Indeed, This posting does not come from beyond the grave. Though if I were dead, the first thing my ghostly self would not be doing would be to hop on this blog and churn out a Pulitzer nominee.
So, Terry is correct. I need to get back into the writing side of things. But if you have followed this blog for any amount of time, you would see that...wait for it...
I am the worst blogger this side of New York.
There you have it. This blogging takes some serious time, chops, ideas, and worst of all, motivation. It is a funny thing, to have to conjure up motivation to do a hobby. Jeesh, if all hobbies required such devotion, would there be any repose from the dredges of organized employment?
Before you go thinking I am retiring from blogging, think again. The fact is, blogging is fun, albeit challenging. But who stands down in the face of a challenge? My dilemma is that blogging sometimes reminds me of work. Not that it is work, but rather, that it reminds me of my job.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Your Memory Sucks
What if everything you thought you knew wasn't exactly true or accurate? What if your recollection of past events are merely pieces of a puzzle put together by your brain upon your request? Are memories only the memories of our memories? How the hell does your brain remember anything in the first place? These are all things I think about. Welcome to my nightmare.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Dear Terry
Terry,
Let me begin by saying that I meant no harm in asking you where you've been on the blog front. I couldn't help but notice that you hadn't posted recently, so I thought it warranted a simple text. I wouldn't call it chastisement, but Ok, I'll bite.
The text read, "Been a while since you posted on the blog, partner. What's the haps?"
Terry responded, "Time..."
"Besides," he continued, "I think I should put more effort into quality not just regularity. Regularity is more of a biological function."
With this I did not disagree, and I could sense his frustration. I then made some crack about "shitting out some slop on a regular basis", and apparently that's where I went wrong. The conversation then degraded into more toilet humor provided by me, but the damage had already been done. I meant nothing by it and certainly didn't mean to call you out. If I would have wanted to do that I would have done it in a blog post. ;)
I understand that you have limited time to devote to your desired craft. You are involved in more stuff with more people than I can understand. I, too, have been extensively working on some posts and that I am also focusing on quality over quantity. While I am busy as well, my time is taken up by only one or two people and I still only have one career, whereas you have several and several. I only asked you what you've been up to on the blog because I enjoy your so-called "drivel", and I believe our other reader does, as well. It is worth noting that "drivel" was your word, not mine. I believe my word was "slop".
Whichever word you choose to remember, I want you to know that your posts on the blog are wonderfully written and especially fun to read and this blog would not exist without you.
When you do have time to write here or wherever else you choose, know that your words are relished and appreciated by everyone they reach.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Awareness Ribbons are Stupid
I arrived at work this morning, fired up my laptop and signed on to check emails, drink coffee, basically wake myself up after a weekend far too short. My home page is Google. Below the search bar there was a small white ribbon. I was curious to find out what important "cause" for which the white ribbon had been publicly claimed, for years ago my small group of friends anointed it the "I care more than you do" ribbon.
People have an air of self-righteousness about them about these things. If we don't wear these ribbons, does this mean we support these problems? If I don't put a "Support the Troops" sticker on my car, does that invariably mean I want all the troops to be blown to hell? If an NFL player doesn't put something obnoxiously pink on and distract everyone, does that mean he wants everybody's tits to rot off? Maybe if I don't grow a mustache my gentleman's yarbles will dissolve. Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David recognized the idiocy of this trend almost twenty years ago:
I moved the mouse down to hover over the ribbon, and Google told me that it stood for "International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women".
Holy Shit. How did I miss this??? Why wasn't I notified? Shouldn't I be off of work?
Did we really need an international day to make us all aware that there is still some redneck asshole bashing his wife with a baseball bat for over-cooking the turkey? And do we need a ribbon to remind us of this momentous day? If so, how will the adornment of these ribbons solve the problem? Maybe the very mention of this to said redneck will send him into an angry tirade and cause him to beat his woman harder. Maybe the ribbon helps; maybe it doesn't. Maybe it just makes us feel better for not being able to do anything meaningful about it. Regardless, I'm tired of everyone's stupid cause. People have been wearing these badges of smugness for years and most have accomplished little more than making themselves look like they care.
Did we really need an international day to make us all aware that there is still some redneck asshole bashing his wife with a baseball bat for over-cooking the turkey? And do we need a ribbon to remind us of this momentous day? If so, how will the adornment of these ribbons solve the problem? Maybe the very mention of this to said redneck will send him into an angry tirade and cause him to beat his woman harder. Maybe the ribbon helps; maybe it doesn't. Maybe it just makes us feel better for not being able to do anything meaningful about it. Regardless, I'm tired of everyone's stupid cause. People have been wearing these badges of smugness for years and most have accomplished little more than making themselves look like they care.
People have an air of self-righteousness about them about these things. If we don't wear these ribbons, does this mean we support these problems? If I don't put a "Support the Troops" sticker on my car, does that invariably mean I want all the troops to be blown to hell? If an NFL player doesn't put something obnoxiously pink on and distract everyone, does that mean he wants everybody's tits to rot off? Maybe if I don't grow a mustache my gentleman's yarbles will dissolve. Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David recognized the idiocy of this trend almost twenty years ago:
More after the jump.....
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Thumb Twiddling Time (By Terry O'Halloran)
And another thing. . .
Here we are. Day 9 of the 2013 Federal Government Shutdown. No end in sight. Well, . . .there is. I just don’t want to look at it.
It’s like we’re all in this small boat on a river approaching the crest of a Niagara Falls-sized waterfall, with some piss ant crewman maniacally holding onto the steering wheel while the captain frantically kicks at him, missing a real body blow so they both remain at the wheel, preventing the other from steering the boat either left or right toward one of the shores. Instead, we all putter along straight to the abyss. From afar, it looks perfectly serene but on board, up close, it’s wildly frantic.
I’ve been strangely removed emotionally from this passion play now unfolding. Usually, I have a whoosh of emotions – usually anger – reacting to the daily antics of our Washington Wastrels. But this time, not. Instead, I seem to have taken an oddly fatalistic view of the disaster that looms before us. It’s not my fight. Not that I don’t care, but I can’t worry about something over which I have absolutely no control. I have enough on my plate over which I DO control that there isn’t room for this “Noise” over my head.
I don’t view the raging battle now going on as something between “them” and “me.” President Obama was reelected to implement the Affordable Care Act. No one I know of or can think of voted for him to repeal it on the first day of implementation. It passed through Congress and withstood the challenge in the Supreme Court. It is Law.
The radical fringe of the Republican Party (I’m a registered Republican, by the way) decided to take the ACA hostage and hold a gun to the world’s economic head as they race toward the flames of righteousness to jump through the fiery ring to reach redemption on the “other side.”
In my own mind, I wonder, “Other side of what?”
This style of confrontational politics has usually been reserved for the visceral enmity that flows from our racially divided history. And when put in those terms, this all now begins to make sense. Down deep, I believe the Tea Party faction would not so abhor the concept of “Big Government” if it didn’t have the face of this particular president championing it. They might not exist at all as a political entity without the racial undertone that supports its cause. There would be push-back, of course, but not on this scale. This is no “worse” than Medicare in 1965. It’s the “face,” I’m convinced.
And placing this fight in that historical context, my fatalism takes over. There is absolutely nothing the president can do to change the color of his skin. I think he believes, probably correctly, that he is handcuffed from removing his ACA legislation he was elected to implement. So without a controlling influence, the Tea Party wing will, with its “Rah-Rah!” spirit, eagerly take the world through that ring of fire to redemption and into the economic abyss.
No, the fight isn’t between the Democrats and the Republicans any more. It’s all centered within the confines of the Republican Party. I believe the braking effect, if there’s one to be had, will have to come from the business-backed moderates of the Party.
As the days pass in this drama. the spotlight is crossing the stage to fall squarely on Rep. John Boehner. I believe he is about to have a “Profile in Courage” moment when he realizes that, in order to save the republic, he will have to sacrifice his personal and professional accomplishments to squelch the rebellion from within. And I’m frankly not so sure his “Aha” moment will result in the republic’s salvation. I have no idea which side he will choose when his feet finally reach the fire.
But now, having read what I just wrote, I suspect that the crystal clarity with which I’ve just outlined the issues is simply bunk. Without my tarot deck in front of me, I will be surprised like everybody else when the president tells the world, “OK, you win. Take the ACA apart and let the insurance companies do whatever they choose.” Maybe he’ll resign now to sweeten the pot.
Whatever happens, at least I haven’t invested a lot of emotion to pin my hopes on a “win” by one side or the other. The boat can turn to either shore, or disappear over the falls and I’ll look with interest to see what remains of the boat and its occupants below. Fatalism has its upside!
Friday, August 30, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
So you want to be an author?!
When I started this process two years ago, my first thought was:
"How hard can it be to write a book?"
Well...
Do you have a genre? There are plenty out there, but will it be nonfiction or fiction; perhaps bio or autobiographical. Fiction it is. Nonfiction is too technical and would not give me the proper the outlet I was looking for. Good, step one complete. Now, follow through the next few ideas; murder, mystery, action, drama, romance or fantasy. This part comes with another few questions. Is there really anything that drives you? What do you like to read? And why? Fantasy. Why not? It is fun, takes your mind away and does not necessarily have to be confined to the rules of reality. Done and done.
Your decision is made, and everybody is happy right? Now your direct competition is 'The Lord of the Rings', 'Harry Potter' and 'The Hunger Games'. Well, if you are going to do it, you might as well do it right.
I jumped the gun a little bit. What do those stories have? A plot line. So, do you have one? Or how about an idea for one? Is it any good? I hope mine is; time will tell. But this is where some real mental energy gets put to use. There isn't a reason to write a book without a plot. So, once you get the plot, the next step is to make sure it differs from the storyline. Those two things are related and need to work as a team, but they are way different. The plot is going to tell you the main parts of the adventure, but I had to hold myself back constantly from telling the whole story all at once. I wanted to capture the readers and keep the story moving, while staying within the plot line. Again, harder to do than to say, or even think. It is hard not to let your mind race ahead and want to write it all out right this second. I had to resort to starting five or six chapters at once so that I could feel the excitment about writing everything, but also not trip myself up. My wife would ask me what was going to happen, and I would tell her, "I don't know. The story hasn't told itself to me yet." That is a weird feeling. To be the author of your own book and not know how it was going to go, or end.
Now, you may have guessed this, but a story does not work unless you have characters! So, then you need one, two, three...70 people, give or take, to be in you story. They all look different and each has their own background and story to tell, themselves. It is interesting to have all of these people that do not exist and then you...get to know them? Yep, you get to know them and change them. You can make them be good, or evil. They can have a speech impediment or be a little looney. Talk about imaginary friends! The best part is that you can make them do anything. Or anything can happen to them. In fact, it is particularly fun to make horrible things happen to the characters, just to see what happens and how they react. Not only does the story develop in a believable fashion, but you build character (no pun intended) in your characters.
Ok, you have characters, droves of them. Do they live anywhere? They sure do. But, you have to make some landscapes for them. Some live by the sea, or on farmland, or in the mountains. You know that the characters are the main players of the story, but does the landscape have anything to do with it? You bet it does. The landscape can trap a character or even kill them. Send them into a pit, or across a desert. Make it rain! Again, you might think of yourself as a sadist, but bad things must happen to your characters, so that they may overcome them. A dreamland is not entertaining, but neither is a depressing hell. Meet it somewhere in the middle.
Here's the checklist so far:
Ideas, plot line, story line, characters, landscapes...
Phew. Just a little more to go.
Time to sit down and actually do it. Come up with an outline that uses the plot as a basis and fill in the gaps with storytelling. This is going to get it all out on paper. It won't look like much, and I admit this part wasn't that much fun. I kept looking at this as getting in the way, like it was sort of delaying my creative process. But trust me, you need this. There is no way you can remember everything you ever thought of. This is constructive, even though it is not what you want to truly be doing. Then when I actually sat down to write I had my ideas ready. What a feeling to start with a blank piece or paper (Word Doc) and write out: Chapter I
It was liberating. My mind was set free. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Then, when I looked back at what I accomplished, it was a lot longer than I anticipated. I was getting somewhere. This could actually happen! Ok, let's devote some time to this. Before I knew it, writing became one of my hobbies.
It took me about six months to write my book using lunch breaks or some early mornings. But the planning stage was about twice that long. That was hard, waiting for so long to see anything come together. Now that the book is finished, another big decision needed to be made. Is this all there is? Should I sit on this stack of papers and call it a completed project? Or, can I get it published? That is the final frontier and one that I am working on as I write this. And I'll tell you, getting this book published makes me want to start all over again and write another book. A sequel will be coming to follow the story even further.
I can't tell you more about my book than I already have because I am in the process of getting a copy write, and ISBN number. In fact, most of the "book work" is not any farther along than that stack of papers. But I have seen some proofs of the cover design and that was pretty exhilarating. I am not even sure which remaining steps need to be taken, but I have good people working with me on it. Then, you might actually see it in the stores. What a day that should be!
"How hard can it be to write a book?"
Well...
Do you have a genre? There are plenty out there, but will it be nonfiction or fiction; perhaps bio or autobiographical. Fiction it is. Nonfiction is too technical and would not give me the proper the outlet I was looking for. Good, step one complete. Now, follow through the next few ideas; murder, mystery, action, drama, romance or fantasy. This part comes with another few questions. Is there really anything that drives you? What do you like to read? And why? Fantasy. Why not? It is fun, takes your mind away and does not necessarily have to be confined to the rules of reality. Done and done.
Your decision is made, and everybody is happy right? Now your direct competition is 'The Lord of the Rings', 'Harry Potter' and 'The Hunger Games'. Well, if you are going to do it, you might as well do it right.
I jumped the gun a little bit. What do those stories have? A plot line. So, do you have one? Or how about an idea for one? Is it any good? I hope mine is; time will tell. But this is where some real mental energy gets put to use. There isn't a reason to write a book without a plot. So, once you get the plot, the next step is to make sure it differs from the storyline. Those two things are related and need to work as a team, but they are way different. The plot is going to tell you the main parts of the adventure, but I had to hold myself back constantly from telling the whole story all at once. I wanted to capture the readers and keep the story moving, while staying within the plot line. Again, harder to do than to say, or even think. It is hard not to let your mind race ahead and want to write it all out right this second. I had to resort to starting five or six chapters at once so that I could feel the excitment about writing everything, but also not trip myself up. My wife would ask me what was going to happen, and I would tell her, "I don't know. The story hasn't told itself to me yet." That is a weird feeling. To be the author of your own book and not know how it was going to go, or end.
Now, you may have guessed this, but a story does not work unless you have characters! So, then you need one, two, three...70 people, give or take, to be in you story. They all look different and each has their own background and story to tell, themselves. It is interesting to have all of these people that do not exist and then you...get to know them? Yep, you get to know them and change them. You can make them be good, or evil. They can have a speech impediment or be a little looney. Talk about imaginary friends! The best part is that you can make them do anything. Or anything can happen to them. In fact, it is particularly fun to make horrible things happen to the characters, just to see what happens and how they react. Not only does the story develop in a believable fashion, but you build character (no pun intended) in your characters.
Ok, you have characters, droves of them. Do they live anywhere? They sure do. But, you have to make some landscapes for them. Some live by the sea, or on farmland, or in the mountains. You know that the characters are the main players of the story, but does the landscape have anything to do with it? You bet it does. The landscape can trap a character or even kill them. Send them into a pit, or across a desert. Make it rain! Again, you might think of yourself as a sadist, but bad things must happen to your characters, so that they may overcome them. A dreamland is not entertaining, but neither is a depressing hell. Meet it somewhere in the middle.
Here's the checklist so far:
Ideas, plot line, story line, characters, landscapes...
Phew. Just a little more to go.
Time to sit down and actually do it. Come up with an outline that uses the plot as a basis and fill in the gaps with storytelling. This is going to get it all out on paper. It won't look like much, and I admit this part wasn't that much fun. I kept looking at this as getting in the way, like it was sort of delaying my creative process. But trust me, you need this. There is no way you can remember everything you ever thought of. This is constructive, even though it is not what you want to truly be doing. Then when I actually sat down to write I had my ideas ready. What a feeling to start with a blank piece or paper (Word Doc) and write out: Chapter I
It was liberating. My mind was set free. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Then, when I looked back at what I accomplished, it was a lot longer than I anticipated. I was getting somewhere. This could actually happen! Ok, let's devote some time to this. Before I knew it, writing became one of my hobbies.
It took me about six months to write my book using lunch breaks or some early mornings. But the planning stage was about twice that long. That was hard, waiting for so long to see anything come together. Now that the book is finished, another big decision needed to be made. Is this all there is? Should I sit on this stack of papers and call it a completed project? Or, can I get it published? That is the final frontier and one that I am working on as I write this. And I'll tell you, getting this book published makes me want to start all over again and write another book. A sequel will be coming to follow the story even further.
I can't tell you more about my book than I already have because I am in the process of getting a copy write, and ISBN number. In fact, most of the "book work" is not any farther along than that stack of papers. But I have seen some proofs of the cover design and that was pretty exhilarating. I am not even sure which remaining steps need to be taken, but I have good people working with me on it. Then, you might actually see it in the stores. What a day that should be!
Saturday, August 17, 2013
How to do Everything Yourself
It was mothers day. My wife was very pregnant with who we now know as Briarly. It was necessary to do SOMETHING for her for her first unofficial mothers day. When I asked what she would like, she said, "You know, I would really like to have my car detailed so that when the baby arrives we can at least start out with a clean car."
To which I replied, "Sure! But I'm not paying a couple hundred clams for someone else to do it. F@&% that. I'll do it myself."
Four months later her car is still fuzzy and messy inside. I never got around to it. A million things to do before the baby came and it just got lost in the shuffle.
But it was then that I realized that this was a common theme for me. I like to think that I can do all the things. I also have a tendency to overdo those things when I finally get to them. For example, a few years ago the Penguins finally made a run in the playoffs so my friend Charlie and I decide we should get some folks together. But watching on a 55" HD screen is not good enough, so we assembled a complete backyard theater, complete with one monster sound system and a 16' X 9' HD screen.
I began to look back and make of list of all the things I should have paid someone to do that I, instead, tackled myself, and likely overdid. This list went back a long way, but the majority of these things happened since I bought my house on a shoe-string budget and couldn't afford to pay for people to do things for me. Despite myself, and with the help of a few friends, I have been able to do some pretty good tackling.
In the Spring of 2002, I had finished my hitch in the Army and was moving back home to work with my dad and start a new life. Before I even got home, my dad was talking about fixing up his pond in the backyard by doing some landscaping, adding a second pond and maybe a waterfall. Make a sort-of rock/pond garden. In order to do this, someone would have to remove a deeply rooted tree, dig a deep hole, install a pond form, buy and haul 147 tons of river-rock by hand, calculate and install an underground pump system, build a stream, shallow the lower pond and somehow not kill all the fish. That would cost a fortune to pay someone to do. We said, "F@&% that. We'll do it ourselves." Five weeks later we got it finished, but we paid a price.
Two years later, I had just bought my own house in town and I also needed to do a little yard work. Climbing the front steps of my new house was like trying to get to the top of Mount St. Ankle Sprain through the Land of the Torn ACL without falling over the rusty, bent-up railing into Tetanus Abyss. Scaling this thing sober was a chore, let alone all the nights I came home drunk and crawled up for my own safety. So my friend Paul and I were bored one day and decided to destroy and replace them. It would certainly cost a fortune for someone to come in and take out the old and replace them with shiny new concrete, so, of course, "F@&% that. I'll do it myself." A month later, ten yards of concrete and much sweat and blood, I had some new front steps. I paid a price.
The theme continued. "Hey Paul, I heard you want a bar installed in your pool room. Don't pay anyone. F@&% that. We'll do it ourselves."
"What's that, honey? You want to pay someone to replace the plumbing in the upstairs bathroom? F@&% that. I'll do it myself."
"You want ALL the trees behind the house cut down? Fine, but F@&% that. I'll do it myself."
Fast-forward a few years and my now wife had moved in. The front steps project from before should have continued to the front porch, but I was out of time, money and energy. Filled with confidence from years of moderate successes, it was now time to tackle the big stuff. What I really needed was an army of laborers and about $30,000, but, "F@&% that. I'll do it myself." I needed to re-grade the back of the house, repair the crumbling wall under the front porch, remove all of the bushes and other landscaping, pour sixty feet of footing for a retaining wall, remove 48 million tons of clay, build a deck, and dig and install new French drains around the house. All while preparing for baby's arrival, which meant rearranging all the furniture, painting the nursery, buying and assembling all the baby furniture, maintaining a demanding job and taking care of a pregnant wife. Not complaining, just sayin'. I am currently paying the price.
The landscape work is more than half-completed, but now there is a baby and a family. Once these last projects are completed, I think that I will have finally reached the point in life where I no longer want to "F@&% that" and "do it myself". I want to pay to have someone else do the crap that I don't have the time and energy to do anymore.
Instead of those things, I want to spend time with my young family. I love my life, and want to live it, not work through it. I want to nurture my daughter, spend the few quiet seconds I have every day with my wife, write for this blog, maybe someday play chess with Terry or grab a beer with my friends. Life is too short to be a slave at work AND at home.
So, F@&% that. I won't do it myself.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
It matters
Life passes by. Second per second, minute per minute. It all adds up. There are some that are into this YOLO thing and others that are doing what they feel they must to get through it. But you cannot forget the small things that make life so memorable. Sure, there are good things and bad things that happen to everyone. How else to we get all those stories that we share when we get together?
But there are a few things that I have gathered together and formed into a list of what really does matter. This list is neither finished when I post it nor complete even in the paragraph I spend on each topic. I am sure you could add many more things to it, and feel free to!
Time matters: Here is one that I have a fatal flaw with. I am governed by the clock. I am not talking about having a finite amount of time on this earth. Everyone's clock is ticking at a slightly different rate for that one. But what I am talking about is being prompt and staying on schedule. For me, I actually get visibly upset if I cannot meet a deadline, or be somewhere on time. My perception is that everyone will be judgmental of me if I waste their time. So I do what I can to keep the ball rolling and get things done, efficiently and fast, and early if possible. This is furthered though when that very perception is reversed. I cannot take it when I am forced into being late because someone did not get ready in time. Or perhaps someone did not meet me at the time we agreed upon. This one is just as frustrating. Time matters, and I hate wasted time. It is a precious commodity that gets de-prioritized all the time (no pun intended). I work with the public...another giant source of time crunching. People always wonder why the doctor runs behind schedule. No, it is not because they over-booked the schedule. It is because patients come late to their appointment. Then they ask, "Don't you value my time?" And I want to ask them the same question back. Sometimes a patient requires more time. That is plenty fine with me. I take every chance to accommodate as much time as I can for everyone. But then when the very next patient complains that I spent a half of an hour with the previous gentleman and only fifteen minutes with them, then another talk must ensue. "I spend the time each person requires. Do you have anything else I can do for you? Any other question I can answer? Anything else you need?" Here comes the response, "No, I just wanted you to know." Thanks, now I am further behind.
The Score matters: They don't give the Stanley Cup to both teams. The score matters on a level that is deep. When people say it isn't about winning or losing, it's how you play the game, they are being nice. But they are not that far from the mark if you delve into it. If you are a winner, be a gracious one. Winners aren't winners all the time. That's why they play the games, right? If you are the winner, you did something right. You succeeded and triumphed. It may mean you were superior to your opponent, but that doesn't mean that your opponent wasn't giving their all as well. They wanted to win too. But they don't need you to gloat and jeer (to their face). And the losers have something to think about as well. Losers aren't losers all the time. But there are lessons to be learned. Sometimes you just get beat! You weren't as good, as fast, and skilled. But sometimes you were the match of the century for your opponent. They may have bested you, but you don't need to hang your head. There are other times though that a loss is just what you deserved. Maybe you dogged it in practice or need to learn a new technique.
Family matters: They say you can pick your friends, but you cannot pick your family. I guess nothing can be truer. Friends may come and friends may go, and friends can peter out, you know... If you can finish that little ditty, you must be one of my friends. My family may not know all about that song or any of the other toasts that we give during the wee hours, but they don't have to. Family will be there anytime you need them. That's what family is for. They are the people that love you no matter what, until the end of your days, or theirs. There is no greater bond. That bond supersedes even if you disobey, or march to your own drum. They will be there even if you are not for a while. There is always the family connection. All it takes to rekindle is your willingness to do so. I encourage you to do it if you need to!
Health matters: Here is one that can go easily overlooked. Do you feel good? Probably, but that doesn't mean that you are not a ticking time bomb. People get drained. They get tired. They get stressed. They get sick. There isn't an animal out there that doesn't have these cycles. But here is something that you really have a decent say-so in. You can choose to eat properly. You can choose to exercise. You can adopt a low stress lifestyle. When you hear about your body being a temple, it goes without saying that it should not be as big as a temple. Your body will respond to what you do to it. It gives you back what you put into it. Isn't that something to admire? Sometimes I get a compliment at work...people will ask how old I am. When I tell them what my (actual) age is, they ask, "How do you do it?" It is funny to watch their expression when I reply, "You know, good old diet and exercise. Just what they tell you to do." Most of them are shocked. I think they were hoping I was going to tell them there was a magic pill.
You matter: Yet another - and probably the most - important thing that matters. You! There are many people in the world that need you. You may not even be aware of all the people you touch and influence along your way. There are people who admire you, learn from you, look up to you, and love you. You are important because you are you, and there is no one else quite the way you are. This requires some responsibility from you, though. You are needed. Whether you are needed to babysit or needed go out to share some advice over a beer, your actions will help determine the future. What kind of power is that?! I bet you didn't give much thought about changing the future, but there you are, day after day, making it happen.
So that is what I've got for this segment. Until next time...
But there are a few things that I have gathered together and formed into a list of what really does matter. This list is neither finished when I post it nor complete even in the paragraph I spend on each topic. I am sure you could add many more things to it, and feel free to!
Time matters: Here is one that I have a fatal flaw with. I am governed by the clock. I am not talking about having a finite amount of time on this earth. Everyone's clock is ticking at a slightly different rate for that one. But what I am talking about is being prompt and staying on schedule. For me, I actually get visibly upset if I cannot meet a deadline, or be somewhere on time. My perception is that everyone will be judgmental of me if I waste their time. So I do what I can to keep the ball rolling and get things done, efficiently and fast, and early if possible. This is furthered though when that very perception is reversed. I cannot take it when I am forced into being late because someone did not get ready in time. Or perhaps someone did not meet me at the time we agreed upon. This one is just as frustrating. Time matters, and I hate wasted time. It is a precious commodity that gets de-prioritized all the time (no pun intended). I work with the public...another giant source of time crunching. People always wonder why the doctor runs behind schedule. No, it is not because they over-booked the schedule. It is because patients come late to their appointment. Then they ask, "Don't you value my time?" And I want to ask them the same question back. Sometimes a patient requires more time. That is plenty fine with me. I take every chance to accommodate as much time as I can for everyone. But then when the very next patient complains that I spent a half of an hour with the previous gentleman and only fifteen minutes with them, then another talk must ensue. "I spend the time each person requires. Do you have anything else I can do for you? Any other question I can answer? Anything else you need?" Here comes the response, "No, I just wanted you to know." Thanks, now I am further behind.
The Score matters: They don't give the Stanley Cup to both teams. The score matters on a level that is deep. When people say it isn't about winning or losing, it's how you play the game, they are being nice. But they are not that far from the mark if you delve into it. If you are a winner, be a gracious one. Winners aren't winners all the time. That's why they play the games, right? If you are the winner, you did something right. You succeeded and triumphed. It may mean you were superior to your opponent, but that doesn't mean that your opponent wasn't giving their all as well. They wanted to win too. But they don't need you to gloat and jeer (to their face). And the losers have something to think about as well. Losers aren't losers all the time. But there are lessons to be learned. Sometimes you just get beat! You weren't as good, as fast, and skilled. But sometimes you were the match of the century for your opponent. They may have bested you, but you don't need to hang your head. There are other times though that a loss is just what you deserved. Maybe you dogged it in practice or need to learn a new technique.
Family matters: They say you can pick your friends, but you cannot pick your family. I guess nothing can be truer. Friends may come and friends may go, and friends can peter out, you know... If you can finish that little ditty, you must be one of my friends. My family may not know all about that song or any of the other toasts that we give during the wee hours, but they don't have to. Family will be there anytime you need them. That's what family is for. They are the people that love you no matter what, until the end of your days, or theirs. There is no greater bond. That bond supersedes even if you disobey, or march to your own drum. They will be there even if you are not for a while. There is always the family connection. All it takes to rekindle is your willingness to do so. I encourage you to do it if you need to!
Health matters: Here is one that can go easily overlooked. Do you feel good? Probably, but that doesn't mean that you are not a ticking time bomb. People get drained. They get tired. They get stressed. They get sick. There isn't an animal out there that doesn't have these cycles. But here is something that you really have a decent say-so in. You can choose to eat properly. You can choose to exercise. You can adopt a low stress lifestyle. When you hear about your body being a temple, it goes without saying that it should not be as big as a temple. Your body will respond to what you do to it. It gives you back what you put into it. Isn't that something to admire? Sometimes I get a compliment at work...people will ask how old I am. When I tell them what my (actual) age is, they ask, "How do you do it?" It is funny to watch their expression when I reply, "You know, good old diet and exercise. Just what they tell you to do." Most of them are shocked. I think they were hoping I was going to tell them there was a magic pill.
You matter: Yet another - and probably the most - important thing that matters. You! There are many people in the world that need you. You may not even be aware of all the people you touch and influence along your way. There are people who admire you, learn from you, look up to you, and love you. You are important because you are you, and there is no one else quite the way you are. This requires some responsibility from you, though. You are needed. Whether you are needed to babysit or needed go out to share some advice over a beer, your actions will help determine the future. What kind of power is that?! I bet you didn't give much thought about changing the future, but there you are, day after day, making it happen.
So that is what I've got for this segment. Until next time...
Monday, August 5, 2013
How to try Different Things
Go a different way to work. Throw food on the floor and laugh. Try to empathize with someone. Cook a Turducken. Just do something different.
I told myself a few months ago that I was going to try and do something new to me every day. Maybe it would be to look at a new website or to shop at a different grocery store.
It's amazing what you can find when you push yourself out of your little bubble.
I was too young to remember, but my mother says that I was so afraid of new things when I was a baby that she could sit me in the middle of the horrible green living room carpet on a blanket with a toy or two and go clean the entire house. When she was done she would come back and find that I hadn't moved an inch. I just sat in the middle of the room trying to figure it all out from a distance. She tells me that that example is a microcosm of my personality. I was also breach at birth before the emergency C-section. She says I wanted to "test the waters" with my feet before really committing.
It has always been tough for me to leave familiar territory, although I've always tried to push myself out of it. Joining for Army was as far as I have ever gone from my perfect little world. Even then I was anxious to get back to my little bubble. So after my hitch I moved home where everything was warm and fuzzy and happy. It wasn't until after spending several years stagnating I knew it was time to make a change.
But, why? It was so nice there in the bubble! I had a decent job, a little house, a nice truck, a wonderful family and lots of friends and drinking buddies. I did whatever whenever, with virtually no casualties aside from my liver and bank account. But it wasn't enough. There was no future, no security, no promise. If I didn't push myself out of that comfort zone I would die there. Likely of cirrhosis and boredom.
And then I met my wife. She never asked me to, but I knew I had to make some changes. Out of the "comfort zone" I went. Again. This time it would be to learn a trade and get a real job outside the family business and the Army. In other words, one from which I could get fired. And it was outside of my known world. Oh No! How could I possible survive this gauntlet? Oh, the anxiety!
A few years have gone by now and I have a good job with good benefits in a good business. I still fight the urge to create new little comfort zones inside my new world. Can't help it. Don't judge me.
But what has come to light is that I don't have to leave my comfort zone, I just need to make it bigger. More experiences = more comfort. And the more diverse and interesting the experiences are, the more diverse and interesting we become.
Every new experience guarantees a bigger comfort zone. If you try driving a new way to work, it's not new anymore. For example, I find myself writing this from atop a bucket in an unfinished electrical closet on the fifth floor of a construction site in downtown Pittsburgh. No bathroom, permanent power or even a chair to sit on. Sounds dreamy, right? It's really not a bad gig. This is not a place I ever thought I would find myself, and I certainly never expected it to be in my little realm of knowledge and comfort. (We have an 8-week old little girl at home if you wanna talk about leaving the comfort zone...)
Yet I find myself comfortable here and in places I never even knew existed. My goal is to try something new once a day, even if it's as simple as reading a new blog, making up new, goofy lyrics for kids' songs to sing to my daughter, or picking my nose left-handed.
Any other suggestions, feel free to comment. Be gentle.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
How I'm trying to get the Cheese
What is success these days in the so-called "rat-race"? Is it showing up at the same place everyday collecting a paycheck or is it more?
When we get a job, all we have really done is compile the knowledge and skill required to do a task. That is all. We haven't built anything of our own to speak of except to make ourselves more marketable.
I sometimes wonder how much of an individual's successes are the successes of others. We go to work everyday and work for a person or a company or an entity that started or began from nothing.
Promotions and raises are based on longevity in most companies. People are rewarded and promoted for simply showing up for years, not always due to growth or abilities. Corporate America is like that. The Army is like that. It is very difficult to drum someone out of a large conglomo-corporation. It takes research and evidence and months of planning. As a result we have an apathetic cast of millions that provide little for humanity.
Do we, as employees of businesses, corporations, governments, etc., give ourselves too much credit? We call ourselves successful if we manage to show up someplace every day and take home a check. How is that successful? What have we created on our own? We're all just rats in a maze trying to get to a piece of cheese.
The point is that I would like to be successful in creating something of my own. Being a cog in the machine and working my way up the ladder over thirty years sounds like slavery to me. We must get in line. Do what we're told. Attend meetings. Make money for others while we struggle just to keep up. Eke together a miserly savings and hope to retire before we're dead. Sounds horrible.
The problem is that getting out of the "rat-race" is easier said than done. We would all like to be independently wealthy and do whatever we want all the time. The "rat-race" typically either snuffs out creativity or consumes it for it's own purpose which leaves little scraps left for the minions on which it depends to survive.
I'm not saying I despise the "rat-race". It is a stepping stone. It pays the bills. It enables me to increase my savings. It helps me put food on the table and a cozy life for my family. However, I don't want to go to work everyday with fear that something will collapse and I will lose my job. If someone else has a bad day and doesn't sell enough I could lose my job. That sucks.
I want to be successful, but not in a "showing up at the same place doing the same crap everyday" kind of way. I want to create something of my own. I want to be truly free. I want to make it so that if I would ever lose my job I won't care, or I will be capable of simply quitting my job.
So, today I create this post. This is my creative outlet until I make time for more. Not sure how far it will get me, but it's a start in creating something new or trying something new every day (future post).
But alas, while I cook up some scheme that likely won't work (I'm a cynic, after all), I'll keep trying to get to the cheese first.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
And another thing. .
.
"Oh, Terry, you would have made such a good father!" "Geez, man, I'm so sorry!" "Such a shame! "You're such a kid yourself, you would have been a perfect father!"
Over the years, these words have come at me with a regularity that until now, I regarded with the same disdain as those lamentations that bordered on, "Too bad you're not thinner," or ". . .better looking," or " . . . richer." Or whatever I'm not.
Irrelevant.
But now, and I believe with good reason, I take issue.
Within a month after marrying my first wife Betsy, she was diagnosed with a brutally brittle diabetes that wound up eventually killing her. Back when she was diagnosed, the average life span after diagnosis was 17 years. Diagnosed in 1977, she died in 2010.
You could say she beat the odds, but in those years she had quintuple bypass surgery with the unfortunate byproduct of a sternum infection that never healed afterward, suffered horrendous extremity pain as severe diabetics do, winding up in a wheel chair, and basically went through Hell the last 10 years of her life before she died, staring directly at her impending demise.
This is not to say she didn't bring a lot of it on herself. She never gave up smoking, I am told. She never, EVER, gave up chocolate, I am also told. And from the beginning, she took personal and total control of her insulin intake to accommodate her excesses. This caused a great deal of friction between us, as you may imagine.
So she did well in terms of "years lived," but she paid a high price to do so.
But back in the early days of 1978, when her getting pregnant would have been a death sentence to her, she and I both agreed that the way to safely prevent any pregnancy for her would be for me to have a vasectomy, allowing her to get off "the Pill," so bad for known diabetics to take at that time. Of course, unknown to me, she did not get off the pill, and with good reason since I was not the only source of semen she was receiving at the time. . . (Please note the absence of editorial content here.)
Nonetheless, my best friend, who was a trauma surgeon, did the honors and proudly proclaimed after the outpatient procedure that he tied my tubes so far up I'd "have trouble putting [my] arms down for the next few days." Indeed, at the age of 27, I was deliberately, irrevocably, sterile.
And after that, it started. "Too bad!" and, "You'll never know the joys of children."
Within a year after my 6 year marriage to Betsy ended, I fell in love with Kathy, a woman in the end stages of her divorce proceeding, who had three children (at that time,14, 11 and 7 - two older boys and a girl.)
I wound up marrying Kathy. And in the process, I stayed around long enough to raise her children in a way their father never could. Emotionally, Hell, lovingly, even.
This comes to mind because the oldest boy (he's the only one married thus far) came to our house this week with his wife and his two daughters, now 14 and 10, now beautiful creatures who shine sunlight on you whenever they speak to you. And they came from far away to meet the newest member of our family.
But I digress. Because, it turns out that I wound up losing Kathy after 16 years to a line dancing acquaintance of hers, casting me adrift once again. (Please note the absence of editorial content here.)
Sparing you details, at least in this post, I moved on. Until, I'm convinced, the Higher Power that controls my life blessed me with Sherry. And, of course, her daughter, Bree. Ah. . .
Bree was a challenge to me it turns out because her dad, her idol, her best friend, died way before he should have. She was soon to go to college, her dad's alma mater, and he was a teacher who, when he left, tore a huge hole in the hearts of every one who knew him.
That was the world I stepped into, not immediately, but a year and a half later. And in my style, not on tiptoes, but with Gusto! I came to the Christmas party Sherry was throwing (Yes, I was invited!) and told whomever was listening, "Hi! My name is Terry. I know Sherry! And who are you?"
Bree dutifully answered that question with an "I'm Bree," and I believe those were the only words she said to me that day.
We had work to do, and we did it, but that is not the purpose of what I'm telling you now. Because during the course of the 14 years since that Christmas party, I've come to realize that the nomenclatures of "This is my ex-step child, So-and-So," or , "This is my future step-child, So-and-So," have absolutely No Meaning in my world. And so, for the uninformed and for all the future, I introduce my family as "This is my Bree," "This is my David," "This is my Michael," or "This is my Chrissy." I'm through giving the back of my hand to whomever starts pointing their index finger at the imaginary family chart in front of them, trying to figure which child goes into what slot in that chart just to bring me up short.
And with the arrival of our newest grandchild (my Bree's first,) I realize that for someone who was never to know the joys of having children, I can point you to four examples of how wrong those pitiable sentiments were. And I challenge the world to show me how I am not "as blessed," if not more so, than they.
"Oh, Terry, you would have made such a good father!" "Geez, man, I'm so sorry!" "Such a shame! "You're such a kid yourself, you would have been a perfect father!"
Over the years, these words have come at me with a regularity that until now, I regarded with the same disdain as those lamentations that bordered on, "Too bad you're not thinner," or ". . .better looking," or " . . . richer." Or whatever I'm not.
Irrelevant.
But now, and I believe with good reason, I take issue.
Within a month after marrying my first wife Betsy, she was diagnosed with a brutally brittle diabetes that wound up eventually killing her. Back when she was diagnosed, the average life span after diagnosis was 17 years. Diagnosed in 1977, she died in 2010.
You could say she beat the odds, but in those years she had quintuple bypass surgery with the unfortunate byproduct of a sternum infection that never healed afterward, suffered horrendous extremity pain as severe diabetics do, winding up in a wheel chair, and basically went through Hell the last 10 years of her life before she died, staring directly at her impending demise.
This is not to say she didn't bring a lot of it on herself. She never gave up smoking, I am told. She never, EVER, gave up chocolate, I am also told. And from the beginning, she took personal and total control of her insulin intake to accommodate her excesses. This caused a great deal of friction between us, as you may imagine.
So she did well in terms of "years lived," but she paid a high price to do so.
But back in the early days of 1978, when her getting pregnant would have been a death sentence to her, she and I both agreed that the way to safely prevent any pregnancy for her would be for me to have a vasectomy, allowing her to get off "the Pill," so bad for known diabetics to take at that time. Of course, unknown to me, she did not get off the pill, and with good reason since I was not the only source of semen she was receiving at the time. . . (Please note the absence of editorial content here.)
Nonetheless, my best friend, who was a trauma surgeon, did the honors and proudly proclaimed after the outpatient procedure that he tied my tubes so far up I'd "have trouble putting [my] arms down for the next few days." Indeed, at the age of 27, I was deliberately, irrevocably, sterile.
And after that, it started. "Too bad!" and, "You'll never know the joys of children."
Within a year after my 6 year marriage to Betsy ended, I fell in love with Kathy, a woman in the end stages of her divorce proceeding, who had three children (at that time,14, 11 and 7 - two older boys and a girl.)
I wound up marrying Kathy. And in the process, I stayed around long enough to raise her children in a way their father never could. Emotionally, Hell, lovingly, even.
This comes to mind because the oldest boy (he's the only one married thus far) came to our house this week with his wife and his two daughters, now 14 and 10, now beautiful creatures who shine sunlight on you whenever they speak to you. And they came from far away to meet the newest member of our family.
But I digress. Because, it turns out that I wound up losing Kathy after 16 years to a line dancing acquaintance of hers, casting me adrift once again. (Please note the absence of editorial content here.)
Sparing you details, at least in this post, I moved on. Until, I'm convinced, the Higher Power that controls my life blessed me with Sherry. And, of course, her daughter, Bree. Ah. . .
Bree was a challenge to me it turns out because her dad, her idol, her best friend, died way before he should have. She was soon to go to college, her dad's alma mater, and he was a teacher who, when he left, tore a huge hole in the hearts of every one who knew him.
That was the world I stepped into, not immediately, but a year and a half later. And in my style, not on tiptoes, but with Gusto! I came to the Christmas party Sherry was throwing (Yes, I was invited!) and told whomever was listening, "Hi! My name is Terry. I know Sherry! And who are you?"
Bree dutifully answered that question with an "I'm Bree," and I believe those were the only words she said to me that day.
We had work to do, and we did it, but that is not the purpose of what I'm telling you now. Because during the course of the 14 years since that Christmas party, I've come to realize that the nomenclatures of "This is my ex-step child, So-and-So," or , "This is my future step-child, So-and-So," have absolutely No Meaning in my world. And so, for the uninformed and for all the future, I introduce my family as "This is my Bree," "This is my David," "This is my Michael," or "This is my Chrissy." I'm through giving the back of my hand to whomever starts pointing their index finger at the imaginary family chart in front of them, trying to figure which child goes into what slot in that chart just to bring me up short.
And with the arrival of our newest grandchild (my Bree's first,) I realize that for someone who was never to know the joys of having children, I can point you to four examples of how wrong those pitiable sentiments were. And I challenge the world to show me how I am not "as blessed," if not more so, than they.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Insomnia
Insomnia is...whatever you can think of.
I am a bad sleeper. I have been since I was in college. Something starts happening in my little pee-brain and there you have it, wide awake.
To give you some insight on what happens to me, here you go. I do sleep well for somewhere in the two to three month range. But then for about two weeks or so, I may only get one to two hours of sleep a night.
There is no warning. I might even be dog tired. But there I lie, and there is a party going on in my head. I start singing the remake to 'Holy Diver' by Killswitch Engage.
Then I have to ask myself, why not just sing the original version from Dio:
Okay, let's sing that for a bit. Wait, now let's sing some Pearl Jam. That would be a good encore to those last two songs, right? Okay, what's next? Oh, I should try to sleep...
So I try to sleep. That is much harder than if you just actually fall asleep. Trying to sleep is stupid. This is dumb. This is so frustrating. I am thinking way too hard here. You can't try to sleep.
Time to break the cycle. I will count, and that will get all those songs and thoughts out of my head. Maybe I can count to one thousand. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9....107,108,109,110. I have a long way to go. Okay, back to it. 155,156,157,158,159,160...180,181,182. This is getting boring, I sure have an active mind. Counting is so mundane. How does anyone get anything done?
I did it again. Just as I was getting tired, I realized how bored I was. Okay, start over. 1,2,3,4...Holy Diver!
DAMN! where did that come from. Now it is 4:28am. Oh God, if you get me through this...
Stop. What an interesting thought. No thoughts at all. Calm the mind. Rest the body.
And then I wake up at 6:15am when the alarm does its job. Wow I must have done it. I fell asleep. Maybe that was an hour and a half. That's good enough for now, I guess. My friends have been telling me that sleep is over-rated for years. It must be true since I haven't yet died of lack of sleep.
I hope tonight is better than last night. Has Dio got anything else? No, he's dead now. Oh no!
I am a bad sleeper. I have been since I was in college. Something starts happening in my little pee-brain and there you have it, wide awake.
To give you some insight on what happens to me, here you go. I do sleep well for somewhere in the two to three month range. But then for about two weeks or so, I may only get one to two hours of sleep a night.
There is no warning. I might even be dog tired. But there I lie, and there is a party going on in my head. I start singing the remake to 'Holy Diver' by Killswitch Engage.
Then I have to ask myself, why not just sing the original version from Dio:
Okay, let's sing that for a bit. Wait, now let's sing some Pearl Jam. That would be a good encore to those last two songs, right? Okay, what's next? Oh, I should try to sleep...
So I try to sleep. That is much harder than if you just actually fall asleep. Trying to sleep is stupid. This is dumb. This is so frustrating. I am thinking way too hard here. You can't try to sleep.
Time to break the cycle. I will count, and that will get all those songs and thoughts out of my head. Maybe I can count to one thousand. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9....107,108,109,110. I have a long way to go. Okay, back to it. 155,156,157,158,159,160...180,181,182. This is getting boring, I sure have an active mind. Counting is so mundane. How does anyone get anything done?
I did it again. Just as I was getting tired, I realized how bored I was. Okay, start over. 1,2,3,4...Holy Diver!
DAMN! where did that come from. Now it is 4:28am. Oh God, if you get me through this...
Stop. What an interesting thought. No thoughts at all. Calm the mind. Rest the body.
And then I wake up at 6:15am when the alarm does its job. Wow I must have done it. I fell asleep. Maybe that was an hour and a half. That's good enough for now, I guess. My friends have been telling me that sleep is over-rated for years. It must be true since I haven't yet died of lack of sleep.
I hope tonight is better than last night. Has Dio got anything else? No, he's dead now. Oh no!
Saturday, July 13, 2013
How to eat Italian Food
As I write this the sun isn't up yet. There are three happy cats chomping away on morning grub, one happy baby sleeping happily in her Mamaroo, and most importantly, a happy wife sleeping in for the first time in at least a week. I am awake, sorta, with a cup of coffee and thoughts of childhood.
It seems like only yesterday I was waking up early to sneak downstairs to watch real Saturday morning cartoons. Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner were my favorites. And the Three Stooges. Watching characters get smashed, blown up, shot, crushed and mangled always entertained me. So did America's Funniest Home videos. You know, the clips where people did dumb things and made disasters out of regular life.
That reminds me...
We were out to dinner last night for Sherry's birthday. We had gotten lucky with the baby's nap schedule and dinner happened in the middle of a sleep cycle. I typically don't enjoy taking a newborn and all her stuff out to fancy restaurants (see: circus-stunt sweaty backseat poopy-diaper-change slip-n-slide craptacular), but on some occasions it is necessary. It was nice. We could have a conversation for the first time in weeks, and I always enjoy talking with my father-in-law.
Terry and I seemed to have a connection since the first time we spoke. In his speech at our wedding he announced that the jokes I told weren't funny because he told those same jokes thirty years ago. He is not wrong. We have the same sick sense of humor. There is an unspoken kinship of some kind with the two of us and that has made for an easy transition from combative, protective father-figure to family member, friend and confidant.
So we ate, we drank, we laughed for what seemed like thirty seconds. We discussed writing, books, comedians, travel, and our little collaborative writing project: this blog. Briarly slept like, well, a baby.
Our meals were delivered. Terry was stirring his spaghetti and meatballs while we talked. Combining some mighty force, surgeon-like skill with his fork, and some good ol' fashioned Terry-like flair, his hand slipped down the fork straight into his spaghetti sending a medium-sized pasta projectile across the table directly onto Sherry's green and white blouse. I looked at him with a bit of haughty derision.
"Thanks, Terry", Sherry said, characteristically calm and matter-of-fact. It was as if this sort of thing has happened before! She cleaned herself up the best she could, we had a chuckle and continued enjoying our meal. Briarly slept through it.
I would not be outdone.
Three minutes later, as I was about to tell Terry that his storytelling reminded me of author and comedian Bill Cosby, something else happened.
I said to Terry, "Ya know, your writing writing reminds me of..."
At that moment I attempted the apparently inhuman feat of cutting my chicken parmesan. My fork broke through the chicken breast like I had split the tomato atom causing a shock wave of sauce and ravioli shrapnel to flow onto my shirt and pants.
We laughed hysterically. For ten minutes we were in tears and belly-pains of laughter and silliness at the sheer brilliance of two buffoons making almost the same mess within minutes. Briarly slept.
We calmed down and wiped our tears.
"Bill Cosby", I finally finished, even though the moment had been washed away by the sauce flow. We proceeded to finish our meals and get ready to leave.
Something occurred to me later that night...
We took a baby out to a fancy restaurant with all her stuff expecting crying, diaper disasters, having to take turns calming her while we took turns eating, and anything else a baby is capable of.
None of those things happened.
What did happen was Terry flung spaghetti onto his wife, I launched sauce and ravioli onto myself, and Briarly slept. We dragged our fat, happy asses out of the restaurant looking like we had a food fight. It was time go go home and hose off the big chunks. We had a wonderful time.
Someday we will tell Briarly tales of our follies and laugh some more. But, for now, Briarly slept through it. Good for her.
It seems like only yesterday I was waking up early to sneak downstairs to watch real Saturday morning cartoons. Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner were my favorites. And the Three Stooges. Watching characters get smashed, blown up, shot, crushed and mangled always entertained me. So did America's Funniest Home videos. You know, the clips where people did dumb things and made disasters out of regular life.
That reminds me...
We were out to dinner last night for Sherry's birthday. We had gotten lucky with the baby's nap schedule and dinner happened in the middle of a sleep cycle. I typically don't enjoy taking a newborn and all her stuff out to fancy restaurants (see: circus-stunt sweaty backseat poopy-diaper-change slip-n-slide craptacular), but on some occasions it is necessary. It was nice. We could have a conversation for the first time in weeks, and I always enjoy talking with my father-in-law.
Terry and I seemed to have a connection since the first time we spoke. In his speech at our wedding he announced that the jokes I told weren't funny because he told those same jokes thirty years ago. He is not wrong. We have the same sick sense of humor. There is an unspoken kinship of some kind with the two of us and that has made for an easy transition from combative, protective father-figure to family member, friend and confidant.
So we ate, we drank, we laughed for what seemed like thirty seconds. We discussed writing, books, comedians, travel, and our little collaborative writing project: this blog. Briarly slept like, well, a baby.
Our meals were delivered. Terry was stirring his spaghetti and meatballs while we talked. Combining some mighty force, surgeon-like skill with his fork, and some good ol' fashioned Terry-like flair, his hand slipped down the fork straight into his spaghetti sending a medium-sized pasta projectile across the table directly onto Sherry's green and white blouse. I looked at him with a bit of haughty derision.
"Thanks, Terry", Sherry said, characteristically calm and matter-of-fact. It was as if this sort of thing has happened before! She cleaned herself up the best she could, we had a chuckle and continued enjoying our meal. Briarly slept through it.
I would not be outdone.
Three minutes later, as I was about to tell Terry that his storytelling reminded me of author and comedian Bill Cosby, something else happened.
I said to Terry, "Ya know, your writing writing reminds me of..."
At that moment I attempted the apparently inhuman feat of cutting my chicken parmesan. My fork broke through the chicken breast like I had split the tomato atom causing a shock wave of sauce and ravioli shrapnel to flow onto my shirt and pants.
We laughed hysterically. For ten minutes we were in tears and belly-pains of laughter and silliness at the sheer brilliance of two buffoons making almost the same mess within minutes. Briarly slept.
We calmed down and wiped our tears.
"Bill Cosby", I finally finished, even though the moment had been washed away by the sauce flow. We proceeded to finish our meals and get ready to leave.
Something occurred to me later that night...
We took a baby out to a fancy restaurant with all her stuff expecting crying, diaper disasters, having to take turns calming her while we took turns eating, and anything else a baby is capable of.
None of those things happened.
What did happen was Terry flung spaghetti onto his wife, I launched sauce and ravioli onto myself, and Briarly slept. We dragged our fat, happy asses out of the restaurant looking like we had a food fight. It was time go go home and hose off the big chunks. We had a wonderful time.
Someday we will tell Briarly tales of our follies and laugh some more. But, for now, Briarly slept through it. Good for her.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Relationship Capital Pt.1
I have been putting a lot of thought lately into how we can eliminate bad influences and bad people from our lives. More on that to come.
I got home from work today and my wife needed a hug and kiss-and so did I. Our cats needed played with. The baby needed...a NAP! (Awesome! Time to write!) The litter box needed cleaned. The trash needed taken out. (YAY!)
All these things need maintained. These are not things that take care of themselves, especially the relationships. They require cultivation, maintenance, attention and so on. Relationships all need much labor. All of them do, even the ones we develop with our pets.
The human relationship requires special attention. All relationships build what's known as "relationship capital". I heard the term from some intellectual smart-ass or like-minded comedian along the way, so I do not claim credit even though I unintentionally live this theme. Essentially it explains that all parties involved in all relationships build up capital that can be spent at a later time. In essence: I do something you want me to do, then later I get to do something I want to do. Simple, right? Sorta. It's not a direct trade, and I have yet to find a good website with an appropriate exchange rate.
Regarding a new baby, for example, I change a second diaper, then am entitled to one "you have to change this diaper" card redeemable at a later date. You wanna sleep in a couple hours? OK, then you get the cranky child this afternoon when I would really like a nap. What's that? You wanna go out for the day and go shopping and work out and hang out with your friends? I think that entitles me to two hours with my friends likely doing something dumb that involves moving things, drinking a couple beers and scratching ourselves.
What I have noticed is that we have a limited amount of resources allotted to this relationship capital, and this capital should be reserved for people who matter. Why do we waste so much time and energy on people that don't enhance our lives?
I got home from work today and my wife needed a hug and kiss-and so did I. Our cats needed played with. The baby needed...a NAP! (Awesome! Time to write!) The litter box needed cleaned. The trash needed taken out. (YAY!)
All these things need maintained. These are not things that take care of themselves, especially the relationships. They require cultivation, maintenance, attention and so on. Relationships all need much labor. All of them do, even the ones we develop with our pets.
The human relationship requires special attention. All relationships build what's known as "relationship capital". I heard the term from some intellectual smart-ass or like-minded comedian along the way, so I do not claim credit even though I unintentionally live this theme. Essentially it explains that all parties involved in all relationships build up capital that can be spent at a later time. In essence: I do something you want me to do, then later I get to do something I want to do. Simple, right? Sorta. It's not a direct trade, and I have yet to find a good website with an appropriate exchange rate.
Regarding a new baby, for example, I change a second diaper, then am entitled to one "you have to change this diaper" card redeemable at a later date. You wanna sleep in a couple hours? OK, then you get the cranky child this afternoon when I would really like a nap. What's that? You wanna go out for the day and go shopping and work out and hang out with your friends? I think that entitles me to two hours with my friends likely doing something dumb that involves moving things, drinking a couple beers and scratching ourselves.
What I have noticed is that we have a limited amount of resources allotted to this relationship capital, and this capital should be reserved for people who matter. Why do we waste so much time and energy on people that don't enhance our lives?
Friday, July 5, 2013
Day 1
In trying to come up with a name for this blog, I had several ideas. Most of those were not appropriate if we ever intend to let any other humans see this blog.
Here is a page I stumbled upon of some good intentions but poor results.
I was looking at the meaning for the word Vomitorium on Wikipedia and had no idea that the word had actual meaning. It is basically a means of rapid egress, but from the Wikipedia page...
"A vomitorium is a passage situated below or behind a tier of seats in an amphitheatre or a stadium, through which big crowds can exit rapidly at the end of a performance. They can also be pathways for actors to enter and leave stage.[1] The Latin word vomitorium, plural vomitoria, derives from the verb vomeo, vomere, vomitum, "to spew forth." In ancient Roman architecture, vomitoria were designed to provide rapid egress for large crowds at amphitheatres and stadiums, as they do in modern sports stadiums and large theatres.[2]"
Writing will be done here. There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going.
Here is a page I stumbled upon of some good intentions but poor results.
I was looking at the meaning for the word Vomitorium on Wikipedia and had no idea that the word had actual meaning. It is basically a means of rapid egress, but from the Wikipedia page...
"A vomitorium is a passage situated below or behind a tier of seats in an amphitheatre or a stadium, through which big crowds can exit rapidly at the end of a performance. They can also be pathways for actors to enter and leave stage.[1] The Latin word vomitorium, plural vomitoria, derives from the verb vomeo, vomere, vomitum, "to spew forth." In ancient Roman architecture, vomitoria were designed to provide rapid egress for large crowds at amphitheatres and stadiums, as they do in modern sports stadiums and large theatres.[2]"
Writing will be done here. There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)