Got a package in the mail, this morning, from my ex-wife and my son. Souvenirs from their trip to China, for the Olympics. In the box was a pair of lacquered chopsticks, painted with delicate red and gold dragons and sheathed in a blue silk pouch; a very creepy stuffed critter, which I’m assuming was the mascot of the games, but which I’m equally sure speaks in one of those annoying, high-pitched, too-fast-to-understand voices that kids find endearing, but which give me nightmares; and finally a gorgeous red and black box, with knotted stays, inside of which is a black pen decorated with red Haiku symbols.

To say I was surprised is an understatement. I haven’t heard word one from my son since the 30-second conversation I had with him the day he got back. That was over a month ago. The same weekend that I moved here. Receiving and opening this package made me happy and sad at the same time. I fired off a thank you e-mail, but I don’t expect to get a response. There have been no responses to the three or four other e-mails I’ve sent. I wonder if the boy knows how much I miss him? Probably not. He’s a teenager. And all that that implies…

Had a very frustrating chat with Donny, last night. The vortex was in full amplification mode all day long. Missed calls, dropped calls and, finally, when the phone went dead, a very weak signal for the internet. Made it very difficult to have a decent conversation. Okay, maybe “decent” isn’t the right word. There’s rarely anything decent about our conversations, especially when they’re interrupted several times in one sitting by loss of signal. It’s kind of funny. You’d think that, knowing we could lose the signal at any moment, we’d focus on important issues and make the best of our chat time. Here’s just an example of how we did use that time…

me: mmmm... someone's cooking bologna.

Donny: Um. . . is that a euphemism?

me: it could be... for sure, but in this particular instance, I was being literal.

Donny: But srsly… Someone is COOKING bologna?

me: uh huh

Donny: That you even know that smell is… well, never mind.

me: wanna know something?

Donny: Hmm?

me: I fucking LOVE cooked bologna.

Donny: I'll pretend I didn't read that.

me: No, seriously! I can't stand it raw, but cooked... mmmmmmmmmmmm

Donny: GROSS.

me: Cooked bologna sandwiches are the BOMB, baby.

Donny: When I was younger, I remember spending the night at grandma and grandpa's house, and eating bologna sandwiches on white bread.

me: slathered with mayo!

Donny: That is how I discovered my dislike of both white bread and bologna.

me: Well, cooked is better.

Donny: Never had it.

me: I think it NEEDS to be cooked

Donny: It's sort of like hot dogs, I guess… They are NASTY. But if they are blackened, my mom and I can eat them.

me: Hot dogs ARE nasty.

Donny: Bologna is just a hot dog, rolled flat. heh.

me: They're made of pig testicles and chicken beaks.

Donny: So is bologna.

me: NO! bologna is tongue… or something. Kidney, pancreas… it's all one thing. Not a bucket load of stuff that nobody will eat.

Donny: Hang on, I'm looking.

me: of course you are... wiki wiki wiki much?

Donny: HA!!!! HAAA!

Bologna sausage is generally made from low quality scraps of meat cuts. Such may be the origin of the slang word baloney, meaning "nonsense". However, US Government regulations define what meats and byproducts can be legally included in bologna. No more than 3.5% non-meat binders and extenders (such as nonfat dry milk, cereal, or dried whole milk) or 2% isolated soy protein may be used, and they must be listed in the ingredients statement on the product label by their common names.[1]

me: leeeeeerrrrrrrrrrddd...

Donny: So there. Bleh.

me: okay, fine… whatever… cooking is still better.

Donny: Heh. Same as hot dogs… But my god, whenever I see kids gnawing on raw hot dogs, I want to gag.

me: you're a weenie.

Donny: Eat me

me: can I gag on you first?

Donny: Hmm… Yes. Yes, you can.

And so on and so forth… Oh, we talked about other things, too. Sunsets. Dirty pictures. New A/C compressors for Brutus. Dealing with people in the “land of manana.” Service reps with names from Fleetwood Mac songs. You know, important stuff. Gods, I miss that boy, too. It occurs to me that, if I had my son and my man here with me, right now, things would be pretty close to perfect. Not entirely perfect, but pretty close. There are other people and factors I’d like to work in, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?

I really do love it here, but the struggle is taking its toll. Being so far away from loved ones, doesn’t help. Having someone to talk to in person, to touch, to hold, to laugh with, would make everything that much better. Sharing the little frustrations and accomplishments of the day to day trudge, in person, would make life here glow with the kind of warm perfection that, these days, only the fleeting moments of absolutely magnificent sunset evenings, can match.

Just 25 more days. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…




What Donny’s getting for his birfday…