.SOMETIMES RAW.

The story starts over twenty years ago in a small town in Bavaria/Germany. This is where he grew up. The protagonist. I suppose every goddamn town around Munich is small as far as towns go. Barely sixty kids in his graduating class and you know what that means. Everyone knew everyone’s damn business. Everyone dated the same people, went to the same lame parties, ate at the same local Asian Restaurant. There was a bank, a post office, a library, a supermarket, and a small old, dirty movie theater. Hey, at least that. No mall, no good restaurant, no hospital. Nothing to do really. The most fun you could have was floating down the small river on a boat with some whiskey or beer. He didn’t have much of a choice now did he, because he was born there. He asked himself many times why people choose this town as a vacation spot.

He didn’t exactly excel at school. He was more interested in girls and listening to music. And writing and reading. The only class he really paid any attention to was English and German because reading and writing came naturally. The rest was basically struggling or of zero interest. Especially maths. Most kids were into sports but that also wasn’t his scene. A lot of his friends got out of town after graduating High school but he was stuck. Everything happened rather quickly. Days turned into weeks, then weeks into months, then months into years and time just flew by. Now, here he is, thirty-two, unemployed, depressed from a recent breakup, and living in his childhood bedroom with his parents. You think pathetic? He wouldn’t disagree.

There were some rather fortunate events, and he came across some money from publishing his first book. He was about to leave his mother’s house. His mother never had a lot of money, but she was able to take care of both of them over the years. The money he received was not a lot but it was a nice little amount enough to help him get his own place but not enough to live comfortably. That’s why he was on his way to apply for a job at the local 7/11 supermarket. He needed something. Anything. And this small town wasn’t really the land of opportunities. Bagging groceries and refilling shelves isn’t the most ideal situation, but it was real life, and that is what he was looking for at this point in his life.

So, he was on his way to the supermarket. He read an ad in the local newspaper that the store is hiring. He knew it because he wrote it down in his Moleskine notebook. It was 10 am exactly. That notebook was beat to hell but it has become his best friend. Everywhere he went, the Moleskine came along. He stood in front of the supermarket and entered. Inside the place looked like your typical supermarket. Tiled floor, jammed-up carts inside and outside and aisles and aisles or neatly and nicely stacked food. He walked through the front to pass the checkout area and make his way to the service desk where he met a middle-aged woman. Slightly overweight. Her name was Ronda [as written on her name tag]. Sassy attitude, lowered eyelids, and judgemental aura but basing a first impression on her physical appearance was not a fair thing to do. How can you judge someone simply by….. he thought.

“You apply for a job dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, baby,” she asked. “No, well, Ronda, I came here to fill out the application first. I didn’t plan on sitting down for an interview, ” he answered. He needed this job. The store manager looked at him, asked him some questions and the job was his without talking much about anything. “I have a good feeling about you. I believe in your energy, ” the manager said. “Well, thanks. How much money would I be making and what would I have to do,” he asked. “Ten euros an hour and you would be the floater”, the store manager answered. “I will be what?” “I will explain everything later but basically, you will be used for everything. See you at nine Monday morning. Bye.” On my way out he saw Ronda. “Bye Ronda, see you on Monday.” “Mmmmmmmmm-hmmmmmmmm,” Ronda replied with her fierce, strong, attitude. He loved her attitude because she gave no fucks and he adored her for it.

It all felt like a blink of an eye and there was Monday. The usual weekend-feeling. There he was and stood in front of the supermarket not sure what to expect from his first day. He was just happy to have a job and ready to get going. The first person he ran into upon entering was Wade. “Hello there. Good morning, Lady, ” Wade said to the first female customer after checking her out from head to toe. He was not sure what annoyed him more. The way Wade did this or his smile that was so constant that the front row of his teeth had become a permanent substitute for his lips. No one could be that happy all the time. Impossible. Unless you are on drugs. There has to be something dark lurking behind that grin.

Something was off with Wade, especially after he explained to him how he has to work on the different stations throughout the store. He was just a little bit too much into his job. Kinda like when you work a job in your teens and really give it your all and everything? When you really go above and beyond and take pride in what you are doing… .until four weeks in. Then you realize your job is completely demeaning. That your sole purpose is to blindly serve people who don’t give two shits about your happiness or future. Well, theeeeen your work ethic starts to slide. You walk into the break room asking yourself what you are doing here. Who the hell cares how fast you can change the oil at the local garage or who you impress by memorizing the entire menu at the Blue Oyster Seafood Restaurant? The store manager told him to start in Aisle 6: Cereal.

At Aisle 6: Here he met Roger. Roger is the guy who has been working twenty years not only at the same chain, but at the same godamn place, and he is still only assistant manager. For fuck’s sake, he thinks he is not even manager! Let alone the regional manager. Or director at this point. Just think about this for a second. He spent twenty years at this place and he doesn’t own it by now? Roger is the guy who wants to go nowhere but he will hate it when others get promoted. He never did what he really wanted to do in life. He is also the one who always makes excuses about how he would do something else, but he had other obligations, but money was tight, but this, or but that, or but you know how it is. And this is where people usually fuck up. As soon as they give a reason for why they cannot do something, they are already defeated.

“What are your dreams, Roger”, he asked him. “I have none. I will work here until I retire. Nothing special planned,” he replied while staring into the distance. “Are you serious? How the hell can you say this? You don’t have dreams? Places you want to visit, things you want to do,” he asked. “I do have dreams. I would love to travel. But how am I going to do all this,” Roger questioned. “By using your head! This thing on top of your neck? You can do anything you want in life as long as you believe it. It just takes persistence, determination, realism, and wanting success, ” he would tell him.

Then Roger looked at him and asked, “Dude, I asked you where the cereal aisle is to check if you already know, so, uh, how did we get into all this?” Then Roger stared at him blankly and walked away. He was reminded again that all this shit he just philosophized goes down the drain when he is surrounded by someone like Roger and the scary reality of working at this goddamn supermarket. The next moment he was back at stocking shelves with boxes of pasta. Penne, ziti, spaghetti. Pasta for weeks. While stacking, screams on the intercom. “FLOATER TO BAKERY SECTION ASAP!” He is a floater. As a floater, he didn’t exactly have a post or job. He did not mind because it gave him more ground to cover and keep things varied and interesting. For day one, this was all a bit much for him.

In the “break room”: He took notes in his Moleskine notebook. Observations. He is working on his third book. This keeps him sane. When he looked back up, everyone else stared at him. “New guy is a weirdo, huh? We have a writer here, Roger!” Ronda says out loud. Maybe he was. But he didn’t mind. He will always have books, writing, and reading, and knowing just that, lets him deal with anything. As a writer, being surrounded by literature made him feel at home. “Hey weirdo, did you read Lord of the Rings? Fantasy and shit,” Ronda asked. “Yeah, I read it,” he answered. Honestly, he cannot stand it. Let’s be real here; he knows the book is a masterpiece and motion picture and whatnot. Tolkien goes into sooooo much detail and has created an entire world with various races and whatnot. But fuck, by page ninety he was like, “Shit, couldn’t you have said this in like ten pages, dude!” The same goes for authors like Murakami. But see, this is the type of reader he is. He needs adventure, he needs something fun and fast-paced. He needs the pages to turn – suspense, sex, drama, violence, murder whatever it takes but just keep it moving.

Let’s get back to aisle six, shall we? Break is over. Ronda re-applied her red lipstick and put on a sweater. It looked like she knitted it herself.

“Love is a seeking for a way of life; the way that cannot be followed alone; the resonance of all spiritual and physical things.” – Ansel Adams

Many marriages grind slowly to a halt. Hers exploded midflight, like a space shuttle torn asunder in the blue sky as the stunned crowd watches in disbelief. And then, over years, the hazardous debris from the catastrophe just keeps raining down. It was late October, still warm but way past the last stretch of the Indian summer. She had waited for a day cool enough to roast a turkey for her husband and her son. By the time she pulled it out, she found out her husband had left a long time ago and he imaginably stuffed his suitcases with clothes slipping off their hangers. Her son did not notice. But later he asked “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay?” and came over to give her a hug. She literally smiled through her tears.

It was her call to the bank to check their balance that caused one of the fatal blow-ups. Although her husband’s destructive compulsions with money had threatened their marriage before, she believed those days were long behind. But that afternoon, without even trying to, she discovered the truth: far from changing his ways, he had simply become more secretive. She confronted him and asked about certain expenses. Nobody touched the turkey that night. Nobody dressed up in a Halloween costume.

She is a well-educated woman, smart, with a decent work history, who actually made more money than her husband when they got married. She prided herself on being self-sufficient. But they both wanted someone to be home with the child and decided it would be her, so she stopped working and let him support them. And now she ended up in the same vulnerable position she once thought was the fate only of women who married straight out of high school, with no job experience beyond summer gigs a the local newspaper or the café around the corner.

She has valued the time with her son more than any other experience she has ever had. But for a stay-at-home mom like her, divorce isn’t just divorce. It is more like divorce plus being fired from a job because you can no longer afford to keep your job at home, the one you have up your career for. She started to work again which financially saved them. Her husband chooses to pay no child support and she wonders almost daily how he can live like this knowing that there is his own flesh and blood on this planet and to show zero responsibility. To her, her son is the major thing on earth. Her everything. His little hand in hers needs a lot of support.

Divorce is its own job, with its course of study, its manuals. It is nerve-wracking. But time heals all wounds. She has overcome so much. Struggled so much. For her, grief was like a house. One day she was in the room of sorrow and the next day she might be in anger room. Then in the grief room again followed by taking a break in the “fuck-you” room. At Mother’s or Father’s Day at school, she is stoic, detached, nodding philosophically as a married mother would. She goes to both events. “Mommy, I want you to be like THIS mom. She has superpowers,” one kid said.

She kept it a secret but eventually she had to tell people. Everyone who hasn’t heard through the grapevine. Some people get the “whole story” and some just get the abridged “we are separated/divorced” version. She avoids the “whole story version” because it is exhausting. At first, it is all re-lief and adrenaline as she recounts the moment she realized the shuttle was breaking apart. But then, she is overwhelmed with dread as she comes to understand how many whole-story people there are in her life. Still ahead are countless oh-my-god-I-cannot-believe-he-does-not-pay-for-his-child and I -am- so sorry’s and You-must-be-kiddings. She hears sympathetic and understandable questions coming at her, and her tongue grows thick and unfamiliar forming all those words one more time.

Then the day of the divorce. He chose not to attend court. Why doesn’t he care? In the end, she got sole-custody. While the judge read the transcript, she remembered spending time with him. Hanging at restaurants all night while talking. Living together. Then, everything turns blank. Like a white sheet.

When she took off her wedding ring, her finger had atrophied underneath in a manner that seems excessively symbolic. For some time, she protected this white band with her thumb like a wound. She looked at other women’s ring fingers: gold, diamond, simple solitaires. At this point, the fact that they all have managed to keep those rings in place seems miraculous to her. When she wore her engagement and wedding ring, she was a different person, emboldened in the way one can be in a Halloween custome. She was married. Someone loved her or so she thought.

Sometimes, lying in bed at night, she thinks of this divorce business as something like the flu. The feverish beginnings, as miserable and sweaty as they are, are somehow easier to get through. Then the many half-well, half-sick days that follow, days when one is not sure what to do. One is well to lie in bed watching Netflix but too sick to go out and do all the things well people are expected to do. Then her son wakes up. He has to go to the bathroom and on the way back curls up in bed next to her. Which is nice.

She then fell asleep easily and sleeps deeply. Just before, she resorted to the old routine of counting her blessings. She counted her family, her son, health, happiness, and work. She knows now that it is up to her to hunt, to gather, and to always keep the shelter warm. And she will. Because she is strong and full of wonders.

Joel: Why do you go to work?

Me: They pay me a salary.

Joel: …..

Me:…..

Joel: I don’t even like celery.

My son eats pretty voraciously: eggs, hummus, even steak but sometimes when I clean up after dinner, I notice the vegetables left on his plates. No tomatoes, no cucumber, no thanks. He is very strong and tall for his age and needs quite an amount of food on a daily basis. I try to change things up as much as possible because I know that nutrition is important; especially at his age. But, when my child asks what’s for dinner, usually, the answer doesn’t matter. Sometimes he reacts like I am about to feed him marinated monkey brains.

A giant tray of roasted vegetables, no matter how expertly cooked and seasoned, will never send my child running to the dinner table. My general philosophy when it comes to feeding him is to cook what I crave, then find ways to add bait that will bring him to the table. For example, a salad with tomatoes, olives, carrots, broccoli, mozzarella, arugula, nuts will be enjoyed when I add salmon, beans or crispy pita bread.

Sure, you are thinking, but it is still a plate of vegetables with some salmon. Hold on! I am not done sprinkling on some more kid bait. First is the aforementioned pita bread, salmon or beans. Those lead me to bait number 2: marketing. When my child asks what’s for dinner, “pita salmon salad” will beat out “healthy winter vegetables” every time. Or I cut zucchini into French fry shapes and call them “zucchini fries.” I rebrand veggies to make them sound yummier or cuter. Brussel sprouts are “baby lettuces”. It will make all the difference. When it comes to food, I like to keep it simple, nutritious, healthy and comforting.

In an effort to make sure he gets all the vitamins he needs, I figured out some other ways to encourage him to eat the good stuff. This is what works for us if you would love to read.

I sometimes serve veggies first. That way, he will eat those before filling up on pasta and bread. With this method, he actually asks for a bowl of cauliflower or broccoli to snack on sometimes. We don’t always eat whole, organic food, but mostly. When it comes to meat, I prefer organic and grass-fed. Balance is key! Mom at the playground: My kids eat organic snacks only. Me: Cool. My son eats candy off the floor. Also, there is little difference in how a horse eats hay and the way my child consumes spaghetti with meat sauce.

My son: How much of this meatball is meat? Me: Probably like 90% because it is organic and grass-fed. Son: So it is 10% balls? Me: spits out food

Or I don’t say anything. A study reveals that serving food “without giving any message about the goal” (health/strong bones, vitamins) maximize the consumption of healthy food. I just put them on the plate and wait, and watch.

I make it a game. I got him to eat certain vegetables by asking him to close his eyes, take a bite and see if he could guess the right color. This way, he would end up eating a bunch of bell peppers in red, yellow and green. I also did this for foods such as cauliflower and peas. Marinated monkey brains come to mind again.

I make sure he is hungry. As Karen Le Billon says, “hunger is the best seasoning.” Also, if I serve a smaller main dish (let’s say, just a bit of pasta), he will eat more of his side dish (say, steamed broccoli) because he will still be hungry. I avoid to let him snack all day long.

I stay at the table longer and we eat together without distractions (phone, TV, etc.). When he is done eating, we usually hang for a while because I want him to know the joys of sitting around the dinner table and chatting. I will start conversations I know he will be interested in (how great it will be to spend time at the beach, to go to the bookstore and which books he will pick). I have noticed that a great side effect is that he often ends up absentmindedly munching the food he had originally refused. We also eat slowly. No need to rush through a meal.

I teach him to avoid emotional eating and treat chocolate and sweets as dessert and something special. As a parent, I am in charge of my son’s food education. I have to teach him what is healthy and what is not; and when to eat and how much. Pizza is fine and so are donuts, but not every day. I asked him the other day if he wants a piece of really good dark chocolate. He nodded so hard that he fell over. So, yes, I am sure he is mine.

One rule is: He has to taste it but he does not have to like or finish it. I want him to enjoy food.

If all fails, I sneak it in. Obviously, I want my son to love, revel and seek fresh vegetables as much as I do. But there is nothing wrong with dropping a few frozen vegetables or mixing them into smoothies.

Currently, I am helping my son search for his chocolate that I ate last night.

Stay happy. Stay healthy.