future. The 4 year old, code name Goose came forth to hold the little dynamite.

 

“I can hold it. I’m the littlest, so I can give it to her.”

 

Her logic was spot on. Her manner was refined. We agreed.

 

Our strides from the back of the house to the kitchen were sure and impressive. I was the only one showing nervousness. This is why I entrusted so much in this terrific team of experts.

 

Our task stood beautiful, blonde, sunny, and glowing next to the refridgerator. We were convinced she knew nothing. Then I remembered Bug had blurted the part about the what was in the box. I forgot to install a safe word to call off our offensive. There was no way to stop what was about to happen. Tay started, she did well. Then Bug went into attack mode. Something happened. She blew her lines. Bug was falling apart. Goose stepped up and saved us all.

 

“Will you marry us?”

 

Oh no. I saw the look of terror on Bug’s panicked face.

 

“No Goose! It’s will you marry my daddy!”

 

I looked at Tay. We thought we were sunk. I panned the room for an exit but I was in the middle of my team. I stared at that sunny, warm, bright face. She was smiling. I knew I had one shot at saving us. I dropped to one knee, took the small box, removed the ring, and said the words.

 

“Will you make me the happiest man in the world with the greatest family? Will you marry me?”

 

The target, codename Bobina, began to cry. The tears were joyful. She leaned over and kissed me.

 

“oooo, they’re kissing!”

 

Bug and Goose declared the obvious. Then together, Bobina and I hugged the girls.

 

The mission was complete. I began to breathe. It was the first time I exhaled after proposing to my wife.

 

*blogger’s note* – This is my answer to The Red Dress Club’s writing RemembeRED challenge:

It’s a fill-in-the-blank-for-your-own-prompt Prompt:  

The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.

 

This is the true ridiculously satisfying story of how I proposed to Bobina.

 

Today’s song…is a hold over from Father’s Day. My dad introduced me to the great Johnny Rivers when I was very young. Secret Agent Man was a 45 of mine that I played on a recorder in my room. Here’s Johhny Rivers surf guitar shredding Secret Agent Man..