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.
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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.
