Wil Wheaton is turning 38 today. If I'm to believe the Twitter feed, he is having a perfectly awesome day of things. But - earlier this week, he was also telling jokes and being an ass, and sincerely reminding me of Cliff in more ways than were absolutely comfortable.
My 38th birthday was two months after Cliff had died.
About the only thing that comes to mind to do about it? Isn't realistic in the nth degree. It's not like drafting a huge email saying 'I'm glad you aren't having my 38th birthday and this is why' makes any logical sense. Except I'm THRILLED for him.
Another blogger posted an update to a story seanan_mcguire
had alerted me to the other day, one in which, as the parent of a child with a significantly reduced quality/quantity of life, instead of doing her day job, she told everyone what it was like. REALLY
She thought, oh, only a few people would get it.
Her ISP was sending her panic mail before the day was over. 22,000 hits. One day.
And she says today that we should tell our stories too.
Nuh uh. Not this little red hen.
I've been writing since I could put pencil to lined notebook paper, and my first real memory of writing something (and then hiding it) was before I was nine. I was on every school newspaper from sixth grade through college (and was editor of the high school paper in my senior year), wrote as much fan fiction as much as I could put out and planned my college education with an eye to writing for a living when I finished it. Wanted to write for television, and there's not much about the market for the one-hour dramatic format in the mid-80's I can't talk about.
Then I met a type I diabetic my senior year of college, and all that went into a box that gets opened only once in a while these days.
You see, things went bad, and I mean BAD to the point I can't talk about it
without making a whole room cry. No, I don't want to try it again to see if that's changed. No, you cry - not me. I learned to stop crying when it scared Cliff. You think I'm kidding, ask Jim.
I could talk. I could start writing about it - but.
That was another life, and it's over now.
Cliff and Steve Irwin were born two weeks apart from each other. Cliff was programming in FORTRAN when he was 14 for Voyager. He spent many happy hours with his coworkers writing programs to get around the laser holes software companies used as copy protection back in the day of 5 1/4" floppy disks (and IBM PCXT machines). Because yo, we liked playing games.
He's the one who introduced me to Thai food, and Japanese food that wasn't teriyaki chicken. He's also the one who took me outside my comfort zone on a regular basis and taught me how to like it. We didn't buy furniture. We took trips outside the United States, and that had priority over everything. See the world we live in - it's wonderful, exciting and you won't learn much any other way. (He was right.)
When I lost my second job the summer the Olympics were in Los Angeles because the employer did not want to pay the agency fee for my permanent placement - and there was now no money to see the Olympics, nor find another job until they were over - and came home furious...he threw me in the swimming pool. When I came up drenched and furious (and keep in mind, this is back in the day of 'dress for success' - I'd been wearing a dress, heels, stockings, makeup, glasses, everything), he threw me in again.
Coming up for air, he stood there on the side of the pool, looked down at me and advised me that yes, he'd do it again and to get over it. I would get another job, don't worry about it. This was a perfectly good pool, it was going to be a nice break and make the most of it, okay?
No time for whining.
He made me watch Poltergeist
, the little shit. I DON'T DO HORROR.
Days like this, I really miss him. I'd rather you knew why instead of why he isn't here anymore.