Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 262

An untimely poop and a blocked toilet lead to magic.

I grew up next door to my grandparents. They owned a small house at the top of a hill on a sprawling piece of farm and forest.

My childhood home was at the bottom on the hill.

As a boy, I saw the two properties as one. One enormous adventure-land to explore.  

On Saturday, we attended our annual family picnic at the former home of my grandparents. My great uncle - the last resident of my grandparent's home - passed away earlier this year, so it's likely that the house and the land will eventually be sold, bringing an end to the seven generations of family members who have lived on that property.

It's sad to see a place with so much history and heart be lost.  

Every time I visit my grandparent's home, I look down upon my own childhood home, lost in my mother and stepfather's divorce. Just before the home was sold to the current residents about six years ago, my high school sweetheart, Laura, a real estate agent at the time, took me through the house for one final tour. At the time, the house looked almost exactly like I had remembered it.

I thought for sure that I would never see the inside of my childhood home again.

Enter Charlie's poop.

In the midst of the picnic, Charlie had to poop. As is customary, he waited until the last moment and was in full panic mode as I carried him to the single functioning bathroom in my grandparent's home. 

The door was closed. Someone was inside.

Charlie screamed in agony as I loudly assured him that whoever was behind the door would quickly vacate the premises. 

After a protracted length of time, the door finally open and the occupant said, "I'm sorry. It was clogged when I walked in."

The toilet was overflowing. It was a disaster. I attempted to plunge it with no success as Charlie wailed. Finally, I grabbed Charlie and ran to the stairs, trying to remember if there was a bathroom on the second floor. I started up the first step with Charlie in my arms, forgetting that the doorways are short in my grandparent's house, and I smashed Charlie's head into the door jam, causing him to wail even louder.

I didn't know what to do. I was panicked. I called for Elysha.  

It turns out that Elysha knew exactly what to do. She grabbed Charlie from my arms and said, "We're going to your old house."

The current residents of my childhood home were hosting a birthday party for their teenage daughter in the backyard. We walked down the hill and over to the couple who we presumed were the owners. "I need help," Elysha said and explained the situation.

"Of course," the woman said, rising to lead us to the bathroom.

"It's okay," I said. "I grew up in this house. I know where the bathroom is."

So once again, I found myself inside my childhood home. Charlie was sitting on the same toilet I had sat on thousands of times during my fourteen years in the house. Much work had been done on the interior of the house. It looked better than it ever had when I was a child, but the layout was the same.

I could still see my childhood beneath the new countertops, stained floors, and tiled backsplash. The memories were still there, alive and well. 

I spent an hour in the house with the new owners, swapping stories. Talking about the neighborhood and my many relatives on the street. Answering questions to mysteries they had yet to solve about the house. 

Yes, our washer and dryer were in the kitchen. Right beside the refrigerator. It didn't seem strange at the time, but boy does it seem odd now.

Yes, my father converted the garage into stables. Horses lived where cars were once parked. 

Yes, this pile of stones was once a flower bed that my mother loved. 

Yes, those were the names of me and my siblings, written beneath the wallpaper in the bathroom.

Yes, I lived in that unheated disaster of a room in the basement. 

No, those chalk drawings on the basement walls weren't done by me. They were done by my aunts - both now deceased - who lived in the house before I did. 

The owners couldn't have been more gracious, and I was so pleased to show Charlie my childhood home. It was good to see the house being so well taken care of, too. It looks better than it ever has before. It's sad that our family no longer lives on that beautiful piece of property, but it's good to see good people living in the space where I have so many memories.

It was so happy to see it again. So happy to step back into the past for a little while. 

All thanks to an untimely poop and a blocked up toilet.  

My favorite billboard

The billboard is up on Southern Boulevard, which is one of the only streets that links directly to Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate.

With Hurricane Irma now battering Florida, my thoughts are with everyone whose lives and property are at risk from this cataclysmic storm.  

My thoughts are also with this particular billboard. Envisioning how angry Donald Trump must be knowing how close it sits to his property and how visible it must be to every guest driving up to his resort warms my heart.

I'd hate to learn that it was lost in the storm. 

I am not talented.

I don't believe in talent. I believe in hard work. 

In speaking to a writer recently about her struggles to get published, I said, "Maybe you should write another book. Not everyone publishes the first thing they write."

"You did," she snapped.

While it's true that I managed to publish the first novel I wrote, Something Missing, the road to publication was not so easy.

I began writing in November of 1988, and since then, I have written every single day of my life without exception.

In high school, I started a business writing papers for my classmates. I wrote for the school newspaper. I started a shortly lived magazine in the spirit of Mad. I wrote political satire. Short stories. Poems. Letters to girls. Lots and lots of letters to girls.  

After high school, I began writing a blog on a bulletin board system: a small scale, localized precursor to the Internet. During that time, I filled journals with stories, memoir, poems, and rants. I wrote hundreds of letters every year to friends around the country and next door. I wrote monthly newsletters for all of my friends. I wrote Dungeons & Dragons adventures. Short plays. Parodies of songs and movies. Comedy bits.   

When I was homeless and without a phone or address, I wrote letters to keep in touch with friends. I wrote long accounts of my life for my attorney, who was defending me against a charges for a crime I did not commit. I wrote long, sad pieces of memoir about how hopeless and alone I felt.   

When I finally made it to college, I studied creative writing. I wrote for the school newspaper and their online magazines. I wrote short stories, speeches, short films, and several failed, unfinished novels. 

In 2004 I took a blogging class at Trinity College and have written a blog post every single day since. For six years, I wrote a daily post to my children on a separate blog.

I've written children's books. A book of poetry. Personal narrative of every length. In addition to the four books I've published and the three that will publish next year, I have two unpublished novels, a unpublished memoir, an unpublished book of poetry, several unpublished picture books, and an unpublished book of personal essays. 

I have been writing a lot for a long, long time. 

I published Something Missing in 2009, 21 years after I committed myself to the craft of writing. I practiced writing on a relentless, daily basis for more than two decades before someone finally paid me money for my work. 

Am I talented? 

If I were talented, would it have taken me two decades of practice before reaching my goal?

My former editor bristles at my assertion that everyone can be a writer, and with enough hard work and practice, perhaps a published writer, too. 

Friends and former colleagues think I'm foolish to believe that anyone is capable of writing good, meaningful, important stuff.

I remind them of how it took my two decades of constant, relentless practice before I was able to write things worthy of publication.

I don't believe in talent.

I believe in my ability to keep my ass in a chair longer than most people.
I believe in my desperate, unwavering dream to be a published author.    
I believe in my refusal to give up. 
I believe in the power of practice, repetition, study, and failure.
I believe in grit, tenacity, determination, and persistence. 

The path to success can often seem short and simple. But when viewed through the longer lens of time, talent will almost always give way to hard work. 

If you can't publish your first novel, write another. And another. And another. 

Or quit and fail. 

The choice is simple. The path is not. 

When you tell your girlfriend via text that you wrote her a poem...

... but it's actually the theme to The King of Queens. 

Brilliant.

A sad, retired, perhaps unstable man

My friend, Rob, retired last year.

Like my previously retired friends, Rob has attempted to rub it in with photographs of his endless vacation. 

But unlike my previously retired friends, who send me photos of picturesque golf courses and idyllic swimming holes, Rob is not nearly as good at hurting me as the rest.

Look at the photos he sent on the first day of school.

These are scary.

Cloudy, solitary beaches. 
A dead tree. 
An empty boardwalk.
A buzzard?

I'm worried about Rob. He seems a little mentally unsteady. Unimaginably sad. Perhaps filled with longing and regret. Unstable.  

When I attempted to taunt Rob about the ineffectiveness of these photos, his reply was this:

It's worse than I thought. 

My son thinks I'm a golfing god

I haven't beaten one of my golfing buddies in well over a year. I've been drastically altering my grip and swing, but I'm also just not as good as the guys who I play with. They hit the ball farther and more consistently than me.  

I managed to squeak out a tie against one of them this summer, which almost felt like a victory.

But I'm getting better. Hitting the ball farther. More consistently. Understanding all that was lacking from my game. Still, beating any one of them is probably a ways off. 

It's fine. I love golf. My father-in-law gave up the game years ago when he realized that he was never going to break 100. I understand his desire to be competitive, but even if I never beat a single person again for the rest of my life, I'd still play the game. 

But it sure would be nice to win again. 

As the summer drew to a close, Elysha and I took the kids to mini golf. 

The one thing I can do on a golf course is putt. A three-putt is a rarity for me, and when I'm reading the greens well, I can sink long putts.

Sadly, the expression "Drive for show, putt for dough" doesn't apply when you hit your driver as far as your friends hit their pitching wedges. 

An exaggeration, but only slightly.   

On the nineteenth hole of mini golf, I sunk the miracle putt to win a free game. As the buzzer sounded, my children went wild. My son told everyone in the vicinity that I had won a free game, and he kept telling them until we finally walked away. 

Honestly, it wasn't luck. It was a straight putt that needed to be struck just hard enough to leap over two troughs and land in the hole without going past. I judged the distance carefully and swung. 

It dropped. 

Two weeks later and Charlie still talks about that putt. My free game. My miracle shot. 

I'd still rather beat one of my friends occasionally. I'd like to be a competitive factor as we make our way into the final hole. But if that can't happen, Charlie's belief that I am an amazing golfer is a solid consolation prize. 

Time to break the law on behalf of Harriet Tubman

Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin, a Yale graduate and former Goldman Sachs investment banker whose Daddy is also a Yale graduate and and former Goldman Sachs banker (Steve is clearly blazing his own trail in this world), indicated last week that the Treasury Department could abandon plans to replace President Andrew Jackson on the front of the $20 bill with abolitionist Harriet Tubman.

The redesign had been finalized under President Obama.

Steve is also currently under investigation by the Treasury Department’s inspector general for taking a government jet to Fort Knox the day of the solar eclipse, perhaps to witness the eclipse from a more favorable position.

Steve is also married to Louise Linton, the fashion-obsessed occasional actress who made headlines two weeks ago after criticizing a woman on Instagram for having less money than she has. 

Linton grew up in a Scottish castle and derives all of her wealth from her family and her husband's fortune.  

She apologized for her elitist comments weeks later in the pages of Washington Life alongside photos of her posing in expensive ball gowns in various locations at her and Mnuchin's Washington mansion.

There are clearly the type of people who Harriett Tubman would have adored. 

In regards to the change in the $20 bill, Mnuchin said, “It’s not something that I’m focused on at the moment. The issues of why we change it will be primarily related to what we need to do for security purposes.”

So screw Harriet Tubman. To hell with the idea of allowing our daughters or children of color to see someone like them on a piece of currency. If our money is secure with old, white men on it, then old, white men it shall be! 

It's also sad that Mnuchin can't apparently focus on more than one thing, or even delegate this matter to a staffer. After all, it's a simple change of face on a bill. We've changed the appearance of our money appears many, many times in just my lifetime. It's not exactly unprecedented. It shouldn't be too hard.

But fear not. We may have a solution. 

Josh Malina, who played a vice president’s chief of staff on the NBC political drama "The West Wing," encouraged his more than 240,000 Twitter followers to write the famous abolitionist’s name on $20 bills over the face of Andrew Jackson. 

This may technically violate federal law, but it's still a fantastic idea, and one that I think Harriet Tubman would have loved. If a white man is going to once again stand between Tubman and the recognition she deserves, the least we can do is break the law on her behalf, the same way she did for the hundreds of slaves who she illegally ushered to freedom. 

How do you juggle so many balls at once? The answer is simple.

During a recent interview, a reporter cited my multitude of careers.

"You publish novels. Write columns and musicals. Perform on stage. Produce storytelling shows. DJ weddings. Minister. And you teach elementary school! Plus I know there's more that I'm forgetting. How do you juggle so many balls at one time?"

I've been asked this question before. It always surprises me, because the answer seems so obvious. 

I don't juggle anything.

Yes, it's true. I do lots of things. I have lots of balls in play. But I don't juggle them. I pick one up. Spend some time with it. Deal with it. But then I put that ball down and pick up another one. Deal with it. Put it down. I don't juggle. I handle one ball at a time.

Only a lunatic would try to write a novel while ministering a wedding and teaching long division to fifth graders.

This analogy has seemed to provide some clarity for people, and for others, maybe even a little hope. Someone who read that interview recently wrote to me and said. "It seems a lot easier to chase my side-hustle knowing I don't have to be thinking about both careers at the same time. It sounds ridiculous, but taking that juggling analogy off the table helps a lot."

I have always advised people to be working on your next career. Allocate a small percentage of your time and effort to your next job. Your dream scenario. The business you might someday launch. The creative endeavor that you've imagined since you were a child. 

But don't juggle. Never juggle. Simply do one thing, and then stop and do the other thing. 

Shortcomings and Flaws: 2017

Years ago a reader accused me of being materialistic after I wrote about my lack of a favorite number, specifically criticizing me for saying that when it comes to my salary, my favorite number is the largest number possible.

After refuting the charges of materialism, I acknowledged that I had plenty of other shortcomings and offered to list them in order to appease my angry reader. Then I did. Then I added to the list when friends suggested that I had forgotten a few.

Nice friends. Huh?

So began an annual tradition of posting my list of shortcomings and flaws, starting first in 2011, and continuing in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, and 2016.  

Here is the revised list for 2017. I’ve added three items (the last two) and removed four.
The total number now stands at 36. 

The four that I removed, after careful consultation with several parties (including Elysha) are: 

I have difficulty being agreeable even when the outcome means nothing to me but a great deal to someone else.I often lack tact, particularly in circumstances in which tact is especially important.I cannot load a dishwasher effectively.Field of Dreams makes me cry every time without fail.

This last one still applies but after much rebuke from readers is no longer considered a shortcoming or flaw. 

A couple suggestions offered to me that were not added to the list:

I can seem unapproachable at times (perhaps because I'm so busy). I use the word "despicable" too often. 

I questioned many people about seeming unapproachable and could not find any agreement. In fact, it was stressed to me that I am very approachable, and with the number of times I am brought into someone's confidence, I think this is true.

Yes, I use despicable often, but Trump is in office, and it's exceedingly fitting. I don't see it as a shortcoming or flaw. 

If you have a suggestion for a flaw or shortcoming that you do not see on the list, please feel free to submit it for review.

Matthew Dicks’s List of Shortcomings and Flaws

1. I have a limited, albeit expanding palate (though I would like to stress that this is not by choice).

2. I am a below average golfer.

3. It is hard for me to sympathize with adults with difficulties that I do not understand, do not think are worthy of sympathy, and/or are suffering with difficulties that I would have avoided entirely.

4. I have difficulty putting myself in another person’s shoes. Rather than attempting understand the person, I envision myself within their context and point out what I would have done instead.

5. When it comes to argument and debate, I often lack restraint. I will use everything in my arsenal in order to win, even if this means hurting the other person’s feelings in the process.

6. I do many things for the sake of spite.

7. I have an unreasonable fear of needles.

8. I become angry and petulant when told what to wear.

9. Bees kill me dead.

10. I become sullen and inconsolable when the New England Patriots lose a football game.

11. I lack adequate compassion and empathy for adults who are not  resourceful or are easily overwhelmed.

12. I can form strong opinions about things that I possess a limited knowledge of and are inconsequential to me.

13. I am unable to make the simplest of household or automobile repairs.

14. I would rarely change the sheets on my bed if not for my wife.

15. I eat ice cream too quickly.

16. I procrastinate when it comes to tasks that require the use of the telephone.

17. I am uncomfortable and ineffective at haggling for a better price.

18. I am exceptionally hard on myself when I fail to reach a goal or meet a deadline.

19. I take little pleasure in walking.

20. Sharing food in restaurants annoys me.

21. I drink too much Diet Coke.

22. My hatred for meetings of almost any kind cause me to be unproductive, inattentive, and obstructionist.

23. Disorganization and clutter negatively impacts my mood, particularly when I cannot control the clutter myself.

24. I am overly critical of my fellow storytellers, applying my own rules and standards to their performances.

25. I think less of people who nap.

26. I lack patience when it comes to assisting people with technology.

27. I am easily annoyed by the earnestness of adults.

28. I don't spend enough time with my best friend.

29. I have a difficult time respecting someone's accomplishments if they benefited from economic privilege in their life.

30. I believe that there are right and wrong ways of parenting. 

31. I love saying, "I told you so" so freaking much.

32. I wear my wireless headphones way too much.

33. I consistently screw up my wife's laundry regardless of how careful I think I am.  

34. My blog entries contain far too many typos, despite my loathing of typos. 

35. I leave my credit card at restaurants far too often.

36. I don't ride my bicycle - alone and with my kids - nearly enough.

Trump's "real" job numbers

On the wake of a less than stellar jobs report, Trump has been touting his "million jobs created" in the first half of 2017.

One million jobs sounds great. But look at the first half of 2017 job creation in comparison to previous years:

2013: 1.12 million

2014: 1.50 million

2015: 1.39 million

2016: 1.24 million

2017: 1.07 million

One million Americans finding work is fantastic. But it's also the fewest number of new jobs created during the first half of the year in five years, so a little perspective, please.

Admittedly not Trump's forte.

Also, thank you President Obama.