December 23-30, 2011: Happy New Year!

I can’t say that 2011 treated me particularly well, so what better way to flip it the bird than with a New Year’s Eve bash?

The party was actually Cassie’s idea. She conjured it a couple months ago with these words: “It will give us motivation to clean the house.”

Her logic escaped me. Consider:

1) Won’t the house be even more trashed after the party?

2) Won’t everyone be too loaded to differentiate between a dirty and clean house?

3) Our friends already know we’re slobs. Who are we fooling with this before-bash cleaning?

Of course, after nearly 20 years of marriage, you learn not to ask questions. Cassie’s idea seemed good—the party, not the cleaning—so I simply nodded my head in agreement.

December 23-27, 2011

Now it’s late December. New Year’s Eve is fast approaching, but we still have miles to travel before we get there.

Figuratively, I’m referring to the hustle and bustle of the holidays; literally, it’s the 736-mile drive to and from Cassie’s hometown of Cleveland. I’ve had a Cleveland Christmas each year of my married life, and the pattern has remained remarkably unchanged: We’re fed unfathomably large amounts of food at every turn, though never anything resembling a green vegetable. On Christmas Eve, we gather in Cassie’s parents’ living room to open presents.

Cassie’s dad has gotten himself into something of a pickle with the present-opening part. One year he bought Cassie’s mom expensive jewelry, another year he gave her a trip to a destination of her choice, and so on. Last year, however, he pulled out all the stops. We whisked Cassie’s mom off to Aunt Joyce’s under some bogus pretense, and when she returned, a Toyota Camry with a giant red bow on top was waiting for her in the garage.

So how can he possibly top the car-in-the-garage bit? He can’t. And wisely, he doesn’t even try. He takes a different route in 2011, spreading the holiday cheer around in equal measure by giving everyone an iPad (everyone being the Family Wagner, Cassie’s sister, her brother and her mom). This is Cassie’s mom’s introduction to the computer age, and she approaches it with a combination of fear and fascination. The rest of us jump right in. As I look around the living room at the whirl of iPad activity, a Christmas poem pops into my head:

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Everyone got an iPad, including my spouse.

These iPads are spread by the chimney with care.

It’s as if St. Steve Jobs is standing right there.

Tuesday, December 27

We’re back from Cleveland, but we still have miles to travel. A messy house awaits us. The dining room table alone—Will Wagner HQ for the past few months—resembles Oscar Madison’s office. The house, however, is the least of our worries. Everyone in Cleveland was sick, and now Cassie and I are sick, too. How very fitting in what has become the Year of the Malady. (The good news is, my groin is holding up remarkably well, though my calf remains touch and go.)

There will be no cleaning this evening. Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, Cassie and I retire to bed.

Wednesday, December 28

I backburner the idea of cleaning today. Believe it or not, there’s more to my life than iPads and New Year’s Eve bashes—I actually have work to do. I soldier through editing a 3,600-word treatise on the Bomb (nothing like some light holiday fare to lift your spirits) before retreating to my bed to rest.

Cleaning just isn’t going to happen tonight either. I’m supposed to meet up with my Party Line friends, and there’s no way to gracefully bow out. (The Party Line, you might remember, is an email group composed of my cynical and perverse sportswriting cronies.) Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, I set out for the Edison Park Inn. These stooges are always good for some laughs, and for a few hours, I forget that I’m not well.

Thursday, December 29

I edit and rest, clean and rest, edit and rest, and then clean and rest. In between, an image of Cassie’s mom unexpectedly appears on our iPad. “What just happened?” she asks. “Did I just call you? Why did I call you?” Oh well. She’ll get the hang of the computer age soon enough.

My beloved basement bar.

Evening arrives, and it’s time for the most blessed of quests: I go to Binny’s Beverage Depot to stock up for our New Year’s Eve party. Pushing a cart up and down the aisles, I stop to admire the exotic bottles of liquor that are locked behind glass cases. I imagine choirs of angels singing as these bottles are cracked open.

Once home, I carefully place my provisions behind my basement bar. The bar is finally repaired following the flood that wiped it out over the summer—in fact, it has come back bigger and better than ever. I can’t wait to give it a test spin.

Friday, December 30

More editing, more cleaning. In between, Cole and I go over to my friend Bennett’s to pick up his foosball table. This turns out to be less of a fiasco than usual. Several years ago, for example, Bennett and I tried to move a 55-inch TV into his house; amid the grunting and the wobbling, we wedged it in the doorway and broke the screen.

At any rate, New Year’s Eve is almost upon us. We’re just about ready to launch 2011 into history with a big FU before chasing the glory that is sure to be 2012.

December 10-18, 2011: Happy Holidays!

Normally I’m too wrapped up in my daily life to do anything more than go through the motions during the holidays. And while some might claim I’m doing the same thing this year—especially Cassie, who, as usual, has handled most of the preparations—that’s really not the case. I’m all about the holidays in 2011. There’s nothing like a little adversity to help one strip away the bullshit and see everything for what it is.

I’m thankful for much this year—and in true holiday spirit, sentimentally so—including:

Christmas Music

Most years I cringe when Cassie breaks out her wholly uncool Christmas playlist, but not in 2011. In fact, I add to it. The emotions of the season overcome me, and I download some music by Canadian singer/songwriter Justin Hines, including “Say What You Will,” whose opening verse goes like this:

If I were to die today

My life would be more than okay

For the time I’ve spent you

Is like a dream come true

Nauseatingly schmaltzy? You bet…until you learn Hines’ backstory. His body bent up and broken by a genetic joint condition called Larsen’s syndrome, Hines has spent his life confined to a wheelchair. But he never let his disability destroy his spirit. He just kept moving forward—propelled, in part, by his passion for music—and in 2009, “Say What You Will” went to No. 1 in Canada and South Africa. In this context, not even the Grinch could hate Hines' music.

Friday, December 16, 2011

The Men and Women Serving Our Country

It might seem like a cliché, but let’s raise a glass to the troops. Lord knows, they deserve it. While the rest of us are at home debating whether we should max out our credit cards on Xboxes or PlayStation 3s, many of them are just trying to get by in some off-the-map hellhole.

I have a friend—we’ll call him the Colonel—who spent most of 2011 stationed in Iraq. When he was home on leave for a couple weeks over the summer, we met up for a beer. The Colonel didn’t look so good, and who could blame him? He told me about rockets flying into his camp and desert heat so intense that he could literally feel his eyeballs burning whenever he stepped outside. With the thought of having to return to Iraq bouncing around inside his head, the Colonel didn’t smile much that night.

Now, though, he’s home permanently, and when we meet up for a beer on this December evening, the Colonel is all smiles. Why wouldn’t he be? He made it back in one piece. As he and his wife are getting ready to leave at the end of the night, I give him a hug. I’m just so proud of the guy. And I’m grateful for the holiday reminder that there’s more to the word “sacrifice” than canceling HBO because you were recently been laid off from your job.

Saturday, December 17, 2011:

The Youth of America

These are troubled times, and a lot of people fear for the future of our country. Me? I’m not worried. I look around at Cole, Liv and their friends, and I see a nation that will be in capable hands. The fact is, these kids are much brighter and more accomplished than we ever were at their ages.

Take one of Cole’s classmates from grade school. We’ll call her Jane. During a local 5K race about five years ago, when Jane was all of nine, her dad tried his best to keep pace with her. Eventually, she moved so far ahead of him that he could no longer see her, and he wound up neck and neck with me. Suffice it to say, Jane crushed us by about five minutes. As her dad and I neared the finish line—sweating and panting and battling every step of the way—she was waiting there looking fresh as a daisy, like she had done nothing more strenuous that morning than brush her teeth. I vowed I’d outrun Jane the next year, but it didn’t happen. After that, I quit entering the race.

On this December evening, Jane is over at our house watching Will Ferrell movies with Cole and a bunch of his other friends. I remember Jane’s dad telling me that she had been taking guitar lessons, so when he picks her up at the end of the night, I offer to let her take my sacred Gibson SG for a test spin. I figure I’ll give her a few pointers once she’s done trying to play it.

 “It can be a tough guitar to play,” I tell her dad as we look on. “Pretty rugged.”

Moments after those words come out of my mouth, Jane whales out Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” My SG rings as it has never rung—perhaps I should be asking her for the pointers.

I clear my throat and say as nonchalantly as possible, “That was…um…good.”

Yep, don’t count out America just yet. We still have plenty of fight left in us.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

And the Fam, of Course

Fluffy overseeing Christmas/Chanukah.

There’s nothing traditional about the Wagner Christmas. First, it doesn’t take place on Christmas. (Since we spend Christmas proper with Cassie’s family, we always carve out a day at our house beforehand with my parents and my sister.) Second, it’s not really even a celebration of Christmas. (My mom is Jewish, but Christmas was the holiday we marked growing up. Lately, however, she’s become wistful about her Jewish roots.) Our annual get-together is a Christmas/Chanukah hodgepodge—a lighted tree here, a lighted menorah there. (Strange, yes, but it works for us.)

We open presents. (Not as many this year due to economic circumstances, but the kids don’t seem to mind.) I complement the gift opening by playing “Greensleeves” on my acoustic guitar. (Everyone tries hard to ignore it.) We recite Jewish prayers before eating a feast. (My mom becomes wistful.) We all cram onto a couch in the basement and watch Love Actually. (It’s a touching movie about the many manifestations of love.)

By the end of Christmas/Chanukah 2011, I feel pretty damn lucky. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it’s a wonderful life—sometimes it kind of sucks—but it’s a life nonetheless. I’m still here, and where there’s life, there’s hope.

December 5-December 9, 2011: More of the Same

Monday December 5, 2011

When I started this blog, I was fully aware that I’d have to be sincere and candid for it to ring true. How was I to know, however, that my subject matter would get so weird? If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this outcome, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.

So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because the window behind me is cracked open. And exactly why is the window cracked open? To accommodate the social needs of a feral cat named Snowball.

Snowball chilling on the windowsill.

See, our cat issues go way beyond the inside of our house. As Fluffy admires himself while luxuriating on a feather blanket, and the rest of our cats do what they must to stay in his good graces, a parallel feline universe is flickering outside. At some point after I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Snowball (named such because she’s a white ball of fur) started hanging out on the windowsill outside the dining room. She drops by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.

But it doesn’t end there. God no. When I walk to the other side of the house and gaze out at the patio through a set of sliding doors in the breezeway, sometimes l see a strikingly regal cat (Magnificent Cat), a rough-and-tumble gray cat (Grey) or a tiny black cat (Blackie). They drop by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.

Back at the dining room table, I’m getting colder by the minute. Cracking the window open wasn’t a big deal in September, but now that winter is upon us, it’s a frosty proposition. What better way to warm up than to go for a lunchtime run around the perimeter of the golf course? I haven’t jogged since I tore up my groin playing racquetball a few weeks ago with my friend Bennett, but the injury seems to have healed. I’m ready to let loose.

As I gallop down some side streets along the golf course and turn onto a busy stretch of road, my groin feels great. In fact, I don’t give it a second thought—especially after I feel a painful pull in my right calf that causes me to pull up lame. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter to myself. “Yet another injury.” Unshowered and unshaven, clad in a particularly tattered set of sweats and cursing under my breath, I hobble onward with all the dignity of a homeless person. I figure it’s only a matter of time before a squad car pulls up and takes me away, but I make it back to my blustery dining room table without incident.

“This is starting to get ridiculous,” I say to Cassie of my mounting injuries.

She rolls her eyes and says, “What do you expect? You’re 50.”

“Forty-seven,” I remind her.

“Same thing,” she says.

Either way, I’m not ready to concede anything to aging. I attribute the sudden and systematic breakdown of my body to a run of bad luck that started when I was laid off from Crushed Soul. It’ll pass—and I’ll be able work out as vigorously as ever.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Why wait for this storm cloud to pass? I decide to take the initiative and push the damn thing out of the way.

My lower body might be shot, but I’m good to go from the waist up, so I head to the Y to lift weights. Included in my regimen is an endorphin-releasing bench-press exercise I’ve performed for over a decade without as much as a twinge: two sets of 10 reps at 225 pounds, one set of five to seven reps at 275 pounds, one set of three to four reps at 295 pounds and one set of two to three reps at 315 pounds. As I pump through my first set at 225 pounds, I’m feeling fit and virile, until there’s a pull in my right triceps that’s identical to what I experienced in my right calf a couple days earlier.

Now my upper body is shot, too. Fifty, I hear Cassie say in my head as I go home in defeat yet again.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Whenever Cassie reads these entries, she reminds me that this is supposed to be a career-oriented blog—hence, the title—and that it might be nice if I wrote about my work situation every once in a while. Problem is, blogging about job stuff can become tiresome, especially after three-plus months. If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this dilemma, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.

Suffice it to say, I’m in career purgatory right now—I’m neither unemployed nor employed. I’m just trying to stay afloat doing freelance projects until (1) a suitable full-time job materializes or (2) I grow my freelance business to the point where that is my full-time job. Fortunately, I have some promising irons in the fire, though I don’t want to get into specifics for fear of jinxing them. (Being sincere and candid can only go so far.)

Friday, December 9, 2011

So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because I have the window cracked open for Snowball, who has stopped by for some conversation and perhaps just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast. For the sake of art, or whatever this is, I’ve written another brutally honest (and mostly embarrassing) blog entry—especially where Snowball, Magnificent Cat and the rest of the feral gang are concerned. I just hope our neighbors don’t read this one.

November 27-December 3: The Twilight Phenomenon

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Cassie and I have left Captiva Island for the cold and gloom of Chicago, and there’s only one thing to do to lift our spirits: see the new Twilight movie, Breaking Dawn, Part I. For those who aren’t in the know, the Twilight movies are based on four bestselling books by Stephenie Meyer that focus on the goings-on of vampires, werwolves and the like in remote Forks, Wash. At the center of this saga is the forbidden romance between Edward (the vampire with a non-beating heart of gold) and Bella (the awkward human teenager who doesn’t feel as if she fits in among her own species).

The cardboard cutouts of Edward
in Cassie's basement office.

Twilight’s target audience is adolescent girls, but it turns out that a surprisingly large number of middle-aged women have also jumped on the vampire train, including my wife. She’s read all four books multiple times and has seen the movies more times than anyone cant count. Her basement office is decorated with all manner of Twilight memorabilia, highlighted by two life-sized cardboard cutouts of Edward. Like so many other teenyboppers and whacked-out moms around the world, Cassie has a massive crush on Edward. Sometimes I’m asked if it bugs me that my wife is in love with a vampire. No, I say. I’m delighted.

Why wouldn’t I be? In July 2008, Cassie’s little brother was killed in a motorcycle accident. Cassie spent the ensuing months in a fog. In fact, she became a little like a vampire herself: not dead, but not really alive either. Merely going through the day-to-day motions, she was a shadow of herself. In May 2009, Cassie and her mom took a trip to Paris for Mother’s Day. They had a blast—who wouldn’t have a blast in Gay Paree?—but Cassie still had that faraway countenance when she came home.

Enter Edward and company. One night while Cassie and her mom were in Paris, Liv wanted to watch a movie I had never heard of, something called Twilight. Though I fully expected this Twilight flick to suck, I agreed—anything to entertain the kiddies. To my surprise, I was engaged all the way through, so much so that when Cassie returned Stateside, I suggested we watch it.

The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. As the movie played on, it was as if I could see the color returning to Cassie’s face. The next day, she began reading the first book in the Twilight series, and within a week, she had finished all four installments. In between her reading, she watched the movie several more times and purchased the soundtrack, which she listened to incessantly.

Crazy? Of course—Cassie herself laughingly admits as much. The point, however, is this: I was just glad to see something—anything—capture her imagination. Ironically, it was a tale of the undead that provided a spark and helped to bring my wife back to the land of the living. Yes, Cassie was still grieving the loss of her brother, but before long, she was her old self again: feisty, energetic and ready to plow through life’s obstacles without thinking too much about them.

So when we return from Captiva and Cassie wants to cap off the vacation by screening Breaking Dawn, I happily oblige. I, too, like this Edward character. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a savior. (Incidentally, this is the second time Cassie has seen Breaking Dawn. Before we left for Captiva, she, some other whacked-out moms and Liv went to a 10-hour Twilight marathon that culminated with the premiere of Breaking Dawn at midnight.)

Monday, November 28-Saturday, December 3

Our vacation quickly recedes into history. For one, the weather in Chicago is a far cry from those bright and sunny days on Captiva Island. I return to my routine of resurrecting my career, and Cassie works away amid the Twilight knickknacks in her basement office.

Come Saturday, we’re in need of some quality relaxation time together. What do we do? You guessed it: We go see Breaking Dawn again.