On our way back from BM, NV it was my turn to drive.
I figured out a little trick driving our manual sedan on long road trips. To avoid cramping up your calf working the gas for 5 hours, don't drive in shoes. Well, not in regular shoes (pretty barefoot driving is either discouraged or illegal). B. and I treated each other a long time ago to a pair of vibram running shoes for each of us. Happy birthday to us! They look weird, and it took a while to get used to the toes, but I discovered they're not only fantastic for street running, but they're great for driving. Instead of straining my ankle and cramping up my leg muscles controlling the gas, these nifty shoes let me just apply pressure with my big toe through the hours.
BM seems to be in a constant state of construction. Cones line the highway for no apparent reason for literally over 15 miles. I counted. This periodic construction happens on and off for the first hour or so from BM to another small town called Elko, then continues for another stretch. 75mph down to 55 mph and back again. Over and over. Speed up, slow down, try not to get stuck behind yet another semi-truck. As we passed Elko, finally free from the cones for a while, I looked over at a billboard. B. and I were talking, and I didn't see him until it was too late.
He started to follow us, turned on his lights, and I pulled over, resigned to the fact that I would have to kiss a fair chunk of change goodbye because I had been going 82 in a 75 mph zone. I just didn't pay attention long enough to ease off the gas.
Some people have a lead foot. I guess I have a steel toe.
We went through the usual drill, license and registration (just barely renewed, phew!) and then he informed me that I had been going over 80 in a 65mph zone. Somewhere in all of the switchbacks between 75 and 55 I had missed the sign that said 65.
Crap.
Now my $90 ticket looked like it would be over $300.
He took quite a while back inputting our info into the system, making B. and I sweat a little. I apologized to her profusely, she was very tender and understanding. He came back and surprised me with an off-topic query:
"You two going to college?"
I was so nervous about the cash that I didn't understand his question. I thought he was asking if we were physically traveling to a college campus. B. interjected through my confused stuttering and told the officer that yes we were both students. ... Oh, that's what he meant.
He then explained that this ticket would cost upwards of $300, but when he was attending college in Idaho he lived on $200 a month. He didn't want to clean us out because we "don't exactly look like desperados." We weren't the kind of people he was out on the road trying to find.
And we weren't. We were two struggling college students with a campus parking pass hanging from our rearview mirror, our car recently vacuumed, washed and detailed, new tires and new registration. We were just trying to get home, and I didn't notice the speed limit change. Honest mistake.
He pulled some strings for us and wrote up the offense as a rural speeding ticket, which keeps it from appearing on my record and drops the cost down to a mere $75.
I think B. could have kissed him.
We thanked him over and over again and drove off at a timid, grandmotherly pace for the rest of the way home.
God bless Nevada Highway Patrolmen. God bless vibrams. God bless my wife who was so adamant about vamping up the car before making the trip.
But someone's gotta do something about those cones.
S
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Monday, July 29, 2013
In the Long Run
B. is a fantastic swimmer. She has this innate ability to hop into a lane at the pool and just slice through the water; it's stunning. I, however do not swim well. My legs just don't propel me like they should, the kick has never been right for me.
I much prefer to run. Or bike, but that's another story. I discovered the joy of running the same way I discovered numerous hobbies and habits as a teenager:
There was this girl...
There was a girl who liked running. I liked her, so I only thought it appropriate that I should like running.
Now, just to emphasize how truly whipped I was, I had sworn off running a couple of years previously; I didn't see the point to it. You sweat and exhaust yourself by literally going in circles, how could anyone enjoy doing this? But I tried it again and again, I got a cheap little 1GB MP3 player from Wal-Mart to keep me from getting bored of listening to my own breathing which helped improve things tremendously, and I started running further and further. I would finish my loop, only to discover that I still had a little more energy left in me, and expanded my route to cover more ground.
I grew to love it. I still love running. I love challenging myself, stretching and improving my body, racing against the ghost of my best time or longest distance. I'm not super tall, my legs aren't long and spindly, I won't be winning any track medals anytime soon. I'm no athlete, but that's ok; running has become more than just a healthy past time for me.
There is something a good run will do to clear the mind. I go on therapeutic runs sometimes. If I'm stressed and not too exhausted, I'll often be out running a 5k to clear my head and refocus. It's more than just mental maintenance, though.
A really good run does something to your soul I think. Pushing your body to new limits, coming to peace with your own thoughts are wonderful byproducts of a good run. But I run for deeper reasons than that.
Why do I run?
Luke 24:12
Then arose Peter, and RAN unto the sepulchre; and stooping down, he beheld the linen clothes laid by themselves, and departed, wondering in himself at that which was come to pass.
I love Peter. His impulsive impetuous soul was so flawed, but Christ entrusted him with much. It really gives me hope that I can make something of myself. When steered in the right direction, Peter was a fearsome force for good. He worked on impulse; he didn't wait for the others to come and see the sepulchre.
He arose and ran.
I run because Peter ran.
Because I hope to be running towards a greater goal, a better day, a land of promise, a mansion prepared for me in the house of my Father. I know it's there waiting for me, and I can get there if I live right and rely on the mercy of Christ. I know it's there. That's my finish line. Why wouldn't I want to hurry?
Why wouldn't I run?
Because in the long run - in this long run - that's what matters most.
What are you running towards?
S
I much prefer to run. Or bike, but that's another story. I discovered the joy of running the same way I discovered numerous hobbies and habits as a teenager:
There was this girl...
There was a girl who liked running. I liked her, so I only thought it appropriate that I should like running.
Now, just to emphasize how truly whipped I was, I had sworn off running a couple of years previously; I didn't see the point to it. You sweat and exhaust yourself by literally going in circles, how could anyone enjoy doing this? But I tried it again and again, I got a cheap little 1GB MP3 player from Wal-Mart to keep me from getting bored of listening to my own breathing which helped improve things tremendously, and I started running further and further. I would finish my loop, only to discover that I still had a little more energy left in me, and expanded my route to cover more ground.
I grew to love it. I still love running. I love challenging myself, stretching and improving my body, racing against the ghost of my best time or longest distance. I'm not super tall, my legs aren't long and spindly, I won't be winning any track medals anytime soon. I'm no athlete, but that's ok; running has become more than just a healthy past time for me.
There is something a good run will do to clear the mind. I go on therapeutic runs sometimes. If I'm stressed and not too exhausted, I'll often be out running a 5k to clear my head and refocus. It's more than just mental maintenance, though.
A really good run does something to your soul I think. Pushing your body to new limits, coming to peace with your own thoughts are wonderful byproducts of a good run. But I run for deeper reasons than that.
Why do I run?
Luke 24:12
Then arose Peter, and RAN unto the sepulchre; and stooping down, he beheld the linen clothes laid by themselves, and departed, wondering in himself at that which was come to pass.
I love Peter. His impulsive impetuous soul was so flawed, but Christ entrusted him with much. It really gives me hope that I can make something of myself. When steered in the right direction, Peter was a fearsome force for good. He worked on impulse; he didn't wait for the others to come and see the sepulchre.
He arose and ran.
I run because Peter ran.
Because I hope to be running towards a greater goal, a better day, a land of promise, a mansion prepared for me in the house of my Father. I know it's there waiting for me, and I can get there if I live right and rely on the mercy of Christ. I know it's there. That's my finish line. Why wouldn't I want to hurry?
Why wouldn't I run?
Because in the long run - in this long run - that's what matters most.
What are you running towards?
S
Friday, July 26, 2013
Reruns
We were pulling into Starbucks one afternoon. We were talking about the money wasted renting Oz the Great and Powerful the night before and how we'll never get those two hours back. We talked about how most of the acting was ok, but James Franco just can't ever seem to be very convincing as anything but a stoner.
Then my brain went into auto-pilot.
"Did you know that James Franco was going to be cast as Peter Parker in the Spider-man movies until they found a much nerdier Tobey Maguire?"
My wife sat in hushed resignation, shook her head and sighed:
"Yup, you've told me that a couple of times."
...
Crap.
I have one factoid about James Franco; if the conversation for some reason turns to him, I vomit it out. It used to be a great conversation piece when I was in middle school. There was a time people found that an intriguing bit of info, I swear.
Am I the only one who does this? I have a limited repertoire of memorized pieces of tantalizing gossip or obscure but interesting anecdotes and statistics. If I'm friends with you long enough, I'm going to repeat myself.
I'm sorry.
I can only be so interesting for so long, I think. Now, a year ago, this would have really worried me. What if I run out of material? How will I keep B. entertained? Humor is one of my few assets in this relationship - I know she didn't marry me for my looks - if I can't keep her laughing and engaged how will this relationship ever last?
Will my wife grow bored of me?
But now, I've learned the pleasure and comfort we find in repetition. Ever read the same book twice? Ever seen a movie again? Right now we're working our way through the myriad 90s sitcoms on Netflix. We own all of Seinfeld on DVD. We went through Everybody Loves Raymond twice. We're almost halfway through Frasier for the second time. We like reruns.
Let me say that again.
We all like reruns.
We both tell each other stories the other has heard before. We don't mind. We like reliving them. When people ask us how we met, we have rehearsed the telling so well it's like a scripted presentation. But I'm not bored with it. I love reliving those days and falling in love with her all over again.
If you are prone to repetition, don't worry, we all do it. Not every moment of our lives is noteworthy, we can cap our story bank.
And if you get annoyed by us rerunners, just wait. It'll happen to you soon enough.
Enjoy the predictability in those around you; it's a sign you know them well.
What are your reruns?
S
Then my brain went into auto-pilot.
"Did you know that James Franco was going to be cast as Peter Parker in the Spider-man movies until they found a much nerdier Tobey Maguire?"
My wife sat in hushed resignation, shook her head and sighed:
"Yup, you've told me that a couple of times."
...
Crap.
I have one factoid about James Franco; if the conversation for some reason turns to him, I vomit it out. It used to be a great conversation piece when I was in middle school. There was a time people found that an intriguing bit of info, I swear.
Am I the only one who does this? I have a limited repertoire of memorized pieces of tantalizing gossip or obscure but interesting anecdotes and statistics. If I'm friends with you long enough, I'm going to repeat myself.
I'm sorry.
I can only be so interesting for so long, I think. Now, a year ago, this would have really worried me. What if I run out of material? How will I keep B. entertained? Humor is one of my few assets in this relationship - I know she didn't marry me for my looks - if I can't keep her laughing and engaged how will this relationship ever last?
Will my wife grow bored of me?
But now, I've learned the pleasure and comfort we find in repetition. Ever read the same book twice? Ever seen a movie again? Right now we're working our way through the myriad 90s sitcoms on Netflix. We own all of Seinfeld on DVD. We went through Everybody Loves Raymond twice. We're almost halfway through Frasier for the second time. We like reruns.
Let me say that again.
We all like reruns.
We both tell each other stories the other has heard before. We don't mind. We like reliving them. When people ask us how we met, we have rehearsed the telling so well it's like a scripted presentation. But I'm not bored with it. I love reliving those days and falling in love with her all over again.
If you are prone to repetition, don't worry, we all do it. Not every moment of our lives is noteworthy, we can cap our story bank.
And if you get annoyed by us rerunners, just wait. It'll happen to you soon enough.
Enjoy the predictability in those around you; it's a sign you know them well.
What are your reruns?
S
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Break the Circle, Save the Turtles
Those of you who know us best know that we proudly display
in our living room a shelf full of just about every series BBC Earth has done
on DVD. One of our more recent
acquisitions was Africa. The
famous narrator of these productions, David Attenborough, is such a prevalent
force in our home that we’ve taken to calling him “Uncle Dave.” We watch these
documentaries when we’re cooking, doing homework, going to bed, having a lazy
Sunday afternoon, etc.
One episode features the perilous plight of baby sea turtles. Freshly hatched, these newborns spend their
first waking moments making the life-and-death race across the beach to the
welcoming waters.
Compelling stuff. Also incredibly depressing. I have never hated birds or crabs more than
when they began swooping in on the defenseless hatchlings.
I married a big animal person. It was one “awww” after another as one baby
turtle after another was snatched into the talons of predators. What struck me was how sad I got.
I’m not a big animal person.
Well,
Correction:
I’m not big on domesticated
animals.
Dogs are cute, but if I ever see one trapped in a handbag I’ll
snatch it, set it loose, and then shove the owner's head in said purse. I love Where
the Red Fern Grows and Old Yeller and I think that dogs should never be
stuck indoors.
Cats... I know without
cats and their catty antics, youtube would be dead, but I hate them.
They don’t belong here (all housecats are European breeds) and they’re
screwing up ecosystems in North America. I cling to this scientific factoid to justify my prejudices.
I think I do like animals, I just want them to stay in the
wild where they belong and will best flourish.
But the weird thing is, when I saw these little guys get
picked off on the beach, all I could think was:
“Screw Mufasa, break
the Circle of Life and shoot those birds!”
I was really rooting for them. Turns out villagers near the beach actively
try to protect and sustain the turtle population. Am I just a sucker for South African
turtles? Maybe it was just the poetic injustice of new life being snatched away at its very beginning. Maybe it's just the effects of being married to a conservation/zoology/evolutionary biology fanatic.
...or it's that they're just so cute.
What animal are you a sucker for?
(if you say cats we might have problems, you and I)
S
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Making Over
B. and I experienced something in the past few weeks we've tried to avoid for years.
Cable.
At home we usually stick to Netflix, our latest find from the $5 DVD bin at Wal-Mart, our documentaries, or our prized collections of Seinfeld and Family Guy (all seasons!). But our time in Nevada reintroduced us to the world of commercial breaks, infomercials, and, worst of all, nonstop coverage of the Zimmerman circus.
I didn't miss cable.
But something we did discover was a few forgotten shows on TLC. Growing up, I've been sick at home enough times to learn from my mom's tivo who Stacey London and Clinton Kelly are. I also remember watching a show called Hoarders, all about extreme cleans done to help people with packrat tendencies- turned-anxiety disorders. The latter was on late one night at the hotel, and B. remarked that even though it was late and it wasn't exactly a gripping plot, she liked seeing the before and after.
Before and after.
Let's face it, people. Anyone who has sobbed through Extreme Home Makeover or oggled What Not to Wear or even watched an infomercial for a workout program or weight loss pill knows:
We love the big reveal.
There's just somethig about makeovers that attracts an audience. We eagerly await the curtain to be pulled back, revealing the new and improved so-an-so. We chant with the mob to "move that bus!" We are drawn to progress!
So after weeks of late late nights playing catchup on homework, prepping for a midterm, traveling to Nevada twice, choking on secondhand smoke, eating fast food and even heavier diner food, greasy breakfasts, dehydration, poor nutrition, irregular sleep, and general lethargy, I'm getting back on the horse. Especially now that we've finished off an entire batch of christmas crinkles in one weekend.
I'm going running.
I don't expect to come out looking like Adam Levine, but I do want to feel healthier. I'm making a running plan, I'm setting aside time to hit the gym for toning weightlifting, I'm saying no to all the carbs and sweets people bring to the office, (I had four donuts in two days - normally I can''t even stomach one) and I'm going to bed earlier to get my early run in before work.
I have 6 weeks until fall semester.
Six weeks to pull myself together and get back to my wedding weight. I won't post a before photo, just in case some of you ate recently. But I will take one and maybe put it on the fridge to motivate myself. (this post alone will be good motivation)
I'm also making over another aspect of my life. My prayers have been scattered and irregular. My scripture study has been spotty as well. I'm making over how I worship. B. and I have a whole shelf of artifacts and volumes from different religions and cultures. In addition to reading the Bible more often, I'm going to delve into our Koran a few times a week, as well as our Tao Te Ching. I love hearing and reading about how different people approach God, and I think learning more about those different perspectives will bring a new depth and novelty to my own relationship with the Almighty.
So this is it, guys! I'm remaking myself. I'm running, reading, sleeping and eating better.
Starting...
...now.
See you in 6 weeks.
When was your last makeover? What are you doing to self-improve?
S
Cable.
At home we usually stick to Netflix, our latest find from the $5 DVD bin at Wal-Mart, our documentaries, or our prized collections of Seinfeld and Family Guy (all seasons!). But our time in Nevada reintroduced us to the world of commercial breaks, infomercials, and, worst of all, nonstop coverage of the Zimmerman circus.
I didn't miss cable.
But something we did discover was a few forgotten shows on TLC. Growing up, I've been sick at home enough times to learn from my mom's tivo who Stacey London and Clinton Kelly are. I also remember watching a show called Hoarders, all about extreme cleans done to help people with packrat tendencies- turned-anxiety disorders. The latter was on late one night at the hotel, and B. remarked that even though it was late and it wasn't exactly a gripping plot, she liked seeing the before and after.
Before and after.
Let's face it, people. Anyone who has sobbed through Extreme Home Makeover or oggled What Not to Wear or even watched an infomercial for a workout program or weight loss pill knows:
We love the big reveal.
There's just somethig about makeovers that attracts an audience. We eagerly await the curtain to be pulled back, revealing the new and improved so-an-so. We chant with the mob to "move that bus!" We are drawn to progress!
So after weeks of late late nights playing catchup on homework, prepping for a midterm, traveling to Nevada twice, choking on secondhand smoke, eating fast food and even heavier diner food, greasy breakfasts, dehydration, poor nutrition, irregular sleep, and general lethargy, I'm getting back on the horse. Especially now that we've finished off an entire batch of christmas crinkles in one weekend.
I'm going running.
I don't expect to come out looking like Adam Levine, but I do want to feel healthier. I'm making a running plan, I'm setting aside time to hit the gym for toning weightlifting, I'm saying no to all the carbs and sweets people bring to the office, (I had four donuts in two days - normally I can''t even stomach one) and I'm going to bed earlier to get my early run in before work.
I have 6 weeks until fall semester.
Six weeks to pull myself together and get back to my wedding weight. I won't post a before photo, just in case some of you ate recently. But I will take one and maybe put it on the fridge to motivate myself. (this post alone will be good motivation)
I'm also making over another aspect of my life. My prayers have been scattered and irregular. My scripture study has been spotty as well. I'm making over how I worship. B. and I have a whole shelf of artifacts and volumes from different religions and cultures. In addition to reading the Bible more often, I'm going to delve into our Koran a few times a week, as well as our Tao Te Ching. I love hearing and reading about how different people approach God, and I think learning more about those different perspectives will bring a new depth and novelty to my own relationship with the Almighty.
So this is it, guys! I'm remaking myself. I'm running, reading, sleeping and eating better.
Starting...
...now.
See you in 6 weeks.
When was your last makeover? What are you doing to self-improve?
S
Monday, July 22, 2013
end AH wood wock five hund-rred may-uhls...
... end a-AH wood wock five hund-rred morrr justa BE-ee the man who wocked a thew-zund MILES too fall doon atchyoorr door...
...
... da-dulah-dah...
The Proclaimers? Benny and Joon? Anyone?
I love this song. A, only the Proclaimers even have accents when they sing (if it's not Scottish, it's crap). B, it's so darn catchy and it is in the perfect vocal range for my brothers and I. We'd sing it in the car all the time. ...Well, we'd sing it whenever we weren't airbanding Boston's "More Than a Feeling," anyway.
But most importantly, I got a little taste of what this song truly meant a while back.
A few posts ago I divulged about the time B. speckled every surface of our little hobbit apartment with small square green "I Love You" notes after one of our tougher fights.
Ok kiddies, here's another tale from our greatest hits of a lovingly dysfunctional, polar-opposites-but-too-crazy-about-each-other-to-let-it-phase-them couple anthology:
B. was in summer school and working. I was working full time. I got up earlier than her and had some time before work. She groggily requested that I run to get her something for breakfast while she get ready. I was ashamedly short on cash at the time (payday could not come soon enough) so I grabbed her debit card and left to fetch the desired treats. I returned triumphantly with my kill slung over my steed. My efforts were rewarded with a brief peck and then it was back to the morning ablutions.
She went to class before work. I went straight to work. About mid-day I thought I might grab some lunch from the bookstore nearby. I looked in my wallet to find that I had left B.'s card inside.
My heart sank.
...Oh I was so dead.
Sure enough, as I took my lunch break I saw that I had a voicemail. I then heard a very panicked, very frazzled B. asking where her card was, had I taken it and forgotten to return it, was it lost, was it home somewhere. Brief, but panicky, with an urgent plea to call her asap to find out what happened.
I called, explained that I had forgotten, and found out she discovered her cardless wallet in the middle of a drive thru on her way to work. She had to use an emergency card to get lunch, unsure of how much was on the account.
I was so... so dead.
She asked me why on earth I had taken it in the first place. I sheepishly admitted that I was short on cash.
Then why didn't you use the one dollar bills in my wallet? I've been in a panic all day!
I'm sorry I forgot your card and I didn't know you had ones.
At least let me know when you're taking the card.
But you were still just getting up, I wanted to let you sleep a little longer.
...Etc.
You get the idea. Lots of sorrys, lots of frazzled wife. Lots of angst and tension.
I feel stupid on a regular basis, but this really took the cake.
I went back to work and stewed about how to fix this. She only had a little food this morning, a small lunch, and she was looking at a long afternoon of broke hunger until her shift ended at 9pm. Because of me. I felt terrible. I tried to rationalize it:
I wouldn't have taken the card had she not sent me on the errand in the first place
I thought she'd have her credit card on hand if there was an emergency
Nope. I just forgot. I'm an idiot.
Then an idea popped into my head. I hopped onto google earth and mapped it out. It wouldn't completely redeem the situation, but it might earn me some brownie points. I could make it. I stayed at work as long as I had to and then clocked out a little earlier than usual. Then, with my backpack holding my jacket and my earphones plugged in, I began marching.
Two minutes later my mp3 player died.
This would be a long walk.
The silence gave me a lot of time with my thoughts; I had plenty of time to stew over the "injustice" of it all, how much of a "victim" I was. Then my brain passed through several stages of anxiety, frustration, resentment, sadness, anger, purpose, then finally an eagerness to show her up. Well, sort of... I still forgot the stupid card, it's not like this would make up for it. I was steaming for a while, but that long walk was probably just what I needed.
It took about an hour and forty-five minutes. It got colder as the sun started going down, but I had been walking for a while now, blood was pumping and I didn't feel the need to don my jacket.
I ended up taking a different route from the one I had mapped out, but I got there about an hour and a half before she was going to clock out. I walked in, went up to the desk, slapped the card down, we locked eyes for just a moment...
Then I turned around without a word. I imagine it as the sort of slow-mo walk away you see in action movies where the car or the house blows up behind the hero, but he's too cool to look back at the explosion.
HAHA! that'll show her.
But nothing happened. No explosion. No response. Crap, all this and no reaction?
She told me later she was just in shock, working out the possibilities in her head. She had the car, how did I get here? She called after me, and then we walked around for a bit and talked things over. It didn't fix everything, but I think she really was touched that...
...that AH wood wock five hund-rred may-uhls. end a-AH wood wock five hund-rred morrr justa BE-ee the man who wocked a thew-zund MILES too fall doon atchyoorr door...
...Dah-dulah-dah...
Actually, I found out later it was about six and a half miles. But still.
She's worth it. We talked it out, made up, we've moved on. I worry that she still feels guilty about it. I don't think of it as the time she left me a panicky voicemail, though. I remember it as the day I screwed up, starved my wife, and then walked across town to try to make things right.
We forget things.
Not long after this I got a call at work telling me that my wife left her keys in the car and I needed to bring her mine to let her in and drive to work. I work a mile from home, so I often walk or bike if the weather's good. She works somewhere much farther away. I'm just glad she left them in there when she was only a mile away. That's a long walk to make.
But I would do it. For her. AH woood.
S
...
... da-dulah-dah...
The Proclaimers? Benny and Joon? Anyone?
I love this song. A, only the Proclaimers even have accents when they sing (if it's not Scottish, it's crap). B, it's so darn catchy and it is in the perfect vocal range for my brothers and I. We'd sing it in the car all the time. ...Well, we'd sing it whenever we weren't airbanding Boston's "More Than a Feeling," anyway.
But most importantly, I got a little taste of what this song truly meant a while back.
A few posts ago I divulged about the time B. speckled every surface of our little hobbit apartment with small square green "I Love You" notes after one of our tougher fights.
Ok kiddies, here's another tale from our greatest hits of a lovingly dysfunctional, polar-opposites-but-too-crazy-about-each-other-to-let-it-phase-them couple anthology:
B. was in summer school and working. I was working full time. I got up earlier than her and had some time before work. She groggily requested that I run to get her something for breakfast while she get ready. I was ashamedly short on cash at the time (payday could not come soon enough) so I grabbed her debit card and left to fetch the desired treats. I returned triumphantly with my kill slung over my steed. My efforts were rewarded with a brief peck and then it was back to the morning ablutions.
She went to class before work. I went straight to work. About mid-day I thought I might grab some lunch from the bookstore nearby. I looked in my wallet to find that I had left B.'s card inside.
My heart sank.
...Oh I was so dead.
Sure enough, as I took my lunch break I saw that I had a voicemail. I then heard a very panicked, very frazzled B. asking where her card was, had I taken it and forgotten to return it, was it lost, was it home somewhere. Brief, but panicky, with an urgent plea to call her asap to find out what happened.
I called, explained that I had forgotten, and found out she discovered her cardless wallet in the middle of a drive thru on her way to work. She had to use an emergency card to get lunch, unsure of how much was on the account.
I was so... so dead.
She asked me why on earth I had taken it in the first place. I sheepishly admitted that I was short on cash.
Then why didn't you use the one dollar bills in my wallet? I've been in a panic all day!
I'm sorry I forgot your card and I didn't know you had ones.
At least let me know when you're taking the card.
But you were still just getting up, I wanted to let you sleep a little longer.
...Etc.
You get the idea. Lots of sorrys, lots of frazzled wife. Lots of angst and tension.
I feel stupid on a regular basis, but this really took the cake.
I went back to work and stewed about how to fix this. She only had a little food this morning, a small lunch, and she was looking at a long afternoon of broke hunger until her shift ended at 9pm. Because of me. I felt terrible. I tried to rationalize it:
I wouldn't have taken the card had she not sent me on the errand in the first place
I thought she'd have her credit card on hand if there was an emergency
Nope. I just forgot. I'm an idiot.
Then an idea popped into my head. I hopped onto google earth and mapped it out. It wouldn't completely redeem the situation, but it might earn me some brownie points. I could make it. I stayed at work as long as I had to and then clocked out a little earlier than usual. Then, with my backpack holding my jacket and my earphones plugged in, I began marching.
Two minutes later my mp3 player died.
This would be a long walk.
The silence gave me a lot of time with my thoughts; I had plenty of time to stew over the "injustice" of it all, how much of a "victim" I was. Then my brain passed through several stages of anxiety, frustration, resentment, sadness, anger, purpose, then finally an eagerness to show her up. Well, sort of... I still forgot the stupid card, it's not like this would make up for it. I was steaming for a while, but that long walk was probably just what I needed.
It took about an hour and forty-five minutes. It got colder as the sun started going down, but I had been walking for a while now, blood was pumping and I didn't feel the need to don my jacket.
I ended up taking a different route from the one I had mapped out, but I got there about an hour and a half before she was going to clock out. I walked in, went up to the desk, slapped the card down, we locked eyes for just a moment...
Then I turned around without a word. I imagine it as the sort of slow-mo walk away you see in action movies where the car or the house blows up behind the hero, but he's too cool to look back at the explosion.
HAHA! that'll show her.
But nothing happened. No explosion. No response. Crap, all this and no reaction?
She told me later she was just in shock, working out the possibilities in her head. She had the car, how did I get here? She called after me, and then we walked around for a bit and talked things over. It didn't fix everything, but I think she really was touched that...
...that AH wood wock five hund-rred may-uhls. end a-AH wood wock five hund-rred morrr justa BE-ee the man who wocked a thew-zund MILES too fall doon atchyoorr door...
...Dah-dulah-dah...
Actually, I found out later it was about six and a half miles. But still.
She's worth it. We talked it out, made up, we've moved on. I worry that she still feels guilty about it. I don't think of it as the time she left me a panicky voicemail, though. I remember it as the day I screwed up, starved my wife, and then walked across town to try to make things right.
We forget things.
Not long after this I got a call at work telling me that my wife left her keys in the car and I needed to bring her mine to let her in and drive to work. I work a mile from home, so I often walk or bike if the weather's good. She works somewhere much farther away. I'm just glad she left them in there when she was only a mile away. That's a long walk to make.
But I would do it. For her. AH woood.
S
Friday, July 19, 2013
Exclusive Humor and Rock Stars
I posted about flavors of friends earlier.
I neglected to mention one particular brand that I think a lot of us have. This relationship thrives, even at times wholly depends, on one strange phenomenon:
Inside jokes.
It's not hard to believe that shared experience is a foundation of humor. Think of the classic you-had-to-be-there anecdotes or any bit or routine from Seinfeld ever. We love feeling included. We're "in" on the joke.
I've got a good buddy, very talented guy, a lot of fun to be around, but we're very different.
*seriously, click the link and listen to this kid, he's awesome*
He's the life of the party, spastically jumping around, strumming madly on his guitar, and serenading the ladies. He's a crowd pleaser, a clown, a rock star.
I'm more of a wallflower, reserved and deep-thinking. I like to know what I'm going to say, when, how and to whom before I open my mouth.
We worked together as volunteers in Bulgaria and had a lot of fun doing so. He was a master of guitar and had brought one over with him; I had bought one for cheap from a guy who was headed home to the States and didn't want to lug it around and was learning slowly by myself. He took me under my wing and taught me some basic songs, and we ended up doing a few street performances for fun as well as a low-key talent show. We dubbed ourselves the next Rob Thomas and Dave Grohl and had a blast (guess who was who). Our voices blended really well and I hope to be able to collaborate again sometime.
Somehow, the chemistry worked and we got along really well. We were just different enough to create a lot of funny memories. We served together only 6 weeks, but I probably got more stories from those six weeks than from any other period of time in Eastern Europe. We always found humor in the silliest and most obscure, trite things.
I called him to catch up while still out in Bulgaria and those listening in on my half of the conversation remarked:
"You guys just ran through like an hour's worth of inside jokes"
Looking back, I realized we had skipped over most of the pleasantries of catching up and gunned straight for our shared references and private humor.
B. and I had lunch with him last year, same thing. She was lost 3 minutes in.
Is that all that's left of our friendship now?
Nah.
It's not that we're not friends anymore. We live in different cities, we study different subjects, we're headed for different careers. But we can still enjoy each other's company. It's fun to reminisce, but we can still live in the present. He's the kind of guy where you can pick up where you left off no matter how long it's been. I love people like that, who wear their hearts on their sleeve and emote so transparently. They don't change, they stay just as positive and fun as they were in years past.
Besides, there are always more opportunities for inside jokes.
The key to being in on those great jokes?
You have to BE there.
What are your inside jokes? With whom do you share the most?
S
I neglected to mention one particular brand that I think a lot of us have. This relationship thrives, even at times wholly depends, on one strange phenomenon:
Inside jokes.
It's not hard to believe that shared experience is a foundation of humor. Think of the classic you-had-to-be-there anecdotes or any bit or routine from Seinfeld ever. We love feeling included. We're "in" on the joke.
I've got a good buddy, very talented guy, a lot of fun to be around, but we're very different.
*seriously, click the link and listen to this kid, he's awesome*
He's the life of the party, spastically jumping around, strumming madly on his guitar, and serenading the ladies. He's a crowd pleaser, a clown, a rock star.
I'm more of a wallflower, reserved and deep-thinking. I like to know what I'm going to say, when, how and to whom before I open my mouth.
We worked together as volunteers in Bulgaria and had a lot of fun doing so. He was a master of guitar and had brought one over with him; I had bought one for cheap from a guy who was headed home to the States and didn't want to lug it around and was learning slowly by myself. He took me under my wing and taught me some basic songs, and we ended up doing a few street performances for fun as well as a low-key talent show. We dubbed ourselves the next Rob Thomas and Dave Grohl and had a blast (guess who was who). Our voices blended really well and I hope to be able to collaborate again sometime.
Somehow, the chemistry worked and we got along really well. We were just different enough to create a lot of funny memories. We served together only 6 weeks, but I probably got more stories from those six weeks than from any other period of time in Eastern Europe. We always found humor in the silliest and most obscure, trite things.
I called him to catch up while still out in Bulgaria and those listening in on my half of the conversation remarked:
"You guys just ran through like an hour's worth of inside jokes"
Looking back, I realized we had skipped over most of the pleasantries of catching up and gunned straight for our shared references and private humor.
B. and I had lunch with him last year, same thing. She was lost 3 minutes in.
Is that all that's left of our friendship now?
Nah.
It's not that we're not friends anymore. We live in different cities, we study different subjects, we're headed for different careers. But we can still enjoy each other's company. It's fun to reminisce, but we can still live in the present. He's the kind of guy where you can pick up where you left off no matter how long it's been. I love people like that, who wear their hearts on their sleeve and emote so transparently. They don't change, they stay just as positive and fun as they were in years past.
Besides, there are always more opportunities for inside jokes.
The key to being in on those great jokes?
You have to BE there.
What are your inside jokes? With whom do you share the most?
S
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Candleshoe
Last September I tried to recreate one of our more romantic dates for B. In September of 2011, the night before we became an official item, we went to a reservoir late at night, I laid out a blanket, lit candles and we shared french bread, brie and grapes as I poured sparkling cider into champagne flutes. We danced under the enormous yellowed moon and had a wonderful time.
I hope that's how she remembers it anyway.
I remember, rather, all the things that went wrong or didn't meet my high standards to impress her. I remember panicking to get cider at a supermarket in her town so as to stay chilled rather than warm up with me on my drive down to see her. I remember the champagne flutes were skinny green plastic glasses from the dollar store. I remember the wind constantly blowing out the candles. And I remember the police officer who came to "bust" us, telling us that the reservoir was closed to the public after sunset. We feigned ignorance (B. was a local), packed it up and left.
But we also remember talking in the dark, sharing stories and dreams and aspirations, putting the candles in our recently removed shoes to protect the fickle flames from the wind (to this day we still lovingly refer to that date as our candleshoe night), and being practically struck dumb seeing the way the warm moonlight bathed her face. I remember not knowing if/when I should kiss her and deciding within minutes of seeing her. I remember her eyes widening as I pulled out the "fancy" cuisine for the evening, and her gentle laugh as I tried to battle the elements to make the night perfect.
It never was a perfect night. And this last attempt at a recreation was equally unsuccessful. We got dressed up, we drove out to a lake (the nearest body of water resembling a reservoir) on a moonlit night, only to find the dock and any and all access to said lake closed for the evening. After 20 minutes of frustrated driving, we gave up and went home, changed into pjs and cuddled on the couch, my disappointment and frustration essentially killing the mood. B. did her best to try and console me. Romance never goes the way you want it to.
I hope that's how she remembers it anyway.
I remember, rather, all the things that went wrong or didn't meet my high standards to impress her. I remember panicking to get cider at a supermarket in her town so as to stay chilled rather than warm up with me on my drive down to see her. I remember the champagne flutes were skinny green plastic glasses from the dollar store. I remember the wind constantly blowing out the candles. And I remember the police officer who came to "bust" us, telling us that the reservoir was closed to the public after sunset. We feigned ignorance (B. was a local), packed it up and left.
But we also remember talking in the dark, sharing stories and dreams and aspirations, putting the candles in our recently removed shoes to protect the fickle flames from the wind (to this day we still lovingly refer to that date as our candleshoe night), and being practically struck dumb seeing the way the warm moonlight bathed her face. I remember not knowing if/when I should kiss her and deciding within minutes of seeing her. I remember her eyes widening as I pulled out the "fancy" cuisine for the evening, and her gentle laugh as I tried to battle the elements to make the night perfect.
It never was a perfect night. And this last attempt at a recreation was equally unsuccessful. We got dressed up, we drove out to a lake (the nearest body of water resembling a reservoir) on a moonlit night, only to find the dock and any and all access to said lake closed for the evening. After 20 minutes of frustrated driving, we gave up and went home, changed into pjs and cuddled on the couch, my disappointment and frustration essentially killing the mood. B. did her best to try and console me. Romance never goes the way you want it to.
Romance is a messy fussy ball of stress and missed cues and
spoilt plans.
In short, it’s
adaptable.
Romance is love’s way of
surviving. Surviving any tension, any
hardship, any challenge, really any situation at all.
Like my wife pulling me into a kiss before I
dive into a very garlicky bowl of pasta that no amount of Listerine can
undo.
Or, on a spur of the moment using
the 15 minutes or so of radio silence as she drives home to throw together a
freshly drawn bath with candles and Marsalis duets playing on itunes to welcome her home after a long
hard day at work.
Or those random "I love
you" texts in the middle of the day.
Or suffering through each other’s guilty
pleasure shows on Netflix just so you can cuddle together on the couch.
...Or agreeing to watch something you both will
enjoy so I NEVER have to see another Kardashian as long as I live.
Or sleeping on the floor until I finish a
late night project just so she doesn’t go to bed without me.
I’m sure we seem cliché and naïve, but that’s romance.
The heart of romance is making an effort to try and spend time with each other, even when you don’t have to.
Some might accuse us of being too clingy or too dependent. But I think interdependence is what makes any relationship, any team, any family, work. We rely on each other, and that makes us miss each other throughout the day.
We’re hopeless. Hoplessly romantic.
The heart of romance is making an effort to try and spend time with each other, even when you don’t have to.
Some might accuse us of being too clingy or too dependent. But I think interdependence is what makes any relationship, any team, any family, work. We rely on each other, and that makes us miss each other throughout the day.
We’re hopeless. Hoplessly romantic.
When was the last time you were romantic?
What did you do?
S
What did you do?
S
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Keep Your Friends Close, But Far From Each Other
We've all been there. You go meet your buddy from high school and talk about old high school pranks and that kid who was high as a kite in the middle of chemistry. You call another friend and have a heart to heart about her family and how she's handling her parents' divorce. You have a couple from church over for dinner and a game of cards.
Each friend a separate entity, a different strand of your social web.
When left alone, you have great conversations, you reminisce, you laugh, you cry, you people-watch, you dream about a big scary future. Each friend serves his or her purpose. Each brings out a different side of you. But these varied friends could never assemble at the same social gathering and feel comfortable around each other.
Friends are like different compartments in your social utility belt, but I think if you try to use them all at once, you'll explode. Batman presses one button at a time on his, why shouldn't you do the same?
I remember the first time I noticed the classification of friendships. I turned ten. I had a legit birthday party, lots of kids over at the house, running around hyped up on candy, cake, and that high, that playground fever that transcends what sugar can do - that berserker craze that only the company of other kids can bring out in even the calmest child. There were games, there was cake, there were oh so many presents, including a very cool Beast Wars transformer toy that I lost pieces to in about 5 seconds.
It was during the roundtable cake and candles ceremony that I first noticed it. A lot of my friends were seated in factions. My church friends sat and talked with church friends. My school friends sat with school friends. Some were even sitting in uncomfortable silence, trying to remain in peaceful anonymity.
As a socially developing ten-year-old, this was one of my first recollections of a major social faux pas:
Just because they like you doesn't mean they'll like each other.
Oops. Sorry guys.
This rule has remained true as I've delved and dabbled in my sundry extracurriculars.
My swim team friends belonged in their sphere. My scout camp buddies in theirs. My band friends had their place, as did my fellow cast members in high school theatre productions.
Even now as a married adult, I have friends that like me, but I know them well enough not to mix them with each other.
One friend always makes me feel like I need to be a poli-sci major to even compete intellectually in our conversations. His political savvy is daunting, as is his inherent ability to read people and social situations. He's so dang smart and witty, and he doesn't pull punches. On insults. Or on compliments. It's all so unsettlingly sincere.
Another friend is a fellow I served with as a volunteer from my days as a missionary. We were assigned a very tough, unresponsive area. It really made us rely on each other for sanity, made us "war buddies." He was my best man at my wedding.
I've got a buddy who's a big idea man. We'll get together every once in a while and talk about design concepts or half-baked business plans. He'll vomit ideas like balloons, and I'll stand there with a pin to pop the ones that won't go far. If he's George Clooney, I'm his Brad Pitt, grounding him with the details that will get us into that casino.
I have another dear friend whom I've watched from afar. Her life has served as a sort of premonition, a small peek at the future. When she got married, I saw how happy she was and got so excited for that day to come in my life. She's always one step ahead of me in life's milestones, and her previews always give me hope. She's like a sort of big sister I never had.
Please understand, I'm sure if I blew a conch shell and told these dear friends to "Assemble!" at Starbucks or something, they'd be cordial and polite and get along well enough; we're all adults.
It's not them.
It's me I'm worried about.
My friends each bring out such unique sides of my personality, the transformations would be frustrating for them and exhausting for me.
Does this make me two-faced?
I used to worry about that, but I don't think so.
Our personalities are complex, multifaceted things. There are countless sides to a person's interests, likes and dislikes, quirks, habits, jokes, mannerisms, faults and flaws. One of the great things about having such a variety of friends is that they can pull and stretch you, help you grow, and build you up in so many different ways.
Are your friends different? Would they all get along at, say, a barbecue? How do they build you?
S
Each friend a separate entity, a different strand of your social web.
When left alone, you have great conversations, you reminisce, you laugh, you cry, you people-watch, you dream about a big scary future. Each friend serves his or her purpose. Each brings out a different side of you. But these varied friends could never assemble at the same social gathering and feel comfortable around each other.
Friends are like different compartments in your social utility belt, but I think if you try to use them all at once, you'll explode. Batman presses one button at a time on his, why shouldn't you do the same?
I remember the first time I noticed the classification of friendships. I turned ten. I had a legit birthday party, lots of kids over at the house, running around hyped up on candy, cake, and that high, that playground fever that transcends what sugar can do - that berserker craze that only the company of other kids can bring out in even the calmest child. There were games, there was cake, there were oh so many presents, including a very cool Beast Wars transformer toy that I lost pieces to in about 5 seconds.
It was during the roundtable cake and candles ceremony that I first noticed it. A lot of my friends were seated in factions. My church friends sat and talked with church friends. My school friends sat with school friends. Some were even sitting in uncomfortable silence, trying to remain in peaceful anonymity.
As a socially developing ten-year-old, this was one of my first recollections of a major social faux pas:
Just because they like you doesn't mean they'll like each other.
Oops. Sorry guys.
This rule has remained true as I've delved and dabbled in my sundry extracurriculars.
My swim team friends belonged in their sphere. My scout camp buddies in theirs. My band friends had their place, as did my fellow cast members in high school theatre productions.
Even now as a married adult, I have friends that like me, but I know them well enough not to mix them with each other.
One friend always makes me feel like I need to be a poli-sci major to even compete intellectually in our conversations. His political savvy is daunting, as is his inherent ability to read people and social situations. He's so dang smart and witty, and he doesn't pull punches. On insults. Or on compliments. It's all so unsettlingly sincere.
Another friend is a fellow I served with as a volunteer from my days as a missionary. We were assigned a very tough, unresponsive area. It really made us rely on each other for sanity, made us "war buddies." He was my best man at my wedding.
I've got a buddy who's a big idea man. We'll get together every once in a while and talk about design concepts or half-baked business plans. He'll vomit ideas like balloons, and I'll stand there with a pin to pop the ones that won't go far. If he's George Clooney, I'm his Brad Pitt, grounding him with the details that will get us into that casino.
I have another dear friend whom I've watched from afar. Her life has served as a sort of premonition, a small peek at the future. When she got married, I saw how happy she was and got so excited for that day to come in my life. She's always one step ahead of me in life's milestones, and her previews always give me hope. She's like a sort of big sister I never had.
Please understand, I'm sure if I blew a conch shell and told these dear friends to "Assemble!" at Starbucks or something, they'd be cordial and polite and get along well enough; we're all adults.
It's not them.
It's me I'm worried about.
My friends each bring out such unique sides of my personality, the transformations would be frustrating for them and exhausting for me.
Does this make me two-faced?
I used to worry about that, but I don't think so.
Our personalities are complex, multifaceted things. There are countless sides to a person's interests, likes and dislikes, quirks, habits, jokes, mannerisms, faults and flaws. One of the great things about having such a variety of friends is that they can pull and stretch you, help you grow, and build you up in so many different ways.
Are your friends different? Would they all get along at, say, a barbecue? How do they build you?
S
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Timing
I have a buddy from my days in East Europe. His verbal propensities are stunning. And hilarious. And our little group always teased him about his odd timing and the abrupt syncopation of his phrasing. For instance, he was running a short meeting, invited someone to share a thought. Then as he dismissed the previous speaker, while looking at his notes and itinerary, he absentmindedly muttered:
"Thank you for that, I guess we'll hear from so-and-so now."
Or that's what he meant to say.
The way he broke it up mangled this harmless sentence into a sarcastic, clueless verbal meandering that for some reason we all thought was oh so funny:
"...thank youuuuu... for THAT! (I guess...) ..."
...
...
(awkward stares around the room)
...
(eyes widen in affront - that was rude)
... "we'll - uh, we'll hear from... so-and-so"
A harmless faux pas that we all laughed about later on.
My point?
Timing.
This past weekend we returned to the small but lovable mining town of Battle Mountain for Grandpa Max's funeral. It was a long and arduous weekend and it's been an emotional roller coaster all week for B. It's impossible to encapsulate all we've experienced in the last few days in one post, but suffice it to say, it's knit us together as a family and it's helped B. and I grow closer.
Grief is something we hadn't yet experienced as a couple, and I got to see a whole new undiscovered side of my wife the past few days. She's sobbed into my shoulder and laughed with family and yearned to talk to the wise and witty grandfather who's no longer here. I've tried to be a support and an anchor to her as best I can. I've never seen her cry this much this often and it breaks my heart to not be able to fix this for her.
B. and I are different. We feel different happinesses, we express sorrow differently. The sorrows and anxieties are still very private things, I think. As much as we want to share everything together, there is a limit to our empathies and sympathies.
When I found out my dad was getting deployed again, I did what I've done before. Clammed up, manned up, stepped up. But the difference was, now I wasn't the one who had to drive kids to soccer or carpool or help make dinner or help mom with the laundry or babysit or any of the previous deployment duties I was used to. I wasn't home anymore. I had my own life, my own place, my own family. And I feel bad, because to a degree I think I kind of shut out B. Poor supportive B. who asked me multiple times what she could do to help, who told me repeatedly not to worry he'd be fine and my family would be more than ok and my brothers and sisters were older now and could help with what I used to do. I went into autopilot: shut out the world, get to work, try not to miss dad too much, show as little emotion as possible and be an anchor for siblings and mom. I shut down, and in doing so I shut her out for a bit.
The tables turned a bit this weekend. I couldn't bring Max back. All I could do was hold B. tight as we visited his grave and she said goodbye before we drove home. The whole town seemed to come for the memorial service. It was just as Max would have wanted: short, sweet, to the point. A few memories and stories were drawn from a hat and selected by his 13 surviving kids, there was a brief bio, a slideshow, a few prayers, and then we went out to the cemetery. Short. Direct. Perfect.
Timing.
As I tried to help gently corral nieces and nephew during the memorial service, B. remarked - not maliciously, simply an observation - that I hadn't cried. Everyone else in the whole room seemed to be sobbing and sniffling. Even my brother-in-law who only knew Max about as well as I did shed a few tears. I didn't know how to explain it. I missed him. I ached to see him again, hear more of his stories, but at that moment, surrounded by family, watching a slideshow of all his memories and wrestling fussy toddlers, my eyes were dry. I laughed at the funny stories the bishop told, but I didn't cry.
Timing.
After the pallbearers brought his casket to the cemetery and a prayer was said, we lingered there to talk and share and visit. We found the graves of Max's two sons not far from his own. More stories, more hugs, more tears. But not from me.
Afterwards we met at the civic center (the only building in town large enough to hold that number of mourners) for a luncheon catered by the Owl Club - the hotel/restaurant/casino in which Max spent so many years working and helping. People were a little cheerier, they consoled each other, telling funny stories about good ol' Grandpa. Nieces and nephews had room and freedom to let out their wiggles.
And suddenly I had no appetite. I couldn't smile. I was so depressed, I was shutting down. I couldn't laugh at the stories. I couldn't look B. in the eye. I excused myself and headed to the restroom, stood in a stall and finally wept like a child.
Timing.
Maybe it was a delayed reaction. Maybe I wasn't distracted by toddlers or other external factors. Maybe I just couldn't let my wife see me cry, not even at a funeral. Regardless, I finally did cry, I had my own private meltdown before rejoining the family. I just couldn't bring them back down again now that everyone was having a good time again.
Timing is everything, they say. I didn't have the best timing this weekend, but they also say better late than never.
How is timing important to you?
S
"Thank you for that, I guess we'll hear from so-and-so now."
Or that's what he meant to say.
The way he broke it up mangled this harmless sentence into a sarcastic, clueless verbal meandering that for some reason we all thought was oh so funny:
"...thank youuuuu... for THAT! (I guess...) ..."
...
...
(awkward stares around the room)
...
(eyes widen in affront - that was rude)
... "we'll - uh, we'll hear from... so-and-so"
A harmless faux pas that we all laughed about later on.
My point?
Timing.
This past weekend we returned to the small but lovable mining town of Battle Mountain for Grandpa Max's funeral. It was a long and arduous weekend and it's been an emotional roller coaster all week for B. It's impossible to encapsulate all we've experienced in the last few days in one post, but suffice it to say, it's knit us together as a family and it's helped B. and I grow closer.
Grief is something we hadn't yet experienced as a couple, and I got to see a whole new undiscovered side of my wife the past few days. She's sobbed into my shoulder and laughed with family and yearned to talk to the wise and witty grandfather who's no longer here. I've tried to be a support and an anchor to her as best I can. I've never seen her cry this much this often and it breaks my heart to not be able to fix this for her.
B. and I are different. We feel different happinesses, we express sorrow differently. The sorrows and anxieties are still very private things, I think. As much as we want to share everything together, there is a limit to our empathies and sympathies.
When I found out my dad was getting deployed again, I did what I've done before. Clammed up, manned up, stepped up. But the difference was, now I wasn't the one who had to drive kids to soccer or carpool or help make dinner or help mom with the laundry or babysit or any of the previous deployment duties I was used to. I wasn't home anymore. I had my own life, my own place, my own family. And I feel bad, because to a degree I think I kind of shut out B. Poor supportive B. who asked me multiple times what she could do to help, who told me repeatedly not to worry he'd be fine and my family would be more than ok and my brothers and sisters were older now and could help with what I used to do. I went into autopilot: shut out the world, get to work, try not to miss dad too much, show as little emotion as possible and be an anchor for siblings and mom. I shut down, and in doing so I shut her out for a bit.
The tables turned a bit this weekend. I couldn't bring Max back. All I could do was hold B. tight as we visited his grave and she said goodbye before we drove home. The whole town seemed to come for the memorial service. It was just as Max would have wanted: short, sweet, to the point. A few memories and stories were drawn from a hat and selected by his 13 surviving kids, there was a brief bio, a slideshow, a few prayers, and then we went out to the cemetery. Short. Direct. Perfect.
Timing.
As I tried to help gently corral nieces and nephew during the memorial service, B. remarked - not maliciously, simply an observation - that I hadn't cried. Everyone else in the whole room seemed to be sobbing and sniffling. Even my brother-in-law who only knew Max about as well as I did shed a few tears. I didn't know how to explain it. I missed him. I ached to see him again, hear more of his stories, but at that moment, surrounded by family, watching a slideshow of all his memories and wrestling fussy toddlers, my eyes were dry. I laughed at the funny stories the bishop told, but I didn't cry.
Timing.
After the pallbearers brought his casket to the cemetery and a prayer was said, we lingered there to talk and share and visit. We found the graves of Max's two sons not far from his own. More stories, more hugs, more tears. But not from me.
Afterwards we met at the civic center (the only building in town large enough to hold that number of mourners) for a luncheon catered by the Owl Club - the hotel/restaurant/casino in which Max spent so many years working and helping. People were a little cheerier, they consoled each other, telling funny stories about good ol' Grandpa. Nieces and nephews had room and freedom to let out their wiggles.
And suddenly I had no appetite. I couldn't smile. I was so depressed, I was shutting down. I couldn't laugh at the stories. I couldn't look B. in the eye. I excused myself and headed to the restroom, stood in a stall and finally wept like a child.
Timing.
Maybe it was a delayed reaction. Maybe I wasn't distracted by toddlers or other external factors. Maybe I just couldn't let my wife see me cry, not even at a funeral. Regardless, I finally did cry, I had my own private meltdown before rejoining the family. I just couldn't bring them back down again now that everyone was having a good time again.
Timing is everything, they say. I didn't have the best timing this weekend, but they also say better late than never.
How is timing important to you?
S
Monday, July 15, 2013
Words, Words, Words
Bravo to those of you who picked up on the Shakespeare reference.
We had a discussion in my English class a few months ago about texting and its effects on relationships. Is the ability to have a conversation through text messages inhibiting our communication skills as couples? Are we less likely to feel comfortable in a face-to-face conversation with our significant other? Is texting a crutch?
Some said it might, most of us weren't sure. It brings up an interesting idea:
Some people are talkers.
Some people are writers.
Some excel in verbal communication, words just pour out of their mouths and serve any purpose the speaker wishes. They say everything right, their grandiloquence is humbling.
Others need a little mental editing to work out and tweak their abstract thoughts until their sentence is sculpted into the beautiful poetry they intend.
One skill isn't necessarily better than the other, I think they're just different avenues to the same destination: communication.
B. is a speaker. She has the confidence and commanding presence of a seasoned public speaker. When she talks, people listen; she has a boisterous voice and a wonderful laugh. I admire that so much in her.
Meanwhile, I sit in another camp; I'm admittedly more reserved and soft-spoken. I won't say timid, though; get me started on something about which I'm passionate and I'll be lawyering you 'til your ears fall off. I'm verbose enough to be comprehended, but I like being able to plot out my thoughts into coherent sentences and guide my audience/listener/reader through the logic and reasoning of my point. This is hard for me to do verbally. I favor writing, which is why I've loved this blog so far. I think I get my point across much clearer in writing. Plus, I can go back and edit my words and tailor them to appeal to my reader much easier than I can pause mid-sentence and plan out my next discourse.
Even as I write this, there are roughly twenty other posts waiting for some final expounding and editing before being published onto the blog.
I can think of a few times when I stopped and edited a text before sending it to B. while we were dating. I'm almost certain this avoided a fight, which is just miserable when you're in a long-distance relationship, because you can't fight it out face-to-face, and even after the fight's over, you have to postpone making up.
That's not to say that I have to verbally tiptoe around B., either.
On those rare instances where I did go back and edit my texts before sending, it was because I saw something in the wording that could be misconstrued as offensive when no offense was meant. We don't bully each other, but we don't walk on eggshells either. We can disagree and still have a healthy marriage.
All I'm saying is, choosing your words is a vital skill in school, work, and especially relationships. Different people communicate in different ways.
I just happen to be better in writing.
How do you choose your words? Are you a speaker or a writer?
Does texting help or hurt you?
S
We had a discussion in my English class a few months ago about texting and its effects on relationships. Is the ability to have a conversation through text messages inhibiting our communication skills as couples? Are we less likely to feel comfortable in a face-to-face conversation with our significant other? Is texting a crutch?
Some said it might, most of us weren't sure. It brings up an interesting idea:
Some people are talkers.
Some people are writers.
Some excel in verbal communication, words just pour out of their mouths and serve any purpose the speaker wishes. They say everything right, their grandiloquence is humbling.
Others need a little mental editing to work out and tweak their abstract thoughts until their sentence is sculpted into the beautiful poetry they intend.
One skill isn't necessarily better than the other, I think they're just different avenues to the same destination: communication.
B. is a speaker. She has the confidence and commanding presence of a seasoned public speaker. When she talks, people listen; she has a boisterous voice and a wonderful laugh. I admire that so much in her.
Meanwhile, I sit in another camp; I'm admittedly more reserved and soft-spoken. I won't say timid, though; get me started on something about which I'm passionate and I'll be lawyering you 'til your ears fall off. I'm verbose enough to be comprehended, but I like being able to plot out my thoughts into coherent sentences and guide my audience/listener/reader through the logic and reasoning of my point. This is hard for me to do verbally. I favor writing, which is why I've loved this blog so far. I think I get my point across much clearer in writing. Plus, I can go back and edit my words and tailor them to appeal to my reader much easier than I can pause mid-sentence and plan out my next discourse.
Even as I write this, there are roughly twenty other posts waiting for some final expounding and editing before being published onto the blog.
I can think of a few times when I stopped and edited a text before sending it to B. while we were dating. I'm almost certain this avoided a fight, which is just miserable when you're in a long-distance relationship, because you can't fight it out face-to-face, and even after the fight's over, you have to postpone making up.
That's not to say that I have to verbally tiptoe around B., either.
On those rare instances where I did go back and edit my texts before sending, it was because I saw something in the wording that could be misconstrued as offensive when no offense was meant. We don't bully each other, but we don't walk on eggshells either. We can disagree and still have a healthy marriage.
All I'm saying is, choosing your words is a vital skill in school, work, and especially relationships. Different people communicate in different ways.
I just happen to be better in writing.
How do you choose your words? Are you a speaker or a writer?
Does texting help or hurt you?
S
Thursday, July 11, 2013
How much does a cookie jar cost?
History was made this week.
For the first time since our wedding, B. and I spent a night under separate roofs.
Now, first off, RELAX EVERYONE. We're fine. She's still stuck with me forever, poor soul.
The reason for our separation should be clear from previous posts. She was able to get work off for the week, and her stepmom was in town for a baby shower, so she hitched a ride home with them to see her dad and be with family.
I, who had less flexibility with classes and work, stayed behind. She drove up with her parents to Battle Mountain yesterday, I'm leaving this afternoon to meet her there.
It was very strange loading her things into her stepmom's car. It didn't remind me of divorce, actually quite the opposite; it reminded me of engagement. We spent our entire dating lives and our whole engagement apart. Once we got married, we were very eager to avoid separation; we'd had our fill.
But these were unusual circumstances, so we weren't too bummed about it. So I spent the night in our apartment.
Home alone.
Rather than get all depressed, I tried to put a positive spin on my newfound abandonment/independence. I didn't know what to do.
Should I slide around, dancing pantless to Bob Seger as did Tom Cruise? Should I apply a shocking smack of aftershave or sled down the stairwell as did a little blonde boy who found himself in similar domestic isolation? Should I start talking to a volleyball?
When my parents would leave me home alone, I'd eat cookie dough left in the fridge or surreptitiously steal sweets from a secret stash they thought I didn't know about. Or I'd even occasionally risk the freedoms allowed by isolated living and not bother to close doors when showering or changing from various stages of undress.
But now...
I bought those sweets.
I walk around almost or completely naked all the time at home. (Don't judge me, we have no A/C and our apartment has stayed at 80 degrees until 1am a few nights. You would, too.)
I don't have a volleyball.
Or a sled.
Or a Bob Seger record.
Being home alone as a kid was amazing. But adulthood, as with many things, has sucked the last marrow of fun from the brittle bones of childish play. I didn't dance. I didn't sled. I cleaned a little, made pasta, did homework and watch two episodes of Mad Men before turning in for the night.
I also called B. to tell her goodnight, something I hadn't done in over a year.
The next morning I woke up on my side of the bed (it was uncomfortable trying to sleep in the middle or taking up more than my usual share), looked over at the substitute pillow she had placed there (a poor substitute - the pillow didn't smell like her, it smelled like laundry), rubbed my eyes and got ready for work.
After a full day at work I went home and did a repeat process: Homework, Mad Men, last minute laundry and tidying, pack, call, bed. This morning was equally empty.
I'll say it. I miss my wife.
It was an interesting experience to test drive life without her around, but also way too depressing to make me want to do it again anytime soon. I'm eager to see her again and hold her close.
That's not to say there were absolutely no benefits. I went to sleep with Chet Baker songs and Marsalis duets wafting into the bedroom from my computer, all accompanied by the soft, relaxing pitter-patter of Rainymood. I watched a youtube video or two in the early morning to wake me up, not worrying about waking sweet B. I drove to work.
But ya know, I thought about her all the time.
Independence is great and all, but I think I've been whipped too long. I miss my best friend. I'm ready to see her again. Soon.
Gone are the days when I enjoy sneaking sweets from the cookie jar.
Now, I'm the guy who baked the cookies. I bought the jar.
What do you do at home when others are away?
S
For the first time since our wedding, B. and I spent a night under separate roofs.
Now, first off, RELAX EVERYONE. We're fine. She's still stuck with me forever, poor soul.
The reason for our separation should be clear from previous posts. She was able to get work off for the week, and her stepmom was in town for a baby shower, so she hitched a ride home with them to see her dad and be with family.
I, who had less flexibility with classes and work, stayed behind. She drove up with her parents to Battle Mountain yesterday, I'm leaving this afternoon to meet her there.
It was very strange loading her things into her stepmom's car. It didn't remind me of divorce, actually quite the opposite; it reminded me of engagement. We spent our entire dating lives and our whole engagement apart. Once we got married, we were very eager to avoid separation; we'd had our fill.
But these were unusual circumstances, so we weren't too bummed about it. So I spent the night in our apartment.
Home alone.
Rather than get all depressed, I tried to put a positive spin on my newfound abandonment/independence. I didn't know what to do.
Should I slide around, dancing pantless to Bob Seger as did Tom Cruise? Should I apply a shocking smack of aftershave or sled down the stairwell as did a little blonde boy who found himself in similar domestic isolation? Should I start talking to a volleyball?
When my parents would leave me home alone, I'd eat cookie dough left in the fridge or surreptitiously steal sweets from a secret stash they thought I didn't know about. Or I'd even occasionally risk the freedoms allowed by isolated living and not bother to close doors when showering or changing from various stages of undress.
But now...
I bought those sweets.
I walk around almost or completely naked all the time at home. (Don't judge me, we have no A/C and our apartment has stayed at 80 degrees until 1am a few nights. You would, too.)
I don't have a volleyball.
Or a sled.
Or a Bob Seger record.
Being home alone as a kid was amazing. But adulthood, as with many things, has sucked the last marrow of fun from the brittle bones of childish play. I didn't dance. I didn't sled. I cleaned a little, made pasta, did homework and watch two episodes of Mad Men before turning in for the night.
I also called B. to tell her goodnight, something I hadn't done in over a year.
The next morning I woke up on my side of the bed (it was uncomfortable trying to sleep in the middle or taking up more than my usual share), looked over at the substitute pillow she had placed there (a poor substitute - the pillow didn't smell like her, it smelled like laundry), rubbed my eyes and got ready for work.
After a full day at work I went home and did a repeat process: Homework, Mad Men, last minute laundry and tidying, pack, call, bed. This morning was equally empty.
I'll say it. I miss my wife.
It was an interesting experience to test drive life without her around, but also way too depressing to make me want to do it again anytime soon. I'm eager to see her again and hold her close.
That's not to say there were absolutely no benefits. I went to sleep with Chet Baker songs and Marsalis duets wafting into the bedroom from my computer, all accompanied by the soft, relaxing pitter-patter of Rainymood. I watched a youtube video or two in the early morning to wake me up, not worrying about waking sweet B. I drove to work.
But ya know, I thought about her all the time.
Independence is great and all, but I think I've been whipped too long. I miss my best friend. I'm ready to see her again. Soon.
Gone are the days when I enjoy sneaking sweets from the cookie jar.
Now, I'm the guy who baked the cookies. I bought the jar.
What do you do at home when others are away?
S
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
All I am or hope to be
I love Washington, D.C.
I was blessed to live close to the capitol for a few years and took advantage of the opportunity to soak in the history, the grandeur of the heart of America. I've stood inches from the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. I've walked past the White House. I've beheld memorials of great men and great deeds done.
D.C. also has a more personal importance to me. It's where I proposed to B. I also have many fond memories of touring the capitol with my family. There was one day in which we had an impromptu picnic by our car before trekking out to several Smithsonians. Our crumbs were ravenously attacked by hordes of pigeons - none of us remember what else we saw that day, it's just referred to as The Pigeon Day now. I've walked where Dr. King walked. I've stood on the exact step before the Lincoln Memorial where he told the world about his Dream.
I've looked up to Dr. King since I was a child; he's my hero. But what I think I often forget is that our heroes have heroes. King admired Lincoln. I admire him, too. Standing in front of the massive statue seated at the Memorial, surrounded by towering pillars, it's an overwhelming sight. Etched into the walls of the Memorial are the words of the Gettysburg Address.
But those inspired words aren't what comes to mind today.
Instead I remember another passage penned by our 16th President:
"All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
Today is my mother's birthday. Another year has passed in which I have taken advantage of her presence, her advice, her caring and listening ear. Right now she's on a much-needed and well-deserved vacation in French Canada with my dad, celebrating their years together and the years mom has graced this world with her presence.
Mom,
I know all of the endless hours and years of patience, tolerance, kindness, and hardy determination that went into teaching and raising me. I know I should have turned out a lot better considering the work put in, but I try a little harder every day to honor the years of sacrifice you put into not just me, but five other children who all love and adore you. I remember the months when you bore the burden of leading the family while dad was deployed. I've always admired your faith, your courage, and your natural capacity to love. You are so sensitive to the needs of your family that often you know what we want before we do.
I smile remembering the times I made you laugh.
I ache for the tears I caused.
I live for the days I make you proud.
I am proud to have something in common with a man as great as Abraham Lincoln. My mother is an angel.
All I am and all I can ever hope to become is because of you.
I love you Mom,
S
I was blessed to live close to the capitol for a few years and took advantage of the opportunity to soak in the history, the grandeur of the heart of America. I've stood inches from the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. I've walked past the White House. I've beheld memorials of great men and great deeds done.
D.C. also has a more personal importance to me. It's where I proposed to B. I also have many fond memories of touring the capitol with my family. There was one day in which we had an impromptu picnic by our car before trekking out to several Smithsonians. Our crumbs were ravenously attacked by hordes of pigeons - none of us remember what else we saw that day, it's just referred to as The Pigeon Day now. I've walked where Dr. King walked. I've stood on the exact step before the Lincoln Memorial where he told the world about his Dream.
I've looked up to Dr. King since I was a child; he's my hero. But what I think I often forget is that our heroes have heroes. King admired Lincoln. I admire him, too. Standing in front of the massive statue seated at the Memorial, surrounded by towering pillars, it's an overwhelming sight. Etched into the walls of the Memorial are the words of the Gettysburg Address.
But those inspired words aren't what comes to mind today.
Instead I remember another passage penned by our 16th President:
"All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."
Today is my mother's birthday. Another year has passed in which I have taken advantage of her presence, her advice, her caring and listening ear. Right now she's on a much-needed and well-deserved vacation in French Canada with my dad, celebrating their years together and the years mom has graced this world with her presence.
Mom,
I know all of the endless hours and years of patience, tolerance, kindness, and hardy determination that went into teaching and raising me. I know I should have turned out a lot better considering the work put in, but I try a little harder every day to honor the years of sacrifice you put into not just me, but five other children who all love and adore you. I remember the months when you bore the burden of leading the family while dad was deployed. I've always admired your faith, your courage, and your natural capacity to love. You are so sensitive to the needs of your family that often you know what we want before we do.
I smile remembering the times I made you laugh.
I ache for the tears I caused.
I live for the days I make you proud.
I am proud to have something in common with a man as great as Abraham Lincoln. My mother is an angel.
All I am and all I can ever hope to become is because of you.
I love you Mom,
S
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
The Shortest Verse
I usually just thought of it as a piece of trivia:
What’s the shortest verse in the Bible?
Jesus wept.
But I never really gave the story behind it much thought. Why was He weeping? He had just been told that his good friend
Lazarus was dead. Yes, that Lazarus, the
one to be raised from the dead. If Jesus
was about to raise up his body and redeem him from death’s grasp, why
weep? He could reverse the situation,
why so much heartache?
Perhaps He merely acted on faith when He raised poor Lazarus
from the tomb. We read that He “increased in wisdom… and in favor with
God and man”; did even Christ work on faith and not necessarily knowledge? It was at the tomb that He thanked the Father
for hearing Him. Perhaps He did not know
for certain, He merely trusted until that moment at the tomb that everything
would work out. That’s just speculation.
But I think another possible answer is simply that He was
the perfect Man.
And man is meant to
mourn.
I am surprised at how deeply Max’s passing is affecting
me. I have no appetite, I'm exhausted all the time, I can't focus, I have no will to do homework, I have no motivation to do even the simplest things I usually enjoy. I only briefly knew him, why should
it hurt so much to have him gone?
Is it reminding me of my own grandfather’s passing? Is it reopening old wounds? Are old losses resurfacing?
Is it merely empathetic suffering for poor
B., who has been distraught for days even before Max left us? Is her heartbreak breaking my own heart in
turn?
Is it merely causing me grief to
see so many of my many in-laws so deeply saddened? Now that I know my father-in-law better, does
it sting to lose his father, the man
who told us embarrassing stories and gave me endless dirt on my dad-in-law?
Is it just a universal human experience to
grieve for those who have left us?
Is man meant to mourn?
I didn’t know him well.
I know he’s in a better place.
Why is this so hard for me?
Jesus wept. I can,
too.
Thanks to all who send their prayers and well-wishes to the
Rogers family.
S
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