Just a quick update
Time flies when you’re having fun; including sometimes, even when you’re not — sorta like right now.
For the past six weeks, I’ve been ‘flyin’ low’ as my late MIL, Maxine was want to say.
My first issue was negotiating the wake of the inevitable family turbulence generated by the loss of Michelle’s father. That’s the part I won’t talk about (for obvious reasons). It was unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected. ‘Nuff said there.
Next, and more recent, was the equally-inevitable fire drill of the preparation, then post-trauma dance that I must do anytime I go on vacation, which Michelle and I did last week, traveling to Southern California to celebrate my Dad’s 86th birthday. We had a great time, spending time with Dad & Helen, but we also got to spend a day in Laguna Beach, break tortillas with my step-sis, Janice and her husband. We even managed to squeeze in a brunch with MakeMineMike and TheDailyRandi on our way out of town.
So it was a relaxing, but eventful five days, however this week’s process of catching up after the fact has been absolutely maddening.
I'll certainly be writing about it, but I can tell you it won't be on a scale with my LA Stories of previous trips to my old stompin’ grounds. Frankly I’m tired of starting but never finishing those somewhat over-blown yarns. Hell, I still haven’t finished the series for my trip in 2005, let alone 2008. This one will be short.
Other than that, there’s not a lot going on right now, other than work, although I do have a lot of notes from unfinished stories that I could be expending more effort trying to transcribe and post, even if some of them are a couple years old.
Oh yeah, I guess this is something — my laptop’s hard drive died on the plane out to California, taking with it at least three unfinished blog stories with it. I can't freakin’ win. Don’t know whether or not the drive's salvageable; finding out is just one more thing I’ve had to add to my to-do list for this next week. I still haven’t taken the time to send in the thumb drive I lost back in August of 2007 to a data recovery place I found that showed some promise for possibly retrieving the irreplaceable data I lost on that little device. I really need to do that as well.
Speaking of which, could it really be possible that we’ve been in our new house for more than a year and a half already? Sheesh! They say time goes by faster as you get older; well, I’m definitely living that truism right now. Sure hope it starts slowin’ down at some point. At this rate, I’ll be 65 in a couple months...
Sorry for the stream-of-consciousness, but it’s all I really have time for this morning, and even at that, it’s communication to you (or just myself) that’s long overdue.
Painful as it will be (for a variety of reasons), I’ll be finishing up my current series, the tribute to Michelle’s Dad, hopefully before the week is out. I say this here to give myself a deadline — not that I’ve been all that great at following my own mandates, but I suppose it can’t hurt.
Here's wishing us all a pain-free rest o’ the summer.
Talk to you again soon…
finis
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I Finally Know How He Feels
Baton received
In what has now become somewhat my custom, I am once again taking a break in my current series, paying tribute to my recently-departed Father In-Law (an intermission, BTW, brought about by more than just the specific occasion of today’s post — and I’ll explain more about that later on), in order to pay a different kind of tribute; one marking what I consider to be somewhat of a watershed moment for me.
Today is Father’s Day; a day of wildly conflicting emotions for your truly.
Dad’s Day has always been an occasion in which I’ve spent time reflecting on the relationship I have with my own Father, one that has grown so much closer in the past ten years or so since the passing of my step-Mom, Maxine.
I can’t accurately describe just how special it’s been for me in recent years to receive the love and focused friendship that I have from the man whom I worshipped from afar for so many years, but whose attention seemed so unattainable when I was growing up.
Hmm; I guess I need to explain that last statement.
My Dad and I weren’t particularly close when I was a kid, although I never had any doubt that he loved me and appreciated me for whom I was. It’s just that there wasn’t enough of him to go around, what with him being virtually a single parent to five boys throughout much of my early childhood. And given my somewhat introverted personality, I was never the type to openly vie for his affections or attention.
He coached my elder brothers in Little League as well as being highly involved their Cub Scout troop activities; heck, he was even the president of the PTA for awhile. But by the time I had reached the age to be involved in those types of activities, my natural Mother was already well into the throes of Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease. We were all in flux; those extra-curricular activities no longer had a place in our family’s life.
Within the next five years, my Mom passed away, my Dad remarried, and we moved to Southern California. My life underwent changes too numerous to recount here. I suffered considerably at the hand and tongue of Maxine, and my Pop was never the wiser. He was under enough pressure to keep a roof over our heads; I was more concerned with keeping mine, which I might not have if I made trouble for Maxine. I just decided he didn't need to know. I just kept quiet and lived with the abuse.
Ours was the quintessential Cats in the Cradle kind of father/son relationship. He wanted to spend time with me, but just couldn't find the time. But it was okay, really. I was realistic.
As time passed the passive nature I inherited from my Dad began to kick in and I grew surprisingly comfortable with the fact that he simply was who he was and never held him in contempt for it. In fact, I believe it was just that firm belief that he really did love me that kept me from going off the deep end during those confusing and emotionally-charged early teen years dealing with Maxine. However as I entered high school things slowly began to change.
I became involved in gymnastics in 10th grade and in relatively short order began to emerge as a successful athlete. My Dad attended nearly all of my local competitions in high school, sometimes with my step-Mom, but usually without. However when it came time for the CIF* Finals my senior year — the highest wrung in the ladder of high school athletic competition to which I could attain — he wasn’t there.
*California Interscholastic Federation
Unfortunately for me, CIF Finals were scheduled the same week as Maxine & Dad’s fifth wedding anniversary, which they’d planned to celebrate in Hawaii.
Sure, I understood; the arrangements had been made; the tickets purchased well in advance. It was Cats in the Cradle once again; but this time it really hurt.
I took first place on rings that night, and for all intents and purposes, validated my existence as a significant human being; I was no longer the under-achieving, pint-sized, boy who Maxine routinely told, “you’ll never amount to anything.” I was a champion; I had now accomplished something that no one would, or could, ever take away from me.
Call me narcissistic; call me overly-dramatic, but that moment, I believe, set the tone for the rest of my life. I won more than a medal that night; I won my dignity.
And the woman who branded those words into my young brain, along with the only man I’d ever wanted to emulate, weren’t there to see it.
What a bittersweet moment that was, and how sobering it is to realize only now that I have come full circle in understanding its true meaning in my life.
It’s important for me to note that unless you’ve read my blog for awhile, you may not realize that I don’t hate my Step-Mom, but have completely forgiven her for the way she treated me. And contrary to the tone of the last few paragraphs, I don’t blame her for anything, but in fact, appreciate the many lessons and practical applications she taught that have stayed with me throughout the years.
Old emotions, however, no matter how distant in the past, don’t exist in a vacuum. They may become augmented over time and/or diffused by forgiveness, but we never truly divorce them; they never truly go away. Some of them we even keep around like pets, feeding and nurturing them on a daily basis. However sometimes they need circumstances to resurface; sometimes reinforcing the forgiveness that changed their previous destructive course in our lives, other times, simply floating just above the brink of consciousness, soothing or tormenting our psyches, whatever the case my be.
Such is my frame of mind this Father’s Day.
It’s in the cards.
I’ve said it so many times it might as well be my mantra: I’m a lucky guy. Lucky to have had a taste of success in this life on a variety of levels; lucky to have a pair of kids who are well on their way to leading happy, successful lives in their own right; and damn lucky to have a wife who not only puts up with my shortcomings and goofiness, is simply a superstar in the eyes of nearly everyone who knows her.
Like most men, I’d like to think that I’m the go-to guy in my household, but I know better. I’ve never had a single worry about what would happen to Michelle if I met an untimely demise; she would be fine; she would be taken care of, financially; she would no doubt live out her life confidently and in full charge of her faculties. That’s just the way she is: a take-charge kinda gal; a scrappy, yet incredibly generous and giving soul. Apart from certain members of her family (whom like I said earlier, I’ll talk about another time), I’ve never seen a person who’s had any chance to known her who hasn’t felt completely at ease. I’m obviously biased, but I’m not stretching the truth here — everybody loves Michelle.
And while I am obviously buoyed by that fact, I’d have to say that I’m just as proud — or even more proud of the fact that so much of her has rubbed off on our kids, particularly, our daughter, Amy.
One of Michelle’s most astounding traits in my estimation, is her ability to procure greeting cards that offer the coolest design as well as the most poignant, heartfelt, perfectly worded sentiments. I honestly don’t know how she does it. I do okay in picking out cards, but every now and then I just have to settle for ones that are ‘okay’ and then attempt to offset the ‘cheese’ factor with a more appropriate hand-written addendum on the card.
But she never needs to resort to such unnecessary extra effort. She just signs ‘I love you’ and her name; the card says the rest — every.freaking.time.
Well, the good news is, she’s somehow mystically transferred that power to Amy. My daughter already had a string of greeting card hits several times over coming into to today, but this morning, when Michelle presented me with an envelope adorned with an Atlanta postmark, I knew it would be more of the same. What I didn’t know was that this time, Amy would truly hit it out of the park.
My heart melted as I read those words, despite the sappiness, because I knew they were true.
And as if that wasn’t enough, she, unlike her Mother, didn’t stop there. She took a page out of her Pop’s book and added a lengthy, wonderful, killer hand-written note about how well she appreciated the bond that we share, and how every year that passes, our relationship grows stronger and stronger. I mean, for gawdsakes, how can you beat that?
Say what you mean to say
I started out this story with a point to make, and it wasn’t to rattle on emotionally about my bragging rights as someone lucky enough to be a part of a great family.
What I had today was an epiphany; an ah-ha moment. And I didn't arrive there by accident. I was preceded there by my Father; I just never realized before today how similar our respective paths had been.
I finally understood why my Dad responds to our relationship the way he does; I now know why he repeatedly reminds me that he loves me each and every time we talk on the phone.
Back in 2004, in my first and most prolific year of posting to this blog, I wrote a three-part series in response to the question asked by a dear friend and fellow-blogger, “Who was your Father?” In that story I explained in detail much of my early relationship with my Dad, as well as the basic gory details of my misadventures with Maxine. It was the first of my oft-mentioned allusions to Harry Chapin’s seminal 1974 hit Cats in the Cradle.
It’s highly unlikely I need to explain the gist of song’s message, so very apropos to father/son relationships in our day and age. But just in case you’re unfamiliar with it, simply put, its moral is that of the irony of learned behavior — more specifically — if you think you don’t have time for your kids now, beware; they probably won’t have time for you later. The concept that, ‘we all eventually become our parents’ plays a particularly key role in Chapin’s wonderfully astute but simply-crafted object lesson.
After I turned 40, my life changed a great deal. I did a lot of soul-searching; a lot of prospecting for perspective. A few years later, my StepMom, Maxine passed away, and I began to search my heart for how I truly felt about her. During that process is when I rediscovered my Dad.
Unfortunately for both of us, due to the overpowering strength of Maxine’s personality, my relationship with him had remained basically unchanged since the time I’d lived at home — warm, but still distant. It was nobody’s fault; it just was.
But now I had the opportunity to really get to know him; to truly know and appreciate him for the man he was; I finally began to see the similarities in our respective personalities — the good as well as the not-so-good. I could for the first time in my life say with conviction, “If there’s anything you like about the person I am, you can thank my Pop.” I was proud to realize how much we had in common.
As mentioned in that story I wrote five years ago, in a Father’s Day card I sent to my Dad sometime in the early 2000s, I added a hand-written sentiment, similar to the one Amy included in her card to me today. I transcribed the chorus from the song, Wind Beneath My Wings, not because I’m partial to cheesy songs, mind you, but because of one eloquently-crafted line from it that perfectly emulated the sentiment I wanted to deliver to my Dad that day:
Did you ever know you are my hero; you’re everything I would like to be?
I’d been thinking it for years, but was totally unaware that I’d never actually said it to him before. The next day he called me in tears. “Did you really mean that,” he sobbed, “Am I really your hero?”
I don’t want to take even a moment of your time here psychoanalyzing that moment in my father’s life. I don’t know if was really that surprised at the notion or merely caught off-guard that after all those years I would suddenly offer such a compliment. But I do know one thing; it changes a man when someone truly regards him as a hero, especially when he really doesn’t believe he’s earned the title.
I finally know how my Dad felt that day. I know what a humbling thing it is to truly experience the Biblical concept of having one’s children rise up and call you blessed.
Like I said, I’m a lucky guy.
finis
In what has now become somewhat my custom, I am once again taking a break in my current series, paying tribute to my recently-departed Father In-Law (an intermission, BTW, brought about by more than just the specific occasion of today’s post — and I’ll explain more about that later on), in order to pay a different kind of tribute; one marking what I consider to be somewhat of a watershed moment for me.
Today is Father’s Day; a day of wildly conflicting emotions for your truly.
Dad’s Day has always been an occasion in which I’ve spent time reflecting on the relationship I have with my own Father, one that has grown so much closer in the past ten years or so since the passing of my step-Mom, Maxine.
I can’t accurately describe just how special it’s been for me in recent years to receive the love and focused friendship that I have from the man whom I worshipped from afar for so many years, but whose attention seemed so unattainable when I was growing up.
Hmm; I guess I need to explain that last statement.
My Dad and I weren’t particularly close when I was a kid, although I never had any doubt that he loved me and appreciated me for whom I was. It’s just that there wasn’t enough of him to go around, what with him being virtually a single parent to five boys throughout much of my early childhood. And given my somewhat introverted personality, I was never the type to openly vie for his affections or attention.
He coached my elder brothers in Little League as well as being highly involved their Cub Scout troop activities; heck, he was even the president of the PTA for awhile. But by the time I had reached the age to be involved in those types of activities, my natural Mother was already well into the throes of Early-Onset Alzheimer’s disease. We were all in flux; those extra-curricular activities no longer had a place in our family’s life.
Within the next five years, my Mom passed away, my Dad remarried, and we moved to Southern California. My life underwent changes too numerous to recount here. I suffered considerably at the hand and tongue of Maxine, and my Pop was never the wiser. He was under enough pressure to keep a roof over our heads; I was more concerned with keeping mine, which I might not have if I made trouble for Maxine. I just decided he didn't need to know. I just kept quiet and lived with the abuse.
Ours was the quintessential Cats in the Cradle kind of father/son relationship. He wanted to spend time with me, but just couldn't find the time. But it was okay, really. I was realistic.
As time passed the passive nature I inherited from my Dad began to kick in and I grew surprisingly comfortable with the fact that he simply was who he was and never held him in contempt for it. In fact, I believe it was just that firm belief that he really did love me that kept me from going off the deep end during those confusing and emotionally-charged early teen years dealing with Maxine. However as I entered high school things slowly began to change.
I became involved in gymnastics in 10th grade and in relatively short order began to emerge as a successful athlete. My Dad attended nearly all of my local competitions in high school, sometimes with my step-Mom, but usually without. However when it came time for the CIF* Finals my senior year — the highest wrung in the ladder of high school athletic competition to which I could attain — he wasn’t there.
*California Interscholastic Federation
Unfortunately for me, CIF Finals were scheduled the same week as Maxine & Dad’s fifth wedding anniversary, which they’d planned to celebrate in Hawaii.
Sure, I understood; the arrangements had been made; the tickets purchased well in advance. It was Cats in the Cradle once again; but this time it really hurt.
I took first place on rings that night, and for all intents and purposes, validated my existence as a significant human being; I was no longer the under-achieving, pint-sized, boy who Maxine routinely told, “you’ll never amount to anything.” I was a champion; I had now accomplished something that no one would, or could, ever take away from me.
Call me narcissistic; call me overly-dramatic, but that moment, I believe, set the tone for the rest of my life. I won more than a medal that night; I won my dignity.
And the woman who branded those words into my young brain, along with the only man I’d ever wanted to emulate, weren’t there to see it.
What a bittersweet moment that was, and how sobering it is to realize only now that I have come full circle in understanding its true meaning in my life.
It’s important for me to note that unless you’ve read my blog for awhile, you may not realize that I don’t hate my Step-Mom, but have completely forgiven her for the way she treated me. And contrary to the tone of the last few paragraphs, I don’t blame her for anything, but in fact, appreciate the many lessons and practical applications she taught that have stayed with me throughout the years.
Old emotions, however, no matter how distant in the past, don’t exist in a vacuum. They may become augmented over time and/or diffused by forgiveness, but we never truly divorce them; they never truly go away. Some of them we even keep around like pets, feeding and nurturing them on a daily basis. However sometimes they need circumstances to resurface; sometimes reinforcing the forgiveness that changed their previous destructive course in our lives, other times, simply floating just above the brink of consciousness, soothing or tormenting our psyches, whatever the case my be.
Such is my frame of mind this Father’s Day.
It’s in the cards.
I’ve said it so many times it might as well be my mantra: I’m a lucky guy. Lucky to have had a taste of success in this life on a variety of levels; lucky to have a pair of kids who are well on their way to leading happy, successful lives in their own right; and damn lucky to have a wife who not only puts up with my shortcomings and goofiness, is simply a superstar in the eyes of nearly everyone who knows her.
Like most men, I’d like to think that I’m the go-to guy in my household, but I know better. I’ve never had a single worry about what would happen to Michelle if I met an untimely demise; she would be fine; she would be taken care of, financially; she would no doubt live out her life confidently and in full charge of her faculties. That’s just the way she is: a take-charge kinda gal; a scrappy, yet incredibly generous and giving soul. Apart from certain members of her family (whom like I said earlier, I’ll talk about another time), I’ve never seen a person who’s had any chance to known her who hasn’t felt completely at ease. I’m obviously biased, but I’m not stretching the truth here — everybody loves Michelle.
And while I am obviously buoyed by that fact, I’d have to say that I’m just as proud — or even more proud of the fact that so much of her has rubbed off on our kids, particularly, our daughter, Amy.
One of Michelle’s most astounding traits in my estimation, is her ability to procure greeting cards that offer the coolest design as well as the most poignant, heartfelt, perfectly worded sentiments. I honestly don’t know how she does it. I do okay in picking out cards, but every now and then I just have to settle for ones that are ‘okay’ and then attempt to offset the ‘cheese’ factor with a more appropriate hand-written addendum on the card.
But she never needs to resort to such unnecessary extra effort. She just signs ‘I love you’ and her name; the card says the rest — every.freaking.time.
Well, the good news is, she’s somehow mystically transferred that power to Amy. My daughter already had a string of greeting card hits several times over coming into to today, but this morning, when Michelle presented me with an envelope adorned with an Atlanta postmark, I knew it would be more of the same. What I didn’t know was that this time, Amy would truly hit it out of the park.
It’s little things
that make Dads heroes,
Things not seen…
Sacrifices made
while living out
each day’s routine.
It’s the little things a father does,
the things he knows he must,
the ‘being there’ when each day’s through,
the love that builds up trust.
And though there’s not a list
of everything he’s done,
the heart remembers
and gives thanks
for each and every one.
You’ve always been there for me —
and since Father’s Day is here,
I wanted you to know
how much I admire you,
how much I love you,
and how proud I am
that you’re my Dad.
My heart melted as I read those words, despite the sappiness, because I knew they were true.
And as if that wasn’t enough, she, unlike her Mother, didn’t stop there. She took a page out of her Pop’s book and added a lengthy, wonderful, killer hand-written note about how well she appreciated the bond that we share, and how every year that passes, our relationship grows stronger and stronger. I mean, for gawdsakes, how can you beat that?
Say what you mean to say
I started out this story with a point to make, and it wasn’t to rattle on emotionally about my bragging rights as someone lucky enough to be a part of a great family.
What I had today was an epiphany; an ah-ha moment. And I didn't arrive there by accident. I was preceded there by my Father; I just never realized before today how similar our respective paths had been.
I finally understood why my Dad responds to our relationship the way he does; I now know why he repeatedly reminds me that he loves me each and every time we talk on the phone.
Back in 2004, in my first and most prolific year of posting to this blog, I wrote a three-part series in response to the question asked by a dear friend and fellow-blogger, “Who was your Father?” In that story I explained in detail much of my early relationship with my Dad, as well as the basic gory details of my misadventures with Maxine. It was the first of my oft-mentioned allusions to Harry Chapin’s seminal 1974 hit Cats in the Cradle.
It’s highly unlikely I need to explain the gist of song’s message, so very apropos to father/son relationships in our day and age. But just in case you’re unfamiliar with it, simply put, its moral is that of the irony of learned behavior — more specifically — if you think you don’t have time for your kids now, beware; they probably won’t have time for you later. The concept that, ‘we all eventually become our parents’ plays a particularly key role in Chapin’s wonderfully astute but simply-crafted object lesson.
After I turned 40, my life changed a great deal. I did a lot of soul-searching; a lot of prospecting for perspective. A few years later, my StepMom, Maxine passed away, and I began to search my heart for how I truly felt about her. During that process is when I rediscovered my Dad.
Unfortunately for both of us, due to the overpowering strength of Maxine’s personality, my relationship with him had remained basically unchanged since the time I’d lived at home — warm, but still distant. It was nobody’s fault; it just was.
But now I had the opportunity to really get to know him; to truly know and appreciate him for the man he was; I finally began to see the similarities in our respective personalities — the good as well as the not-so-good. I could for the first time in my life say with conviction, “If there’s anything you like about the person I am, you can thank my Pop.” I was proud to realize how much we had in common.
As mentioned in that story I wrote five years ago, in a Father’s Day card I sent to my Dad sometime in the early 2000s, I added a hand-written sentiment, similar to the one Amy included in her card to me today. I transcribed the chorus from the song, Wind Beneath My Wings, not because I’m partial to cheesy songs, mind you, but because of one eloquently-crafted line from it that perfectly emulated the sentiment I wanted to deliver to my Dad that day:
Did you ever know you are my hero; you’re everything I would like to be?
I’d been thinking it for years, but was totally unaware that I’d never actually said it to him before. The next day he called me in tears. “Did you really mean that,” he sobbed, “Am I really your hero?”
I don’t want to take even a moment of your time here psychoanalyzing that moment in my father’s life. I don’t know if was really that surprised at the notion or merely caught off-guard that after all those years I would suddenly offer such a compliment. But I do know one thing; it changes a man when someone truly regards him as a hero, especially when he really doesn’t believe he’s earned the title.
I finally know how my Dad felt that day. I know what a humbling thing it is to truly experience the Biblical concept of having one’s children rise up and call you blessed.
Like I said, I’m a lucky guy.
finis
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Eagle Has Landed (Part I)
♫ What a drag it is getting old... ♪
I apologize in advance if at first blush I appear a little narcissistic here, but that’s really not what I’m going to say is about. It’s not about me; it’s about reality; a reality we all avoid but will never escape, no matter how far into the sand of our youthful lives we bury our heads.
Getting old really does suck — especially when you don't feel or ‘think’ old. But none of that matters when you're knockin’ on the door of 53 trips around the sun (like yours truly and his wonderful spouse); it may be nice to hear that you’re regarded by your co-workers as “the youngest old guy” they’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean beans where the rubber meets the road; it doesn’t change the one specific reality, that no matter how young you think or feel, 53 ain't young, baby. And when you're 53, that means your parents are probably 25 or so years older than that, which means that they're in a place in their lives where time is the most precious — and fleeting.
It means that they're in a place where they can leave you — for good.
And no matter how prepared you think you are; no matter how tough you think you might be — and especially in my case — no matter how emotionally indemnified from loss you assume your heart is (because after all, they're not your parents), I’m here to tell you that you are NEVER ready.
You can NEVER really handle it ‘like a man.’
You can NEVER stiffen your gut enough to withstand the punch that knocks the wind out of your sails.
You can NEVER know how horrible and helpless it feels to realize a relationship you've had with someone your entire adult life is coming to an abrupt and very final end, until it’s there, staring you in the face.
That’s how my week was.
Interview with an Unsung Hero
The only bright spot in my week from Hell happened seven days before my Father In-Law died, the morning following his first night in the hospital. It wasn’t exactly a day filled with good news. We had already learned that Dad C. was losing his race with cancer.
But while Michelle and her Mom were out Sunday morning picking up some things that Mom would need while spending extended time in the hospital with her husband, I had five hours alone with my the man — more concentrated time than we’d probably ever spent alone together in the 30-plus years I’d known him.
I realized this was an opportunity I’d likely never have again.
Y’see, I had questions; questions about Ed Carpenter. I wanted to know more about his career — a subject that I could have easily spent hours talking with him about every single day, but which it seemed we’d actually only spent minutes over the years discussing.
My Father In-Law was a significant cog in the wheel of U.S. History, but he’d never tell you that. “Just doing my job,” he’d say. I never once remember hearing him brag or boast about the work he did in the Space Program, or the fact that the GPS navigation units that are a now such a common part of our lives exist in significant part due to his efforts.
Nope, he wasn’t anything special.
The HELL he wasn’t!
I was a Space Program nut growing up in the 60s. The Apollo Program’s execution of President John F. Kennedy’s mandate to put a man on the moon before 1970 was the most compelling event of my early lifetime.
When Michelle and I got married I was totally stoked to learn of the fact that my new Father In-Law’s career was so closely tied to one of my all-time childhood passions. Nonetheless it was sometimes difficult (if not impossible) to get Ed to talk at length about his career.
In addition to his natural aww, shucks humility was the fact that most of the of the projects he worked on involved the military, and as such, many were classified. In keeping with his sense of duty he held the oath of secrecy he took on behalf of those projects in the very highest regard. He was truly a man of honor and integrity, and he flat-out didn’t give away secrets he was sworn to protect — even years after the fact.
But as much as I wanted to know more about the things he’d worked on in our early years together, you didn’t want to press the issue with this guy. He was the epitome of the “I could tell what I do, but then I’d have to kill ya” sort. And he said it with that glint in his eye that made you think, “yeah, he’s yankin’ my cord, but then again…maybe not…” And given that attitude — particularly back then — I wasn’t about to give him any push-back.
Smarter than the Av-R-age Bear
When I first met him, Ed Carpenter was a bear; an intimidating, burly, booming-baritone-voiced, walking figure of authority. He was also the father of the woman I wanted to marry. And though he granted my request for Michelle’s hand, throughout the first few years of our marriage, we generally spent very little time together. Frankly, I was terrified of the guy.
He was an important man with an important career in the Space Industry; an engineer for Rockwell International, arguably the leading technology contractor in the history of the Space Program, but particularly so throughout the 60s and 70’s. Rockwell was the primary manufacturer of the ginormous Saturn V rocket that powered all of the Apollo Program missions to the moon — including the all-important second stage (S-II), on which Ed worked.
He was the lead Test Conductor for the Saturn V’s S-II; which you’ve no doubt seen a million times over the years depicted in the NASA mission video as seen below. The S-II was responsible for a pivotal part of the rocket’s flight, allowing the space craft to climb to an altitude of 115 miles into the atmosphere, before the single S-IV engine cut in to actually break the Earth’s gravitational pull and power it into an orbital trajectory.
This was his Baby
Above is the famous mission video taken on unmanned Apollo test flights 4 and 6. The ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-II Interstage Staging’ and ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ depict the portions of rocket that my FIL was responsible for the success of (from either side). It was YEARS after the fact that I knew this famous piece of filmography was of his work. He just NEVER talked about it, voluntarily. Can ya believe THAT?
And in this clip, the previous ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ scene is shown in a rare and extended real-time version (the original video was filmed in slow motion), showing the S-II’s roll and descent toward the Earth.
And just in case you cant view the video, below is the action sequence referred to previously as screen capture images, as the Saturn V’s S-II Interstage Ring separates and tumbles back to the Earth. This famous scene was used in the Star Trek Enterprise TeeVee series’ opening credits. It was also used in an episode of the Star Trek original series. If Ed Carpenter had residual rights on that piece of film, he’d have died a very wealthy man.
This was the part of Ed’s career that he was most proud of — and with good reason. And despite the fact that he still didn’t care to talk about it all that much, it was the one thing he would talk about, if pressed, simply because so much of the Space Program is now in the public record, making it pretty much all fair game.
However, there were bookends to his Apollo career about which he wasn’t forthcoming at all. These were the stories I really wanted to hear; the things that you can’t learn much about no matter how much you Google or scour Wikipedia.
I didn’t get much on those subjects during our five-hour conversation one week before he died, but what I did get answered a lifetime of questions for me.
Next: Ed WHO?
I apologize in advance if at first blush I appear a little narcissistic here, but that’s really not what I’m going to say is about. It’s not about me; it’s about reality; a reality we all avoid but will never escape, no matter how far into the sand of our youthful lives we bury our heads.
Getting old really does suck — especially when you don't feel or ‘think’ old. But none of that matters when you're knockin’ on the door of 53 trips around the sun (like yours truly and his wonderful spouse); it may be nice to hear that you’re regarded by your co-workers as “the youngest old guy” they’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean beans where the rubber meets the road; it doesn’t change the one specific reality, that no matter how young you think or feel, 53 ain't young, baby. And when you're 53, that means your parents are probably 25 or so years older than that, which means that they're in a place in their lives where time is the most precious — and fleeting.
It means that they're in a place where they can leave you — for good.
And no matter how prepared you think you are; no matter how tough you think you might be — and especially in my case — no matter how emotionally indemnified from loss you assume your heart is (because after all, they're not your parents), I’m here to tell you that you are NEVER ready.
You can NEVER really handle it ‘like a man.’
You can NEVER stiffen your gut enough to withstand the punch that knocks the wind out of your sails.
You can NEVER know how horrible and helpless it feels to realize a relationship you've had with someone your entire adult life is coming to an abrupt and very final end, until it’s there, staring you in the face.
That’s how my week was.
Interview with an Unsung Hero
The only bright spot in my week from Hell happened seven days before my Father In-Law died, the morning following his first night in the hospital. It wasn’t exactly a day filled with good news. We had already learned that Dad C. was losing his race with cancer.
But while Michelle and her Mom were out Sunday morning picking up some things that Mom would need while spending extended time in the hospital with her husband, I had five hours alone with my the man — more concentrated time than we’d probably ever spent alone together in the 30-plus years I’d known him.
I realized this was an opportunity I’d likely never have again.
Y’see, I had questions; questions about Ed Carpenter. I wanted to know more about his career — a subject that I could have easily spent hours talking with him about every single day, but which it seemed we’d actually only spent minutes over the years discussing.
My Father In-Law was a significant cog in the wheel of U.S. History, but he’d never tell you that. “Just doing my job,” he’d say. I never once remember hearing him brag or boast about the work he did in the Space Program, or the fact that the GPS navigation units that are a now such a common part of our lives exist in significant part due to his efforts.
Nope, he wasn’t anything special.
The HELL he wasn’t!
I was a Space Program nut growing up in the 60s. The Apollo Program’s execution of President John F. Kennedy’s mandate to put a man on the moon before 1970 was the most compelling event of my early lifetime.
When Michelle and I got married I was totally stoked to learn of the fact that my new Father In-Law’s career was so closely tied to one of my all-time childhood passions. Nonetheless it was sometimes difficult (if not impossible) to get Ed to talk at length about his career.
In addition to his natural aww, shucks humility was the fact that most of the of the projects he worked on involved the military, and as such, many were classified. In keeping with his sense of duty he held the oath of secrecy he took on behalf of those projects in the very highest regard. He was truly a man of honor and integrity, and he flat-out didn’t give away secrets he was sworn to protect — even years after the fact.
But as much as I wanted to know more about the things he’d worked on in our early years together, you didn’t want to press the issue with this guy. He was the epitome of the “I could tell what I do, but then I’d have to kill ya” sort. And he said it with that glint in his eye that made you think, “yeah, he’s yankin’ my cord, but then again…maybe not…” And given that attitude — particularly back then — I wasn’t about to give him any push-back.
Smarter than the Av-R-age Bear
When I first met him, Ed Carpenter was a bear; an intimidating, burly, booming-baritone-voiced, walking figure of authority. He was also the father of the woman I wanted to marry. And though he granted my request for Michelle’s hand, throughout the first few years of our marriage, we generally spent very little time together. Frankly, I was terrified of the guy.
He was an important man with an important career in the Space Industry; an engineer for Rockwell International, arguably the leading technology contractor in the history of the Space Program, but particularly so throughout the 60s and 70’s. Rockwell was the primary manufacturer of the ginormous Saturn V rocket that powered all of the Apollo Program missions to the moon — including the all-important second stage (S-II), on which Ed worked.
He was the lead Test Conductor for the Saturn V’s S-II; which you’ve no doubt seen a million times over the years depicted in the NASA mission video as seen below. The S-II was responsible for a pivotal part of the rocket’s flight, allowing the space craft to climb to an altitude of 115 miles into the atmosphere, before the single S-IV engine cut in to actually break the Earth’s gravitational pull and power it into an orbital trajectory.
This was his Baby
Above is the famous mission video taken on unmanned Apollo test flights 4 and 6. The ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-II Interstage Staging’ and ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ depict the portions of rocket that my FIL was responsible for the success of (from either side). It was YEARS after the fact that I knew this famous piece of filmography was of his work. He just NEVER talked about it, voluntarily. Can ya believe THAT?
And in this clip, the previous ‘Apollo—Saturn V S-IV-B Staging’ scene is shown in a rare and extended real-time version (the original video was filmed in slow motion), showing the S-II’s roll and descent toward the Earth.
And just in case you cant view the video, below is the action sequence referred to previously as screen capture images, as the Saturn V’s S-II Interstage Ring separates and tumbles back to the Earth. This famous scene was used in the Star Trek Enterprise TeeVee series’ opening credits. It was also used in an episode of the Star Trek original series. If Ed Carpenter had residual rights on that piece of film, he’d have died a very wealthy man.
This was the part of Ed’s career that he was most proud of — and with good reason. And despite the fact that he still didn’t care to talk about it all that much, it was the one thing he would talk about, if pressed, simply because so much of the Space Program is now in the public record, making it pretty much all fair game.
However, there were bookends to his Apollo career about which he wasn’t forthcoming at all. These were the stories I really wanted to hear; the things that you can’t learn much about no matter how much you Google or scour Wikipedia.
I didn’t get much on those subjects during our five-hour conversation one week before he died, but what I did get answered a lifetime of questions for me.
Next: Ed WHO?
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Eagle Has Landed (Prologue)
Welcome to Hellville
There is no joy in Mudville...Nashville...Nolensville, or whatever the hell, ‘Ville’ it is in which I live. As a matter of fact, ‘Hellville’ is probably the most apt description of the place in which my family and I have resided over the past week and-a-half.
The bad news we received a week ago last Saturday came to fruition in the wee hours of this past Sunday morning, June 7, 2009, and the way it has affected me makes me feel even worse than I could have imagined.
My Father In-Law, Ed Carpenter, moved on from this world, to his new digs in Heaven, sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 A.M. CST Sunday morning, ending a long and painful battle with a variety of cancers that began sweeping his body about three years ago. He would have celebrated his 78th birthday next month.
Having successfully battled various skin cancers throughout his adult life, Ed was no stranger to a disease, once quite accurately referred to as ‘consumption.’
He was a tough cookie; a real fighter. But this was one battle he just wasn’t destined to win.
Skin cancer couldn’t stop him; two separate heart bypass surgeries couldn’t knock him down. He took a lickin’ and kept on tickin,’ y’all.
However three years ago, he noticed some blood in his urine. Cancer had this time established a foothold — one that it would never relinquish.
No matter how aggressively or quickly the doctors moved to get ahead of and treat his disease, Ed’s cancer always seemed to be one step ahead of the game.
It started out in his prostate and bladder; they irradiated this and scraped that and thought they'd gotten it.
Then it showed up in his colon; they opened him up, cut it out and thought they'd gotten it.
Then it returned once again to his bladder and also latched on to one of his kidneys; they were preparing to go in and surgically remove those infected organs, hoping to finally catch up with this Speed Racer Cancer, but then came a week ago last Saturday.
Hell Week Begins
Michelle’s parents were experiencing a trying time. Ever since Ed’s colon cancer surgery in February, his overall health had rapidly regressed. His sudden back pain, continued weight loss and overall weakness were becoming an increasing concern.
In order to even survive this proposed bladder/kidney surgery, it was imperative that Ed at least make some strides toward strengthening his constitution; instead, however, it appeared things were going in the opposite direction.
But even prior to his colon surgery, the indicators were there. Just before that time he had developed what was diagnosed as shingles, an extremely painful viral nerve-related disorder that made his shoulders and back painful to even the slightest touch or pressure.
He’d also recently begun experiencing what was thought to be sciatica, bringing with it a burning pain that shot down through the hips and into his legs. But to me, someone who has been no stranger to back pain or sciatica, it all seemed too sudden. Why now? Why would he be having all these problems at once? It just didn’t make sense.
Before they scheduled the surgery, his bladder oncologist, who would be performing the organ removal, wanted to call Ed in for a bone scan and hopefully surmise the source of his back pain. The diagnosis was acute arthritis, which sort of made sense, but not enough to convince me that his problems weren’t being caused by something more serious.
A week ago last Saturday, in an effort to give her Mom a break from cooking, Michelle invited her folks over to our house for dinner. However her Dad was already feeling so poorly that by the time they arrived, he had to go straight to the front bedroom and lay down. He was in excruciating pain. His back hurt so badly that any movement for him at all was nearly unbearable.
Michelle and her Mom were obviously worried. That diagnosis of arthritis rang more hollow each minute we witnessed his pitiful condition. We all began to see the handwriting on the wall. Ed was losing the race.
Michelle suggested that we take him to the hospital, where at least they could make him comfortable, and hopefully figure out what was going on with his back. They took him on while I stayed behind at home.
Michelle and her Mom stayed until he was finally checked in to the ER, which was unusually packed for a Saturday night. I waited up until they arrived back home well after midnight. They were obviously drained, both emotionally and physically. I told Michelle I would stand wait for the call that was to come from the hospital, giving us an update on her father’s status.
About 4:30 A.M. that call came, and it wasn’t good news. The nurse reported that the CT scan they took indicated that the cancer had spread, but that we would need to wait until later that morning to get the specifics from the doctor.
Uncomfortably Numb
When the horrible truth was revealed, I remember the feeling as being somewhat similar to that of the time I broke my back in a gymnastics meet and was myself rushed to the Emergency Room. I had suffered a compression fracture of my fifth lumbar vertebrae, near the tailbone. Ironically, they gave me morphine, just as they were now giving it to my Father In-Law. However it wasn’t the circumstantial coincidence that I was thinking about at that moment, but rather the memory of the sensation.
I just felt numb, but not to the extent that I couldn’t feel the pain of my injury; the experience was much more akin to a feeling of helplessness. I was comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd might say — but certainly not comforted. The pain was still there; I could definitely feel it, but it was sort of like listening to on-hold music; you can hear it, but it’s somewhat masked; muffled; you recognize the melody, but you can’t quite connect with it — as if it were just out of the reach of your senses. It’s a weird feeling, but the most important aspect of it to me was that while I may not have been fully aware of my pain, I was still very well aware that something was wrong — very wrong.
Ed’s cancer had now spread throughout his body. In addition to his bladder and kidney, it was now in his liver and spine as well — the latter of which was indeed the source of his excruciating back pain.
The surgery was called off. The race was now hopelessly lost; the cancer had lapped the field and was heading in for the checkered flag. They gave my Father In-Law 4-8 weeks.
It turned out to be 4-8 days.
Next: What a drag it is, getting old…
There is no joy in Mudville...Nashville...Nolensville, or whatever the hell, ‘Ville’ it is in which I live. As a matter of fact, ‘Hellville’ is probably the most apt description of the place in which my family and I have resided over the past week and-a-half.
The bad news we received a week ago last Saturday came to fruition in the wee hours of this past Sunday morning, June 7, 2009, and the way it has affected me makes me feel even worse than I could have imagined.
My Father In-Law, Ed Carpenter, moved on from this world, to his new digs in Heaven, sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 A.M. CST Sunday morning, ending a long and painful battle with a variety of cancers that began sweeping his body about three years ago. He would have celebrated his 78th birthday next month.
Having successfully battled various skin cancers throughout his adult life, Ed was no stranger to a disease, once quite accurately referred to as ‘consumption.’
He was a tough cookie; a real fighter. But this was one battle he just wasn’t destined to win.
Skin cancer couldn’t stop him; two separate heart bypass surgeries couldn’t knock him down. He took a lickin’ and kept on tickin,’ y’all.
However three years ago, he noticed some blood in his urine. Cancer had this time established a foothold — one that it would never relinquish.
No matter how aggressively or quickly the doctors moved to get ahead of and treat his disease, Ed’s cancer always seemed to be one step ahead of the game.
It started out in his prostate and bladder; they irradiated this and scraped that and thought they'd gotten it.
Then it showed up in his colon; they opened him up, cut it out and thought they'd gotten it.
Then it returned once again to his bladder and also latched on to one of his kidneys; they were preparing to go in and surgically remove those infected organs, hoping to finally catch up with this Speed Racer Cancer, but then came a week ago last Saturday.
Hell Week Begins
Michelle’s parents were experiencing a trying time. Ever since Ed’s colon cancer surgery in February, his overall health had rapidly regressed. His sudden back pain, continued weight loss and overall weakness were becoming an increasing concern.
In order to even survive this proposed bladder/kidney surgery, it was imperative that Ed at least make some strides toward strengthening his constitution; instead, however, it appeared things were going in the opposite direction.
But even prior to his colon surgery, the indicators were there. Just before that time he had developed what was diagnosed as shingles, an extremely painful viral nerve-related disorder that made his shoulders and back painful to even the slightest touch or pressure.
He’d also recently begun experiencing what was thought to be sciatica, bringing with it a burning pain that shot down through the hips and into his legs. But to me, someone who has been no stranger to back pain or sciatica, it all seemed too sudden. Why now? Why would he be having all these problems at once? It just didn’t make sense.
Before they scheduled the surgery, his bladder oncologist, who would be performing the organ removal, wanted to call Ed in for a bone scan and hopefully surmise the source of his back pain. The diagnosis was acute arthritis, which sort of made sense, but not enough to convince me that his problems weren’t being caused by something more serious.
A week ago last Saturday, in an effort to give her Mom a break from cooking, Michelle invited her folks over to our house for dinner. However her Dad was already feeling so poorly that by the time they arrived, he had to go straight to the front bedroom and lay down. He was in excruciating pain. His back hurt so badly that any movement for him at all was nearly unbearable.
Michelle and her Mom were obviously worried. That diagnosis of arthritis rang more hollow each minute we witnessed his pitiful condition. We all began to see the handwriting on the wall. Ed was losing the race.
Michelle suggested that we take him to the hospital, where at least they could make him comfortable, and hopefully figure out what was going on with his back. They took him on while I stayed behind at home.
Michelle and her Mom stayed until he was finally checked in to the ER, which was unusually packed for a Saturday night. I waited up until they arrived back home well after midnight. They were obviously drained, both emotionally and physically. I told Michelle I would stand wait for the call that was to come from the hospital, giving us an update on her father’s status.
About 4:30 A.M. that call came, and it wasn’t good news. The nurse reported that the CT scan they took indicated that the cancer had spread, but that we would need to wait until later that morning to get the specifics from the doctor.
Uncomfortably Numb
When the horrible truth was revealed, I remember the feeling as being somewhat similar to that of the time I broke my back in a gymnastics meet and was myself rushed to the Emergency Room. I had suffered a compression fracture of my fifth lumbar vertebrae, near the tailbone. Ironically, they gave me morphine, just as they were now giving it to my Father In-Law. However it wasn’t the circumstantial coincidence that I was thinking about at that moment, but rather the memory of the sensation.
I just felt numb, but not to the extent that I couldn’t feel the pain of my injury; the experience was much more akin to a feeling of helplessness. I was comfortably numb, as Pink Floyd might say — but certainly not comforted. The pain was still there; I could definitely feel it, but it was sort of like listening to on-hold music; you can hear it, but it’s somewhat masked; muffled; you recognize the melody, but you can’t quite connect with it — as if it were just out of the reach of your senses. It’s a weird feeling, but the most important aspect of it to me was that while I may not have been fully aware of my pain, I was still very well aware that something was wrong — very wrong.
Ed’s cancer had now spread throughout his body. In addition to his bladder and kidney, it was now in his liver and spine as well — the latter of which was indeed the source of his excruciating back pain.
The surgery was called off. The race was now hopelessly lost; the cancer had lapped the field and was heading in for the checkered flag. They gave my Father In-Law 4-8 weeks.
It turned out to be 4-8 days.
Next: What a drag it is, getting old…
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I’m on Staycation
"Hey you know, the first time I tried to talk to you, you embarrassed me. So I teased you a little bit which maybe I shouldn't have done, so I'm sorry. And now you're sitting over there playing with your knife, trying to frighten me - which you're doing a good job...The preceding isn't just dude ranch hand-for-a-week, Billy Crystal’s ‘Mitch,’ pressing his luck with Jack Palance’s gristled cowboy, ‘Curley,’ in one of my all-time favorite flicks, 1991’s City Slickers; no, today, it's me, giving life a two-handed chest-push and saying, “Step back, Jack.”
But if you're gonna kill me, get on with it; if not, shut the hell up - I'm on vacation."
For the next seven days I’m the one callin’ the shots. I’m tired of being tired and mentally beat-down by the Man. Sure, I’ve got things to do, but I’m gonna do them on my own schedule. I’m taking a week off of work to do some more work, but on my own terms and at my own pace; neither will I be under the thumb of activity or travel schedules during this working holiday; Michelle and I aren’t going anywhere. However we both have agendas that we plan to stick to and goals we intend to accomplish — although mine will be a site bit looser than hers.
So, bite me, o shrieking banshee-of-an-alarm-clock. Up your nose with a rubber hose, rush hour traffic. Kiss my pitootie, mind-numbing staff meetings. You’ve all tried to kill me but failed; so shut the hell up — I’m on staycation.
finis
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Bad Dream
Ever been scared shitless?
Ever been so scared you think you’re gonna crawl out of your skin? Ever wonder what it is that could generate a nightmare so emotionally devastating that it forces you out of bed at 4:30 AM, pacing the house and sobbing uncontrollably?
I’ve always heard it said that you should write down the details of your most vivid dreams immediately after awakening from them, as the memories are so fleeting that they only last for minutes, so I’m doing that now. However this is one dream I won’t be forgetting for awhile, even though I desperately wish I could.
I dreamed my wife said she was leaving me.
I guess those who know me, and especially those who know my better half, Michelle, realize just how true that little euphemism really is in my case. It’s no secret to anyone who has ever known us as a couple just how incredible she is, not only as a person, but as the completer of my character; the essence of my happiness; the guardian of my viability as a functioning entity.
I’ve always had a pretty healthy self-image, but she’s the reason why. I figure if someone as special as Michelle could choose a nimrod like me over all the other men in world, well there must be something okay about me too; I’m not all that certain I believe there really is, but apparently it must be so.
Is it any wonder then I awoke so terrified, so shaken to the core, so devastated by such a horrible vision? As a general rule I don’t have bad dreams. I rarely dream at all; even less often am I awakened by one.
This one was a real doozy, however: disjointed, without any real sense of story or reason; just a couple of scenes, really, with the climatic one featuring me behind the wheel of a huge RV, winding down a country road, and Michelle delivering her usual back-seat driver oratory.
However my driving wasn’t the real source of the obvious tension between us at the time. Rather it was my attempt to pry out of her whatever it was that seemed to be bothering her, and her refusal to discuss it. It’s a scene we’ve acted out numerous times in our 30-plus years together, although, thankfully, not often; and very thankfully, never like this.
Generally, Michelle pulls no punches whenever she’s got a gripe with me. She’s the kind that lays awake in bed at 2AM with something on her mind, then calls out, “you up?” and (whether you are or not) starts airing the grievances. She rarely holds things in.
But sometimes…
Sometimes she gives me ‘that look’ or delivers ‘the tone’ that sends the alarm bells clanging in my soul. Something’s bugging her, and it usually involves me. I try to tread lightly whenever those situations crop up — but I never run from them. Maybe I should sometimes, but nope, not me. I always assume the worst. I assume that it’s something major that I’ve done to piss her off, and I want to right the wrong before it somehow becomes a festering sore that might someday become a threat to our marriage.
I once came far to close to losing her — and that mistake was of my own volition. I never want that to happen again.
But don’t get me wrong; I don’t live in fear. There are no abandonment skeletons in my closet. I spend less time being afraid, worried, or concerned than just about anyone I know. I guess that’s why it’s so devastating when something like this sneaks up from behind and takes my knees out from under me. This dream was as shocking as it was disconcerting. I’m not in the habit of being fearful about anything. God has blessed me above anything I deserve, in all aspects of my life. My heart is constantly filled with gratefulness — never fear.
But there I was, struggling to keep this huge boat-of-a-vehicle on that windy country road. I felt totally anxious; out of control. Perhaps the anxiety I felt about keeping the vehicle on the road was a reflection of my state of mind about Michelle, who just sat there on the passenger side with a faraway look that spoke louder than words.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I pleaded.
“I’m fine,” she deadpanned. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I can’t stand it when you won’t tell me what’s bothering you!” I responded earnestly. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“In a few weeks it won’t matter…” she muttered.
Then I remember feeling as though my head had burst unto flames; I lost control of my emotions as I nearly lost control of the Winnebago.
“Are you leaving me? I gasped. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes, AJ, I’m leaving. I’ve decided.” She said sternly, peering at me with ‘another look’ I’ve also come to know over the years; a look that every woman possesses — the one that resembles what happens whenever that X-Men dude in the removes his visor; a look that could cut a man in half.
“What? Why?” I demanded. “What did I do?!”
“I just don’t think you can hold it all together,” she said matter-of-factly. “You just can’t be what I need you to be.”
OhhhhhMiGod. Is there anything more devastating a phrase that could be uttered by a wife to her husband?
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I screamed. “No! We have to talk about this! I’m pulling the car over!”
As the Winne hit the shoulder and ground to a screeching halt, I sat up in bed, terrified. I ripped the covers off and sprang to my feet, not fully realizing what had happened, but somewhat relieved that it must have been a dream.
However that realization wasn’t much help to me, emotionally. I walked out of our bedroom and proceeded to pace the house, frantically, in the dark for the next ten minutes. I was absolutely beside myself; inconsolable. How could I have had such a dream? Did I secretly, inwardly fear that Michelle will leave me, or was it just ‘Pancho’s Revenge,’ resulting from a combination of the Mexican food, margarita, and Starbucks mocha I’d had for dinner?
Like I said before, I may be a dreamer personality-wise, but I rarely dream — at least ones that I can remember; so I just as rarely spend any time trying to interpret them. I don’t and never have believed that dreams are anything more than the subconscious confluence of miscellaneous brain activity. I don’t believe they foretell anything. That’s why I’ve never really been frightened by a nightmare. I simply refuse to live in fear.
But I gotta tellya, boys and girls, this one scared me.
Again, I don’t believe it means anything except to remind me of how much I love, need, and adore Michelle. But beyond that I suppose it may mean at least one other thing; how horrified I am of the thought of life without her.
We’ve talked about it quite a bit over the years. Although we’d definitely prefer to die together — at a very advanced age, mind you — Michelle insists that she could get along alright by herself if and when something ever happens to me. She says she doubts that she’d remarry.
On the other hand, bigawd, she knows her husband. She knows what a hapless train wreck I’d be if her life were to end prematurely. She has told me repeatedly that if she was to go first that she would want me to seek out someone else to marry. She knows I could never be happy alone.
But while I really can’t argue with that, I know that while I might be able to find another companion, I know that I could never find anyone that could replace her. We are truly one flesh. That will never change.
Well, crap.
I sat right down and wrote all this out, thinking it would make me feel better.
So much for that.
finis
Ever been so scared you think you’re gonna crawl out of your skin? Ever wonder what it is that could generate a nightmare so emotionally devastating that it forces you out of bed at 4:30 AM, pacing the house and sobbing uncontrollably?
I’ve always heard it said that you should write down the details of your most vivid dreams immediately after awakening from them, as the memories are so fleeting that they only last for minutes, so I’m doing that now. However this is one dream I won’t be forgetting for awhile, even though I desperately wish I could.
I dreamed my wife said she was leaving me.
I guess those who know me, and especially those who know my better half, Michelle, realize just how true that little euphemism really is in my case. It’s no secret to anyone who has ever known us as a couple just how incredible she is, not only as a person, but as the completer of my character; the essence of my happiness; the guardian of my viability as a functioning entity.
I’ve always had a pretty healthy self-image, but she’s the reason why. I figure if someone as special as Michelle could choose a nimrod like me over all the other men in world, well there must be something okay about me too; I’m not all that certain I believe there really is, but apparently it must be so.
Is it any wonder then I awoke so terrified, so shaken to the core, so devastated by such a horrible vision? As a general rule I don’t have bad dreams. I rarely dream at all; even less often am I awakened by one.
This one was a real doozy, however: disjointed, without any real sense of story or reason; just a couple of scenes, really, with the climatic one featuring me behind the wheel of a huge RV, winding down a country road, and Michelle delivering her usual back-seat driver oratory.
However my driving wasn’t the real source of the obvious tension between us at the time. Rather it was my attempt to pry out of her whatever it was that seemed to be bothering her, and her refusal to discuss it. It’s a scene we’ve acted out numerous times in our 30-plus years together, although, thankfully, not often; and very thankfully, never like this.
Generally, Michelle pulls no punches whenever she’s got a gripe with me. She’s the kind that lays awake in bed at 2AM with something on her mind, then calls out, “you up?” and (whether you are or not) starts airing the grievances. She rarely holds things in.
But sometimes…
Sometimes she gives me ‘that look’ or delivers ‘the tone’ that sends the alarm bells clanging in my soul. Something’s bugging her, and it usually involves me. I try to tread lightly whenever those situations crop up — but I never run from them. Maybe I should sometimes, but nope, not me. I always assume the worst. I assume that it’s something major that I’ve done to piss her off, and I want to right the wrong before it somehow becomes a festering sore that might someday become a threat to our marriage.
I once came far to close to losing her — and that mistake was of my own volition. I never want that to happen again.
But don’t get me wrong; I don’t live in fear. There are no abandonment skeletons in my closet. I spend less time being afraid, worried, or concerned than just about anyone I know. I guess that’s why it’s so devastating when something like this sneaks up from behind and takes my knees out from under me. This dream was as shocking as it was disconcerting. I’m not in the habit of being fearful about anything. God has blessed me above anything I deserve, in all aspects of my life. My heart is constantly filled with gratefulness — never fear.
But there I was, struggling to keep this huge boat-of-a-vehicle on that windy country road. I felt totally anxious; out of control. Perhaps the anxiety I felt about keeping the vehicle on the road was a reflection of my state of mind about Michelle, who just sat there on the passenger side with a faraway look that spoke louder than words.
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” I pleaded.
“I’m fine,” she deadpanned. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I can’t stand it when you won’t tell me what’s bothering you!” I responded earnestly. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“In a few weeks it won’t matter…” she muttered.
Then I remember feeling as though my head had burst unto flames; I lost control of my emotions as I nearly lost control of the Winnebago.
“Are you leaving me? I gasped. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes, AJ, I’m leaving. I’ve decided.” She said sternly, peering at me with ‘another look’ I’ve also come to know over the years; a look that every woman possesses — the one that resembles what happens whenever that X-Men dude in the removes his visor; a look that could cut a man in half.
“What? Why?” I demanded. “What did I do?!”
“I just don’t think you can hold it all together,” she said matter-of-factly. “You just can’t be what I need you to be.”
OhhhhhMiGod. Is there anything more devastating a phrase that could be uttered by a wife to her husband?
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I screamed. “No! We have to talk about this! I’m pulling the car over!”
As the Winne hit the shoulder and ground to a screeching halt, I sat up in bed, terrified. I ripped the covers off and sprang to my feet, not fully realizing what had happened, but somewhat relieved that it must have been a dream.
However that realization wasn’t much help to me, emotionally. I walked out of our bedroom and proceeded to pace the house, frantically, in the dark for the next ten minutes. I was absolutely beside myself; inconsolable. How could I have had such a dream? Did I secretly, inwardly fear that Michelle will leave me, or was it just ‘Pancho’s Revenge,’ resulting from a combination of the Mexican food, margarita, and Starbucks mocha I’d had for dinner?
Like I said before, I may be a dreamer personality-wise, but I rarely dream — at least ones that I can remember; so I just as rarely spend any time trying to interpret them. I don’t and never have believed that dreams are anything more than the subconscious confluence of miscellaneous brain activity. I don’t believe they foretell anything. That’s why I’ve never really been frightened by a nightmare. I simply refuse to live in fear.
But I gotta tellya, boys and girls, this one scared me.
Again, I don’t believe it means anything except to remind me of how much I love, need, and adore Michelle. But beyond that I suppose it may mean at least one other thing; how horrified I am of the thought of life without her.
We’ve talked about it quite a bit over the years. Although we’d definitely prefer to die together — at a very advanced age, mind you — Michelle insists that she could get along alright by herself if and when something ever happens to me. She says she doubts that she’d remarry.
On the other hand, bigawd, she knows her husband. She knows what a hapless train wreck I’d be if her life were to end prematurely. She has told me repeatedly that if she was to go first that she would want me to seek out someone else to marry. She knows I could never be happy alone.
But while I really can’t argue with that, I know that while I might be able to find another companion, I know that I could never find anyone that could replace her. We are truly one flesh. That will never change.
Well, crap.
I sat right down and wrote all this out, thinking it would make me feel better.
So much for that.
finis
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
It’s Just Another Kind of Grass
Thank you, Mister Mayer
Twitter, as it has become with so many other folks, is now a regular and important part of my life — sometimes to the unfortunate end that it can be all-consuming. That’s not always a good thing when you have a bent toward stints of obsession like I do.
I’m trying my best to overcome it, but the Twit-o-holic that I have become has wreaked havoc on my blog-posting habits, which were sporadic at best even prior to the point last summer when I first began dabbling in this hottest of social media pool-parties.
As is typical of Twitter newbs, it took me awhile to get the hang of dispensing anything of value in within the considerable constraints of a 140-character limit. For someone as typically wordy as I am, that seemed tantamount to asking Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling in a dozen strokes.
So I watched and followed the apparent ‘masters’ of the medium, and soon began to learn the power of brevity. I certainly haven’t figured it out completely — and probably never will — but amongst its many other benefits, Twitter has been a tremendous aid in making me think about what I say, maximizing the impact of my words, and helping me to convey my thoughts more succinctly. Such constraints can drastically change the way we think about telling a story.
This weekend, my way of looking at the words that make up the story of my marriage changed immeasurably, thanks to a Twitter ‘celeb’ who put forth a challenge that I found to be a fabulous exercise in the art of storytelling.
Singer/Songwriter John Mayer is one of the more significant popular music artists to have embraced Twitter thus far. And while most of his conversations appear to be directed to the small group of friends and family he follows, on Sunday he actively pitched the entire Twitterverse with a challenge based upon a quote from author Ernest Hemingway, whom Mayer asserted, “once claimed he could write a great story in six words or less. His story: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’”
While admitting that he wasn’t the first person to invoke Hemingway’s feat of storytelling brevity, Mayer surmised that Twitter would be the ideal place to do so, and he was right; I mean, what better forum in which to tell a truly ‘short’ story?
I was immediately intrigued when I saw Mayer’s challenge, however it was only in passing, as I was making a last quick check of my email and friend’s tweets as my wife Michelle and I were preparing to check out of the Gaylord Opryland Hotel on Monday, following a weekend celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary, which actually happens to be today, St. Patrick’s Day.
With it being our 30th, we naturally had planned to take the day off from work, but decided to augment our celebration with a hotel getaway over the weekend, maximizing our time, and making it a truly momentous occasion (which, if I may boast just a little, in this day and age, it IS).
Quite rightfully, my attention was focused upon Michelle, so I didn’t really have the opportunity to sit down and craft my own version of Hemingway’s six-word soliloquy.
I mean, who would you rather pay attention to?
However later that evening, after we were back home and settled in, I returned to Mayer’s Twitter page to see his comments about what others had come up with. Most of the ones he posted I thought were quite good; to wit:
@stevesalkin: Home is not home to me.
@Vincenza72: At least I got the dog.
@mytimetoshine: This time, I won't look down.
@taylorswift13 (yes, that Taylor Swift): My diary is read by everyone.
Mayer’s own entry, which sort of explains why he’s the songwriter and we the hacks, was typical John:
This heart didn't come with instructions.
But the one I especially liked, was such because it could have easily been penned by my own wife:
@DailyChameleon: True love: He's shorter than me.
My Six-Word Story
Unfortunately, due to indecision on whether or not I should try to throw my hat into the ring, not to mention the fact that coming up with a concept and THEN distilling it into six words was indeed a pretty daunting task, I thought…and thought…AND thought about what I might say until late in the evening — well beyond the time John Mayer curtailed his posts on the stories he’d received.
I could have thrown something out there, but I really wanted it to be a story, not just a tagline. I came up with, I can’t make this stuff up, but relented in posting it; again, a nice thought, but not enough substance behind the phrase.
Then it hit me; something based upon the saying that Michelle has long since adopted as her personal philosophy in light of what we’ve been through in our thirty-year trek together.
It was a piece of advice she had offered someone just 24 hours earlier.
But first a bit of background…
30somethings
Sunday evening at the Opryland Hotel, our hand was somewhat forced in choosing where we were to enjoy our ‘big dinner’ — the one in which we would officially celebrate our 30-year milestone at one of the four signature, really nice, and fairly pricey in-house restaurants featured in the sprawling hotel complex.
I’ve been a sucker for Italian Food my whole life, and Michelle enjoys it as well, so we’d planned to dine that evening at the well-reviewed Ristorante Volare. However to our dismay, upon attempting to make reservations for the evening, we learned that the Volare would be closed Sunday night, due ostensibly to the current economic downturn. I learned that the hotel’s normal 70-80% occupancy rate for a typical Sunday was down to a mere 12% that day.
We certainly hadn’t noticed any lack of folks on hand when we arrived Saturday, however. Following a busy end-week (Thursday thru Saturday), the hotel indeed enjoyed its usual compliment of guests attending the various events and conferences that are the lifeblood of its existence. However the difference in these current tougher economic times is that people aren’t staying over that extra day for pleasure as they often did; they come into the hotel on business, a conference, etc, and when that business is concluded, they’re out the door; hence, the considerably lighter occupancy on Sunday.
The hotel therefore determined that it wasn’t worth having all four of their signature restaurants open with such a low potential clientele for the evening, so they decided that only one, the world-famous Old Hickory Steakhouse would be accepting reservations for dinner.
While we were obviously disappointed at first, I had always wondered about the Old Hickory. Located in the hotel’s ‘Delta’ quadrant (Trekkie-pun intended), it offers their finest dining experience, featuring as one would expect, a pricey-but-impressive array of à la carte entrees: steaks, chops, chicken and seafood, with the greatest emphasis of course on their world-class steaks and accompanying sauces.
To say it was a little beyond our normal price range would be an understatement; nevertheless, we figured 30 year anniversaries don’t come around too often, so we went for it — and we were oh so glad we did.
The meal and the ambiance were worth every penny. We decided to go for the Old Hickory's signature offering: the 8 oz Fillet Mignon; it was like buttah.
But as incredible was the food was, it was kinda fun being the center of attention too. Y’see, when I was making reservations earlier that afternoon, I just happened to mention that we were celebrating our 30th, and as a result, from the receptionist’s first greeting and throughout the rest of the evening, the staff went out of their way to congratulate us many times over. Our server even went so far as to mention the fact to the couples occupying the tables on either side of ours, both of which it turned out, were newlyweds on their honeymoon.
Michelle took the opportunity to pass on her one-sentence testimony for a long and successful marriage as each of the couples stopped by our table on their way out. Her advice was simple: “The one thing I’ve learned is that the grass isn’t greener on the other side — it’s just another kind of grass.”
What that means is that it’s important to realize, when things get tough in your marriage, not only is there no guarantee that life would be better with a change of scenery, it may not even be all that different when all is said and done.
Michelle and I endured a tremendous amount of hardship, both emotionally and financially in our 30 years together; stuff that most people these days wouldn’t think twice about ending a marriage over. I didn’t make enough money; she was unresponsive to me emotionally; I had an affair; our mortgage went into foreclosure; we reached a crossroads. Our marriage was a train wreck. We had to look within ourselves and decide whether or not the work it was going to take to salvage our relationship was worth the effort. We decided that it was.
The cost I counted was in learning that the grass I had been longing for through my unfaithfulness wasn’t what I thought it would be. For Michelle’s part, she realized that the life-altering thought of being a single Mom and being alone for the first time wasn’t quite so liberating as it first appeared when she self-assuredly prepared herself to counter my act of rebellion with one of her own.
This is the backdrop to Michelle’s little ditty, not that it’s often explained in casual conversation for obvious reasons; Michelle certainly didn’t offer any elaboration in passing it on to those young couples we met at dinner on Sunday evening.
However it did spark a powerful, strangely satisfying conversation between the two of us, as we strolled the Opryland Hotel grounds after leaving the restaurant.
I am still amazed that my wife truly considers what we went through a positive thing, and that she harbors no resentment toward me for all the pain I caused. She considers it worth it because of the way it changed her; the way it forced her to grow up, to be less idealistic, and in her words, to “get scrappy.”
She says that if we hadn’t gone through those things; if we hadn’t fought back from the possibility of losing everything — emotionally and financially — that she wouldn’t have become the person she is today.
And quite frankly, she really likes that person now.
Now that you know the rest of the story…
So now that you know the background, perhaps you’ll better understand my own version of Michelle’s personal mantra, told Hemingway-style.
Monday night, as I thought about those conversations at and following dinner 24 hours earlier, I finally came up with my own take on John Mayer’s six-word Twitter challenge, based on the bitter reality I had faced after seeing the grass on the other side up close and personal.
It’s a story that may never be published, but now that it’s been written, can never be taken away from me; forever reminding me what I learned years ago when I nearly lost something I didn’t truly know I had:
@ajinnashville: That ‘other’ grass wasn’t even green.
finis
Twitter, as it has become with so many other folks, is now a regular and important part of my life — sometimes to the unfortunate end that it can be all-consuming. That’s not always a good thing when you have a bent toward stints of obsession like I do.
I’m trying my best to overcome it, but the Twit-o-holic that I have become has wreaked havoc on my blog-posting habits, which were sporadic at best even prior to the point last summer when I first began dabbling in this hottest of social media pool-parties.
As is typical of Twitter newbs, it took me awhile to get the hang of dispensing anything of value in within the considerable constraints of a 140-character limit. For someone as typically wordy as I am, that seemed tantamount to asking Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling in a dozen strokes.
So I watched and followed the apparent ‘masters’ of the medium, and soon began to learn the power of brevity. I certainly haven’t figured it out completely — and probably never will — but amongst its many other benefits, Twitter has been a tremendous aid in making me think about what I say, maximizing the impact of my words, and helping me to convey my thoughts more succinctly. Such constraints can drastically change the way we think about telling a story.
This weekend, my way of looking at the words that make up the story of my marriage changed immeasurably, thanks to a Twitter ‘celeb’ who put forth a challenge that I found to be a fabulous exercise in the art of storytelling.
Singer/Songwriter John Mayer is one of the more significant popular music artists to have embraced Twitter thus far. And while most of his conversations appear to be directed to the small group of friends and family he follows, on Sunday he actively pitched the entire Twitterverse with a challenge based upon a quote from author Ernest Hemingway, whom Mayer asserted, “once claimed he could write a great story in six words or less. His story: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’”
While admitting that he wasn’t the first person to invoke Hemingway’s feat of storytelling brevity, Mayer surmised that Twitter would be the ideal place to do so, and he was right; I mean, what better forum in which to tell a truly ‘short’ story?
I was immediately intrigued when I saw Mayer’s challenge, however it was only in passing, as I was making a last quick check of my email and friend’s tweets as my wife Michelle and I were preparing to check out of the Gaylord Opryland Hotel on Monday, following a weekend celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary, which actually happens to be today, St. Patrick’s Day.
With it being our 30th, we naturally had planned to take the day off from work, but decided to augment our celebration with a hotel getaway over the weekend, maximizing our time, and making it a truly momentous occasion (which, if I may boast just a little, in this day and age, it IS).
Quite rightfully, my attention was focused upon Michelle, so I didn’t really have the opportunity to sit down and craft my own version of Hemingway’s six-word soliloquy.
I mean, who would you rather pay attention to?
However later that evening, after we were back home and settled in, I returned to Mayer’s Twitter page to see his comments about what others had come up with. Most of the ones he posted I thought were quite good; to wit:
@stevesalkin: Home is not home to me.
@Vincenza72: At least I got the dog.
@mytimetoshine: This time, I won't look down.
@taylorswift13 (yes, that Taylor Swift): My diary is read by everyone.
Mayer’s own entry, which sort of explains why he’s the songwriter and we the hacks, was typical John:
This heart didn't come with instructions.
But the one I especially liked, was such because it could have easily been penned by my own wife:
@DailyChameleon: True love: He's shorter than me.
My Six-Word Story
Unfortunately, due to indecision on whether or not I should try to throw my hat into the ring, not to mention the fact that coming up with a concept and THEN distilling it into six words was indeed a pretty daunting task, I thought…and thought…AND thought about what I might say until late in the evening — well beyond the time John Mayer curtailed his posts on the stories he’d received.
I could have thrown something out there, but I really wanted it to be a story, not just a tagline. I came up with, I can’t make this stuff up, but relented in posting it; again, a nice thought, but not enough substance behind the phrase.
Then it hit me; something based upon the saying that Michelle has long since adopted as her personal philosophy in light of what we’ve been through in our thirty-year trek together.
It was a piece of advice she had offered someone just 24 hours earlier.
But first a bit of background…
30somethings
Sunday evening at the Opryland Hotel, our hand was somewhat forced in choosing where we were to enjoy our ‘big dinner’ — the one in which we would officially celebrate our 30-year milestone at one of the four signature, really nice, and fairly pricey in-house restaurants featured in the sprawling hotel complex.
I’ve been a sucker for Italian Food my whole life, and Michelle enjoys it as well, so we’d planned to dine that evening at the well-reviewed Ristorante Volare. However to our dismay, upon attempting to make reservations for the evening, we learned that the Volare would be closed Sunday night, due ostensibly to the current economic downturn. I learned that the hotel’s normal 70-80% occupancy rate for a typical Sunday was down to a mere 12% that day.
We certainly hadn’t noticed any lack of folks on hand when we arrived Saturday, however. Following a busy end-week (Thursday thru Saturday), the hotel indeed enjoyed its usual compliment of guests attending the various events and conferences that are the lifeblood of its existence. However the difference in these current tougher economic times is that people aren’t staying over that extra day for pleasure as they often did; they come into the hotel on business, a conference, etc, and when that business is concluded, they’re out the door; hence, the considerably lighter occupancy on Sunday.
The hotel therefore determined that it wasn’t worth having all four of their signature restaurants open with such a low potential clientele for the evening, so they decided that only one, the world-famous Old Hickory Steakhouse would be accepting reservations for dinner.
While we were obviously disappointed at first, I had always wondered about the Old Hickory. Located in the hotel’s ‘Delta’ quadrant (Trekkie-pun intended), it offers their finest dining experience, featuring as one would expect, a pricey-but-impressive array of à la carte entrees: steaks, chops, chicken and seafood, with the greatest emphasis of course on their world-class steaks and accompanying sauces.
To say it was a little beyond our normal price range would be an understatement; nevertheless, we figured 30 year anniversaries don’t come around too often, so we went for it — and we were oh so glad we did.
The meal and the ambiance were worth every penny. We decided to go for the Old Hickory's signature offering: the 8 oz Fillet Mignon; it was like buttah.
But as incredible was the food was, it was kinda fun being the center of attention too. Y’see, when I was making reservations earlier that afternoon, I just happened to mention that we were celebrating our 30th, and as a result, from the receptionist’s first greeting and throughout the rest of the evening, the staff went out of their way to congratulate us many times over. Our server even went so far as to mention the fact to the couples occupying the tables on either side of ours, both of which it turned out, were newlyweds on their honeymoon.
Michelle took the opportunity to pass on her one-sentence testimony for a long and successful marriage as each of the couples stopped by our table on their way out. Her advice was simple: “The one thing I’ve learned is that the grass isn’t greener on the other side — it’s just another kind of grass.”
What that means is that it’s important to realize, when things get tough in your marriage, not only is there no guarantee that life would be better with a change of scenery, it may not even be all that different when all is said and done.
Michelle and I endured a tremendous amount of hardship, both emotionally and financially in our 30 years together; stuff that most people these days wouldn’t think twice about ending a marriage over. I didn’t make enough money; she was unresponsive to me emotionally; I had an affair; our mortgage went into foreclosure; we reached a crossroads. Our marriage was a train wreck. We had to look within ourselves and decide whether or not the work it was going to take to salvage our relationship was worth the effort. We decided that it was.
The cost I counted was in learning that the grass I had been longing for through my unfaithfulness wasn’t what I thought it would be. For Michelle’s part, she realized that the life-altering thought of being a single Mom and being alone for the first time wasn’t quite so liberating as it first appeared when she self-assuredly prepared herself to counter my act of rebellion with one of her own.
This is the backdrop to Michelle’s little ditty, not that it’s often explained in casual conversation for obvious reasons; Michelle certainly didn’t offer any elaboration in passing it on to those young couples we met at dinner on Sunday evening.
However it did spark a powerful, strangely satisfying conversation between the two of us, as we strolled the Opryland Hotel grounds after leaving the restaurant.
I am still amazed that my wife truly considers what we went through a positive thing, and that she harbors no resentment toward me for all the pain I caused. She considers it worth it because of the way it changed her; the way it forced her to grow up, to be less idealistic, and in her words, to “get scrappy.”
She says that if we hadn’t gone through those things; if we hadn’t fought back from the possibility of losing everything — emotionally and financially — that she wouldn’t have become the person she is today.
And quite frankly, she really likes that person now.
Now that you know the rest of the story…
So now that you know the background, perhaps you’ll better understand my own version of Michelle’s personal mantra, told Hemingway-style.
Monday night, as I thought about those conversations at and following dinner 24 hours earlier, I finally came up with my own take on John Mayer’s six-word Twitter challenge, based on the bitter reality I had faced after seeing the grass on the other side up close and personal.
It’s a story that may never be published, but now that it’s been written, can never be taken away from me; forever reminding me what I learned years ago when I nearly lost something I didn’t truly know I had:
@ajinnashville: That ‘other’ grass wasn’t even green.
finis
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Three Things That Guys Want for Valentine’s Day
(...that don’t necessarily involve sex)
Can we tawk?
This post is directed exclusively to all the better halves out there. Today is Cupid’s Holiday, and while it may be unfair to generalize, but let’s face it, ladies, it IS all about you. I mean, can you actually think of a guy who has ever been genuinely upset about not receiving a gift from his lady on Valentine’s Day? However if the gender tables are turned in that scenario, you generally wind up with an incident registering somewhere between mild disappointment and the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Like it or not, in today’s society a man’s response to Valentine’s Day has somehow become the litmus test for the depth to which he cares for his significant other. And to you ladies who actually come through for your man with a gesture in kind (and you can take that to mean anything your smutty little minds desire), bravo, bravo, bravo to you for your genuineness and sense of fair play. You are not necessarily in the minority, BTW, but with all due respect, it is far less expected of you to be the giver than the recipient of good things whenever the 14th day of February rolls around.
But while I know this story might appear to be leaning a little in the direction of a rant, I assure you that is the furthest of my intentions. I simply want to establish that whether or not you consider it purely a media-driven event, Valentine’s Day has become above all else the annual, culturally-imposed mandate for men to display some sort of significant outward gesture of honor and/or affection to their wives or girlfriends.
And surely there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just that the playing field isn’t exactly what one would call ‘level.’
Pompous Ass-claimer
Now if you know me and my blog, you know what’s coming next.
This is an opinion piece, based on the way my experience in life has shaped my view of the world in general, and of society in specific. I’ve been known to offer strong opinions on things, and for that I do not apologize. Such is the part of me that my wife Michelle often refers to as my ‘inner pompous ass.’
So I offer this standard disclaimer if in fact you agree with her regarding what I’ve said so far: I only call ‘em as I see ‘em. My opinion is mine alone and I mean no offense to anyone’s sensibilities, particularly with regard to the notion of honoring women. Hell, every day should be Valentine’s Day in my opinion.
But by the same token, every day should be Affirmation Day to everyone you love, should it not?
So all that to say, I believe that Valentine’s Day should be, if not completely reciprocal, at least loosely mutual; perhaps not to the point that the ladies should be showering their men with candy and jewelry; that’s not anything that even the man who has nothing really needs.
What a guy really wants are three things that he’ll likely never ask you for but needs desperately; down to the core of his soul: Dignity, Self-Respect, and Significance.
And ladies, the best part? You can give your man all three of these gifts every single day and it’ll never cost you a dime.
“Heh,” you say, “Aren’t we just being a little obvious here, AJ? I mean, doesn’t everybody need those things? And shouldn’t we all freely bestow them on our loved ones, regardless of gender or relationship?”
The answer to those questions is an obvious ‘yes.’ But the reality of whether or not we act upon that imperative is far from affirmative.
Dignity
Like it or not…and believe it or not, men and women are cut from different emotional cloths. I believe that above all else, a men craves dignity — dare I say, even above sex — to truly be happy and satisfied in life.
Ever heard the old saying, “at least he escaped with his dignity intact?” Well I don’t know about you, but what that phrase indicates to me is that a man’s dignity is so precious that it’s the last thing he would ever want to lose.
A man’s dignity is so close to the core of his being, it’s like his second skin. It’s what drives him; it’s what makes his strive to be more the sum of his parts. It’s so powerful a need that sometimes he’ll even sell his soul for it.
The root of the word, ‘dignity’ comes from the Latin, dignus, which means, ‘worthy.’ Webster defines it as the quality or state of being worthy, honored, or esteemed. A man needs to feel as though his life counts for something; to believe that it has ‘worth.’
Of all a man’s relationships, none so affects him as that with the love of his life. And for the sake of this argument, with no offense intended to those of other persuasions, I’m going to assume that love is a woman.
Ladies, you have the power — in more ways than one. With a word, you can make us feel worthy, or render us worthless. I don’t think I need to delve into the length and breadth of human relations to make my point here. Just understand that no matter how rough, tough, or detached we may try to appear on the outside; at our core we need your approval; we need your support; we need your love in order to love ourselves in return. ‘Nuff said.
Self-Respect
Respect is a hotly debated topic these days, isn’t it? In some social circles, there’s nothing so egregious for a man as to be ‘disrespected,’ It’s to the point that some people demand respect, regardless of whether or not they’ve done anything to deserve or earn it.
Again, I have no intention to plumb the depths of social stereotypes, or in this case, macho bullshit paradigms. However I will offer the following observation. I’ve rarely seen anyone who demonstrates the qualities of self-respect, in turn demand respect from others. I contend that the two concepts are polar opposites.
Can a man who demands to be respected actually respect himself? That’s a rhetorical question I cannot answer, but I can affirm its corollary: the man who respects himself has no need to demand the respect of others.
So then where does self-respect come from? Are some people just born with it while others are forced to beat it out of those around them? Hardly; self-respect a gift, given by those who love you; who nurture you; through whose interaction in your life you are granted dignity.
Oh yeah, did I mention? Self-respect is a product of dignity. It’s like a two-for-one deal. You grant one, and the other automatically comes with, like, for nothin.’ And when I say grant, I again return to the Latin; to its root word, credere, or, to believe.
When the woman he loves ‘believes in him,’ a man becomes empowered; dignified; he respects himself. But don’t confuse the aforementioned macho bullshit counterfeit version of self-respect — which merely attaches pride to tyranny — for the genuine article. True self-respect emerges from dignity, just as dignity emerges from love.
Significance
Finally, if dignity is the long underwear of a man’s soul, and self-respect that in which he is clothed before the world, the final layer in this trinity of a man’s character is significance.
Significance is perhaps the most elusive of the three gifts you ladies can give your man for Valentine’s Day because it, more than anything else, depends on your active participation to build it into the thick, warm coat of confidence that insulates him from even the most inhospitable of life’s circumstances. It’s the most external of the three; yet like the other two, it emerges from within.
Some people say that we men are pigs. I like to say we’re more like dogs. And in this dog-eat-dog world, in the words of Norm Peterson, we’re all walkin’ around in MilkBone underwear.
Significance means importance; but while self-importance is a mostly deplorable characteristic, true importance is truly honorable.
Feeling — and more importantly — being significant to a woman completes the foundation of confidence and inner-strength that every man needs to compete in this world — and YOU, ladies, likely hold the greatest power in building that strong foothold in your man’s life.
But this is where it can get a little dicey, not only to carry out but in my case, to explain as well.
Say WHAT?
See, I know what some of you ladies are thinking; you’re rolling your eyes and saying, “Sorry, AJ, this Tammy-Wynette-Stand-By-Your-Man business died out in the 60s; that isn’t how women operate these days, or perhaps you’ve never heard of gender equality.”
Well, hopefully you’re not saying that, but if you are, allow me to kindly note that you’re missing the point. If you really believe that men and women are exactly the same in every way, emotionally, I’m sorry, but you’re just wrong. The two sexes have distinct features that allow us to complement one another, not just mimic the other’s qualities.
Women are, predominantly by nature, nurturers; men in turn, are gatherer/providers. This is NOT to say that men are incapable of raising children, nor women incapable of bringin’ home the bacon. All it means is that we are who we are, speaking to the basic emotional differences between the sexes that must be addressed in a successful relationship.
A man’s significance, particularly in American culture, is often tied to what he does, with the problem being, that this status can change — sometimes quickly — in the case of losing his livelihood, suffering a disabling physical trauma, etc.
On the other hand, a woman’s significance — at least in the eyes of us guys — is much more about who she is. This is particularly true with regard to motherhood. Mom is always the most significant person in the home. No one needs to ascribe that significance to her; it’s the only office that has no term limits. A woman’s significance, for the most part, is built-in. A man’s significance must be constantly reinforced.
And of course I don’t dismiss the constant and rightful need for woman to be honored — on Valentine’s Day or any other day. The point that I seek to emphasize is that we men may act like we have it all together, but it’s mostly for show. We need you to make us whole; to make us feel loved.
Bottom line, ladies, I encourage you to simply be mindful of this, just as I would likewise hope that those of my gender would consider your needs and all that you do to make your relationships work.
Hear me now and believe me now (with apologies to Hans and Franz).
I’ll never claim to be an expert on relationships, and honestly I don’t really think that anyone can be. Although the sexes do indeed hold common, consistent emotional needs, we’re also different in many ways and each individual couple must determine which adjustments to make to successfully coexist with their life partner respectively. On the other hand however, I’m not going to deny the fact that being married to the same woman for just shy of 30 years gives me a little more perspective on the subject than the average person.
That being said, I hope this offers encouragement and hopefully, some insight into what makes men tick. I doubt that most guys have ever really thought about it on this deep of a level, but it’s something that I seem to devote a lot of time to pondering, for better or for worse.
So here’s wishing you and your man a wonderful Valentines Day. May you be pampered and celebrated for all that you do and mean to the relationship you’ve created together. And may you also celebrate your man the way that only you can, granting him an inner strength that allows him to be everything that he — and you — want him to be.
finis
This post is directed exclusively to all the better halves out there. Today is Cupid’s Holiday, and while it may be unfair to generalize, but let’s face it, ladies, it IS all about you. I mean, can you actually think of a guy who has ever been genuinely upset about not receiving a gift from his lady on Valentine’s Day? However if the gender tables are turned in that scenario, you generally wind up with an incident registering somewhere between mild disappointment and the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Like it or not, in today’s society a man’s response to Valentine’s Day has somehow become the litmus test for the depth to which he cares for his significant other. And to you ladies who actually come through for your man with a gesture in kind (and you can take that to mean anything your smutty little minds desire), bravo, bravo, bravo to you for your genuineness and sense of fair play. You are not necessarily in the minority, BTW, but with all due respect, it is far less expected of you to be the giver than the recipient of good things whenever the 14th day of February rolls around.
But while I know this story might appear to be leaning a little in the direction of a rant, I assure you that is the furthest of my intentions. I simply want to establish that whether or not you consider it purely a media-driven event, Valentine’s Day has become above all else the annual, culturally-imposed mandate for men to display some sort of significant outward gesture of honor and/or affection to their wives or girlfriends.
And surely there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just that the playing field isn’t exactly what one would call ‘level.’
Pompous Ass-claimer
Now if you know me and my blog, you know what’s coming next.
This is an opinion piece, based on the way my experience in life has shaped my view of the world in general, and of society in specific. I’ve been known to offer strong opinions on things, and for that I do not apologize. Such is the part of me that my wife Michelle often refers to as my ‘inner pompous ass.’
So I offer this standard disclaimer if in fact you agree with her regarding what I’ve said so far: I only call ‘em as I see ‘em. My opinion is mine alone and I mean no offense to anyone’s sensibilities, particularly with regard to the notion of honoring women. Hell, every day should be Valentine’s Day in my opinion.
But by the same token, every day should be Affirmation Day to everyone you love, should it not?
So all that to say, I believe that Valentine’s Day should be, if not completely reciprocal, at least loosely mutual; perhaps not to the point that the ladies should be showering their men with candy and jewelry; that’s not anything that even the man who has nothing really needs.
What a guy really wants are three things that he’ll likely never ask you for but needs desperately; down to the core of his soul: Dignity, Self-Respect, and Significance.
And ladies, the best part? You can give your man all three of these gifts every single day and it’ll never cost you a dime.
“Heh,” you say, “Aren’t we just being a little obvious here, AJ? I mean, doesn’t everybody need those things? And shouldn’t we all freely bestow them on our loved ones, regardless of gender or relationship?”
The answer to those questions is an obvious ‘yes.’ But the reality of whether or not we act upon that imperative is far from affirmative.
Dignity
Like it or not…and believe it or not, men and women are cut from different emotional cloths. I believe that above all else, a men craves dignity — dare I say, even above sex — to truly be happy and satisfied in life.
Ever heard the old saying, “at least he escaped with his dignity intact?” Well I don’t know about you, but what that phrase indicates to me is that a man’s dignity is so precious that it’s the last thing he would ever want to lose.
A man’s dignity is so close to the core of his being, it’s like his second skin. It’s what drives him; it’s what makes his strive to be more the sum of his parts. It’s so powerful a need that sometimes he’ll even sell his soul for it.
The root of the word, ‘dignity’ comes from the Latin, dignus, which means, ‘worthy.’ Webster defines it as the quality or state of being worthy, honored, or esteemed. A man needs to feel as though his life counts for something; to believe that it has ‘worth.’
Of all a man’s relationships, none so affects him as that with the love of his life. And for the sake of this argument, with no offense intended to those of other persuasions, I’m going to assume that love is a woman.
Ladies, you have the power — in more ways than one. With a word, you can make us feel worthy, or render us worthless. I don’t think I need to delve into the length and breadth of human relations to make my point here. Just understand that no matter how rough, tough, or detached we may try to appear on the outside; at our core we need your approval; we need your support; we need your love in order to love ourselves in return. ‘Nuff said.
Self-Respect
Respect is a hotly debated topic these days, isn’t it? In some social circles, there’s nothing so egregious for a man as to be ‘disrespected,’ It’s to the point that some people demand respect, regardless of whether or not they’ve done anything to deserve or earn it.
Again, I have no intention to plumb the depths of social stereotypes, or in this case, macho bullshit paradigms. However I will offer the following observation. I’ve rarely seen anyone who demonstrates the qualities of self-respect, in turn demand respect from others. I contend that the two concepts are polar opposites.
Can a man who demands to be respected actually respect himself? That’s a rhetorical question I cannot answer, but I can affirm its corollary: the man who respects himself has no need to demand the respect of others.
So then where does self-respect come from? Are some people just born with it while others are forced to beat it out of those around them? Hardly; self-respect a gift, given by those who love you; who nurture you; through whose interaction in your life you are granted dignity.
Oh yeah, did I mention? Self-respect is a product of dignity. It’s like a two-for-one deal. You grant one, and the other automatically comes with, like, for nothin.’ And when I say grant, I again return to the Latin; to its root word, credere, or, to believe.
When the woman he loves ‘believes in him,’ a man becomes empowered; dignified; he respects himself. But don’t confuse the aforementioned macho bullshit counterfeit version of self-respect — which merely attaches pride to tyranny — for the genuine article. True self-respect emerges from dignity, just as dignity emerges from love.
Significance
Finally, if dignity is the long underwear of a man’s soul, and self-respect that in which he is clothed before the world, the final layer in this trinity of a man’s character is significance.
Significance is perhaps the most elusive of the three gifts you ladies can give your man for Valentine’s Day because it, more than anything else, depends on your active participation to build it into the thick, warm coat of confidence that insulates him from even the most inhospitable of life’s circumstances. It’s the most external of the three; yet like the other two, it emerges from within.
Some people say that we men are pigs. I like to say we’re more like dogs. And in this dog-eat-dog world, in the words of Norm Peterson, we’re all walkin’ around in MilkBone underwear.
Significance means importance; but while self-importance is a mostly deplorable characteristic, true importance is truly honorable.
Feeling — and more importantly — being significant to a woman completes the foundation of confidence and inner-strength that every man needs to compete in this world — and YOU, ladies, likely hold the greatest power in building that strong foothold in your man’s life.
But this is where it can get a little dicey, not only to carry out but in my case, to explain as well.
Say WHAT?
See, I know what some of you ladies are thinking; you’re rolling your eyes and saying, “Sorry, AJ, this Tammy-Wynette-Stand-By-Your-Man business died out in the 60s; that isn’t how women operate these days, or perhaps you’ve never heard of gender equality.”
Well, hopefully you’re not saying that, but if you are, allow me to kindly note that you’re missing the point. If you really believe that men and women are exactly the same in every way, emotionally, I’m sorry, but you’re just wrong. The two sexes have distinct features that allow us to complement one another, not just mimic the other’s qualities.
Women are, predominantly by nature, nurturers; men in turn, are gatherer/providers. This is NOT to say that men are incapable of raising children, nor women incapable of bringin’ home the bacon. All it means is that we are who we are, speaking to the basic emotional differences between the sexes that must be addressed in a successful relationship.
A man’s significance, particularly in American culture, is often tied to what he does, with the problem being, that this status can change — sometimes quickly — in the case of losing his livelihood, suffering a disabling physical trauma, etc.
On the other hand, a woman’s significance — at least in the eyes of us guys — is much more about who she is. This is particularly true with regard to motherhood. Mom is always the most significant person in the home. No one needs to ascribe that significance to her; it’s the only office that has no term limits. A woman’s significance, for the most part, is built-in. A man’s significance must be constantly reinforced.
And of course I don’t dismiss the constant and rightful need for woman to be honored — on Valentine’s Day or any other day. The point that I seek to emphasize is that we men may act like we have it all together, but it’s mostly for show. We need you to make us whole; to make us feel loved.
Bottom line, ladies, I encourage you to simply be mindful of this, just as I would likewise hope that those of my gender would consider your needs and all that you do to make your relationships work.
Hear me now and believe me now (with apologies to Hans and Franz).
I’ll never claim to be an expert on relationships, and honestly I don’t really think that anyone can be. Although the sexes do indeed hold common, consistent emotional needs, we’re also different in many ways and each individual couple must determine which adjustments to make to successfully coexist with their life partner respectively. On the other hand however, I’m not going to deny the fact that being married to the same woman for just shy of 30 years gives me a little more perspective on the subject than the average person.
That being said, I hope this offers encouragement and hopefully, some insight into what makes men tick. I doubt that most guys have ever really thought about it on this deep of a level, but it’s something that I seem to devote a lot of time to pondering, for better or for worse.
So here’s wishing you and your man a wonderful Valentines Day. May you be pampered and celebrated for all that you do and mean to the relationship you’ve created together. And may you also celebrate your man the way that only you can, granting him an inner strength that allows him to be everything that he — and you — want him to be.
finis
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Seven Things You Never Knew About Me
BetheMeme
I never cared all that much for playing ‘tag’ as a kid, mostly because I wasn’t very good at it. Then again, maybe it was just that I always ended up playing the game with the wrong kind of kids — namely, ones that were bigger and faster than I was. I never seemed to be able to get away from them; to avoid being tagged. It seemed as though I was always ‘it.’
Well it looks like one of the big kids got me again — and this time I had a 2000 mile head start.
I had the distinct pleasure to meet the lovely and talented Will, A.K.A. Be the Boy, and his lovelier and brilliant better half, The Slackmistress this past summer in Los Angeles at the wedding of mutual blog friends Michael and Randi.
So now Will has tagged me to participate in a meme whose theme is ‘Seven Things You Never Knew About Me,’ and as he himself indicated in his meme post, it may be kinda tough, seeing as how I too have been blogging for a long time, and have pretty much shot my wad with all the deep, dark secrets.
Seven things you never cared to know about AJ, and forgot to ask...
So if you don’t mind a little minutiae, I’ll see if I can come up with a few more items that hopefully might resemble information you’ll find interesting.
finis
I never cared all that much for playing ‘tag’ as a kid, mostly because I wasn’t very good at it. Then again, maybe it was just that I always ended up playing the game with the wrong kind of kids — namely, ones that were bigger and faster than I was. I never seemed to be able to get away from them; to avoid being tagged. It seemed as though I was always ‘it.’
Well it looks like one of the big kids got me again — and this time I had a 2000 mile head start.
I had the distinct pleasure to meet the lovely and talented Will, A.K.A. Be the Boy, and his lovelier and brilliant better half, The Slackmistress this past summer in Los Angeles at the wedding of mutual blog friends Michael and Randi.
So now Will has tagged me to participate in a meme whose theme is ‘Seven Things You Never Knew About Me,’ and as he himself indicated in his meme post, it may be kinda tough, seeing as how I too have been blogging for a long time, and have pretty much shot my wad with all the deep, dark secrets.
Seven things you never cared to know about AJ, and forgot to ask...
So if you don’t mind a little minutiae, I’ll see if I can come up with a few more items that hopefully might resemble information you’ll find interesting.
- I am a distant relative (6th cousin to be exact) of a famous American war hero, one whose name is emblazoned upon numerous federal buildings and institutions across our great country. But history being the dying subject it is in our culture, I would say that you’d recognize his name if you heard it, however I find that it’s typically only folks my generation and older who have any sense of who this great man was or what he accomplished. But here’s a hint: An iconic Hollywood actor, whose name you WOULD recognize, in the 1940s portrayed him in a film about his extraordinary life.
- You may know that I saw the Beatles in concert in 1964, but my elder brother Jack saw them three times; twice in ’64 and once in ’65. And though my first concert ever was indeed a memorable one, it would be thirteen years later before I’d attend my second: Electric Light Orchestra at The Forum in Los Angeles in 1977.
- I came within one letter grade of flunking the 4th grade, but graduated high school with a 3.75 GPA. You can thank my stepmother, Maxine, for teaching (read: forcing) me to do my homework.
- Although the bulk of my professional life has been spent as a graphic designer/web designer, I came out of college an illustrator. My limited success in that profession included illustrating the Masters of the Universe characters that were featured as ‘puffy stickers’ inside boxes of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies during the fall of 1983.
- During the mid-90s, I was such a groupie for my favorite radio station, WRLT Lightning 100 in Nashville that I had a stretch of eleven consecutive months in which I was a ‘call-in’ winner of various on-air contests from 1995-96. During those years I was working from home and had the radio on all day long. I had a system.
I won stereo equipment, concert tickets, and many, many CDs.
I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that it was in the midst of that streak that the station first instituted their current policy of ‘a maximum of one win every 30 days’ in regard to their contests.
Geeze Louise…I can’t hep it if I’m good… - This one’s not about me, but I’ve always thought it was waaaay cool: My father-in-law was one of the lead engineers for the Apollo program at Cape Canaveral, FL. He was actually the last person to leave the project after it closed shop in favor of the space shuttle program in the mid 1970s; he was charged with the responsibility of closing the books on the whole shebang.
He followed that historic assignment with nearly a decade of work with the U.S. military in its top secret project of placing the satellites in orbit that now comprise the GPS network we all use on a daily basis, but which was one of those things at the time about which he’d joke, “I could tell you what I do, but then I’d have’ta kill ya.”
He’s a great man, and I’m proud to know him. - Lastly, it’s probably not fair to talk about only the ‘cool’ facts about myself, so this is probably as good a place as any to offer a little nugget that I’m rather embarrassed to admit, but to which I can’t help but self-deprecate, ‘cuz it is kinda funny.
My folks (well, let’s say, my Mom to be exact) wanted a little girl in the worst way, which is one reason there were five of us kids in my family — but all were boys. After my two eldest brothers’ came along, Mom & Dad just kept on tryin’ for the girl that would never come. Their next child was another boy (my brother Kenny); oh well. They decided to give it one more try, and out came AJ. Evidently, I was really supposed to be that girl (my younger brother Alex, four years later, was unplanned).
Undaunted, when I was a toddler my mother would dress me up like a girl and just gush about how cute I was. They took pictures that I remember seeing when I was a kid, which I’m currently trying to find and destroy.
Fortunately she never took me out in public dressed in drag, but I do remember well the teasing from my brothers. Oye.
And then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, I turned out to be about the height of the average woman anyway. And as somewhat of a byproduct, I don’t have the deepest of speaking voices either.
I often get telephone calls from solicitors and others who don’t know me, who routinely assume they’re speaking to ‘Missus’ rather than ‘Mister’ upon my answering the phone. It used to bug me — a lot — and I was always quick to curtly point out the error of their assumptions. However in recent years I’ve just learned to accept it (and to try and answer the phone in my best James Earl Jones whenever possible).
But all things considered, I‘d rather talk like Michael Jackson than trade away the life I’ve been privileged to live.
I have no complaints.
- Heidi (Dunhaven Place)
- Kim (Less Than Lucid)
- Brighton (Sweet Tea)
- Michael (Blood, Sweat, and Tedium: Confessions of a Hollywood Juicer)
- Victoria (Southern Discomfort)
- Newton (insert name here)
- Phoebe (That’s the Job)
- Link to your original tagger(s) and list these rules in your post.
- Share seven facts about yourself in the post.
- Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.
- Let them know they’ve been tagged.
finis
Subscribe to:
Comment Feed (RSS)
Twitter
Tumblr
Flickr
Facebook
MySpace
Technorati
Google
FriendFeed
Digg
StumbleUpon
LastFM
BlipFM