Being snowed in is a wonderful experience when you are connected and there are plenty of snacks. Today was not that kind of day.
It was a day of brokenness, pleading and hurt. It was a day of anger and remorse. It was a day of being on the brink, and despair that ravaged your soul. The one I love is far from me and I'm pleading like David in the cave, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" --The last words of Christ when he died on the cross for our sins. My sins are deep and shameful, and forgiveness among broken and hurting people is a difficult thing.
It is the deepest sorrow imaginable to sleep next to someone who has turned away from you in hurt. There's a song by Brooks and Dunn: "the angry words spoken in haste, such a waste of two lives. It's my belief that pride is the chief cause of the decline in the number of husbands and wives." It is a sad, tender song, and right now it haunts me. Pray hard for us if you can. I'm hurting so deep I can barely breath.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Photographs, Keepsakes and Remembrances: Staying connected to who you are and all the people who matter most
One of the great joys in life is getting old enough that you start learning things from your children. My smart, funny, and beautiful daughter is a saver. She has an Army sweatshirt she stole from me 17 years ago. My brother Mike gave me that sweatshirt on a long distant Christmas. I always wondered where it went. She confessed to the theft in an accidental phone call I made to her tonight. I was meaning to call my friend Doug and dialed her number by mistake. It was a good mistake, the kind I should make more of. I never call her enough, and our accidental conversation was a glowing reminder of how good life can be. I don't even want the sweatshirt back. It flatters me that she still has it, and there is a remarkable symmetry in it. Uncle Mike has always been her favorite (my charming, giving, brother Mike, the handsome blond with the quick deprecating wit and piercing blue eyes, is every nieces' favorite uncle) and now Stephanie is an Army wife, the wife of a proud, good soldier who will help guard the new President of the United States when he parades down Pennsylvania Avenue for his inaugural, forty-five and a half remarkable years after the March on Washington. When I called the proud, good soldier was playing on the carpet with his baby son, the fishing game. Thomas tosses Ethan the corner of a baby blanket, Ethan grabs it and he reels him in, pulling him toward him for a squeeze and a tickle. Delight ensues. Toss and repeat. In the perfect game everyone wins. Play as many perfect games as you can. Stephanie and I used to play Indiana Jones in the wilds of Willamette Park. The park also had an old wooden outdoor stage and we would put on an imaginary show. Stephanie was maybe eight. She loved "Grease" and made me do the John Travolta part: "I got chills, they're multiplyin' and I'm loooooosing control-ol. It's electrifying!" Our call made me remember that. It's good to remember. We forget how precious our stupid little games are. Toss a blanket to someone you love tonight and reel them in. You'll be glad you did.
As I write this Marie is organizing and tidying up and she is setting pictures in the spots where they will be hung. A portrait of two girls playing with sand buckets and shovels reminds her of her girls. Long ago a good friend of hers, Nellie, painted a mermaid on a rock in Crescent Bay, with beautiful blonde long flowing hair, and the mermaid is Marie, alluring, a little elusive, independent and playful, a little mysterious. I am so glad, so deeply glad, for the night she swum up to me. There is our framed portrait of the legendary Norman Sylvester, the soulful man whose music brought us together, and the painting her daughters made for her, a blue cottage with a round red roof with three tall trees under a golden sun. There's a light glowing from within the cottage. The colors are soothing and the collaborative effort that created it makes it priceless. It looks like a place you would want to visit and drink Corona beer under the shade of those tall trees. Squeeze the lime in your life, and squeeze out all the juice you can. Remember to buy more limes, more pictures, and save more memories, because your connection to those you love is the thing that makes you the alive whole person you are, the person that belongs to something and left a mark in the world. The memories are why we are here; the connections are the essence of hope.
I write and Marie putters we stop for another embrace and a snatch of conversation, another moment of reveling how good it feels to be together in our own home and share the warmth and intimacy of caring for one another and being safe in our own rooms. What a despair Christmas would have been without this. Thank God it was saved. The love of a good woman can transform a man in ways that are magical and mysterious. I got sexy the first time she kissed me. I became handsome the first time she laid eyes on me. I have been shown what real life and real joy can be, and I am never going back to my bleak empty solitary life.
Pandora radio is playing "Lenny" by Stevie Ray Vaughn, another legend, another soulful artist who speaks directly to your heart and the best possible place in your most hopeful soul. My mother loved Stevie Ray Vaughn and all good music from Frank Sinatra to Eric Clapton, and there are a handful of songs I can't hear without thinking of her, and it is so good to have the tug of that remembrance.
But Stephanie saves everything. She has a shell I sent her when she was a small girl, and a letter that went with it. We used to play Clue in character, complete with arch and dramatic English accents, and the letter is written from Mr. Green to Mrs. Peacock. She's saved it 24 years and the paper is brown, and her telling me she still had it was her way of telling me I hadn't been an awful Dad: she knew that she was loved.
Among her pictures is one of a trip we took to Mount St. Helens. We saw two spotted baby deer and walked to the rim of the volcano. My friend Parker came, and it was one of the last few times I spent with him, before he grew tired of my self-absorbed cloddishness and we lost touch. Maybe one day I'll see him again. I miss him and wonder where his life has led him. Now Pandora is playing "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" by Bob Dylan, and the haunting harmonica carries me back to the dim reaches of time when I had hair. Stephanie has another picture taken in the pool at the apartment in Parkrose in 1995. I wonder the story my face tells in that picture. I remember a scene in the Shawshank Redemption when Red is before the parole board and he's telling them what he would say to the photo of his young self. Every once in a while we should bring out the photos of our young selves, and see what those photos have to say to us. The present is the only place we can live, or should, but the past has so many reasons and needs that tell us everything we need to know to embrace the future, and our immediate futures ought to be embraced with a fierce grip of hope, a belief that our lives matter and the people close to us need to hear how much we love and need them, that nothing can replace the precious place they hold in our shoe box full of memories and keepsakes. Our lives are about filling the next shoe box, and saving it till the paper turns brown. Store the memories and live them, and never give them up.
I realize with a fresh joy tonight that wherever I go the few precious people I love are always with me, and no matter how fiercely I love them my deepest commitment and deepest joy is the remarkable mermaid in the next room, who swam to me on a magical summer night and swam back after a violent storm. Pandora is playing Buddy Guy: "...the gates of heaven must have opened: I just saw an angel just go by." I'm going now to kiss my angel. Kiss your angels often, before time rips them away from you and sends them back to heaven.
As I write this Marie is organizing and tidying up and she is setting pictures in the spots where they will be hung. A portrait of two girls playing with sand buckets and shovels reminds her of her girls. Long ago a good friend of hers, Nellie, painted a mermaid on a rock in Crescent Bay, with beautiful blonde long flowing hair, and the mermaid is Marie, alluring, a little elusive, independent and playful, a little mysterious. I am so glad, so deeply glad, for the night she swum up to me. There is our framed portrait of the legendary Norman Sylvester, the soulful man whose music brought us together, and the painting her daughters made for her, a blue cottage with a round red roof with three tall trees under a golden sun. There's a light glowing from within the cottage. The colors are soothing and the collaborative effort that created it makes it priceless. It looks like a place you would want to visit and drink Corona beer under the shade of those tall trees. Squeeze the lime in your life, and squeeze out all the juice you can. Remember to buy more limes, more pictures, and save more memories, because your connection to those you love is the thing that makes you the alive whole person you are, the person that belongs to something and left a mark in the world. The memories are why we are here; the connections are the essence of hope.
I write and Marie putters we stop for another embrace and a snatch of conversation, another moment of reveling how good it feels to be together in our own home and share the warmth and intimacy of caring for one another and being safe in our own rooms. What a despair Christmas would have been without this. Thank God it was saved. The love of a good woman can transform a man in ways that are magical and mysterious. I got sexy the first time she kissed me. I became handsome the first time she laid eyes on me. I have been shown what real life and real joy can be, and I am never going back to my bleak empty solitary life.
Pandora radio is playing "Lenny" by Stevie Ray Vaughn, another legend, another soulful artist who speaks directly to your heart and the best possible place in your most hopeful soul. My mother loved Stevie Ray Vaughn and all good music from Frank Sinatra to Eric Clapton, and there are a handful of songs I can't hear without thinking of her, and it is so good to have the tug of that remembrance.
But Stephanie saves everything. She has a shell I sent her when she was a small girl, and a letter that went with it. We used to play Clue in character, complete with arch and dramatic English accents, and the letter is written from Mr. Green to Mrs. Peacock. She's saved it 24 years and the paper is brown, and her telling me she still had it was her way of telling me I hadn't been an awful Dad: she knew that she was loved.
Among her pictures is one of a trip we took to Mount St. Helens. We saw two spotted baby deer and walked to the rim of the volcano. My friend Parker came, and it was one of the last few times I spent with him, before he grew tired of my self-absorbed cloddishness and we lost touch. Maybe one day I'll see him again. I miss him and wonder where his life has led him. Now Pandora is playing "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" by Bob Dylan, and the haunting harmonica carries me back to the dim reaches of time when I had hair. Stephanie has another picture taken in the pool at the apartment in Parkrose in 1995. I wonder the story my face tells in that picture. I remember a scene in the Shawshank Redemption when Red is before the parole board and he's telling them what he would say to the photo of his young self. Every once in a while we should bring out the photos of our young selves, and see what those photos have to say to us. The present is the only place we can live, or should, but the past has so many reasons and needs that tell us everything we need to know to embrace the future, and our immediate futures ought to be embraced with a fierce grip of hope, a belief that our lives matter and the people close to us need to hear how much we love and need them, that nothing can replace the precious place they hold in our shoe box full of memories and keepsakes. Our lives are about filling the next shoe box, and saving it till the paper turns brown. Store the memories and live them, and never give them up.
I realize with a fresh joy tonight that wherever I go the few precious people I love are always with me, and no matter how fiercely I love them my deepest commitment and deepest joy is the remarkable mermaid in the next room, who swam to me on a magical summer night and swam back after a violent storm. Pandora is playing Buddy Guy: "...the gates of heaven must have opened: I just saw an angel just go by." I'm going now to kiss my angel. Kiss your angels often, before time rips them away from you and sends them back to heaven.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Lessons I'm Relearning on the Way to the Love of a Lifetime
You can't walk on eggshells. Your partner doesn't want you to and it doesn't accomplish anything. Be yourself and give the gifts you have to give. Be your own unique self and trust that you are worthy because you are. Don't fear or fret, just live, and appreciate the life you are given, the opportunity to give a tender back rub and soothe your love to sleep. Let yourself love. Let yourself be loved. None of us are perfect, but we're pretty damn good, and that is more than enough. Trust what you have to give and give all of it, and revel, revel in the rewards of loving your wife, touching her, comforting her, celebrating her every curve and sigh. Live to hear that sigh, and know it is the sweetest sound in the world, your deepest reward for being a man. Thank the God who made you that he made you a man and gave you to her and she to you. What a gift, what a moment, like holding your first child on the day she was born and singing her to sleep wrapped in her new blanket from the Dairy Farmers of Oregon. My god, I had the audacity to be embarrassed that day. She was the first baby born in June and her picture was in the Enterprise-Courier. We had to get married, as they used to say. I was immature and stupid and nowhere near ready. I blew the whole thing. I didn't know how to take care of anyone. I was selfish and angry and confused and always ashamed. I wasn't a good father or a good man. I wasn't.
But life keeps trying to teach you and it gives you new opportunities to listen and to love and to serve and to give back. It's the little things. It's always the little things. It's putting away the groceries and wiping up the spilled jar of pickles. It's being silly and making fun of the mannish woman on TV. It's listening to the sweet sound of her snore, safe and warm and at peace in her own bed, the deep sleep of someone who is loved and perfectly at rest.
How can I make amends? How can I be the man I was made to be, and love the incredibly precious souls I've been given to love, without wasting another moment in trivia, selfishness or vanity? Start from this perfect afternoon and thank God for every beat of their hearts.
But life keeps trying to teach you and it gives you new opportunities to listen and to love and to serve and to give back. It's the little things. It's always the little things. It's putting away the groceries and wiping up the spilled jar of pickles. It's being silly and making fun of the mannish woman on TV. It's listening to the sweet sound of her snore, safe and warm and at peace in her own bed, the deep sleep of someone who is loved and perfectly at rest.
How can I make amends? How can I be the man I was made to be, and love the incredibly precious souls I've been given to love, without wasting another moment in trivia, selfishness or vanity? Start from this perfect afternoon and thank God for every beat of their hearts.
We'll Sweep Out the Ashes
Marie and I did an incredibly courageous thing in the last few days.
First, we reunited our home after ten months of separation. We packed up our boxes and gym bags and scraped together a thousand dollars and took the enormous risk of trusting each other with the rest of our lives and our hopes. We could have turned away. We could have continued the numbness and escapes of our divided lives. Marie is a captivating and alluring woman, with an essence that can light a room or chill one in an instant. She could have another man in the time it takes to smile. But she chose me. I'm a vigorous old dog, resourceful and stubbornly independent, always finding a way to make my way through life, and I chose her. I wanted her more than the lure of the open road, more than all the illusions and dimly lit paths the world has to offer, far more than the "safety" of not trying and not risking and not belonging to anyone. I belong with her, and she, thank God, belongs with me.
We could have turned away or given up, or given in to despair or bitterness. A dozen times, two dozen times, we almost did. Hope is the most wonderful thing, but it is remarkable what it can endure. We overcame ten thousand bitter and poorly chosen words. We overcame a hundred rash acts. We overcame searing abandonments and empty wrenching hours. We kept trying. Love won. That's an incredible thing in a world that tosses corrosive poisons into the waters, daily and hourly. Turn on the television for an hour and invariably you'll encounter innuendos and leering cheapness that can burn the retina of your mind's eye, half the time to sell a beer or a car or cheap steak sandwich. We overcame it all. We chose life and hope and a new beginning, and thank God we did, thank God He gave us the strength and heart to love that much.
It won't be easy. But it will be better and richer and more full of abundance than anything we have ever done. We know it's a process that has to be completed carefully, and we're seeking counseling, together and separately. In the last two days we have had the hardest, best conversations we have ever had, and we have had to face fears and failures and secrets, and we did so with a transparency and courage and compassion I didn't know we had within us. Shame feeds on secrets, and I've spent my life running, running from secrets, shame and doubt. I've always tried to hide when I should have stepped into the light, and my wife, my remarkable, incredible, unceasingly desirable and wise wife, let me do that. I spoke to her gently and without defensiveness. I confessed the dark, deplorable underside of me, and she heard and listened, and vented her justifiable and considerable anger, and I listened, and heard her, and acknowledged her pain and her need, and we grew, and learned, and began the transformation of a broken relationship to a healing and joyous one. We became new and renewed people, by believing in one another and the God who made us, and choosing grace over bitterness and regret. It wasn't easy and it isn't over. Both the hardest and most joyous days are ahead. But I'm amazed at what love can do and overcome, if given the chance.
We had the best evening yesterday, just a simple one but grand. After I assembled the kitchen table we sat at it and ate cheese and apples and talked. Marie has finished most of the organizing and unpacking and she set out Christmas decorations, a Nativity scene, candles, a Santa Claus, a tiny ceramic tree (our lovely fake tree goes up this Saturday) and the march of the sinister snowmen, a tableau of red-scarved snowmen with their arms in the air, set out in rows on a small coffee table, looking eerily like yuletide zombies on the prowl. We suspect that they'll attack Santa Claus in the night, for stealing all the glory, but Santa is tougher than they think. He's endured hundreds of bitter arctic winters and traverses the entire world in one evening, lugging a pack that brings joy to billions. Malevolent snowmen are no match for him: Christmas is safe, and so are we in one another's arms. And that alone is more delicious than two plates of Christmas cookies, and the rarest and most valuable present in the world.
First, we reunited our home after ten months of separation. We packed up our boxes and gym bags and scraped together a thousand dollars and took the enormous risk of trusting each other with the rest of our lives and our hopes. We could have turned away. We could have continued the numbness and escapes of our divided lives. Marie is a captivating and alluring woman, with an essence that can light a room or chill one in an instant. She could have another man in the time it takes to smile. But she chose me. I'm a vigorous old dog, resourceful and stubbornly independent, always finding a way to make my way through life, and I chose her. I wanted her more than the lure of the open road, more than all the illusions and dimly lit paths the world has to offer, far more than the "safety" of not trying and not risking and not belonging to anyone. I belong with her, and she, thank God, belongs with me.
We could have turned away or given up, or given in to despair or bitterness. A dozen times, two dozen times, we almost did. Hope is the most wonderful thing, but it is remarkable what it can endure. We overcame ten thousand bitter and poorly chosen words. We overcame a hundred rash acts. We overcame searing abandonments and empty wrenching hours. We kept trying. Love won. That's an incredible thing in a world that tosses corrosive poisons into the waters, daily and hourly. Turn on the television for an hour and invariably you'll encounter innuendos and leering cheapness that can burn the retina of your mind's eye, half the time to sell a beer or a car or cheap steak sandwich. We overcame it all. We chose life and hope and a new beginning, and thank God we did, thank God He gave us the strength and heart to love that much.
It won't be easy. But it will be better and richer and more full of abundance than anything we have ever done. We know it's a process that has to be completed carefully, and we're seeking counseling, together and separately. In the last two days we have had the hardest, best conversations we have ever had, and we have had to face fears and failures and secrets, and we did so with a transparency and courage and compassion I didn't know we had within us. Shame feeds on secrets, and I've spent my life running, running from secrets, shame and doubt. I've always tried to hide when I should have stepped into the light, and my wife, my remarkable, incredible, unceasingly desirable and wise wife, let me do that. I spoke to her gently and without defensiveness. I confessed the dark, deplorable underside of me, and she heard and listened, and vented her justifiable and considerable anger, and I listened, and heard her, and acknowledged her pain and her need, and we grew, and learned, and began the transformation of a broken relationship to a healing and joyous one. We became new and renewed people, by believing in one another and the God who made us, and choosing grace over bitterness and regret. It wasn't easy and it isn't over. Both the hardest and most joyous days are ahead. But I'm amazed at what love can do and overcome, if given the chance.
We had the best evening yesterday, just a simple one but grand. After I assembled the kitchen table we sat at it and ate cheese and apples and talked. Marie has finished most of the organizing and unpacking and she set out Christmas decorations, a Nativity scene, candles, a Santa Claus, a tiny ceramic tree (our lovely fake tree goes up this Saturday) and the march of the sinister snowmen, a tableau of red-scarved snowmen with their arms in the air, set out in rows on a small coffee table, looking eerily like yuletide zombies on the prowl. We suspect that they'll attack Santa Claus in the night, for stealing all the glory, but Santa is tougher than they think. He's endured hundreds of bitter arctic winters and traverses the entire world in one evening, lugging a pack that brings joy to billions. Malevolent snowmen are no match for him: Christmas is safe, and so are we in one another's arms. And that alone is more delicious than two plates of Christmas cookies, and the rarest and most valuable present in the world.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Blog Hiatus Explained
Until late last night we had no internet connection. It was like Gilligan's Island around here, as primitive as can be. Nothing but a 13-inch television with a fuzzy picture that changed every time you moved the small length of coaxial cable hanging loose from it, serving as a makeshift antenna. If I had coconuts I would have tried to build a radio but there were no coconuts to be had. Stranded in a snowstorm watching fuzzy Doppler images of Arctic Blast 2008. They upgraded it from Stormwatch. The old title had lost its dramatic punch. Imagine my relief when the UPS man brought the modem on Wednesday night. I could fulfill my obligations to Stephanie and the blog audience, and end the deafening silence at blog central.
In other news (you see how destructive exposure to too much Storm Watch coverage can be) there is plenty of other news, but I am hesitant to report it. The blog is at a crossroads. Since its inception it has been Marie Watch 2008, and now that is problematical. Part confessional, part plea, part argument, the blog has exposed nearly every detail of our lives, losses, fears and hopes, and for a newly rejoined tentatively married couple that would be an enormous risk. Previously the blog audience has warned me off poker, Duck football or sex, so I would have to choose my blog topics carefully, and I'm not that consistently good a story teller.
If Marie and I are to find happiness or harmony together, or merely survive the storms and difficulties we face, I have to respect our privacy. I can't air my grievances here; I can't toss my fears on the water like bread for waterfowl at the park. It's a poor food that destroys the wings of hope.
She and I are at a terrible crossroads. Our bliss lasted one day. All through the stresses and challenges of moving day we were patient and tender with each other. I didn't finish unloading until eleven Saturday night, and we were blessed by God, because the storm didn't start until the next morning. I drove the truck back clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip but made it back to the Beaverton U-Haul yard without incident.
In the three days since all the old hurts have emerged, all the old fears and insecurities, and there were confessions and vengeances and grievances and sorrows. It wouldn't do to tell my side of the story here, or plead one case on these pages and another in our desperate strained two a.m. conversations. It will have to be enough to say there have been betrayals and failings and turnings apart, and everyone is in pain. Everyone is covered with shame and doubt, hurting within and without, and forgiveness and reconciliation seem like a distant and improbable hope.
I love Marie. I want to be with her, and with her alone, for all of my remaining days. I want to love and comfort her and honor her, but my behavior and my choices haven't always done so, and neither have hers. We are troubled, hurting people, and I'm not sure if we can forgive or accept each other. The bond is not broken but the tender fabric of intimacy and trust has been rent, and something so beautiful and so fragile is not easily repaired. Perhaps it can never be. Love is not possible without trust, assurance, and forgiveness. You have to feel absolute freedom to believe in one another, to know the other's heart. Our hearts our guarded now. A cold wind of uncertainty scalds our skin.
There's a negotiation so delicate here I can't possibly retrace it on these pages. It would endanger the last hope we have to say anything more, and I'm not sure the details would interest anyone. Besides, I'm not a good enough writer to put words to this kind of searing regret and hurt. My poor prayers are not enough: I have $6 in my checking account, and Marie has an ultrasound on Christmas Eve. The realities of life don't wait for anyone. You can't pretty up the truth or explain it away.
In other news (you see how destructive exposure to too much Storm Watch coverage can be) there is plenty of other news, but I am hesitant to report it. The blog is at a crossroads. Since its inception it has been Marie Watch 2008, and now that is problematical. Part confessional, part plea, part argument, the blog has exposed nearly every detail of our lives, losses, fears and hopes, and for a newly rejoined tentatively married couple that would be an enormous risk. Previously the blog audience has warned me off poker, Duck football or sex, so I would have to choose my blog topics carefully, and I'm not that consistently good a story teller.
If Marie and I are to find happiness or harmony together, or merely survive the storms and difficulties we face, I have to respect our privacy. I can't air my grievances here; I can't toss my fears on the water like bread for waterfowl at the park. It's a poor food that destroys the wings of hope.
She and I are at a terrible crossroads. Our bliss lasted one day. All through the stresses and challenges of moving day we were patient and tender with each other. I didn't finish unloading until eleven Saturday night, and we were blessed by God, because the storm didn't start until the next morning. I drove the truck back clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip but made it back to the Beaverton U-Haul yard without incident.
In the three days since all the old hurts have emerged, all the old fears and insecurities, and there were confessions and vengeances and grievances and sorrows. It wouldn't do to tell my side of the story here, or plead one case on these pages and another in our desperate strained two a.m. conversations. It will have to be enough to say there have been betrayals and failings and turnings apart, and everyone is in pain. Everyone is covered with shame and doubt, hurting within and without, and forgiveness and reconciliation seem like a distant and improbable hope.
I love Marie. I want to be with her, and with her alone, for all of my remaining days. I want to love and comfort her and honor her, but my behavior and my choices haven't always done so, and neither have hers. We are troubled, hurting people, and I'm not sure if we can forgive or accept each other. The bond is not broken but the tender fabric of intimacy and trust has been rent, and something so beautiful and so fragile is not easily repaired. Perhaps it can never be. Love is not possible without trust, assurance, and forgiveness. You have to feel absolute freedom to believe in one another, to know the other's heart. Our hearts our guarded now. A cold wind of uncertainty scalds our skin.
There's a negotiation so delicate here I can't possibly retrace it on these pages. It would endanger the last hope we have to say anything more, and I'm not sure the details would interest anyone. Besides, I'm not a good enough writer to put words to this kind of searing regret and hurt. My poor prayers are not enough: I have $6 in my checking account, and Marie has an ultrasound on Christmas Eve. The realities of life don't wait for anyone. You can't pretty up the truth or explain it away.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Storm Watch 2008!--Doug is a funny guy.
Half of the country has several feet of snow every winter, and some parts nearly continuously from November to April, but here in Portland if we get half an inch it's time for panic. Schools and businesses close. The entire city goes into lockdown. The news channels go into around-the-clock live remote story-of-the- century mode, with live reporters on every overpass and in every truck stop, especially in Troutdale, where it's always a little colder and more severe.
The coverage is breathless, with lots of satellite updates and cutaways to reporters in the field. An invasion from outer space would not be more serious. Here is an example of how it goes:
Get ready for STORM WATCH 2008! Every flake of snow will be reported! Reporters are being dispatched to every overpass and hill. Our least favorite guy is being sent out to Troutdale! Remember the ice is very slippery and don't go out unless you have to. First, live and local, we will be their first. And if a tree crashes into your house, we will be there to ask you how you feel...
I am standing in front of the house where a tree crashed earlier today, and as you can see, here is the yellow tape.
Doug sent me an email with the rest of the on-the-spot coverage:
Don't forget the "Exclusive, only on (enter station here)" -- it's very important to be the only station to ask some toothless moron, with the IQ of a grapefruit, what happened.
Anchor: In a story you'll see only on News Channel Eight, our ace reporter, Pete Parka, brings you live coverage of where a tree fell.
Reporter: That's right Laurel, I am talking here with a neighbor of the family who lives in the house surrounded by yellow tape. As you can see, the tape is really yellow. Because it is so dark, yoiu cannot actually see where the tree fell, but you can see the tape. I am talking with Michelle Moron, who lives next door to the house with the yellow tape around it. Michell, what happened?
Interviewee: I heard this noise while me and my sister were countin our food stamps and drinkin' beer. When I came out to see what happened, that tree over there had fallen through the roof of my neighbor's house. It was really scary to think like somethin' like that could happen in our neighborhood.
Reporter: As you can see, it is not snowing, right now, but some did fall earlier. Do you think that the one-quarter of inch of snow that accumulated earier today is responsible for the tree falling?
Interviewee: Oh, I am sure of it. This type of thing usually does not happen, here. The snow added a lot of weight to the tree.
Reporter: Do you worry about this type of thing happening to your house?
Interviewee: Yeah, I am really nervous about it. This weather is crazy. I don't know what I'd do if that happens to our place. I feel so helpless. If it snows more, I don't think that I'll be able to sleep.
Reporter: Were you able to talk to your neighbor after the tree fell, or was it too slippery to get all the way over here?
Interviewee: No, I did not actually talk to him. He usally keeps to himself.
Reporter: Did you see him come out of his house after the free fell?
Interviewee: Nope.
(zoom in on reporter) Reporter: Laurel, we attempted to contact the man with the yellow tape around his house. He was not available. At this time, we don't know if his unknown whereabouts were caused by today's earlier snowfall. The best advice we have is to check for trees that might fall should they be weighed down by snow. Although it all melted, the snow that fell here, earlier today, was cold and slippery. This usually causes a lot anxiety for Michelle and her sister about driving down to buy lottery tickets and beer. Now, neighborhood residents have a nee worry — trees falling through their houses, causing untold damage and leaving them vulnerable to the weather. Back to you, Laurel.
Laural: Thanks, Pete, for that exclusive report, live from the scene of a fallen tree, where snow fell earlier today. Remember, despite the risk of a tree falling on your house, experts advise that you should stay home and not go out unless you have to. Next, Matt will tell us if we can expect more wintry weather.
---So if we're snowed in tomorrow and life is about to end, I will feel much more secure I once had funny friends that made it worthwhile, before the collapse of civilization due to our severe winter storm.
I hope wherever you are you are prepared for STORM WATCH 2008! and all the storms that follow.
The coverage is breathless, with lots of satellite updates and cutaways to reporters in the field. An invasion from outer space would not be more serious. Here is an example of how it goes:
Get ready for STORM WATCH 2008! Every flake of snow will be reported! Reporters are being dispatched to every overpass and hill. Our least favorite guy is being sent out to Troutdale! Remember the ice is very slippery and don't go out unless you have to. First, live and local, we will be their first. And if a tree crashes into your house, we will be there to ask you how you feel...
I am standing in front of the house where a tree crashed earlier today, and as you can see, here is the yellow tape.
Doug sent me an email with the rest of the on-the-spot coverage:
Don't forget the "Exclusive, only on (enter station here)" -- it's very important to be the only station to ask some toothless moron, with the IQ of a grapefruit, what happened.
Anchor: In a story you'll see only on News Channel Eight, our ace reporter, Pete Parka, brings you live coverage of where a tree fell.
Reporter: That's right Laurel, I am talking here with a neighbor of the family who lives in the house surrounded by yellow tape. As you can see, the tape is really yellow. Because it is so dark, yoiu cannot actually see where the tree fell, but you can see the tape. I am talking with Michelle Moron, who lives next door to the house with the yellow tape around it. Michell, what happened?
Interviewee: I heard this noise while me and my sister were countin our food stamps and drinkin' beer. When I came out to see what happened, that tree over there had fallen through the roof of my neighbor's house. It was really scary to think like somethin' like that could happen in our neighborhood.
Reporter: As you can see, it is not snowing, right now, but some did fall earlier. Do you think that the one-quarter of inch of snow that accumulated earier today is responsible for the tree falling?
Interviewee: Oh, I am sure of it. This type of thing usually does not happen, here. The snow added a lot of weight to the tree.
Reporter: Do you worry about this type of thing happening to your house?
Interviewee: Yeah, I am really nervous about it. This weather is crazy. I don't know what I'd do if that happens to our place. I feel so helpless. If it snows more, I don't think that I'll be able to sleep.
Reporter: Were you able to talk to your neighbor after the tree fell, or was it too slippery to get all the way over here?
Interviewee: No, I did not actually talk to him. He usally keeps to himself.
Reporter: Did you see him come out of his house after the free fell?
Interviewee: Nope.
(zoom in on reporter) Reporter: Laurel, we attempted to contact the man with the yellow tape around his house. He was not available. At this time, we don't know if his unknown whereabouts were caused by today's earlier snowfall. The best advice we have is to check for trees that might fall should they be weighed down by snow. Although it all melted, the snow that fell here, earlier today, was cold and slippery. This usually causes a lot anxiety for Michelle and her sister about driving down to buy lottery tickets and beer. Now, neighborhood residents have a nee worry — trees falling through their houses, causing untold damage and leaving them vulnerable to the weather. Back to you, Laurel.
Laural: Thanks, Pete, for that exclusive report, live from the scene of a fallen tree, where snow fell earlier today. Remember, despite the risk of a tree falling on your house, experts advise that you should stay home and not go out unless you have to. Next, Matt will tell us if we can expect more wintry weather.
---So if we're snowed in tomorrow and life is about to end, I will feel much more secure I once had funny friends that made it worthwhile, before the collapse of civilization due to our severe winter storm.
I hope wherever you are you are prepared for STORM WATCH 2008! and all the storms that follow.
In the Saint Nick of Time
She called me a half hour later, sheepish and tipsy.
Where are you, I said, not a little crossly.
"I'm on my way to see you."
Where have you been?
"I was at the Pitstop." Singing Karoke with her goofy, crazy friends.
When she got here I was mad for a moment and then relented. We talked a little and had sex in the shower.
"I don't mind if you want to see your friends and sing Karoke," I told her. "But you have to call me and tell me where you are and what time you'll be home. It's a matter of respect and fundamental courtesy."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
I'm really not a jealous or possessive person. I just think there should be ground rules and communication.
I think we worked that out. Our drama ended as our drama often does, with passion and tenderness. A normal life might be neater and cleaner, I suppose. But then we wouldn't be us, would we? We'd be some staid middle-aged couple watching Wheel of Fortune and eating chicken nuggets, and I'm not cut out for that. Thank God.
Marie just left for work. It's 5:45 in the morning. I hate that part of her job, the oh dark thirty oh my god it's early Good Morning Vietnam inconvenience of it. I'm going back to bed for a couple of hours, and then I'll see about renting a UHaul and signing up for wireless internet.
I feel like Ricky Ricardo: "LUCY, you got some 'splainin' to do." She'd come clean with her madcap explanation of her latest scheme or misadventure, and he'd always forgive her.
The world is full of Fred and Ethels, but there is only one Ricky and Lucy. And that's us. Stay tuned.
Where are you, I said, not a little crossly.
"I'm on my way to see you."
Where have you been?
"I was at the Pitstop." Singing Karoke with her goofy, crazy friends.
When she got here I was mad for a moment and then relented. We talked a little and had sex in the shower.
"I don't mind if you want to see your friends and sing Karoke," I told her. "But you have to call me and tell me where you are and what time you'll be home. It's a matter of respect and fundamental courtesy."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
I'm really not a jealous or possessive person. I just think there should be ground rules and communication.
I think we worked that out. Our drama ended as our drama often does, with passion and tenderness. A normal life might be neater and cleaner, I suppose. But then we wouldn't be us, would we? We'd be some staid middle-aged couple watching Wheel of Fortune and eating chicken nuggets, and I'm not cut out for that. Thank God.
Marie just left for work. It's 5:45 in the morning. I hate that part of her job, the oh dark thirty oh my god it's early Good Morning Vietnam inconvenience of it. I'm going back to bed for a couple of hours, and then I'll see about renting a UHaul and signing up for wireless internet.
I feel like Ricky Ricardo: "LUCY, you got some 'splainin' to do." She'd come clean with her madcap explanation of her latest scheme or misadventure, and he'd always forgive her.
The world is full of Fred and Ethels, but there is only one Ricky and Lucy. And that's us. Stay tuned.
Friday, December 12, 2008
A Shock to the System
It's eleven o'clock at night, the night before we are supposed to move in together, and Marie hasn't called me. In fact she hasn't picked up or returned two phone calls. I think maybe she is at the Pit Stop bar with her new friends, the people she met during her summer of freedom. Wherever she is and whatever she is doing, she won't take my phone calls and won't return my call. It's strange behavior for a husband and wife, particularly at this specific time in the long journey we have taken.
I don't want to jump to conclusions or judge too harshly, but I've called three times this evening (I just tried again) and she hasn't answered me or called me back, and that is strange. Earlier this afternoon she told me her daughter Ashley was sick and had gone to the emergency room. She didn't have any details, and her disappearance could be related to that, certainly. But I feel I ought to know. A married couple ought to be communicating with each other. There's an understanding and a basic trust that's sacred, and this doesn't feel right. Maybe she's in a panic. Maybe there's something she hasn't told me. This isn't the right way to begin something this important. I'm disappointed and a little sad.
Unless there's a good explanation for this, we should probably call off our reunion. I'm stunned at this turn of events. I never thought I'd be writing a post like this, after all we had overcome.
I don't want to jump to conclusions or judge too harshly, but I've called three times this evening (I just tried again) and she hasn't answered me or called me back, and that is strange. Earlier this afternoon she told me her daughter Ashley was sick and had gone to the emergency room. She didn't have any details, and her disappearance could be related to that, certainly. But I feel I ought to know. A married couple ought to be communicating with each other. There's an understanding and a basic trust that's sacred, and this doesn't feel right. Maybe she's in a panic. Maybe there's something she hasn't told me. This isn't the right way to begin something this important. I'm disappointed and a little sad.
Unless there's a good explanation for this, we should probably call off our reunion. I'm stunned at this turn of events. I never thought I'd be writing a post like this, after all we had overcome.
Outside it's dark and a downpour but the Son is reigning down in my room
Tonight Marie picks up the keys to our new apartment. Tomorrow we rent the truck, haul the sofa and the beds and the numerous boxes and bags, and move in to our new place. It will be a wonderful day but a challenging one, because for me there are no more intimidating words than "some assembly required." I used to pay ten extra bucks to get the kid's bikes assembled, begging and wheedling for the floor model whenever possible. The old man could dissassemble a diesel engine, and a couple of my brothers once earned their living framing houses, but I was born without the tool-using gene. Austin's bed is one of those Swedish things with 25 different bolts and tabs and connections: my man-job nightmare. But it will be worth it to sleep in our own home and our own beds.
On Monday I'll call the utilities and fill out the mail-forwarding forms. It's amazing after months of talking and praying and agonizing back and forth that it's finally here.
What will be different this time? Well, for one thing, after all the hard work and contemplation, we have a much deeper sense of the worth and importance of home, of how blessed we are to belong to someone and have a family to call our own. These are grim times we live in, with lots of daunting portents, and it's an incredible comfort to have someone to hold when the world outside is bitter and chilling. The very smallest things will seem like a rich reward. Cooking dinner. Saying good night. Sharing a bar of dark chocolate. Multiplying our resources and dividing the problems. Sharing the hope.
On the pages of blog central I have said many times I have never loved or wanted anyone or anything the way I do Marie, and tonight it's amazing to me we came all the way through our darkest days and worst fears and found a way to make love win. I have no illusions that the life ahead of us will be trouble or drama-free, but I'm certain it will be richer and more purposeful. We were put on this earth to care for and comfort one another, to make the lives around us more hopeful, to love and believe and give. These are the surest ways to please and praise the God who made us, and I am full of praise tonight. I'll let you know how it goes.
On Monday I'll call the utilities and fill out the mail-forwarding forms. It's amazing after months of talking and praying and agonizing back and forth that it's finally here.
What will be different this time? Well, for one thing, after all the hard work and contemplation, we have a much deeper sense of the worth and importance of home, of how blessed we are to belong to someone and have a family to call our own. These are grim times we live in, with lots of daunting portents, and it's an incredible comfort to have someone to hold when the world outside is bitter and chilling. The very smallest things will seem like a rich reward. Cooking dinner. Saying good night. Sharing a bar of dark chocolate. Multiplying our resources and dividing the problems. Sharing the hope.
On the pages of blog central I have said many times I have never loved or wanted anyone or anything the way I do Marie, and tonight it's amazing to me we came all the way through our darkest days and worst fears and found a way to make love win. I have no illusions that the life ahead of us will be trouble or drama-free, but I'm certain it will be richer and more purposeful. We were put on this earth to care for and comfort one another, to make the lives around us more hopeful, to love and believe and give. These are the surest ways to please and praise the God who made us, and I am full of praise tonight. I'll let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Scared Money Never Wins
A couple of times lately I've played higher than I usually do, in the $11 dollar rebuy, a tournament that typically requires an buy-in of $31. It's not an imposing sum of money but it's more than I like to lose on a recreational semi-professional habit. I've beat the game before but not lately.
I'm sure it's true in other contexts, and I know it's true in sports: you are never going to play your best playing careful, playing not to lose. In any competitive endeavor you will always play best loose and confident and creative. The extra tension of "playing scared money" invariably leads to impatience, impulsiveness and failures of discipline. Old poker players like to say that "the scared money always leans the wrong way." Twice I should have folded. I made crucial mistakes, plunging in my chips when all the indicators pointed to folding my hand. And tonight I did it again, but it was only the two dollar game.
I've written before about the necessity of balance, and it's a crucial element to good decision making and a well-ordered life. When I get anxious and overeager I make more mistakes. It's too easy to lose objectivity or ignore the flow of things, to push ahead before it's time. I play best, and work best and live best, when I'm rested and aware and in control of my emotions and impulses, what Walt Whitman called "both in and out of the game watching and wondering at it." There's a creativity and flow to the best poker playing, a sensitivity, an awareness of the situation, an inner decisiveness. Right now I'm all out of whack, and my recent results show it. I'm a little frustrated with myself. I need to turn the tide.
Part of the problem is, I come home tired and out of sorts. Work has simply been awful lately. People are upset with their past due notices and suspensions or the garbageman leaving an extra bag. They are nasty and impatient and their nerves are frayed, and a calm, polite voice sticking to the script only makes them madder and more snarling and nasty. I am so very ill-suited for what I do for a living. I should have been a fifth-grade teacher, but I'm sure smart-aleck kids and meddling parents would have done me in by now anyway.
I did go to the gym tonight, so I really feel in shape. I benched and crunched and leg pressed and curled. I walked 60 minutes and stair stepped ten. My arms and legs have the delicious tightness, and I had a tall ice cream cone at the Jim Dandy drive-in and I don't feel guilty.
Next week I have 3 days of PTO, a paid mini-vacation, six days away from work. I need to adjust myself. Six good nights of sleep and a eight glasses of water every day, four workouts and five naps. It looks like Marie and I have found an apartment a few blocks from Austin's school--she turns in the papers tomorrow. By Saturday we could be sleeping together again in our own bed. It is a marvelous bed with two thick mattresses and a cozy down comforter, and on Sunday I want to serve pancakes in bed. With blueberries. We'll dress in our sweats and thick socks and invite Austin to join us and watch cartoons. And that will be the greatest day in history. Scared money never wins, but a happy reunited family wins every time.
I'm sure it's true in other contexts, and I know it's true in sports: you are never going to play your best playing careful, playing not to lose. In any competitive endeavor you will always play best loose and confident and creative. The extra tension of "playing scared money" invariably leads to impatience, impulsiveness and failures of discipline. Old poker players like to say that "the scared money always leans the wrong way." Twice I should have folded. I made crucial mistakes, plunging in my chips when all the indicators pointed to folding my hand. And tonight I did it again, but it was only the two dollar game.
I've written before about the necessity of balance, and it's a crucial element to good decision making and a well-ordered life. When I get anxious and overeager I make more mistakes. It's too easy to lose objectivity or ignore the flow of things, to push ahead before it's time. I play best, and work best and live best, when I'm rested and aware and in control of my emotions and impulses, what Walt Whitman called "both in and out of the game watching and wondering at it." There's a creativity and flow to the best poker playing, a sensitivity, an awareness of the situation, an inner decisiveness. Right now I'm all out of whack, and my recent results show it. I'm a little frustrated with myself. I need to turn the tide.
Part of the problem is, I come home tired and out of sorts. Work has simply been awful lately. People are upset with their past due notices and suspensions or the garbageman leaving an extra bag. They are nasty and impatient and their nerves are frayed, and a calm, polite voice sticking to the script only makes them madder and more snarling and nasty. I am so very ill-suited for what I do for a living. I should have been a fifth-grade teacher, but I'm sure smart-aleck kids and meddling parents would have done me in by now anyway.
I did go to the gym tonight, so I really feel in shape. I benched and crunched and leg pressed and curled. I walked 60 minutes and stair stepped ten. My arms and legs have the delicious tightness, and I had a tall ice cream cone at the Jim Dandy drive-in and I don't feel guilty.
Next week I have 3 days of PTO, a paid mini-vacation, six days away from work. I need to adjust myself. Six good nights of sleep and a eight glasses of water every day, four workouts and five naps. It looks like Marie and I have found an apartment a few blocks from Austin's school--she turns in the papers tomorrow. By Saturday we could be sleeping together again in our own bed. It is a marvelous bed with two thick mattresses and a cozy down comforter, and on Sunday I want to serve pancakes in bed. With blueberries. We'll dress in our sweats and thick socks and invite Austin to join us and watch cartoons. And that will be the greatest day in history. Scared money never wins, but a happy reunited family wins every time.
Monday, December 8, 2008
The General Theory of Fitness Relativity
Doug and I have a theory about being in shape. We have both exercised in one form or another most of our lives, ever since the day he was the undersized long snapper and reserve lineman on the West Linn Lions football team and I was a skinny ineffectual wide receiver. Over the years we have ran, weight lifted and rode bikes, in various stages of overweight or playing weight. At one point in his adult life Doug participated in triathlons and was running and biking dozens of miles a week and reached a peak of fitness. Well into my twenties and thirties I played volleyball and softball and worked out and trained year round.
We both love to eat, and occasionally the demands of family life or the lure of a soft couch have overcome our resolve. So we have experienced the highs and lows of fitness, the satisfaction of a personal best in a 10k as well as the ignominy of carrying around a spare tire or the start of one. Occasionally I have fallen victim to the coda of Miss Piggy: "never eat more than you can lift."
The General Theory of Fitness Relativity is as follows:
If you miss a couple of workouts or eat a couple of big meals, you start to feel out of shape, but if you go to the gym two times in a row you start to think, "Gee I'm starting to feel in pretty good shape." The reality is, we neither get in shape or fall out of shape that quickly, but our perception changes with our last couple of fitness or non-fitness decisions.
Perception is reality in a lot of areas, but middle-aged men have an almost inexhaustible capacity to fudge on the truth, and even fudge on how much fudge we ate. I think there's a lot of pressure on everyone these days. Women have had it for years, with the unrealistic images and stereotypes portrayed in media and advertising, but in the last 15-20 years, it has ratcheted up for men as well. You can't pass a billboard or a magazine cover without seeing some chiseled perfect body advertising something, from cologne to underwear to travel, and the truth is, no one can look like that without a lot of work and great genes. The jeans they're selling won't do the trick by themselves. The assault of perfection is everywhere, particularly in the checkout line at the grocery store: inch high headlines, proclaiming Hugh Jackman as "The Sexiest Man Alive." I snuck a peek inside the magazine, and Doug and I didn't even make the top 1000. I guess we're not as in shape as we thought.
There's a lot of anxiety about body image on the part of ordinary people, and that anxiety sells a lot of products. When we watched the Civil War on the Versus network the weekend before last we kept seeing these ads for instant fixes and instant results in all areas of life: Learn to sell on EBay in one easy lesson. Earn 60,000 a month working at home. Tone your body in just ten minutes a day. The male model for the door mount exercise machine had a magnificent body, but I can guarantee you he didn't get it with ten minutes of pull ups and crunches and three easy installments of 39.95. There are few shortcuts, and none worth taking. Hugh Jackman probably works out two to four hours a day when he's prepping for a movie role. (I have to say the magazine got it right about his sexy status. Not only is he a very handsome man with a good body, he's a loving and faithful husband and a devoted father with a healthy perspective on things, a rarity in celebrity circles.) It's always easier to accept those kinds of proclamations when they are awarded to someone who seems to be a good guy, someone you wouldn't mind having a beer with. George Clooney falls into that category. Paul Newman came across that way. Tom Cruise, not so much, though I've heard in spite of all the lambasting he gets in the tabloid press he is unfailingly a gracious and courteous person, to fans, receptionists, and the staff on the set.
Our whole culture is fascinated with celebrity and the seeming physical perfection they represent, and the fascination is unfair to ourselves. Ordinary people don't have trainers and surgeons and makeup artists and lighting specialists and photograph retouchers and nutritionists and publicists, people paid to make us look good. We just do our jobs and try to carve out a little time to look and feel a little better. My advice is, go to the gym on Tuesday and Thursday. Skip the dog-eared copy of People magazine and bring along something worthwhile to read, or exercise with a loved one or a friend, and accompany the workout with an hour of good conversation.
By Friday afternoon you'll start to feel in shape, and if you don't skip on Saturday you'll be on your way to the best holiday season of your life. Get the jump on the crowd, and make your New Year's resolution in December. You'll be feeling better and stronger while they're just toying with the idea of getting started.
And remember, the only realistic measurement of your worth and desirability is you, and the person you love most. You only have to be the sexiest person alive for one person, and finding and caring for that one person is the deepest joy imaginable. Just ask Stephanie. She's found hers, and everyday he makes her feel that way too. And that is inexpressibly beautiful, and dead sexy.
We both love to eat, and occasionally the demands of family life or the lure of a soft couch have overcome our resolve. So we have experienced the highs and lows of fitness, the satisfaction of a personal best in a 10k as well as the ignominy of carrying around a spare tire or the start of one. Occasionally I have fallen victim to the coda of Miss Piggy: "never eat more than you can lift."
The General Theory of Fitness Relativity is as follows:
If you miss a couple of workouts or eat a couple of big meals, you start to feel out of shape, but if you go to the gym two times in a row you start to think, "Gee I'm starting to feel in pretty good shape." The reality is, we neither get in shape or fall out of shape that quickly, but our perception changes with our last couple of fitness or non-fitness decisions.
Perception is reality in a lot of areas, but middle-aged men have an almost inexhaustible capacity to fudge on the truth, and even fudge on how much fudge we ate. I think there's a lot of pressure on everyone these days. Women have had it for years, with the unrealistic images and stereotypes portrayed in media and advertising, but in the last 15-20 years, it has ratcheted up for men as well. You can't pass a billboard or a magazine cover without seeing some chiseled perfect body advertising something, from cologne to underwear to travel, and the truth is, no one can look like that without a lot of work and great genes. The jeans they're selling won't do the trick by themselves. The assault of perfection is everywhere, particularly in the checkout line at the grocery store: inch high headlines, proclaiming Hugh Jackman as "The Sexiest Man Alive." I snuck a peek inside the magazine, and Doug and I didn't even make the top 1000. I guess we're not as in shape as we thought.
There's a lot of anxiety about body image on the part of ordinary people, and that anxiety sells a lot of products. When we watched the Civil War on the Versus network the weekend before last we kept seeing these ads for instant fixes and instant results in all areas of life: Learn to sell on EBay in one easy lesson. Earn 60,000 a month working at home. Tone your body in just ten minutes a day. The male model for the door mount exercise machine had a magnificent body, but I can guarantee you he didn't get it with ten minutes of pull ups and crunches and three easy installments of 39.95. There are few shortcuts, and none worth taking. Hugh Jackman probably works out two to four hours a day when he's prepping for a movie role. (I have to say the magazine got it right about his sexy status. Not only is he a very handsome man with a good body, he's a loving and faithful husband and a devoted father with a healthy perspective on things, a rarity in celebrity circles.) It's always easier to accept those kinds of proclamations when they are awarded to someone who seems to be a good guy, someone you wouldn't mind having a beer with. George Clooney falls into that category. Paul Newman came across that way. Tom Cruise, not so much, though I've heard in spite of all the lambasting he gets in the tabloid press he is unfailingly a gracious and courteous person, to fans, receptionists, and the staff on the set.
Our whole culture is fascinated with celebrity and the seeming physical perfection they represent, and the fascination is unfair to ourselves. Ordinary people don't have trainers and surgeons and makeup artists and lighting specialists and photograph retouchers and nutritionists and publicists, people paid to make us look good. We just do our jobs and try to carve out a little time to look and feel a little better. My advice is, go to the gym on Tuesday and Thursday. Skip the dog-eared copy of People magazine and bring along something worthwhile to read, or exercise with a loved one or a friend, and accompany the workout with an hour of good conversation.
By Friday afternoon you'll start to feel in shape, and if you don't skip on Saturday you'll be on your way to the best holiday season of your life. Get the jump on the crowd, and make your New Year's resolution in December. You'll be feeling better and stronger while they're just toying with the idea of getting started.
And remember, the only realistic measurement of your worth and desirability is you, and the person you love most. You only have to be the sexiest person alive for one person, and finding and caring for that one person is the deepest joy imaginable. Just ask Stephanie. She's found hers, and everyday he makes her feel that way too. And that is inexpressibly beautiful, and dead sexy.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Days That Will Live in Infamy, and Unspoken Fears for the Future
Hope can crumble in an instant. A way of life can be shattered forever in a single shot. Sunday is the 67th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, and a little more than a week ago the world was reminded again how white-hot hatreds can send mayhem into the world, that the peace we enjoy is a fragile thing easily punctured by the rages of madmen and zealots. The Jihadists hate our way of life and want us destroyed, much in the way the leaders of Imperial Japan once did; only now a few dedicated and highly-trained men can hold an entire country hostage. The means of violence are everywhere and the passion to inflict sorrow is endless.
I have a terrible fear that there will be an act of biological or nuclear terrorism at the inauguration of Barack Obama, and if not that, a Mumbai-style assault on our nation's capital during the inaugural parade, either by Muslim commandos or a white supremacy group. I have no deep understanding of international politics or the nature of terrorism. I only know that our world is an increasingly fragile and chaotic place, and the forces of evil and violence seem to have a greater hold than ever before. With the advent of automatic weapons and satellite phones, a few men with the will to kill can hold off an entire army. The Mumbai terrorists took cocaine and LSD and steroids, so they could fight for 50 hours without sleep, and kill as many as possible. They hijacked a fishing boat and killed the captain and crew, and infiltrated the city on inflatable rafts. Their targets were strategically chosen and the assault was carefully planned. They killed over 180 people. Their hatred, and the hatred of endless men devoted to the same cause, will never stop. They believe their cause is holy and just, and they want to inflict as much injury and incite as much fear as possible. I don't think the world will ever be normal, or safe, or at peace, ever again.
The entire world will be watching when President Obama takes the oath of office. He will be standing alongside the outgoing President, and the Chief Justice, and foremost leaders of our country will be gathered in one place. It's horrible to contemplate, and perhaps unreasonable, but how can they be defended against such a resourceful and irrational enemy, an enemy willing to die to strike one blow against the cause of freedom and democracy? Every camera will be turned to that event. It is a proud and historic moment. Leading celebrities and pundits will be on hand, a star-studded and overflow crowd. It is the perfect moment for something horrible, an act of inhuman violence and rage.
I hope I am completely wrong. I hope my fears and suspicions are completely misplaced. I know there are many good men and women employing every weapon of technology and strategy and planning to thwart such a catastrophe, and they are unceasing and diligent and highly trained. My own son-in-law is an expert in anti-explosives, trained by the Army to recognize threats and diffuse them. Young men and women like him will be called upon to make heroic efforts to ensure the safety of our leaders and our citizens and the great hallmarks of our nation, the symbols of freedom, patriotism and sacrifice. We have a faith of our own, a faith in humanity and the cause of justice for all. I hope our faith is great enough, and our diligence and resolve are far greater. Mumbai was half a world away but it was not random or isolated: it is the harbinger of the holocaust to come. This time the world will be destroyed by fire, a fire stoked by unquenchable hatreds. There is no doubt that is the bitter end. But we must deny it all the way, and strive to live with a devotion to a greater good.
I have a terrible fear that there will be an act of biological or nuclear terrorism at the inauguration of Barack Obama, and if not that, a Mumbai-style assault on our nation's capital during the inaugural parade, either by Muslim commandos or a white supremacy group. I have no deep understanding of international politics or the nature of terrorism. I only know that our world is an increasingly fragile and chaotic place, and the forces of evil and violence seem to have a greater hold than ever before. With the advent of automatic weapons and satellite phones, a few men with the will to kill can hold off an entire army. The Mumbai terrorists took cocaine and LSD and steroids, so they could fight for 50 hours without sleep, and kill as many as possible. They hijacked a fishing boat and killed the captain and crew, and infiltrated the city on inflatable rafts. Their targets were strategically chosen and the assault was carefully planned. They killed over 180 people. Their hatred, and the hatred of endless men devoted to the same cause, will never stop. They believe their cause is holy and just, and they want to inflict as much injury and incite as much fear as possible. I don't think the world will ever be normal, or safe, or at peace, ever again.
The entire world will be watching when President Obama takes the oath of office. He will be standing alongside the outgoing President, and the Chief Justice, and foremost leaders of our country will be gathered in one place. It's horrible to contemplate, and perhaps unreasonable, but how can they be defended against such a resourceful and irrational enemy, an enemy willing to die to strike one blow against the cause of freedom and democracy? Every camera will be turned to that event. It is a proud and historic moment. Leading celebrities and pundits will be on hand, a star-studded and overflow crowd. It is the perfect moment for something horrible, an act of inhuman violence and rage.
I hope I am completely wrong. I hope my fears and suspicions are completely misplaced. I know there are many good men and women employing every weapon of technology and strategy and planning to thwart such a catastrophe, and they are unceasing and diligent and highly trained. My own son-in-law is an expert in anti-explosives, trained by the Army to recognize threats and diffuse them. Young men and women like him will be called upon to make heroic efforts to ensure the safety of our leaders and our citizens and the great hallmarks of our nation, the symbols of freedom, patriotism and sacrifice. We have a faith of our own, a faith in humanity and the cause of justice for all. I hope our faith is great enough, and our diligence and resolve are far greater. Mumbai was half a world away but it was not random or isolated: it is the harbinger of the holocaust to come. This time the world will be destroyed by fire, a fire stoked by unquenchable hatreds. There is no doubt that is the bitter end. But we must deny it all the way, and strive to live with a devotion to a greater good.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
If Men Are From Mars and Women Are From Venus, how do I keep from going off like a rocket?
Men and women are different, and every day in a relationship we brush up against those differences in dozens of ways. We see things differently. We have different priorities, different expectations. We communicate differently. Sometimes we exchange at lot of words at various volumes without communicating at all.
The other day at blog central, Marie and I were discussing our plans for our new apartment and reuniting our household. It's an exciting time. A lot of patience and sacrifice and risk went into making this possible. I handed her the keys to my beautiful convertible and I walk six miles a day in all weathers so she can have a car. I did this willingly, because I wanted to be with her. I wanted to do everything I could to provide for her and take care of her, within my limited means. Every step I take, from the train station to work and back to my room, is an act of devotion, tangible and deliberate proof that I would choose her over anyone and give her anything I had. Everything a husband does, he does with his wife in mind. I know all the hard work and success Doug has accomplished was fired by his desire to provide for Gretchen and their kids. We're men. It's what we do. It's how we express love and commitment.
On Monday I signed over the tax stimulus check, $1047, so she could deposit it and start apartment hunting. We drove over to the Gateway Washington Mutual to deposit it in her account at the ATM machine. What did we do before there were ATM machines and debit cards and 24-hour online account access? Was it a better world? The national debt was lower, I'm sure, and folks had more money in their savings accounts. As I was handing her the check, Marie said, "Since you've already paid a month's rent over here, you could probably stay at Richard's during the week and just stay in Beaverton on weekends."
I was crushed. After all the planning and sacrifice, and all the misunderstandings and difficulties we had overcome, the idea my wife didn't want to have me with her every moment possible was a huge blow to my pride. "No!" I said. "I want to be with you. I want to be by you." I couldn't understand why she would even suggest otherwise. We talked a little more about it without any resolution, in the fumbling way men talk when they have a hurt they don't quite want to admit to out loud.
She punched the numbers into the ATM machine and it made its clickity clickity noises and swallowed the check. We were trusting each other with all the money we had in the world, and the banking system and the U.S. federal treasury not to run out of money. I asked her again about my moving with her but we still weren't quite hearing each other. We had a Jamba Juice and she drove me home and we kissed good-bye. The move thing still bothered me. I ruminated on it all night, well past the time I turned out the lights.
In the morning I left a pitiful message, something like, "Marie, I'm still thinking about our conversation last night. I love you and I want to be with you, and I don't want to live alone any longer than I have to. But if you have doubts about our living together and want to postpone it, or you just want to live with Austin, I understand. Either way I would do anything I could to help you and I love you very much."
The beauty of it was, she heard my pain. She called me back immediately and assured me, no, she was just thinking about the long train ride across town and thought it might be better for me to stay in Gateway since I'd already paid for all of December. (I had to because of the timing. It was a matter of keeping my word. We couldn't be sure when the money would arrive, or if it wouldn't be delayed or diverted in some way.) "I love you honey and I want to be with you more than anything in the world."
In times past we might have faced a small misunderstanding like this and it would have blown up into an angry exchange of words, two teapots at full boil with steam hissing and overheating the entire kitchen. Marie responded with sensitivity and warmth instead of harshness and defensiveness, and it made all the difference. It encourages me for our future.
Today we filled out the paperwork and applied for an apartment near our church and five blocks from Austin's school, a cute 2 bedroom with a washer/dryer hookup and central air, about a 12-15 minute walk from the train station. If all goes well we will have a new home by Christmas, and that would be the most incredible present imaginable. We agreed that we'd budget everything toward that goal. Marie said, "We'll just buy some dark chocolate and chips and hummus for each other, and it will be a perfect Christmas." Now if I could just get her to talk some Pac-10 football. But alas, men and women are different. And thank heaven that is so.
The other day at blog central, Marie and I were discussing our plans for our new apartment and reuniting our household. It's an exciting time. A lot of patience and sacrifice and risk went into making this possible. I handed her the keys to my beautiful convertible and I walk six miles a day in all weathers so she can have a car. I did this willingly, because I wanted to be with her. I wanted to do everything I could to provide for her and take care of her, within my limited means. Every step I take, from the train station to work and back to my room, is an act of devotion, tangible and deliberate proof that I would choose her over anyone and give her anything I had. Everything a husband does, he does with his wife in mind. I know all the hard work and success Doug has accomplished was fired by his desire to provide for Gretchen and their kids. We're men. It's what we do. It's how we express love and commitment.
On Monday I signed over the tax stimulus check, $1047, so she could deposit it and start apartment hunting. We drove over to the Gateway Washington Mutual to deposit it in her account at the ATM machine. What did we do before there were ATM machines and debit cards and 24-hour online account access? Was it a better world? The national debt was lower, I'm sure, and folks had more money in their savings accounts. As I was handing her the check, Marie said, "Since you've already paid a month's rent over here, you could probably stay at Richard's during the week and just stay in Beaverton on weekends."
I was crushed. After all the planning and sacrifice, and all the misunderstandings and difficulties we had overcome, the idea my wife didn't want to have me with her every moment possible was a huge blow to my pride. "No!" I said. "I want to be with you. I want to be by you." I couldn't understand why she would even suggest otherwise. We talked a little more about it without any resolution, in the fumbling way men talk when they have a hurt they don't quite want to admit to out loud.
She punched the numbers into the ATM machine and it made its clickity clickity noises and swallowed the check. We were trusting each other with all the money we had in the world, and the banking system and the U.S. federal treasury not to run out of money. I asked her again about my moving with her but we still weren't quite hearing each other. We had a Jamba Juice and she drove me home and we kissed good-bye. The move thing still bothered me. I ruminated on it all night, well past the time I turned out the lights.
In the morning I left a pitiful message, something like, "Marie, I'm still thinking about our conversation last night. I love you and I want to be with you, and I don't want to live alone any longer than I have to. But if you have doubts about our living together and want to postpone it, or you just want to live with Austin, I understand. Either way I would do anything I could to help you and I love you very much."
The beauty of it was, she heard my pain. She called me back immediately and assured me, no, she was just thinking about the long train ride across town and thought it might be better for me to stay in Gateway since I'd already paid for all of December. (I had to because of the timing. It was a matter of keeping my word. We couldn't be sure when the money would arrive, or if it wouldn't be delayed or diverted in some way.) "I love you honey and I want to be with you more than anything in the world."
In times past we might have faced a small misunderstanding like this and it would have blown up into an angry exchange of words, two teapots at full boil with steam hissing and overheating the entire kitchen. Marie responded with sensitivity and warmth instead of harshness and defensiveness, and it made all the difference. It encourages me for our future.
Today we filled out the paperwork and applied for an apartment near our church and five blocks from Austin's school, a cute 2 bedroom with a washer/dryer hookup and central air, about a 12-15 minute walk from the train station. If all goes well we will have a new home by Christmas, and that would be the most incredible present imaginable. We agreed that we'd budget everything toward that goal. Marie said, "We'll just buy some dark chocolate and chips and hummus for each other, and it will be a perfect Christmas." Now if I could just get her to talk some Pac-10 football. But alas, men and women are different. And thank heaven that is so.
The Kids Write Home
from Stephanie, December 4:
Dad--
So my comment has nothing to do with the blog but I just thought I'd give you an update on us up here. It's freezing!!! Our heater stopped working yesterday afternoon when Ethan and I were home and I couldn't figure out why. When Tom came home from work he tried to fix it but nothing worked. We went to bed at 66 degrees, and woke up this morning at 60. It was sooooo cold. I called my mom for advice (she has the same gizmo on her wall) and she suggested possibly the pilot light might have gone out on the furnace and to call a furnace company. I called the hubby at work and he came home messed around with it some more and fixed it. He's so cool, he left work in the middle of the day. I made him mac & cheese for a present. Ethan and I are much warmer now, it's up to 66 and climbing. We are currently tied for second place in the fantasy football league. With hopes of going to the playoffs in first. Two more weeks but this week we have a bye. We are thinking about selling our house. We need a bigger one, 4 or 5 bedrooms. We need a guestroom and a room for the future little Applegates. We are coming home for Christmas, we won't be there very long though since we can't leave the dog here by herself or she destroys everything. We are doing it at Grammy and Grandpa's. Kourt is getting good grades in school and has dance class tonight. I have my bowling league. I got a 204 a couple of weeks ago. Don't know what happened but it was pretty awesome. Anyway that's all from us.
Me
from Roger, November 27th:
Happy Turkey Holocaust day dad! Hope it was better than mine, which I spent slaving under the cracking of the corporate whip.
Love you
Roger
Dad--
So my comment has nothing to do with the blog but I just thought I'd give you an update on us up here. It's freezing!!! Our heater stopped working yesterday afternoon when Ethan and I were home and I couldn't figure out why. When Tom came home from work he tried to fix it but nothing worked. We went to bed at 66 degrees, and woke up this morning at 60. It was sooooo cold. I called my mom for advice (she has the same gizmo on her wall) and she suggested possibly the pilot light might have gone out on the furnace and to call a furnace company. I called the hubby at work and he came home messed around with it some more and fixed it. He's so cool, he left work in the middle of the day. I made him mac & cheese for a present. Ethan and I are much warmer now, it's up to 66 and climbing. We are currently tied for second place in the fantasy football league. With hopes of going to the playoffs in first. Two more weeks but this week we have a bye. We are thinking about selling our house. We need a bigger one, 4 or 5 bedrooms. We need a guestroom and a room for the future little Applegates. We are coming home for Christmas, we won't be there very long though since we can't leave the dog here by herself or she destroys everything. We are doing it at Grammy and Grandpa's. Kourt is getting good grades in school and has dance class tonight. I have my bowling league. I got a 204 a couple of weeks ago. Don't know what happened but it was pretty awesome. Anyway that's all from us.
Me
from Roger, November 27th:
Happy Turkey Holocaust day dad! Hope it was better than mine, which I spent slaving under the cracking of the corporate whip.
Love you
Roger
Monday, December 1, 2008
Small things, narrow escapes, crushing losses, and wonderful news in the mail: just another manic Monday
Stephanie loved The Bangles when she was little. I remember her dancing goofy to "Walk Like an Egyptian." God she was a cute kid. I am so proud of her, except for ultimate horror that she grew up a Beaver fan.
I woke up late this morning. My alarm didn't go off, and I finally woke up in a panic at 6:50, too late to catch my normal train. I threw on my clothes, doubled-timed it to the station and caught the 7:05, which got me to Mt. Hood station by 7:20. I left an old pullover on the train because I didn't want to be weighed down with it, and starting running when I stepped off the car, cutting through the dew-soaked field and through the golf course, running most of the way in my slacks and polo shirt, anxiously checking the clock on my cell phone as I went. I slowed to a walk in a few spots to catch my breath, and I made it to work with seven minutes to spare. Luckily I had some dry clothes in my filing cabinet. I didn't want to get an "occurrence" as they are called, on the day I announced I wasn't relocating to Oak Harbor. My supervisors were understanding and wished me luck. A lot of the staff is struggling with the decision. They have spouses and parents, and children in school. Some are tied down by their house in a down market, or their spouse's job, or an affection for the Portland area. Portland is a wonderful town, a town where people build lives and memories, and it is beautiful here. One of the glories of Portland is that it is a couple hours drive from almost anything, the beach, the desert, the mountains, farmland or good Chinese food. People love it here, and you get used to the rain. I hardly notice it except on the heaviest days, and I have a 45 minute walk to work.
I'm having the worst luck at the poker tables right now. Tonight I lost an 11,000 pot with pocket aces versus an ace and a jack. My opponent called me all in with a pair of jacks on the flop. I baited him with a small bet, he raised me for information and I raised him all in, a perfect read, but he turned another jack, a two card out. I'd been playing with great discipline and waited for the perfect opportunity, but the cards just didn't go my way. Jacks haunt me these days. The other day I flopped a set of tens and got an opponent all in with king-jack, a pair of jacks, and he turned a king and rivered another jack for a full house over my full house, a ghastly perfect two-card runner for 5900 chips. It's awful to lose that way. It feels like having three smart, funny, beautiful daughters, and having them all turn out to be Beaver fans, and raising their adorable children to be Beaver fans too. I sing Ethan the Duck fight song on the sly whenever I can, but I really don't have a chance. His mother nurses him and fills his ear with Beaver nonsense, and how can I compete with that? Sometimes you have to accept small losses, no matter how crushing. Sometimes it's impossible to win.
Marie and I did get our tax stimulus check tonight, and I gave Richard my 30-day notice. Part of keeping your word, although we could have used the extra $422. Marie thinks she's found a decent place in Raleigh Hills near the Fred Meyers. I told her as long as she was happy with it, I would agree.
I think I'll go to bed early tonight. I had the last of my leftover Thanksgiving turkey for supper, and I feel like curling up in a warm bed after a wet walk home. I'm pleased I didn't waste any of my leftovers; I hate it when food gets wasted. It's almost a crime against humanity to waste food, or to not appreciate the enormous blessing good, plentiful food really is. It's the small things we forget. We fail to realize they are not small at all.
I woke up late this morning. My alarm didn't go off, and I finally woke up in a panic at 6:50, too late to catch my normal train. I threw on my clothes, doubled-timed it to the station and caught the 7:05, which got me to Mt. Hood station by 7:20. I left an old pullover on the train because I didn't want to be weighed down with it, and starting running when I stepped off the car, cutting through the dew-soaked field and through the golf course, running most of the way in my slacks and polo shirt, anxiously checking the clock on my cell phone as I went. I slowed to a walk in a few spots to catch my breath, and I made it to work with seven minutes to spare. Luckily I had some dry clothes in my filing cabinet. I didn't want to get an "occurrence" as they are called, on the day I announced I wasn't relocating to Oak Harbor. My supervisors were understanding and wished me luck. A lot of the staff is struggling with the decision. They have spouses and parents, and children in school. Some are tied down by their house in a down market, or their spouse's job, or an affection for the Portland area. Portland is a wonderful town, a town where people build lives and memories, and it is beautiful here. One of the glories of Portland is that it is a couple hours drive from almost anything, the beach, the desert, the mountains, farmland or good Chinese food. People love it here, and you get used to the rain. I hardly notice it except on the heaviest days, and I have a 45 minute walk to work.
I'm having the worst luck at the poker tables right now. Tonight I lost an 11,000 pot with pocket aces versus an ace and a jack. My opponent called me all in with a pair of jacks on the flop. I baited him with a small bet, he raised me for information and I raised him all in, a perfect read, but he turned another jack, a two card out. I'd been playing with great discipline and waited for the perfect opportunity, but the cards just didn't go my way. Jacks haunt me these days. The other day I flopped a set of tens and got an opponent all in with king-jack, a pair of jacks, and he turned a king and rivered another jack for a full house over my full house, a ghastly perfect two-card runner for 5900 chips. It's awful to lose that way. It feels like having three smart, funny, beautiful daughters, and having them all turn out to be Beaver fans, and raising their adorable children to be Beaver fans too. I sing Ethan the Duck fight song on the sly whenever I can, but I really don't have a chance. His mother nurses him and fills his ear with Beaver nonsense, and how can I compete with that? Sometimes you have to accept small losses, no matter how crushing. Sometimes it's impossible to win.
Marie and I did get our tax stimulus check tonight, and I gave Richard my 30-day notice. Part of keeping your word, although we could have used the extra $422. Marie thinks she's found a decent place in Raleigh Hills near the Fred Meyers. I told her as long as she was happy with it, I would agree.
I think I'll go to bed early tonight. I had the last of my leftover Thanksgiving turkey for supper, and I feel like curling up in a warm bed after a wet walk home. I'm pleased I didn't waste any of my leftovers; I hate it when food gets wasted. It's almost a crime against humanity to waste food, or to not appreciate the enormous blessing good, plentiful food really is. It's the small things we forget. We fail to realize they are not small at all.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Promises We Make and The Commitments We Keep: making the right decisions in a confusing and unpredictable world
Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not break your oath, but keep the oaths you have made to the Lord.' But I tell tell you, do not swear at all: either by heaven, for it is God's throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool; or by Jersualem, for it is the city of the Great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black. Simply let your 'Yes" by 'Yes,' and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.(Matthew 5:33-37)
In a world that is always looking for a loophole, a bailout or wiggle room, a life lived in God's grace calls you to a higher standard: Keep your word and your promises. Treat your vows and commitments seriously. Consider the consequences of your decisions, and follow them through. That was the lesson in church today, and it couldn't have come at a better time for me, in the midst of several major life decisions, an area where I don't have the best track record as we have seen. In years past I've made them rashly, stubbornly, or angrily, with predictable results.
I've decided to stay in Portland. This is my home. I want to be with Marie. In a week or so we should be getting a $1453 tax stimulus check, enough to get an apartment and make it a home, and that's what we'll do.
This time it just feels right, and I am going to do everything a man can do to make it work.
Marie and I went to church today, her third Sunday in a row and my second in the last three, so already we are making progress. We said hello to Elmer, the kindly old man who's survived three cancer surgeries, and William, a genuine and good man I judged way too harshly in my bitter wrestling match with myself over the summer, who still greets us with a welcoming smile. William runs the Recovery Group that meets at Beaverton Christian on Friday nights.
Afterward we had another simple day together. I feel a real peace right now, a certainty. We have been sustained and encouraged by the good thoughts and prayers of some very precious people, and it's as if we're surrounded by a hedge of protection, a tremendous sense of healing and hope. We went to Borders and read the Sunday paper. She had a gingerbread mocha and I had a green tea. We embraced each other and held hands, had lunch at Baja Fresh and took a nap in the car, then went to the gym. The last four days have been quiet and sure and full of grace. We belong together. There's a lot of uncertainty in the world, and a lot of gathering trouble. No matter what that brings, we are better together than we are apart.
The job in Oak Harbor was a safer choice, but it wasn't a better one. There's no guarantee if I went. A new manager would be in charge and we'd be joining from another unit, the new guys. The relocation money was contingent on a year of service, and would have to be returned if the year wasn't completed. What if he didn't like me, what if the economic downtown dictated a reduction in force?
I'll find another job, or create one. What I don't want is another wife. After 50 years I found the one who is everything I ever hoped for and all the trouble I can handle, and I want to be where she is.
I have never been more sure of anything, and that's worth a fortune in this uncertain world. It's a promise I intend to keep.
The Sweet Taste of Victory, Savored With Fine Wine
I'm too relieved too feel vindicated, because I was worried they would lose, but the Ducks rode a big-play offense to roll the Oregon State Beavers 65-38 in Reser Stadium this afternoon, ending the Beavers' Rose Bowl dream unless UCLA pulls off a miracle upset over the cheaters from USC. Not likely: the Trojans demolished Notre Dame 38-3 tonight, and their defense is stifling and fierce.
I watched the game at A Taste of Wine with Doug and Marie and we had a wonderful time. The wine was good and Doug's good humor is the perfect complement to any wine and any occasion. Even in defeat he was philosophical and gracious and remarkably good company.
The Beavers sorely missed their quick little running back Quizz Rodgers, easily the heart and soul of their team. Their strength this year has been ball control and balance, and his darting elusiveness and tackle-breaking magic lifted the play of his teammates all year long. He's probably the Conference Player of the Year, and missing a game only underscored how remarkable and valuable he was. Despite playing with a sore shoulder, quarterback Lyle Moavao tied a team record with five touchdown passes, but tonight the defense didn't have an answer for the formidable Oregon running game and gave up far too many big plays.
The Ducks improved to 9-3 with the win, a good record considering they started the season with five inexperienced quarterbacks before settling on Jeremiah Masoli, a sophomore JC transfer who improved every game after a shaky start. He barely managed 40 yards passing in two of his earlier games, but in the last three he's made giant strides toward becoming a perfect fit as the dual-threat spearhead of the Ducks' potent spread option offense. Next year may bring a new challenge though: they might lose offensive mastermind Chip Kelly, their talented Offensive Coordinator who tutored first Dennis Dixon and now Masoli and worked wonders with both. Syracuse is interviewing him for their vacant head coaching position, and after his offense racked up over 1200 yards and 100 points in its last two games, other overtures are sure to follow. The Ducks will likely play in the Holiday Bowl in San Diego on December 30, and Kelly may be a lame duck by then, a head man in some other corner of the football world. That's the trouble with hiring talented people; they outgrow their jobs and move on to bigger opportunities.
Marie was radiant tonight in a pair of jeans and a snug fitting little Duck tee shirt that hugged her delicious curves. Her hair was up with little curls dangling down her neck, a look that both stirs and delights me. Happy and loved, she radiates desirability, and sitting next to her was the sweetest victory of the season, with the possible exception of the concession phone call I got from Stephanie after the game.
Doug's son Tucker invited us over for pulled pork sandwiches after the game. I wasn't at all hungry but I ate every bite because they were heavenly, tender, marvelously well seasoned with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Doug's son Dmitri assisted in the kitchen and both cooks earned their praise. I'm surrounded by excellence and bowled over with blessings. Christmas doesn't need to come, because I couldn't want another thing.
I watched the game at A Taste of Wine with Doug and Marie and we had a wonderful time. The wine was good and Doug's good humor is the perfect complement to any wine and any occasion. Even in defeat he was philosophical and gracious and remarkably good company.
The Beavers sorely missed their quick little running back Quizz Rodgers, easily the heart and soul of their team. Their strength this year has been ball control and balance, and his darting elusiveness and tackle-breaking magic lifted the play of his teammates all year long. He's probably the Conference Player of the Year, and missing a game only underscored how remarkable and valuable he was. Despite playing with a sore shoulder, quarterback Lyle Moavao tied a team record with five touchdown passes, but tonight the defense didn't have an answer for the formidable Oregon running game and gave up far too many big plays.
The Ducks improved to 9-3 with the win, a good record considering they started the season with five inexperienced quarterbacks before settling on Jeremiah Masoli, a sophomore JC transfer who improved every game after a shaky start. He barely managed 40 yards passing in two of his earlier games, but in the last three he's made giant strides toward becoming a perfect fit as the dual-threat spearhead of the Ducks' potent spread option offense. Next year may bring a new challenge though: they might lose offensive mastermind Chip Kelly, their talented Offensive Coordinator who tutored first Dennis Dixon and now Masoli and worked wonders with both. Syracuse is interviewing him for their vacant head coaching position, and after his offense racked up over 1200 yards and 100 points in its last two games, other overtures are sure to follow. The Ducks will likely play in the Holiday Bowl in San Diego on December 30, and Kelly may be a lame duck by then, a head man in some other corner of the football world. That's the trouble with hiring talented people; they outgrow their jobs and move on to bigger opportunities.
Marie was radiant tonight in a pair of jeans and a snug fitting little Duck tee shirt that hugged her delicious curves. Her hair was up with little curls dangling down her neck, a look that both stirs and delights me. Happy and loved, she radiates desirability, and sitting next to her was the sweetest victory of the season, with the possible exception of the concession phone call I got from Stephanie after the game.
Doug's son Tucker invited us over for pulled pork sandwiches after the game. I wasn't at all hungry but I ate every bite because they were heavenly, tender, marvelously well seasoned with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Doug's son Dmitri assisted in the kitchen and both cooks earned their praise. I'm surrounded by excellence and bowled over with blessings. Christmas doesn't need to come, because I couldn't want another thing.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Best Dates Are Simple; the Best Lives Seldom Are
The best dates are simple. Friday night Marie picked me up after work, and we took the Max train from Gateway station to Pioneer Courthouse Square for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, arriving just as the countdown reached twelve. The timing was kind of magical, and it made me consider that our timing might be better this time. We walked around and looked at shop windows, admired the wedding dresses and Christmas finery, watched the people and babies passing by. We wondered how anyone could spend so much money on expensive purses or luggage, merely for the supposed status associated with Coach or Louis Vuitton. Hundreds of dollars to wear a particular logo, to be "it" by association, for an item that's purely functional, lugging your stuff from one place to another. Image is everything, they say, but why do they say that?
We walked over to Old Town trying to find a Chinese Restaurant Marie said she'd visited last summer, somewhere near the lions guarding the Chinese gate, on a corner just off Burnside. We passed bums and drug addicts and prostitutes, the late stage alcoholics and homeless insane wanderers. Around every corner and doorway loomed a dark lurking figure or a lost soul huddled in a filthy blanket. We like to think of ourselves as far above such desperation and emptiness, but there's a thin line of blessing and circumstance that shapes our ends, and in a few quick disasters our lives can be rough-hewn in directions we never imagined.
Panhandlers of uncertain gender approached us for a dollar or a cigarette. I rarely carry cash and had none, but Marie lent out a smoke to one rougish-looking young man in a grey coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a small flower on his lapel. He gave us a sideways smile. "It's a nasty habit, I know, I'm trying to quit." Sometimes it's just easier to be a sucker.
We walked several blocks back and forth, not finding the place that looked familiar, until we went a little further down fourth avenue and there it was, the Golden Horse Restaurant. Some of the others had unappetizing-looking animals hanging in the windows, a roast duck with the bill still on, a pig crackled snout and all. Marie couldn't bear to look. I'll never understand the custom of displaying food that way; it couldn't be more unappetizing. But the Golden Horse looked more promising; inside the restaurant was simple and cluttered and they gave us a quiet table in the corner. We had chicken with black bean sauce and chicken with seasonal vegetables, with hot tea and egg flower soup, enough food for four people, delicious, just 18.95, cheaper than Burgerville and quite a bit less than Chang's Mongolian. We talked easily, the hot tea warding off the winter chill and cold germs, and made promises and plans the way lovers do. I want to be with her. I don't want to be anywhere else.
We walked back uptown to the boarding platform across from Sak's Fifth avenue holding hands, passing again by the windows of bridal dresses and snazzy Christmas outfits. On the train ride home at the Lloyd Center station Amber and Geoffrey got on, Marie's eldest daughter and her husband. They are two of the most intelligent and enjoyable people you will ever meet, particularly because of how much they enjoy each other. It turns out they had gone to the tree lighting and couldn't have been more than 50 feet away from us, arriving just as we did in the last numbers of the countdown. They had met Ashley and the granddaughters, Makenzie and Bryce. Makenzie hadn't had a nap today and she melted down when the tree was lit. She wanted to be in the center of the square when it happened, the magical princess place. They tried to explain that would have been impossible in the crowd, but reason had no place in this argument, a distressed and over-tired child in full wail.
We talked about Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping and tomorrow's Duck game. Geoffrey was in his Oregon sweatshirt. "Nice sweatshirt," I said. Amber asked if they had a chance tomorrow. "To be honest, I don't know. I hope so." I said, and went on to recite some of the storylines of the game, that Quizz Rodgers was out and the Beavs had a Rose Bowl berth on the line, the Ducks were coming off a bye and were a three-point dog. Most fans without a strong allegiance will be rooting for Oregon State I suppose. That's a lot of psychic energy in the wrong direction for a team with a history of disappointments and foulups in the clutch. The outcome might be a seminal moment in the history of the two programs, determining preeminence in the Northwest for the next several years. It feels like from this point they go one direction or the other. It feels like that for the whole country, and for Marie and I as well.
She drove me home and we kissed good-bye. She's coming today to join me for a workout and to watch the game at the Civil War party at A Taste of Wine. At the actual Civil War the Union supporters expected a quick victory and at the first battles there were picnics spread and outdoor bands, an atmosphere of festivity and anticipation. How we invite ourselves to a fool's party, thinking things will be pleasant and won without struggle.
We walked over to Old Town trying to find a Chinese Restaurant Marie said she'd visited last summer, somewhere near the lions guarding the Chinese gate, on a corner just off Burnside. We passed bums and drug addicts and prostitutes, the late stage alcoholics and homeless insane wanderers. Around every corner and doorway loomed a dark lurking figure or a lost soul huddled in a filthy blanket. We like to think of ourselves as far above such desperation and emptiness, but there's a thin line of blessing and circumstance that shapes our ends, and in a few quick disasters our lives can be rough-hewn in directions we never imagined.
Panhandlers of uncertain gender approached us for a dollar or a cigarette. I rarely carry cash and had none, but Marie lent out a smoke to one rougish-looking young man in a grey coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a small flower on his lapel. He gave us a sideways smile. "It's a nasty habit, I know, I'm trying to quit." Sometimes it's just easier to be a sucker.
We walked several blocks back and forth, not finding the place that looked familiar, until we went a little further down fourth avenue and there it was, the Golden Horse Restaurant. Some of the others had unappetizing-looking animals hanging in the windows, a roast duck with the bill still on, a pig crackled snout and all. Marie couldn't bear to look. I'll never understand the custom of displaying food that way; it couldn't be more unappetizing. But the Golden Horse looked more promising; inside the restaurant was simple and cluttered and they gave us a quiet table in the corner. We had chicken with black bean sauce and chicken with seasonal vegetables, with hot tea and egg flower soup, enough food for four people, delicious, just 18.95, cheaper than Burgerville and quite a bit less than Chang's Mongolian. We talked easily, the hot tea warding off the winter chill and cold germs, and made promises and plans the way lovers do. I want to be with her. I don't want to be anywhere else.
We walked back uptown to the boarding platform across from Sak's Fifth avenue holding hands, passing again by the windows of bridal dresses and snazzy Christmas outfits. On the train ride home at the Lloyd Center station Amber and Geoffrey got on, Marie's eldest daughter and her husband. They are two of the most intelligent and enjoyable people you will ever meet, particularly because of how much they enjoy each other. It turns out they had gone to the tree lighting and couldn't have been more than 50 feet away from us, arriving just as we did in the last numbers of the countdown. They had met Ashley and the granddaughters, Makenzie and Bryce. Makenzie hadn't had a nap today and she melted down when the tree was lit. She wanted to be in the center of the square when it happened, the magical princess place. They tried to explain that would have been impossible in the crowd, but reason had no place in this argument, a distressed and over-tired child in full wail.
We talked about Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping and tomorrow's Duck game. Geoffrey was in his Oregon sweatshirt. "Nice sweatshirt," I said. Amber asked if they had a chance tomorrow. "To be honest, I don't know. I hope so." I said, and went on to recite some of the storylines of the game, that Quizz Rodgers was out and the Beavs had a Rose Bowl berth on the line, the Ducks were coming off a bye and were a three-point dog. Most fans without a strong allegiance will be rooting for Oregon State I suppose. That's a lot of psychic energy in the wrong direction for a team with a history of disappointments and foulups in the clutch. The outcome might be a seminal moment in the history of the two programs, determining preeminence in the Northwest for the next several years. It feels like from this point they go one direction or the other. It feels like that for the whole country, and for Marie and I as well.
She drove me home and we kissed good-bye. She's coming today to join me for a workout and to watch the game at the Civil War party at A Taste of Wine. At the actual Civil War the Union supporters expected a quick victory and at the first battles there were picnics spread and outdoor bands, an atmosphere of festivity and anticipation. How we invite ourselves to a fool's party, thinking things will be pleasant and won without struggle.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Striving to Be Civil About the Civil War
Oregon residents get a little chippy about the Civil War, the over-the-top nickname we give to the annual football game between the University of Oregon and Oregon State. Even though it's only a football game, we live in a state where you are either green and yellow or black and orange, and most people wear one set of colors or the other. Flags are flown on doorsteps or from car windows. Jaws jut out. People make friendly wagers and unfriendly ones. Bragging rights are risked, and for one half of the state, the next twelve months are a little more uncomfortable to live, especially when the subject of football is brought up. You are either a Duck honk or a Beaver Believer, and life is either a little better or a little worse depending on who winds up on the big half of the score on Saturday afternoon.
I have always been a Duck, although there are times I wish I wasn't. The Ducks will break your heart in a hundred ways, and put your heart in your throat a thousand more. Things are never easy for Duck fans. Most games come down to the final play, and sometimes you're not even sure if it's really over even then, waiting for an official's signal. Last year they lost a game on the final play when a receiver, reaching desperately for the goal line with seconds to go, fumbled the ball into the end zone and out of bounds. The officials huddled. Anxious seconds passed. Still no signal. Finally, touchback: Ducks lose. We've won games in the same anxious and uncertain way. Wesley Mallard mugs a receiver in the end zone with time running out. No call, no flags: Ducks win. In an infamous game in 2006 the Ducks were trailing against Oklahoma with little time left and tried on onside kick. It didn't go ten yards before a Duck player touched it, and Oklahoma recovered, but the officials awarded Oregon the ball. They drove for a go-ahead touchdown, but the game still wasn't won: they had to block an Sooner field goal on the final play. To be a Duck fan means getting good at holding your breath, making excuses and throwing pillows at the TV. Defensive coach Nick Alliotti has taken years off my life with his maddening and predictable tendencies, rushing three on third and long, or leaving the tight end uncovered in the second half.
Elated over the victories, and agonized over the times we've just run out of time, I've always worn green and yellow, and shook my head over the times Nike has trotted out new uniform colors I didn't recognize at all. A further embarrassment of being a Duck fan is their quirky, cozy relationship with number one alumnus Phil Knight of Nike, which has led to all sorts of fashion-forward football uniform choices that are ridiculed around the country: mustard-colored pants and urine-yellow helmets, and the latest affectation, a ring of feathers on the shoulder pads that look more like a garland of Tampons, a garish and effeminate-looking creation that appears to have been inspired by Liberace or fat Elvis. Every telecast or mention on the national sports channels, the first thing they talk about is the uniforms. The Ducks are either innovative or a laughingstock, and sometimes they're both. I wish we would just play football, and stop collapsing in the November stretch drive. Maybe this is the year.
I say that every year, and some years we get close. In 2001 Joey Harrington led a team that finished 12-1 and number two in the country, pasting Colorado in the Fiesta Bowl. Last season Dennis Dixon ran and passed the PAC-10 silly on the way to another number two ranking before going down to a season-ending knee injury in the ninth game. Devastated by the loss of perhaps the best player in the country the Ducks fell apart and lost their last three games, missing a field goal at the end of regulation in losing to the Beavers in two overtimes, James Rodgers scooting around the corner for a touchdown on the dreaded fly sweep. I still have nightmare visions of Duck linebacker Kwame Agyeman penetrating four yards into the backfield but clutching air as Rodgers sprints for 25 yards. The year before they lost missing a field goal in the final minute. The Beavers always save their best for the Ducks, and the Ducks, well, sometimes they fly and sometimes they get shot down.
I love them just the same, and have ever since I was a young man and Dan Fouts was slinging touchdowns and Bobby Moore (now NBC NBA reporter Ahmad Rashad) was catching them. The hardest part is taking the ribbing and gloating that follows a loss of the Civil War. My friend Doug is usually pretty gracious about it, a Beaver fan since he rooted for them as a youngster. Two of his kids graduated from Oregon State and his wife and two of her brothers are also Beavs. Or, as they are affectionately called by Duck fans in private, Barkrats. Not a very gracious nickname, admittedly.
While Doug is gracious in victory, having been around long enough to remember when both teams were awful (one year they played to a 0-0 tie) Stephanie takes full advantage of her bragging rights. She is a merciless and formidable adversary, particularly when she has the upper hand, and for the last four or five years, she has had it a lot. The Ducks have mostly underachieved since reaching the heights with the 2001 team, and the Beavers have routinely exceeded expectations during the same time frame. They've won three of the last five Civil Wars, and two in a row, and I'm starting to feel a little uncivil about it.
Somehow in our state it's more than a football game. It's liberal versus conservative and country versus city. It's the bad blood of old misunderstandings and treachery and trickery and dancing on one another's logo. Everyone takes sides and someone has to lose. This year both teams are 8-3 and nationally ranked. If the Beavers win they go to the Rose Bowl for the first time in 44 years. If the Ducks win they get a vacation in San Diego and a very large monkey off their back. And I get to avoid a jubilant, crowing phone call from Selah, Washington, and the right to wear my sweatshirt with pride instead of embarrassment.
We'll see how it goes. The Beavers are favored by three but their phenomenal freshman running back has a bum shoulder and might not play. Already this season they've proven to be a resilient and well-coached unit, and the loss of Quizz Rodgers (fly-sweep artist James' little brother) is more likely to inspire them than make them wilt. The Ducks have talent and a deep-pocket sponsor, but Saturday we'll find out if they have the courage and determination to derail a Rose Bowl dream. I'm not optimistic, but I never am: I'm more of a Lou Holtz poor mouth worry and wring a kitchen towel kind of fan, this year in particular. The Ducks have had their stumbles and fumbles this season, and even after 11 games, it's hard to know how much resolve and readiness they'll bring to any game or any given play. After a bye last week they should be rested. Saturday at four p.m., the entire state will be watching, and Stephanie will have her cell phone ready.
I got an email from Doug tonight, and he says there is a Civil War party at A Taste of Wine in Tualatin. At least I know I'll get my phone call in a congenial and pleasant atmosphere and in good company, and that will be a victory all by itself.
I have always been a Duck, although there are times I wish I wasn't. The Ducks will break your heart in a hundred ways, and put your heart in your throat a thousand more. Things are never easy for Duck fans. Most games come down to the final play, and sometimes you're not even sure if it's really over even then, waiting for an official's signal. Last year they lost a game on the final play when a receiver, reaching desperately for the goal line with seconds to go, fumbled the ball into the end zone and out of bounds. The officials huddled. Anxious seconds passed. Still no signal. Finally, touchback: Ducks lose. We've won games in the same anxious and uncertain way. Wesley Mallard mugs a receiver in the end zone with time running out. No call, no flags: Ducks win. In an infamous game in 2006 the Ducks were trailing against Oklahoma with little time left and tried on onside kick. It didn't go ten yards before a Duck player touched it, and Oklahoma recovered, but the officials awarded Oregon the ball. They drove for a go-ahead touchdown, but the game still wasn't won: they had to block an Sooner field goal on the final play. To be a Duck fan means getting good at holding your breath, making excuses and throwing pillows at the TV. Defensive coach Nick Alliotti has taken years off my life with his maddening and predictable tendencies, rushing three on third and long, or leaving the tight end uncovered in the second half.
Elated over the victories, and agonized over the times we've just run out of time, I've always worn green and yellow, and shook my head over the times Nike has trotted out new uniform colors I didn't recognize at all. A further embarrassment of being a Duck fan is their quirky, cozy relationship with number one alumnus Phil Knight of Nike, which has led to all sorts of fashion-forward football uniform choices that are ridiculed around the country: mustard-colored pants and urine-yellow helmets, and the latest affectation, a ring of feathers on the shoulder pads that look more like a garland of Tampons, a garish and effeminate-looking creation that appears to have been inspired by Liberace or fat Elvis. Every telecast or mention on the national sports channels, the first thing they talk about is the uniforms. The Ducks are either innovative or a laughingstock, and sometimes they're both. I wish we would just play football, and stop collapsing in the November stretch drive. Maybe this is the year.
I say that every year, and some years we get close. In 2001 Joey Harrington led a team that finished 12-1 and number two in the country, pasting Colorado in the Fiesta Bowl. Last season Dennis Dixon ran and passed the PAC-10 silly on the way to another number two ranking before going down to a season-ending knee injury in the ninth game. Devastated by the loss of perhaps the best player in the country the Ducks fell apart and lost their last three games, missing a field goal at the end of regulation in losing to the Beavers in two overtimes, James Rodgers scooting around the corner for a touchdown on the dreaded fly sweep. I still have nightmare visions of Duck linebacker Kwame Agyeman penetrating four yards into the backfield but clutching air as Rodgers sprints for 25 yards. The year before they lost missing a field goal in the final minute. The Beavers always save their best for the Ducks, and the Ducks, well, sometimes they fly and sometimes they get shot down.
I love them just the same, and have ever since I was a young man and Dan Fouts was slinging touchdowns and Bobby Moore (now NBC NBA reporter Ahmad Rashad) was catching them. The hardest part is taking the ribbing and gloating that follows a loss of the Civil War. My friend Doug is usually pretty gracious about it, a Beaver fan since he rooted for them as a youngster. Two of his kids graduated from Oregon State and his wife and two of her brothers are also Beavs. Or, as they are affectionately called by Duck fans in private, Barkrats. Not a very gracious nickname, admittedly.
While Doug is gracious in victory, having been around long enough to remember when both teams were awful (one year they played to a 0-0 tie) Stephanie takes full advantage of her bragging rights. She is a merciless and formidable adversary, particularly when she has the upper hand, and for the last four or five years, she has had it a lot. The Ducks have mostly underachieved since reaching the heights with the 2001 team, and the Beavers have routinely exceeded expectations during the same time frame. They've won three of the last five Civil Wars, and two in a row, and I'm starting to feel a little uncivil about it.
Somehow in our state it's more than a football game. It's liberal versus conservative and country versus city. It's the bad blood of old misunderstandings and treachery and trickery and dancing on one another's logo. Everyone takes sides and someone has to lose. This year both teams are 8-3 and nationally ranked. If the Beavers win they go to the Rose Bowl for the first time in 44 years. If the Ducks win they get a vacation in San Diego and a very large monkey off their back. And I get to avoid a jubilant, crowing phone call from Selah, Washington, and the right to wear my sweatshirt with pride instead of embarrassment.
We'll see how it goes. The Beavers are favored by three but their phenomenal freshman running back has a bum shoulder and might not play. Already this season they've proven to be a resilient and well-coached unit, and the loss of Quizz Rodgers (fly-sweep artist James' little brother) is more likely to inspire them than make them wilt. The Ducks have talent and a deep-pocket sponsor, but Saturday we'll find out if they have the courage and determination to derail a Rose Bowl dream. I'm not optimistic, but I never am: I'm more of a Lou Holtz poor mouth worry and wring a kitchen towel kind of fan, this year in particular. The Ducks have had their stumbles and fumbles this season, and even after 11 games, it's hard to know how much resolve and readiness they'll bring to any game or any given play. After a bye last week they should be rested. Saturday at four p.m., the entire state will be watching, and Stephanie will have her cell phone ready.
I got an email from Doug tonight, and he says there is a Civil War party at A Taste of Wine in Tualatin. At least I know I'll get my phone call in a congenial and pleasant atmosphere and in good company, and that will be a victory all by itself.
A Titantic Clash Between Romance and Reality
Monday is the deadline to commit to the Oak Harbor Relocation at my company. If we sign on for relocation we are awarded a $5000 net relocation bonus when we take residence in Oak Harbor. If we stay till the end of business here in Portland we get a 4-week completion bonus and four weeks severance pay, probably about $3000 after taxes. Company representatives have indicated we would be eligible for unemployment. By policy the company does not provide reference letters, but they are arranging for outplacement assistance.
If you spend even a few minutes a day with the morning paper you know with certainty that these are generous options: every day 1000s of people lose their jobs with no notice at all and few resources. A week or two ago I read in the USA Today about a man who worked all his life in the mines, lost his job when his company shut down, relocated to Montana on the promise of a new one, and on his first day at the new place his new employer announced they had to lay off 5000 people. Unemployed, broke, and 2500 miles from home. Imagine having to go home and tell your wife.
When my wife was seven her father was offered a lucrative job in Alaska working for the department of Defense. He wanted to provide a better life for his family, so he took it. This was the early 60's when being the "breadwinner" was a role taken very seriously in our culture. He made the hard decision to go hundreds of miles away from everything he loved and knew to make enough money to secure his family's future and hopes. It wasn't an easy decision. He had three daughters and a son, Marie being the youngest, just started second grade. He was a very loving man. After many long talks with his wife he decided to go. He wrote long letters home, braving the cold of the Aleutian Islands. He sent home packages and pictures. And he worked, making thousands of dollars more than he could have in the contiguous fifty.
Marie loved her daddy and she was devastated by his absence. As an adult she has grown to understand it, but the hurt of being without him at a critical time in her childhood is the single most powerful experience of her formative years. Even now she has a deep fear of abandonment. It's a wonder she's put up with all my antics and rebellions. it's amazing how hard we've both fought to keep hope alive in this crazy relationship in this crazy world.
We've talked about it, and there is no way she will relocate to Oak Harbor. In the years before she knew me she was married to an abusive man, and she uprooted her youngest daughter and exposed her to all kinds of trauma in trying to make that relationship work, and now she is certain that she can't make that mistake again, that her foremost responsibility is to provide Austin with safety, stability and continuity. She can't ask her to move 300 miles from her brothers and sisters and her peer group, risking a new life and a new place with a stepfather who has failed her before. We can try, and we want to, but in Marie's mind it has to be here, in Portland, where her job is, where her four kids are, where she has lived for 25 years. She arrived at that decision carefully. Oak Harbor is not an option if we want to be together.
In my life I have seldom done the practical thing. Most times I've resisted practicalities altogether, opting for rebellion or adventure or change or independence or starting over every time. Indeed, I've never worked so hard on a relationship as I have this one. I was always moving on. I've always given up and struck out on my own. But this was different. No one has ever moved me or stirred me or inspired me the way this woman does. No one is as desirable or unforgettable, or will be. This is the last best good woman of my life, and it's either her or Oak Harbor, it's as simple as that.
The reality is, we need the money. For two people who have never saved a dime and worked for wages all their lives, five thousand dollars is a lot of money. It's a new start. It's a chance to get out from under the thumb of all your bad decisions. It isn't all the money in the world, but it's enough to make a difference. Even divided in half it is. Marie right now is essentially homeless, sleeping on her son's couch. She's working at Safeway for eight dollars an hour, part time. It's my responsibility to take care of her. With $5000 and a job, I could do a much better job of that. I could provide her with some real hope.
It's not a news flash to report that the economy is horrible right now. I've scoured the paper and the online resources, applied for a dozen jobs without a single phone call. Today Kaiser sent me a form letter indicating they had determined I had selected another position outside Kaiser and wasn't being considered as a candidate for their open positions. I don't know how they made that determination without talking to me, but it's clear I'm not going to be hired there, or anywhere, without some major luck. I'm 53. It's a lot easier finding a job at 23 than it is 53. Just being available makes you a suspect candidate at my age.
I want to be with my wife. I want to sleep with her again and have dinner with her every night, to be in the place where she is and make up for the lost time. She is the best company I have ever known, and more comfort and joy than a thousand Christmas carols. I need her. I want her. I miss her.
It isn't easy between us, though. We have a lot to overcome, and a lot to work on. Our prospects will be a lot brighter with $5000 and a job. But going against her wishes and hopes in such a critical matter might be the final misunderstanding between us. For her it would feel like another abandonment, and she'd feel every original hurt all over again.
Monday December 1st is the day we turn in our paper. The company will make staffing decisions and transfer arrangements from that date, and they need time to make an orderly transition of business.
I wish someone would call me Friday for a new position for twice as much money, or offer me a book deal or a seat at the final table of the World Series of Poker. But this isn't the movies. This is real life, where people have to make agonizing decisions that change their lives forever, and sacrifices are made. I'm torn between two uncertain prospects, and I have no idea what to do. Do I give Marie $2500 and a chance at a new life, or do I go to her and promise everything will work out and we'll find a way, without having any idea what that way is? It's a lot easier in the movies, where romance always triumphs over reality.
If you spend even a few minutes a day with the morning paper you know with certainty that these are generous options: every day 1000s of people lose their jobs with no notice at all and few resources. A week or two ago I read in the USA Today about a man who worked all his life in the mines, lost his job when his company shut down, relocated to Montana on the promise of a new one, and on his first day at the new place his new employer announced they had to lay off 5000 people. Unemployed, broke, and 2500 miles from home. Imagine having to go home and tell your wife.
When my wife was seven her father was offered a lucrative job in Alaska working for the department of Defense. He wanted to provide a better life for his family, so he took it. This was the early 60's when being the "breadwinner" was a role taken very seriously in our culture. He made the hard decision to go hundreds of miles away from everything he loved and knew to make enough money to secure his family's future and hopes. It wasn't an easy decision. He had three daughters and a son, Marie being the youngest, just started second grade. He was a very loving man. After many long talks with his wife he decided to go. He wrote long letters home, braving the cold of the Aleutian Islands. He sent home packages and pictures. And he worked, making thousands of dollars more than he could have in the contiguous fifty.
Marie loved her daddy and she was devastated by his absence. As an adult she has grown to understand it, but the hurt of being without him at a critical time in her childhood is the single most powerful experience of her formative years. Even now she has a deep fear of abandonment. It's a wonder she's put up with all my antics and rebellions. it's amazing how hard we've both fought to keep hope alive in this crazy relationship in this crazy world.
We've talked about it, and there is no way she will relocate to Oak Harbor. In the years before she knew me she was married to an abusive man, and she uprooted her youngest daughter and exposed her to all kinds of trauma in trying to make that relationship work, and now she is certain that she can't make that mistake again, that her foremost responsibility is to provide Austin with safety, stability and continuity. She can't ask her to move 300 miles from her brothers and sisters and her peer group, risking a new life and a new place with a stepfather who has failed her before. We can try, and we want to, but in Marie's mind it has to be here, in Portland, where her job is, where her four kids are, where she has lived for 25 years. She arrived at that decision carefully. Oak Harbor is not an option if we want to be together.
In my life I have seldom done the practical thing. Most times I've resisted practicalities altogether, opting for rebellion or adventure or change or independence or starting over every time. Indeed, I've never worked so hard on a relationship as I have this one. I was always moving on. I've always given up and struck out on my own. But this was different. No one has ever moved me or stirred me or inspired me the way this woman does. No one is as desirable or unforgettable, or will be. This is the last best good woman of my life, and it's either her or Oak Harbor, it's as simple as that.
The reality is, we need the money. For two people who have never saved a dime and worked for wages all their lives, five thousand dollars is a lot of money. It's a new start. It's a chance to get out from under the thumb of all your bad decisions. It isn't all the money in the world, but it's enough to make a difference. Even divided in half it is. Marie right now is essentially homeless, sleeping on her son's couch. She's working at Safeway for eight dollars an hour, part time. It's my responsibility to take care of her. With $5000 and a job, I could do a much better job of that. I could provide her with some real hope.
It's not a news flash to report that the economy is horrible right now. I've scoured the paper and the online resources, applied for a dozen jobs without a single phone call. Today Kaiser sent me a form letter indicating they had determined I had selected another position outside Kaiser and wasn't being considered as a candidate for their open positions. I don't know how they made that determination without talking to me, but it's clear I'm not going to be hired there, or anywhere, without some major luck. I'm 53. It's a lot easier finding a job at 23 than it is 53. Just being available makes you a suspect candidate at my age.
I want to be with my wife. I want to sleep with her again and have dinner with her every night, to be in the place where she is and make up for the lost time. She is the best company I have ever known, and more comfort and joy than a thousand Christmas carols. I need her. I want her. I miss her.
It isn't easy between us, though. We have a lot to overcome, and a lot to work on. Our prospects will be a lot brighter with $5000 and a job. But going against her wishes and hopes in such a critical matter might be the final misunderstanding between us. For her it would feel like another abandonment, and she'd feel every original hurt all over again.
Monday December 1st is the day we turn in our paper. The company will make staffing decisions and transfer arrangements from that date, and they need time to make an orderly transition of business.
I wish someone would call me Friday for a new position for twice as much money, or offer me a book deal or a seat at the final table of the World Series of Poker. But this isn't the movies. This is real life, where people have to make agonizing decisions that change their lives forever, and sacrifices are made. I'm torn between two uncertain prospects, and I have no idea what to do. Do I give Marie $2500 and a chance at a new life, or do I go to her and promise everything will work out and we'll find a way, without having any idea what that way is? It's a lot easier in the movies, where romance always triumphs over reality.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Football, great food and your favorite people: what's not to like?
I love all holidays except Halloween. I used to be grumpy about Valentine's Day until I met Marie. I've had the three greatest Valentine's Days of my life since we met: the girl really knows how to spice up a Valentine's Day. She is my favorite present, regardless of holiday. I mean that quite sincerely. She is endlessly desirable and delightful, except when she is being stubborn.
But I love holidays, everything about them. Especially Thanksgiving, because it combines three of my favorite things, food, football and hanging out with the family. Christmas is sometimes stressful or anticlimactic or marred by a scene. I don't know why. But we've all had the Christmas that has gone bad, with an argument or misunderstanding that left everyone staring at the floor in shame. Thanksgiving, however, is virtually foolproof. You drink, you eat, you laugh. You holler at Romo for throwing a crucial pick in the third quarter. You draw names for Christmas and take seconds. Or thirds. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, turkey gravy. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Fruit salad. My brother-in-law Richard's famous key lime pie. How can anyone dislike a holiday with so much going for it and so little pressure? Bring a bottle of wine, kiss the baby, chat in the kitchen and sample the summer sausage and cheese. Thanksgiving is an utterly perfect day. With many hands the prep and cleanup isn't overwhelming, and the pace is perfect. You'd have to be scroogier than Scrooge to hate Thanksgiving.
The deeper riches of the holiday seem particularly important this year. As a country and as individuals we've had a few setbacks in the last several months, and many of us are facing a mountain of uncertainty: a bigger bill stack, a leaner paycheck, a business that is being stretched and stressed, layoffs and rumors of layoffs. This week Buick laid off Tiger Woods. You know things are getting tough when Tiger Woods gets a pink slip, but I'm sure he'll land on his feet.
Thanksgiving is a great time for conversation. People congregate in the kitchen or the sitting room or around one of the ball games, and there is plenty of time to catch up. Most of us are blessed to be surrounded by some of our favorite people, so talk flows freely. Remember to take a moment to say a prayer for those who are half a world away tonight, far from their love ones as they protect ours. I hope they can all come home soon.
But conversation flows with all that good food and drink, and one of the things we'll all be talking about this year, along with the great deal we got on our last fill up and how good the turkey smells, is how we're scaling down expectations this Christmas. Most of the people I know are planning a smaller holiday, fewer gifts, a few things for the kids and nothing extravagant. Maybe we'll give more thought to being together. The tree might be shorter than usual. It's an opportunity to be a little more still this time, a little less rushed, to stop and really hear the words to Silent Night, my favorite Christmas carol. All is calm. All is bright. A night of a new hope born into the world, a hope that still lives, that makes all our most tender and noble wishes possible, a hope of redemption and peace and renewal. Thanksgiving is a glorious meal but in another way it's an appetizer to the holidays, an afternoon that invites us to begin the winter season with love, devotion and a deepening commitment to all the things that matter most in our lives, the people around the table in our favorite place on earth. Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I love you and wish you well.
But I love holidays, everything about them. Especially Thanksgiving, because it combines three of my favorite things, food, football and hanging out with the family. Christmas is sometimes stressful or anticlimactic or marred by a scene. I don't know why. But we've all had the Christmas that has gone bad, with an argument or misunderstanding that left everyone staring at the floor in shame. Thanksgiving, however, is virtually foolproof. You drink, you eat, you laugh. You holler at Romo for throwing a crucial pick in the third quarter. You draw names for Christmas and take seconds. Or thirds. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, turkey gravy. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Fruit salad. My brother-in-law Richard's famous key lime pie. How can anyone dislike a holiday with so much going for it and so little pressure? Bring a bottle of wine, kiss the baby, chat in the kitchen and sample the summer sausage and cheese. Thanksgiving is an utterly perfect day. With many hands the prep and cleanup isn't overwhelming, and the pace is perfect. You'd have to be scroogier than Scrooge to hate Thanksgiving.
The deeper riches of the holiday seem particularly important this year. As a country and as individuals we've had a few setbacks in the last several months, and many of us are facing a mountain of uncertainty: a bigger bill stack, a leaner paycheck, a business that is being stretched and stressed, layoffs and rumors of layoffs. This week Buick laid off Tiger Woods. You know things are getting tough when Tiger Woods gets a pink slip, but I'm sure he'll land on his feet.
Thanksgiving is a great time for conversation. People congregate in the kitchen or the sitting room or around one of the ball games, and there is plenty of time to catch up. Most of us are blessed to be surrounded by some of our favorite people, so talk flows freely. Remember to take a moment to say a prayer for those who are half a world away tonight, far from their love ones as they protect ours. I hope they can all come home soon.
But conversation flows with all that good food and drink, and one of the things we'll all be talking about this year, along with the great deal we got on our last fill up and how good the turkey smells, is how we're scaling down expectations this Christmas. Most of the people I know are planning a smaller holiday, fewer gifts, a few things for the kids and nothing extravagant. Maybe we'll give more thought to being together. The tree might be shorter than usual. It's an opportunity to be a little more still this time, a little less rushed, to stop and really hear the words to Silent Night, my favorite Christmas carol. All is calm. All is bright. A night of a new hope born into the world, a hope that still lives, that makes all our most tender and noble wishes possible, a hope of redemption and peace and renewal. Thanksgiving is a glorious meal but in another way it's an appetizer to the holidays, an afternoon that invites us to begin the winter season with love, devotion and a deepening commitment to all the things that matter most in our lives, the people around the table in our favorite place on earth. Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I love you and wish you well.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Headed for the Danger Zone of Total Sloth
Friday night, the night lovers canoodle and old men hoist a pint, and all I did is play internet chess in my room. There's a pile of clean laundry in the thinking and reading chair and a pile of dirty laundry in the closet. The bed is unmade, and I stayed up way late and slept till 11:39. I haven't worked out since Monday. If I don't snap out of it soon my body is going to calcify or turn to suet and my brain will turn to mush.
I get like this sometimes, in the grey grip of the Oregon winter, and sometimes it takes a Roy Scheider "All That Jazz" pep talk in the mirror to get going. "It's showtime!" Sometimes you have to tilt your head back and squeeze some drops into your bleary minds' eye. Or slap yourself like Cher slapped Nicholas Cage in "Moonstruck": "Snap out of it!"
When I finish this entry I'm going to get in motion. I'll fold the laundry and start another load. I'll walk to the bank and deposit my poker check, and then to the gym, have a good workout, a long hot shower and a shave, put on clean clothes. I'll straighten up the room and vacuum, clean the bathroom and sweep the entryway. I'll get on the internet and pay my Best Buy bill and phone and car insurance, and I swear I won't play any more internet chess. The worst part I was playing badly, in a fog of unforced errors and rudimentary blunders. I'd start out with a solid position and then just fail to see a trap or a untenable move, and lose to a gloating idiot with an anonymous nickname from some remote corner of cyberspace. I should have canoodled or hoisted a pint; I would have been so much farther ahead. I've never made poorer use of a week of evenings. I've never been more disconnected from the world. But my goodness, it's my own fault.
On Monday I cashed out of the poker game because I was running out of food and fishsticks, having planned even less well than usual, and consequently I had less to do in this empty room. Tonight Marie are going on a date, and that will get me in motion, help me throw off this self-absorbed useless funk. I have to be careful: I'm a creature of habit, and this is just about the worst habit of all, doing nothing and going nowhere. Snap out of it, Dale. It's Showtime! Your life is calling, and if you don't answer soon, the phone won't ring at all.
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Weekend Update: 10:28 p.m.
What a much better day it turned out to be. I folded the laundry and did two more loads, straightened up the room and went to the gym. I leg pressed and bench pressed and did 250 crunches, 35 pushups and 15 dips. I rowed and did pulldowns and rode the elliptical, read an US Weekly and the Saturday paper, hamstring curled and calf extended, and walked there and back. Had two Italian ices and a chocolate milk and some nuts for lunch, came home and paid the Best Buy bill, and the cell phone. I'll pay the insurance on Monday, and I had enough left to buy in to the poker site for $60, and I won $76 in the $3 rebuy, finishing 116th out of 4500 players. Busted out with a pair of nines, an ace-queen and a pair of aces behind me. Shortstacked with four and half times the blind, it was time to try and get lucky. I churned along as long as I could. Still, $76 was not a bad night for the first night back.
I followed along with the Beaver game as I played, watching the play chart on ESPN game cast. You don't see the actual plays or players, just the results of each play on a drive chart, the football equivalent of a stock ticker. The Beavers came from behind to win with a field goal on the last play of the game, and now the Civil War will be for the Rose or Holiday Bowl as well as state bragging rights. I hope the Ducks play well and win, or Stephanie will make my life miserable for another year.
Marie had to cancel our date. She said she wasn't feeling well and had to drive Austin to her Winter Formal. She may come over tomorrow.
There's another Italian ice in the freezer. I'll think I'll have that for dessert and go to bed. I'll sleep a lot better knowing I had a productive day.
I get like this sometimes, in the grey grip of the Oregon winter, and sometimes it takes a Roy Scheider "All That Jazz" pep talk in the mirror to get going. "It's showtime!" Sometimes you have to tilt your head back and squeeze some drops into your bleary minds' eye. Or slap yourself like Cher slapped Nicholas Cage in "Moonstruck": "Snap out of it!"
When I finish this entry I'm going to get in motion. I'll fold the laundry and start another load. I'll walk to the bank and deposit my poker check, and then to the gym, have a good workout, a long hot shower and a shave, put on clean clothes. I'll straighten up the room and vacuum, clean the bathroom and sweep the entryway. I'll get on the internet and pay my Best Buy bill and phone and car insurance, and I swear I won't play any more internet chess. The worst part I was playing badly, in a fog of unforced errors and rudimentary blunders. I'd start out with a solid position and then just fail to see a trap or a untenable move, and lose to a gloating idiot with an anonymous nickname from some remote corner of cyberspace. I should have canoodled or hoisted a pint; I would have been so much farther ahead. I've never made poorer use of a week of evenings. I've never been more disconnected from the world. But my goodness, it's my own fault.
On Monday I cashed out of the poker game because I was running out of food and fishsticks, having planned even less well than usual, and consequently I had less to do in this empty room. Tonight Marie are going on a date, and that will get me in motion, help me throw off this self-absorbed useless funk. I have to be careful: I'm a creature of habit, and this is just about the worst habit of all, doing nothing and going nowhere. Snap out of it, Dale. It's Showtime! Your life is calling, and if you don't answer soon, the phone won't ring at all.
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Weekend Update: 10:28 p.m.
What a much better day it turned out to be. I folded the laundry and did two more loads, straightened up the room and went to the gym. I leg pressed and bench pressed and did 250 crunches, 35 pushups and 15 dips. I rowed and did pulldowns and rode the elliptical, read an US Weekly and the Saturday paper, hamstring curled and calf extended, and walked there and back. Had two Italian ices and a chocolate milk and some nuts for lunch, came home and paid the Best Buy bill, and the cell phone. I'll pay the insurance on Monday, and I had enough left to buy in to the poker site for $60, and I won $76 in the $3 rebuy, finishing 116th out of 4500 players. Busted out with a pair of nines, an ace-queen and a pair of aces behind me. Shortstacked with four and half times the blind, it was time to try and get lucky. I churned along as long as I could. Still, $76 was not a bad night for the first night back.
I followed along with the Beaver game as I played, watching the play chart on ESPN game cast. You don't see the actual plays or players, just the results of each play on a drive chart, the football equivalent of a stock ticker. The Beavers came from behind to win with a field goal on the last play of the game, and now the Civil War will be for the Rose or Holiday Bowl as well as state bragging rights. I hope the Ducks play well and win, or Stephanie will make my life miserable for another year.
Marie had to cancel our date. She said she wasn't feeling well and had to drive Austin to her Winter Formal. She may come over tomorrow.
There's another Italian ice in the freezer. I'll think I'll have that for dessert and go to bed. I'll sleep a lot better knowing I had a productive day.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I'm not broke: there's half a box of fishsticks in the freezer
Sometimes, it comes down to the last box of fish sticks. I've never been good with money, as we have seen. Here at blog central we've been known to spend our last five dollars on a banana, a chocolate milk, the USA Today and a Red Box movie, and do so on Wednesday with two days to payday. Somehow I always make it, whether if it's scraping up the change in the sock drawer or returning the pop cans on the back porch. I've had some close scrapes on bill due dates but I've never gone hungry, and it's possible to do a lot worse.
They also tell me it's possible to budget and plan ahead, and not live with such small desperations, but where's the sense of adventure in that? I enjoy the creative financing and the small challenges. You haven't lived until you've discovered a dollar you didn't know you had, and celebrated with a hot fudge sundae at McDonalds. When Stephanie was growing up there was a $1 movie theatre downtown, and we went there pretty much every time she came to visit. We saw Top Gun 13 times, and had a wonderful time each and every time. The volleyball scene was her favorite, a ten-year-old gaga over Tom Cruise's washboard abs. Doug and Gretchen have been very successful in their life, and they've worked hard to get there, but one of my favorites of their stories is the time as young marrieds when they were barely scraping by on Doug's Air Force paycheck, doing laundry at the laundromat on a boiling hot Oklahoma Sunday, and they found a $20 bill in the parking lot. That is living, finding $20 when you don't have a dime. They've enjoyed meals since in some of the finest restaurants in Paris, but I bet nothing tasted as good as the goodies they bought that afternoon with found money.
Tomorrow is pay day and I'll be able to pay a few bills, buy next week's train pass and maybe join Doug for a bottle of wine. Marie and I will have a little date on Saturday and maybe some attention, and then it will be back to work, to trade in another 40 hours of my dwindling allotment of time in exchange for 10 trash cans of the company's money. It passes fairly well and I always feel I've earned it at the end of the day. We're all lucky to have jobs, even though some Mondays it doesn't feel that way.
Marie sent me some pretty good links for jobs in my field at a good rate of pay, which I'll respond to tomorrow. We're supposed to get our stimulus check in the mail in a couple more weeks, so we could have a new home by Christmas. If I can find work here I won't have to go to Oak Harbor, taking the severance pay instead. I'd rather have her to hold and not have to eat my fish sticks alone. I always forget to buy the cocktail sauce. She remembers things like that. And the Red Box movies are always more fun when you have someone to watch them with. Even if she falls asleep twenty minutes into the movie. She snores. But it's cute when she does it. In "Good Will Hunting" Robin Williams' character is reminiscing about his dead wife, and he says "it's the imperfections, the little quirks that endear you to a person." The quote isn't exact, but that's the essence of it, and it's true. You love someone in a hundred little ways, and there are all these strings of memory and appreciation and acceptance that tie you together, and that's a good, sustaining thing. It's wonderful to be with someone you would give your last fish stick for. It's wonderful to belong. I'd rather have that than $5000. I'd rather have that than $50,000. But I wouldn't mind finding a $20 bill tomorrow on the way to work.
There's no word yet from Marie's doctor, and I urged her to call and get an update. There may be a simple explanation for the discharge; she doesn't have a lump or pain or any other symptoms, but it would be nice to get some information and reassurance, the results of the mammogram and a little follow up. Doctors are too stingy with information, and the lack of information is what leads people to worry. We have Kaiser right now, and one of the things I appreciate about Kaiser generally is that they do a good job of empowering the patient and making them a partner in their own health care. It's a very patient-friendly approach, and I think a key to keeping health care costs under control. Give people choices and information and encourage them to make intelligent ones. Let them participate in the process, and spend their health care dollars wisely. For next year I chose a plan with a high deductible and a flexible spending account; it keeps my costs down and gives me more control over the money. It's the perfect choice for someone who never goes to the doctor unless he has a kiwi fruit growing out of his ribcage.
But I feel blessed. The lump wasn't fatal, I didn't lose my gloves or stocking cap, it's 10:30 and I'll get a good night's sleep, and my belly is full of fish sticks. Tomorrow night I'll live it up with a slice of pizza and a USA Today. But if I don't go to the gym I want you to shoot me: I haven't been since Monday. Lucky I walk five miles a day or I'd weigh 400 pounds.
They also tell me it's possible to budget and plan ahead, and not live with such small desperations, but where's the sense of adventure in that? I enjoy the creative financing and the small challenges. You haven't lived until you've discovered a dollar you didn't know you had, and celebrated with a hot fudge sundae at McDonalds. When Stephanie was growing up there was a $1 movie theatre downtown, and we went there pretty much every time she came to visit. We saw Top Gun 13 times, and had a wonderful time each and every time. The volleyball scene was her favorite, a ten-year-old gaga over Tom Cruise's washboard abs. Doug and Gretchen have been very successful in their life, and they've worked hard to get there, but one of my favorites of their stories is the time as young marrieds when they were barely scraping by on Doug's Air Force paycheck, doing laundry at the laundromat on a boiling hot Oklahoma Sunday, and they found a $20 bill in the parking lot. That is living, finding $20 when you don't have a dime. They've enjoyed meals since in some of the finest restaurants in Paris, but I bet nothing tasted as good as the goodies they bought that afternoon with found money.
Tomorrow is pay day and I'll be able to pay a few bills, buy next week's train pass and maybe join Doug for a bottle of wine. Marie and I will have a little date on Saturday and maybe some attention, and then it will be back to work, to trade in another 40 hours of my dwindling allotment of time in exchange for 10 trash cans of the company's money. It passes fairly well and I always feel I've earned it at the end of the day. We're all lucky to have jobs, even though some Mondays it doesn't feel that way.
Marie sent me some pretty good links for jobs in my field at a good rate of pay, which I'll respond to tomorrow. We're supposed to get our stimulus check in the mail in a couple more weeks, so we could have a new home by Christmas. If I can find work here I won't have to go to Oak Harbor, taking the severance pay instead. I'd rather have her to hold and not have to eat my fish sticks alone. I always forget to buy the cocktail sauce. She remembers things like that. And the Red Box movies are always more fun when you have someone to watch them with. Even if she falls asleep twenty minutes into the movie. She snores. But it's cute when she does it. In "Good Will Hunting" Robin Williams' character is reminiscing about his dead wife, and he says "it's the imperfections, the little quirks that endear you to a person." The quote isn't exact, but that's the essence of it, and it's true. You love someone in a hundred little ways, and there are all these strings of memory and appreciation and acceptance that tie you together, and that's a good, sustaining thing. It's wonderful to be with someone you would give your last fish stick for. It's wonderful to belong. I'd rather have that than $5000. I'd rather have that than $50,000. But I wouldn't mind finding a $20 bill tomorrow on the way to work.
There's no word yet from Marie's doctor, and I urged her to call and get an update. There may be a simple explanation for the discharge; she doesn't have a lump or pain or any other symptoms, but it would be nice to get some information and reassurance, the results of the mammogram and a little follow up. Doctors are too stingy with information, and the lack of information is what leads people to worry. We have Kaiser right now, and one of the things I appreciate about Kaiser generally is that they do a good job of empowering the patient and making them a partner in their own health care. It's a very patient-friendly approach, and I think a key to keeping health care costs under control. Give people choices and information and encourage them to make intelligent ones. Let them participate in the process, and spend their health care dollars wisely. For next year I chose a plan with a high deductible and a flexible spending account; it keeps my costs down and gives me more control over the money. It's the perfect choice for someone who never goes to the doctor unless he has a kiwi fruit growing out of his ribcage.
But I feel blessed. The lump wasn't fatal, I didn't lose my gloves or stocking cap, it's 10:30 and I'll get a good night's sleep, and my belly is full of fish sticks. Tomorrow night I'll live it up with a slice of pizza and a USA Today. But if I don't go to the gym I want you to shoot me: I haven't been since Monday. Lucky I walk five miles a day or I'd weigh 400 pounds.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated
I'm not going to die. At least not this week. At least not of any anticipated causes.
I went to my doc appointment on Monday and got a nice extra birthday present. The lump in my ribcage is not serious. Dr. J examined it and explained it's fairly common, a fat deposit, and it isn't likely to grow much bigger and doesn't have to be removed unless it causes some discomfort. Marie still hasn't heard from her doctor, however. Something that alarming, they ought to get back to the patient as fast as possible.
Stephanie invited me to Thanksgiving dinner but I can't really go: I have to work the next morning. Only the staff with the most seniority or the fastest draw on the PTO forms manages to wrangle out of post-holiday duty. There will be hundreds of confused Thursday garbage customers calling to complain about their can.
I'm relieved not to die, but when the time comes I hope you'll throw a party and sing the fight song for me. Be sure and serve good snacks. I highly recommend the Martinelli's Grape-Apple Sparkling Cider. It's on sale at Winco, 1.98 a bottle. Very festive. I may walk over and buy a bottle after my nap.
I forget who, it may have been George Burns or Rodney Dangerfield, but there was a comedian who used to say, "I'm at a wonderful time in my life. I was always taught to respect my elders, and now I'm so old I don't have to respect anybody."
The great thing about being old is, I can buy a bottle of Sparkling Grape-Apple Cider whenever I want, and drink the whole thing from the bottle, and no one can tell me "don't touch that, it's for thanksgiving." All anyone would say is, "Leave him alone. He's old."
And Marie says I look damn good for 53. And that's good enough for me.
I went to my doc appointment on Monday and got a nice extra birthday present. The lump in my ribcage is not serious. Dr. J examined it and explained it's fairly common, a fat deposit, and it isn't likely to grow much bigger and doesn't have to be removed unless it causes some discomfort. Marie still hasn't heard from her doctor, however. Something that alarming, they ought to get back to the patient as fast as possible.
Stephanie invited me to Thanksgiving dinner but I can't really go: I have to work the next morning. Only the staff with the most seniority or the fastest draw on the PTO forms manages to wrangle out of post-holiday duty. There will be hundreds of confused Thursday garbage customers calling to complain about their can.
I'm relieved not to die, but when the time comes I hope you'll throw a party and sing the fight song for me. Be sure and serve good snacks. I highly recommend the Martinelli's Grape-Apple Sparkling Cider. It's on sale at Winco, 1.98 a bottle. Very festive. I may walk over and buy a bottle after my nap.
I forget who, it may have been George Burns or Rodney Dangerfield, but there was a comedian who used to say, "I'm at a wonderful time in my life. I was always taught to respect my elders, and now I'm so old I don't have to respect anybody."
The great thing about being old is, I can buy a bottle of Sparkling Grape-Apple Cider whenever I want, and drink the whole thing from the bottle, and no one can tell me "don't touch that, it's for thanksgiving." All anyone would say is, "Leave him alone. He's old."
And Marie says I look damn good for 53. And that's good enough for me.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Like the Pine Trees Lining the Winding Road: three lies I told myself
In trying to live rightly there were three lies I told myself. Not malicious, not intentioned, but lies nonetheless. The reality was right there before me but I chose the lie, wanting things to be a certain way, wanting life to conform to my misconceptions, my pride or my impatience with the slow march of truth.
Lie number one: "I'm done with the Ducks."
Doug was right. A couple of weeks ago, frustrated with a pattern of inconsistent and inept play I wrote I wasn't going to watch Duck football anymore, wasn't going to read or write about it; there were more important things, I sniffed. But those closest to me saw through my self-delusion and fit of pique. "You're either a Duck or you're not," Doug wrote. And Stephanie put a helmet to my gut in her straight-ahead, Earthquake Enyart style: "Do you want some cheese with your whine?" she said.
I couldn't stay away. My self-declared Duck boycott didn't last twenty minutes. It wasn't that long before I was sneaking a peek at Rob Moseley's Duck football blog. Furtively I followed all the reports all week, and a week ago Saturday I watched the Stanford game from whistle to whistle. In typical Duck fashion they fumbled four times but won in the last six seconds, and I was hooked all over again. Then this Saturday they sprung out to 45-17 lead, dominating and electric, but fell flat in the second half and held on for an unconvincing win, 55-45, a basketball score. Arizona closed within 48-45 with six minutes to play before a dropped pass on fourth and three and a late, clutch touchdown run by LeGarette Blount. Blount has powered his way for crucial late touchdowns in four of Oregon's wins, all close games that would have been lost without him. His jubilant dances with his teammates after these scores are my fondest memories of this season: the love of football, the love of competing, runs deep in this group. Players like Blount and center Max Ungar and defensive end Nick Reed have no quit. They might still lose to the Beavers, who have a shot at the Rose Bowl this year, but they've given everything they had, and that's all a fan should ever ask. Doug is right. I'm a Duck. I was a Duck when they were 3-8 in the bad old days, and I'll be a Duck forever. I'll ask the score on my deathbed, and Stephanie will kiss my forehead and whisper in my ear, "They suck, Dad." And that will be her final I love you, her way of not going gentle into that good night. They do suck. But I love them just the same. I have a fierce love for all the things I love, whether they suck or not. Because sometimes I suck too.
Lie number two: "It's nothing. It will go away by itself."
About a year ago I noticed a lump. Under my armpit, about the size of a almond. It's nothing, I thought. An ingrown pimple, a cyst, too much chocolate, a quirk of old age. I went to the doctor after several weeks of procrastination and he concurred. "It's encapsulated and regular in shape, and there's no cause for alarm."
But now the cyst has migrated to the side of my ribcage and grown to the size of a kiwi fruit. It doesn't hurt and I have no other symptoms, but whether there is cause or not I feel alarm: such a thing isn't exactly normal, after all. People don't have grapefruit-sized lumps growing out of their ribcage, and by now it's apparent that it won't go away. At some point I'll have to have some kind of procedure to remove it. I still don't think it's serious, but it could be. Finally I made a doctor's appointment. I took today off for my birthday and scheduled it for 1:30, my present to myself, some medical peace of mind.
I'm not alone. Marie went to the doctor Friday and had her annual mammogram, and as part of the procedure they hooked her up to a machine that compressed her breast, the breast that nursed her four beautiful, intelligent children for ten years. There was an ugly, greenish discharge. The technician tried but could not hide her alarm. She expects to hear from the doctor today or tomorrow.
Both of these situations could turn out to explainable and minor, or not. But the point is, nothing in our life is certain. Not a minute is guaranteed. Particularly for Marie and I, we've reached the age where risk factors mean something, and medical realities could change our lives forever. Working class lives hang by a medical thread. My job ends in 85 days, and with it, potentially, my medical insurance. If Marie, God forbid, had cancer, would she be able to work, and keep her health benefits? How much would the treatment cost? How much would be covered by insurance?
You can worry yourself sick, or make yourself sick with worry, and the two are not quite the same thing if you think about it carefully. There's no sense worrying about might happen because all kinds of terrible things could and a few terrible things will. We were blessed this weekend with two marvelous days. We went to Austin's play and rented a room at the Peppertree and had a night together in a warm room with a king-sized bed, a night free of all our troubles. She got up early the next morning and went to the grocery store for work. I slept in and had the complimentary breakfast, a Belgian waffle and granola, two hard boiled eggs and a crisp apple, two glasses of orange juice. Marie returned to our temporary home and we went to church. The music was wonderful. We sat in the pew after the service lingering to hear the band finish the last song, a modern hymn Marie particularly likes, and an old man shuffled down the aisle to speak to us. His body was weak and bowed and he could barely speak from a ravaged mouth. I had to lean close to understand him. Even then it was a struggle. English was a foreign language from his wracked and disfigured face. But the sincerity and purity in his eyes was unmistakable.
His name was Elmer. "I'm 86 years old," he said. "I've had cancer surgery three times. The only reason God keeps me alive is to be an encouragement to you and other people. I know that I'm on his schedule, and my purpose is to obey him." His voice was a hoarse whisper and the tweed jacket he wore was worn with age. But you could not mistake the clarity of his mission or power of his faith. There are no coincidences or accidents, there is only the truth waiting to be discovered, the voice of heaven waiting to be heard.
Lie number three: "If we're patient and faithful, we can come up with a solution that will work for everybody."
Marie is underemployed here, and my future is uncertain. Really, all of our futures are. John Lennon once said, life is what happens while you are making other plans, and then the end of his own life bore that out succinctly. Yesterday I suggested to her we could move to Oak Harbor and take the $5000 relocation bonus, that we could probably relocate for 1500 and she could use the other 35 to go to nursing school. She could get a two-year degree at Skagit Valley College, probably in 18 months or so with her previous schooling, and I could write, and between the two of us we could keep alive the hope of a better life, and that hope is the best any of us can have.
She listened carefully to my idea and said, "There is no way Austin would relocate. And I've put her through too much already." I understand her position, and Austin's. She's a sophomore at Beaverton High, a 4.0 student, active in drama with a group of friends, living just minutes from her three siblings and her father. Marie is right that it would be devastating and uncertain and painful for Austin to be asked to move, particularly for the whims and needs of two adults who don't have the best track record in getting along and providing her with a healthy home.
The lie was that this would be easy. A good friend of ours, Steve, likes to say, "life is simple, never to be confused with easy." The fundamentals of life, like the fundamentals of football, are simple and clear. It's the execution that's difficult. In life we have to pick up all kinds of blitzes. In life the turnovers can disrupt your game plan in devastating ways.
Marie and I haven't found a solution. We are still hoping for one, the right compromise of goals and needs and realities, the right mix of what she needs and what I need and what Austin needs. The right level of assurance and practicalities and commitment. When we are together and getting along the bliss and passion surpasses anything I thought possible in the world. When fear takes over or irrationality wins out, the shock and horror and sadness of it devastates me to the core.
I don't know what will happen. I don't know what should. I only know when I'm holding her my whole soul and being is in a quieter, better place. I only know the sight of her thrills me and makes me want to be a better man. With apologies to Jack Nicholson, who has played many better men but hardly lives as one.
We don't set off to lie to ourselves. It starts because we want to be decisive and want to believe, so we set our minds onto a particular reality that turns out an illusion. There's no shame in believing or wanting or making a commitment to an idea. The essential thing is taking stock again, and recognizing the lie, acting on the realization you haven't been honest with yourself. So I'll ask you this morning, as you take your morning coffee or eat the sweet treat you said you wouldn't, what lies are you telling yourself today, and how will you replace them with the truth?
Lie number one: "I'm done with the Ducks."
Doug was right. A couple of weeks ago, frustrated with a pattern of inconsistent and inept play I wrote I wasn't going to watch Duck football anymore, wasn't going to read or write about it; there were more important things, I sniffed. But those closest to me saw through my self-delusion and fit of pique. "You're either a Duck or you're not," Doug wrote. And Stephanie put a helmet to my gut in her straight-ahead, Earthquake Enyart style: "Do you want some cheese with your whine?" she said.
I couldn't stay away. My self-declared Duck boycott didn't last twenty minutes. It wasn't that long before I was sneaking a peek at Rob Moseley's Duck football blog. Furtively I followed all the reports all week, and a week ago Saturday I watched the Stanford game from whistle to whistle. In typical Duck fashion they fumbled four times but won in the last six seconds, and I was hooked all over again. Then this Saturday they sprung out to 45-17 lead, dominating and electric, but fell flat in the second half and held on for an unconvincing win, 55-45, a basketball score. Arizona closed within 48-45 with six minutes to play before a dropped pass on fourth and three and a late, clutch touchdown run by LeGarette Blount. Blount has powered his way for crucial late touchdowns in four of Oregon's wins, all close games that would have been lost without him. His jubilant dances with his teammates after these scores are my fondest memories of this season: the love of football, the love of competing, runs deep in this group. Players like Blount and center Max Ungar and defensive end Nick Reed have no quit. They might still lose to the Beavers, who have a shot at the Rose Bowl this year, but they've given everything they had, and that's all a fan should ever ask. Doug is right. I'm a Duck. I was a Duck when they were 3-8 in the bad old days, and I'll be a Duck forever. I'll ask the score on my deathbed, and Stephanie will kiss my forehead and whisper in my ear, "They suck, Dad." And that will be her final I love you, her way of not going gentle into that good night. They do suck. But I love them just the same. I have a fierce love for all the things I love, whether they suck or not. Because sometimes I suck too.
Lie number two: "It's nothing. It will go away by itself."
About a year ago I noticed a lump. Under my armpit, about the size of a almond. It's nothing, I thought. An ingrown pimple, a cyst, too much chocolate, a quirk of old age. I went to the doctor after several weeks of procrastination and he concurred. "It's encapsulated and regular in shape, and there's no cause for alarm."
But now the cyst has migrated to the side of my ribcage and grown to the size of a kiwi fruit. It doesn't hurt and I have no other symptoms, but whether there is cause or not I feel alarm: such a thing isn't exactly normal, after all. People don't have grapefruit-sized lumps growing out of their ribcage, and by now it's apparent that it won't go away. At some point I'll have to have some kind of procedure to remove it. I still don't think it's serious, but it could be. Finally I made a doctor's appointment. I took today off for my birthday and scheduled it for 1:30, my present to myself, some medical peace of mind.
I'm not alone. Marie went to the doctor Friday and had her annual mammogram, and as part of the procedure they hooked her up to a machine that compressed her breast, the breast that nursed her four beautiful, intelligent children for ten years. There was an ugly, greenish discharge. The technician tried but could not hide her alarm. She expects to hear from the doctor today or tomorrow.
Both of these situations could turn out to explainable and minor, or not. But the point is, nothing in our life is certain. Not a minute is guaranteed. Particularly for Marie and I, we've reached the age where risk factors mean something, and medical realities could change our lives forever. Working class lives hang by a medical thread. My job ends in 85 days, and with it, potentially, my medical insurance. If Marie, God forbid, had cancer, would she be able to work, and keep her health benefits? How much would the treatment cost? How much would be covered by insurance?
You can worry yourself sick, or make yourself sick with worry, and the two are not quite the same thing if you think about it carefully. There's no sense worrying about might happen because all kinds of terrible things could and a few terrible things will. We were blessed this weekend with two marvelous days. We went to Austin's play and rented a room at the Peppertree and had a night together in a warm room with a king-sized bed, a night free of all our troubles. She got up early the next morning and went to the grocery store for work. I slept in and had the complimentary breakfast, a Belgian waffle and granola, two hard boiled eggs and a crisp apple, two glasses of orange juice. Marie returned to our temporary home and we went to church. The music was wonderful. We sat in the pew after the service lingering to hear the band finish the last song, a modern hymn Marie particularly likes, and an old man shuffled down the aisle to speak to us. His body was weak and bowed and he could barely speak from a ravaged mouth. I had to lean close to understand him. Even then it was a struggle. English was a foreign language from his wracked and disfigured face. But the sincerity and purity in his eyes was unmistakable.
His name was Elmer. "I'm 86 years old," he said. "I've had cancer surgery three times. The only reason God keeps me alive is to be an encouragement to you and other people. I know that I'm on his schedule, and my purpose is to obey him." His voice was a hoarse whisper and the tweed jacket he wore was worn with age. But you could not mistake the clarity of his mission or power of his faith. There are no coincidences or accidents, there is only the truth waiting to be discovered, the voice of heaven waiting to be heard.
Lie number three: "If we're patient and faithful, we can come up with a solution that will work for everybody."
Marie is underemployed here, and my future is uncertain. Really, all of our futures are. John Lennon once said, life is what happens while you are making other plans, and then the end of his own life bore that out succinctly. Yesterday I suggested to her we could move to Oak Harbor and take the $5000 relocation bonus, that we could probably relocate for 1500 and she could use the other 35 to go to nursing school. She could get a two-year degree at Skagit Valley College, probably in 18 months or so with her previous schooling, and I could write, and between the two of us we could keep alive the hope of a better life, and that hope is the best any of us can have.
She listened carefully to my idea and said, "There is no way Austin would relocate. And I've put her through too much already." I understand her position, and Austin's. She's a sophomore at Beaverton High, a 4.0 student, active in drama with a group of friends, living just minutes from her three siblings and her father. Marie is right that it would be devastating and uncertain and painful for Austin to be asked to move, particularly for the whims and needs of two adults who don't have the best track record in getting along and providing her with a healthy home.
The lie was that this would be easy. A good friend of ours, Steve, likes to say, "life is simple, never to be confused with easy." The fundamentals of life, like the fundamentals of football, are simple and clear. It's the execution that's difficult. In life we have to pick up all kinds of blitzes. In life the turnovers can disrupt your game plan in devastating ways.
Marie and I haven't found a solution. We are still hoping for one, the right compromise of goals and needs and realities, the right mix of what she needs and what I need and what Austin needs. The right level of assurance and practicalities and commitment. When we are together and getting along the bliss and passion surpasses anything I thought possible in the world. When fear takes over or irrationality wins out, the shock and horror and sadness of it devastates me to the core.
I don't know what will happen. I don't know what should. I only know when I'm holding her my whole soul and being is in a quieter, better place. I only know the sight of her thrills me and makes me want to be a better man. With apologies to Jack Nicholson, who has played many better men but hardly lives as one.
"Happy birthday," she said
"I'm glad that you were born"
and I kissed her honey-colored hair
half abuzz with the fragrant scent of her,
good fresh earth and wild flowers
the curve of her hip imbued by heaven
with intoxicating powers
and I said,
remembering the pleasures of precious hours
"most days I am too"
And I kissed her where the lotions
and potions,
carefully chosen,
had made her so enticing,
"especially when I'm underneath you."
We don't set off to lie to ourselves. It starts because we want to be decisive and want to believe, so we set our minds onto a particular reality that turns out an illusion. There's no shame in believing or wanting or making a commitment to an idea. The essential thing is taking stock again, and recognizing the lie, acting on the realization you haven't been honest with yourself. So I'll ask you this morning, as you take your morning coffee or eat the sweet treat you said you wouldn't, what lies are you telling yourself today, and how will you replace them with the truth?
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photo by Kajo123 from the website flickr.com
The Hawthorne Bridge at sunrise, Portland Oregon. Photo by Joe Collver, from flickr.com
"It's a Wonderful Life"
George returns home to everything he ever wanted.
