Inadvertent Advert

If I could beg your indulgence* for a few moments, I’d like to direct your attention to Jen’s site.  Those of you who click the links on the right border of this page already know her as my favorite artist, and you probably also know why.  

She has an astonishing eye, and she sees things in ways I cannot begin to understand, but the images she captures speak to me like a supremely enigmatic but infinitely patient teacher.  Now that I think of it, her pictures are rather like she is, in that respect.  

Today, at last, Jen is making her pictures available for purchase.  This is a big step for her, and I hope you’ll enjoy her work as much as I do.

*She hasn’t asked me to write this.

A Cherry Tomato Is A Sensual Thing

It is.  Try this: Gently take one in your mouth, all at once…and bite down on it.  That, my friends, is pure sensuality.

I’ve been thinking about sensuality quite a bit, lately, but mostly in a distracted and steadfastly self-absorbed way.  Everywhere I turn, the Universe is taunting me with images of what Meg described as “all the true love [I am] looking for in life.”  And, as I may have mentioned, I am a tad frustrated with the taunting.

Last week, after a particularly hard couple of days at work, I felt the need to have someone serve me dinner.  This was a purely selfish thing, but trust me when I say I deserved to lay on a chaise longue and be fed a variety of tasty morsels by what Michael Palin calls “maidens of the Orient.”  

(“…and there, strokéd was he by maidens of the Orient.  For sixteen days and nights strokéd they him.  Yea, verily, and caresséd him.  His hair ruffléd they, and their fingers rubbeth they in oil of olives, and runneth them across all parts of his body, forasmuch as to soothe him.
“And the soles of his feet licketh they, and the upper parts of his thigh did they anoint with a balm of forbidden trees.
“And with the teeth of their mouths nibbleth they the pointed bits at the top of his ears, yeah, verily, and with their tongues thereof make themselves acquainted with his most secret places.”)

There is somewhat of an art to eating alone in a restaurant.  The trick is to look as though you want to be eating alone.  You can’t go empty-handed into a sit-down restaurant and eat a meal by yourself.  That’s just creepy.  

A book takes the curse off it.  If you’re reading while you eat, then while you may still appear sad and lonely, you at least seem to have the means at hand of coping with your solitude.  

Choosing the right restaurant is essential.  If it’s noisy, there is no hope of actually reading anything, and no amount of subterfuge can hide the fact that you’re basically just watching the people around you like some urban version of Dian Fossey.  You might as well start snapping pictures and taking notes for “Coffee Drinkers in the Mist”.

I knew of the perfect restaurant, of course, because during my divorce, I lived in the barracks for a while and solitary dining out had been a way of life.  I stopped at the Bookstar on my way there, and picked up “How To Be Good” by Nick Hornby.

Now, back when I was solitary more often (before my daughter came to live with me), I ate dinner in this particular restaurant quite frequently.  It’s safe to say that I read a fair portion of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin series (all twenty of them) while dining alone there.  

So it was a bit like returning to the womb.  Maybe that’s not a good analogy.
The waitress I always hoped for back then is now the manager.  It took me a moment to recognize her: she’s gone blonde.  While I was admittedly staring at her, trying to place her, she caught me and gave me a quizzical look as she asked me if I had everything I needed.

Later, at the register, I smiled apologetically and said, “I’m sorry about that.  You totally caught me staring at you earlier.”

“No worries,” she said.  “I just hope everything was okay.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked.  She narrowed her eyes and looked closely at me as I continued, “I remember when you first started here as a waitress.  I used to come here a lot and always tried to get seated in your section.  That was, what, five or six years ago?”  I never could figure out her schedule, so I never got to be one of her regulars.

She smiled.  “That would be about right.  I’ve been working here for five and a half years.  I’m sorry I don’t remember you!  It’s been a while since you were here, hasn’t it?”

I assured her that it had been, and she told me to come back soon.  “Don’t be a stranger,” she said.

So, facing dinner on my own again this evening, I grabbed Hornby and headed there again, hoping that Tuesday nights were a regular night for her.  

They are.

Better, she greeted me with a coy smile and a warm, “You’re back!  I remember you this time!”

Now, some guys might have said something like, “…and I’ve never forgotten you,” but I’ve never been that much like Sean Connery.  Besides, that kind of a remark only sounds good if you speak with a bit of a slur in your Scottish accent.

I settled for asking her how her Christmas was, and after she’d seated me, I basked in the warmth of being remembered, which is, it turns out, also a sensual thing.

See, it’s such a small deal, being remembered by someone whose job it is to make her customers feel special, but I’m learning to relish those tiny flickers.  Moments like that are like cherry tomatoes – you should take them in whole, bite down, and savor the burst of Connection.

Five Things That May Surprise You

Lord knows that I have given Betty enough reasons to slap me. With a meme, that is.

So here’s the deal: I have to share five things you don’t know about me, and because I can’t just leave this concept alone, I’m going to bump it up a notch and say that the five things ought to be surprising or unexpected in some way. I’ve been pondering this for a while, because you deserve something more than a rehash of things I’ve already written…but it’s not easy. I do admit that I don’t always share everything on my blog…but those are generally pretty deep-seated and not the sort of thing you’d like to read about unless you also have a particular fondness for NASCAR because of the crashes.

So, here goes.

1) I am a pack rat. I have things packed in boxes that have been in those boxes without being moved for three years. They’d have been there longer, I’m sure, but I have only lived in this apartment for three years. I keep vowing to get rid of the stuff with a strict Six-Month Rule, but when I make a run at it, I’m overwhelmed with sentimentality. For things. I know: I need help.

2) I have an angry undercurrent that I have trouble with. I just seem to let it out, rather than waiting to vent it in some more productive way. I bark at people, and though I am not violent, apparently my size alone can be imposing enough to give the impression that I would sooner rip off someone’s head than give them the time of day. It would be too obvious to say that I am still angry at the drubbing I took in my divorce, and since then in all of my dealings with my ex-wife. I am angry as much at myself for putting up with so much shit as I am with her for giving me shit she had no right to give in the first place. As often as I’ve reacted angrily to someone (whatever the reason), there have been at least as many times when I’ve been abrupt simply because I’m tired or busy and I just don’t want to deal with anything but what’s on my mind at that moment. Most of the time when someone says to me that I’ve said or done something rude or unkind, I’m completely flummoxed, because I hadn’t been angry or tired, and I hadn’t thought I was being short at all. Whenever I realize I’ve been that way, I am much more deeply sorry than anyone ever knows.

3) I have seriously contemplated suicide twice. What saved me the first time was the realization that my ex-wife wasn't worth it. The second time, it was the thought of my father’s face if he learned I’d killed myself.

4) Ed used to be one of my favorite TV shows. At the end of the episode when Ed proposed to Carol, I wept like a baby for more than an hour.

5) I am multi-orgasmic.

These things need some continuity, so I’ve gotta tag a few of you…

Lisa
Condoleesa
Wordnerd
Erica
Binsk

Things I Do Not Understand, Volume 2

Once again, I find myself bewildered by certain things, so I thought I’d share them with you.

Aggressive Holiday Shoppers.  What the hell was I thinking?  I went to the mall on the second-to-last payday before Christmas.  I suppose I should not have been surprised by the asshole who cut me off in the parking garage and then slammed on his brakes and flipped me off for having the audacity to jam on my brakes to avoid hitting him as he ran through a stop sign without looking.  Oh, that’s right, I jammed on my horn, too.  Because it’s Effing Christmas and I was trying to get into the Christmas Spirit.  I could have gotten over it, because I love my fellow man and this is the season for that and all, but the crowds (and there were crowds) acted as though I had personally pissed on their mistletoe.  Ignoring for the moment how big my bladder would have to be to have done such a thing to the thousands of people thronging to the trendier of the two malls in Mission Valley, how ironic is it that people will slash at each other like velociraptors over a fresh kill in order to get their prizes home a week and a half before the Big Day?  Since everyone seems to hate their families, I have to wonder why they bother.  Because you just know that Penelope Pertnipple is going to jam a brightly-wrapped gift box into Uncle Lecher’s hands and snarl, “I know you don’t smoke, but I thought you’d look so distinguished with this Meerschaum pipe.  They said you shouldn’t actually touch it, so I got the gloves with it.  Where are the gloves?  GOD DAMNIT, THEY DIDN”T GIVE ME THE GLOVES!  Oh, well, I hope you enjoy it.”  Quick, someone grab their new digital camera and take a picture.

People making a living at writing badly.  Whatever happened to the cigar-chomping editors who used to make life hell for the reporters and copy writers?  Consider this story from Reuters (a well-respected news agency) about the racial violence in Sydney.  It says, “racial violence first flared last Sunday” in one paragraph, then a few paragraphs later, says, “Racist text messages and emails have been circulating calling for violence this Sunday – the one week anniversary of the unrest…” I’m sorry, what?  Apparently, Reuters is now hiring junior high school girls to write for them.

When the media drops all pretense.  Another story in the news this week was about the FBI questioning a fourteen year old boy in California who had scrawled PLO slogans on his notebook.  The OfficialWire news desk wrote that “the entire experience left the student badly shaken, and he has since been hesitant about expressing his political views in any context.”  The article does not elaborate on why I should care that a fourteen year old boy is hesitant to express his political views.  I was fourteen once, and I was hesitant to express my political views, then, too.  Not because the FBI asked me to step out of class and answer a few questions, but because I was fourteen!  I was also hesitant to ask Debbie Dosh to the Halloween Dance, but no one gave a fart in a windstorm about that.

The instructions printed on my socks. Yes, you read that right.  No, I am not making it up.  Yesterday morning, while putting on a brand-new pair of socks, I noticed that next to my big toe, there was a little mark in yellow ink that looked like this: 7.  I wondered what this mark could be for…some sort of indication of where my foot ought to end and my toe begin, perhaps?  To keep myself busy while I pondered this question, I donned my other sock.  In a similar location, the other sock was marked with this symbol: R.  The “R” was, of course, upside down from my vantage point, but its presence provided the necessary understanding to solve the riddle of the hieroglyph on my other sock, which was not a “7”, but an “L”.  I wonder, am I paying more for socks that come with the instructions printed on them?  Did the sock company lose a lawsuit by some poor, tortured soul who spent a day with his socks on the wrong feet?  Is there anyone out there dumb enough to care which sock goes on which foot, but smart enough to read the instructions upside down?

The Economy in a Cardboard Box

Erica’s post set me to thinking this afternoon about Customer Service. After all, Kalbfleisch’s Economic Razor states: The strength of the economy is inversely proportional to the quality of service in any fast food restaurant. This is because when the economy is good, all the good workers have good jobs and the fast food places have to scrape the barrel to meet their staffing needs. When the economy is bad, you end up with rocket scientists working the cash register at McDonalds, and except for the guys in the O-ring division at Morton-Thiokol, you can pretty much count on an engineer to give you a Perfect Sandwich. For several years, I’ve joked that if I ever decide to become a doctoral candidate in Economics, that will be my thesis. Until recently, I thought of this as an immutable law, cast in stone as much as any economic theory could be, and would someone please nominate me for a Nobel Prize in Economics? Armed with this understanding, Alan Greenspan could get caught up on years of back episodes of “The West Wing” simply by stopping at Burger King on his way to testify before Congress.

(Please permit me to digress for a moment on the subject of Nobel nominations. It seems that Stanley Tookie Williams, co-founder of the Crips gang, has been nominated five times for the Nobel Peace Prize while he was on death row. I didn’t know this, but apparently you can go to any US Post Office and ask for a Nobel nomination form, and they’ll give it to you. All you have to do is fill it in, and they’ll do the rest! They used to have those forms at 7-11, but it got to be like a whole gang initiation thing, you know, to, like send in some upstart, punk-ass, wannabe gang-bangin’, glock-passin’ dogg, so he be, like, “Yo, muthafucka, gimme one o’ yo N-to-tha-izzobel Prizzize forms, NOW, muthafucka, befo I put tha fo’-fo Desert Eagle to yo muthafuckin’ dome, Cuz.”)

Word.

So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Economics.

So, last week, my daughter got a job at McDonalds. I like this job. It’s a block from our house (let’s not talk about the weird zoning laws that put a McDonald’s just four blocks from a neighborhood filled with five and ten million dollar homes), so she doesn’t have to go from newbie driver to Mario Friggin’ Andretti the day she gets her license.

On Thursday, after a terribly long day at work, I headed over to Mickey D’s to grind my sizzelf a burga…sorry, to get a burger. I order my usual: quarter pounder with cheese combo, hold the onions. My daughter is in the dining area, doing paperwork, and after I said hello, I headed home with my prize. Yyyyummyyyy. Burger.

I had checked the bag before I left. Yes, the custom order slip was taped to the outside of the excessive packaging box, and it said, “QTR PDR W/O ONION”. No worries. I had even observed the manager open the box containing another customer’s burger, check to make sure it was correctly assembled, and send it back to be remade when it turned out to be non-compliant burgage.

I assumed, given all of this evidence, that I could safely take my burger home and eat it there. I assumed that when I got it there, it would be The Burger As I Ordered It.

Big mistake. Big.

No, it had onions. Not only did it have onions, it apparently had been covered in onions. It had, where do they grow onions? Wisconsin? Roughly all of the onions grown in Wisconsin this year were on my quarter pounder.

Now, I like onions on my burger. Grilled onions, thank you…not the big, honkin’, chunk-o-onion pieces they put on burgers at Mickey D’s these days.

I just snarfed the burger, cursing the air between mouthfuls, while silently thanking the Great and Benevolent Oz for the strength of our economy. I took consolation in the fact that I had sent Mickey my revenge for years of bad service: my sixteen year old daughter. I rolled my eyes with glee, even as I washed the putrid taste of onion out of my mouth with Mr. Pibb. Yes! I will soon get exactly what I order at McDonalds! My daughter will make sure I do! Ha-a-a-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

When she got home, I told her about the Onion Burger From Hell and said that if I hadn’t already dumped my fries into the top half of the over-packaging box, I’d have taken it back and asked them to fix it.

Because clearly, they’d heard my order correctly.

“Oh God, Dad,” said my daughter, “then they’ll remember you, and when you come in, they’ll ask me, so is that, like, your dad?”

So, there you have it. I have been spared the ignominy of sharing a Nobel Prize with a guy named Tookie. My ironclad theory of economics has been dashed on the rocks at the base of the Cliffs of Insanity.

You see, the quality of service at a fast food restaurant isn’t based on the strength of the economy. It’s much more personal than that.

Apparently, it’s embarrassing to provide good service.

Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce,
Special orders WILL upset us,
All we ask is that you let us
Serve it our way…

Pride and Privilege

Last night, I took my daughter to Disneyland.  We spent more time on the road going to and from than we did actually in the park, but it’s a once-a-year thing, and something special we could do together.

See, it’s the Disney Family Christmas shindig this week, and because my sister and her husband both work for Disney, they invited us to go along.  

Naturally, on Sunday night before she went to bed, my daughter complained that she was coming down with a cold.  It’s something of a tradition that someone in our family experience some minor illness or discomfort whenever we go somewhere, and it was her turn.

So, I wasn’t surprised at all when she called from school around noon, her voice heavy with snot, asking if she could get a ride home.  I was crestfallen.  It was no fault of hers, but she’d put me into a bit of a bind: should I get her out of school early and cancel the Disneyland thing, or should I tell her to tough it out if she expected to go up to Anaheim with me?  I thought for a moment, then decided that she should come home, sleep for a couple hours, and then go with me to Disneyland, but only on the understanding that she’d have to go to school today.  

She agreed.

So, as I said, we had a terrific time at Disneyland.  We rode the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion, ate a fantastic dinner, and in general, acted like pals.  I loved every second of it, in spite of the fact that every time I looked at her, I was also checking to make sure that she felt okay.  She was fine.

And then this morning, she knocked on my door to say that she really felt too sick to go to school.  I sort of expected it, even if I wasn’t happy about it.  “Okay, you can stay home, but be sure to pump fluids,” I said.  I didn’t fawn over her, or even check on her.  She’s a big kid, and a good one, and I’ve always trusted her to know when she’s not well enough to go to school.

Now, I know, some parents will insist that trusting my daughter this much isn’t healthy, and that she needs to be followed up on.  Ridden, if necessary.

Hogwash.

One of the things I’ve always done with both my daughters is to speak to them like adults who have earned my respect.  I started this while I counted my older daughter’s fingers and toes the first time, which would be roughly 6.23 nanoseconds after they finished cleaning her up and asked me to take her to her mom.  I’m not sure how much of the quality of our relationship I can attribute to this habit, but I will say that neither of my girls sass me nearly as much as they apparently do their mother, which is approximately a hundredth of how much other kids seem to sass their parents these days.  It’s a simple philosophy: treat the children with respect and they will grow up respecting themselves and other people.

As I always do when my daughter is home sick, I called her to see how she was feeling.  I did it to let her know that I was thinking of her, and that she was important enough to stop what I was doing…she knows how busy my job can be…and also to see if she needed me to bring her anything when I headed home.

Her cell phone was off.  This is not unusual, as she turns it off during the school day to avoid having it taken away, should someone call her during class, and she also keeps it turned off when she’s home, because she’s got her own land-line phone.

So, I called her land-line, and got her answering machine.  No big deal, she could be in the other room, so I talked mindlessly into her answering machine for a minute or so before it cut me off.

I figured that when she got the message, she’d call, and when she didn’t call, I assumed she’d be sleeping.

When I got home, she wasn’t there.  

It turned out that she’d gone to the mall for Christmas shopping with a friend.

I called the friend’s cell phone, and asked to speak to my daughter.  I was on the war path already.  She couldn’t explain why she’d gone to the mall, nor could she say how long she’d been there.  If I had been snarling angry before, I was now in another dimension.  The top of my head flew off, the rest of my skin fell in a heap around my ankles and I began channeling R. Lee Ermey’s Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.  I am not entirely sure that I did not scream, “What is your major malfunction, Numbnuts? Didn’t your mama and I give you enough attention when you were a child?” but I did shout “DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?” more than once.  

I was calm by the time she got home half an hour later.  I was no less angry.

She was very upset.  I sat her down and told her I was disappointed, mainly that she’d lied to me about how bad she felt that morning, and that she should have known that permission to stay home from school was not permission to go to the mall.

She said, “I didn’t think we’d be gone so long.  I thought I’d be home before you got home.”

That was the part that hurt.  She didn’t just lie, she put some thought into it.  She weighed the consequences of her actions.

I’m not looking forward to talking to her mother this evening, because I’ve never known her mother to go along with any decision of mine, and I suspect that I’ll have to endure a lecture about parenting skills.

Because she’s Dr. Bloody Spock.

This leads me to the lesson in all of this for me.  Lisa wrote about regrets recently, and though I fully agree with her, I do have one major regret this evening (and for a long time to come).

I regret that I am a single dad.  

I regret that I have to be the hardass and the nice guy, that I have to straddle the line between good cop and bad cop.  

And if I have ever taught my daughter that it’s okay to be dishonest as long as you don’t get caught, I regret that, too.

HCOD

A friend and former shipmate had a thing on deployment that he called the “PCOD”.  It’s pronounced “pea cod”, and it means, “Pussy Cut-Off Date”.  He defined it as the last date he could get laid, catch something, realize he’s caught something, get it treated, and be clear of it before getting home to his wife.

Now, I’m not going to debate the relative morality of the concept, and anyone who wants to know where I stand on the subject of infidelity can just browse around in my blog for a while to find that particular answer.  Also, this was clearly in the days before enjoying a piece of strange could net you a disease that guaranteed an ugly death.

No, I’m actually extending the concept to my current situation, namely that I’m facing the eighth Christmas of solitude since my marriage ended.  I realized this morning that it’s well past the Holiday Cut-Off Date today, three weeks until Christmas.  Anything less than six weeks and including each other in family plans on the Big Morning are uncomfortable and weird.  Everyone will just end up trying to be polite while sitting unshaven, unwashed, and unkempt in their slightly-fuggy PJs, and that’s too much pressure to put on the family.  

And if I were to opt out of the Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning festivities (nog or coffee, as appropriate), in favor of someone my family hasn’t met, I’ll get the Third Degree, beginning with the editorial question, “So you’ve known this woman, what?  Three weeks?  And you’re spending your Christmas with her?”

If I were to say that I was indulging myself in the possibility of Christmas Morning Sex (or the fantasy of it, at least), something I have not had in oh, say, ten years, I’d have to deal with the disapprobation of my parents, who have said on a number of occasions that I shouldn’t “get serious” for at least a year.

Don’t get me wrong.  My family wants me to find someone to be with, but not three weeks before Christmas.

The problem is that when you find someone who really trips your trigger, you really want to be with them as much as possible.  You don’t want to miss a single second of the process of getting to know them.  You hope that this is the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with and you want the rest of your life to start right now.

The truth is that you’re in danger of being more lonely on Christmas day if you’re in a truly new relationship than you are if you just accept that this is the eighth time you’ve been a fifth wheel for the family holiday celebrations.  You can’t be with your new love, and you can’t not be with them, so you slip quietly into spare rooms to make furtive phone calls in the hope of getting to say, “Merry Christmas,” without having to endure any ridicule.

And then there’s the whole problem of what to give your new love as a Christmas gift.  It should have meaning…it’s the first Christmas Gift Ever for the two of you.  Sweet, thoughtful and non-committal; it’s a hard combination to come by.  

Some years ago, I gave a new girlfriend a book entitled “All About Me”, which was simply thought-provoking questions and blanks for my answers.  I spent several evenings on that book, and answered every question truthfully.  After all, I have nothing to hide, and if she was going to be with me in the long term, I wanted her to know that I would always be honest with her.  The message of this gift was not that I was giving myself to her, but that I was willing and able to open myself up to her.

When she broke up with me a month later, she said that my Christmas gift was one of the things that killed it for her.  I was too honest.  Romance lives in a world of illusion, she said, and that simple, heartfelt book had filled in blanks that she wanted left to her imagination.

So for now, I’m resigning myself to the fact that this will be another Singleton Christmas.  

Maybe next year.

“No way November will see our goodbye
When it comes to December, it’s obvious why
No one wants to be alone at Christmas time.
And come January, we’re frozen inside
Making new resolutions a hundred times.
February, won’t you be my Valentine?

And we’ll both be safe ‘til St. Patrick’s Day.”

-- John Mayer

Things I Do Not Understand

I’m feeling a bit curmudgeonly, so although I probably ought to be apologetic about this post, I am not.

Not at all.

So, on to the Things I Do Not Understand:

Otherwise intelligent women who say they want a nice guy but will choose the obvious jerk every time.  Please just shut up about how you really only want a nice guy.  I am a nice guy, and I am available.  If you really wanted a nice guy, you would choose me.  What you want is someone who reinforces your insecurities, because that’s where you feel most comfortable.  

Otherwise intelligent men who act like jerks when they’ve got a good thing going with a great woman.  What the hell is your problem?

Loud, lengthy, personal conversations on their cell phones in public.  I don’t want to know what you had for dinner last night.  I don’t want to know about your sister’s marital problems.  I don’t want to know about any of your medical problems.  Your gossip not only bores me, it’s also distracting me so much that I’ve read the same sentence eight times now, and I still don’t know what it says.  Perhaps I should start reading out loud?  If I did, I wouldn’t be any less annoyed with you, but you’d be annoyed with me, so the Cosmic Balance would be restored.

Droopy drawers.  Your boxers are your business, not mine.  I’m careful not to show you the crack of my ass, and I’d appreciate the same consideration.  Hint: the belt goes ABOVE your ass.

Eyebrow and lip piercings.  Are those unsightly bumps on your brow the look you were going for, because, really, it just seems like you might want to get that looked at.  Is it even possible to kiss someone when you have a lip ring?  

Clear plastic spit cups.  Gack.  Please keep your Copenhagen backwash hidden.  Thank you.

Traveling in sweats that look like PJs.  I’m 44, which I don’t consider to be very old, but I remember a time when people tried to look nice when they arrived for a visit with their distant relatives and friends.  I suppose maybe airline travel has become such an uncomfortable inconvenience that you feel obliged to make yourself as comfortable as possible, but please…can you at least try to look as though you bathed before I have to sit with my shoulder pressed against you for three hours?

Breast implants.  Okay, these are a good thing for reconstructive surgery, but on behalf of all men everywhere, I’m going to apologize for making you feel you need enhancement to improve your self image.  Here’s something for you to ponder while you’re looking through the catalog in your plastic surgeon’s office: You’re not catering to triple-digit IQs by getting big boobs with an unnatural shape.  

Tattoos on the small of a woman's back.  What is this about?  Girls, here’s a clue: the small of your back is one of the few parts of your body that you can rely on in the face of gravity.  Along with the nape of your neck, it’s seriously overlooked as an erogenous zone, but putting a tattoo here to get guys to look at that part of you is like putting a 60-foot billboard on a beach that says, “This Would Be A Good Place To Play Volleyball!”  

I may make this a regular feature…what do you think?

Travellers

I had an excellent Thanksgiving weekend, and should have pictures to put up soon. I believe they’re on a disc that’s still in my suitcase, and at the moment, I’m too lazy to go get it to see.

The trip up to my parents’ place in Wyoming was an interesting one, and filled with inspiration for my blog and for my novel.

One encounter that left me feeling rather thoughtful was with a willowy redhead in the San Diego International Airport, before we’d even left for Casper. I noticed her coming up the stairs as my daughters and I waited in line to go through security. She headed for the ticket counters, and we, of course, had to get through security. Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing behind her in the line for Starbucks. As I said, she was a redhead, and redheads have freckles…and we know how I feel about freckles. As I stood behind her, looking for any excuse at all to strike up a conversation, her boyfriend joined her. I’m assuming he was her boyfriend…he stepped up and planted a kiss on her lips. I politely looked away, but as I did so, I caught her looking me in the eye as her boyfriend kissed her, looking like Nicole Kidman on the Eyes Wide Shut poster. As soon as he’s done kissing her, she apologizes to him for making him stand in line for coffee, but says she’s addicted to Starbucks and that she’ll be grumpy until she gets some.

“This guy knows what I’m talking about,” she says, fixing me with pale green eyes. “Don’t you?”

We agree that coffee is an addiction, and we are connected for a moment, to the exclusion of her decaffeinated boyfriend. She allows her guy to encroach on her space, but without enthusiasm, and I suspect her conversation with me is a sign that she’s pissed off at him and I’ve been enlisted to help with the torture process.

On the flight to Salt Lake City, an impossibly pretty dude and his girlfriend are sitting in front of me, looking snuggly-cute with her head in his lap. That is, until he jams his backpack under his own seat so that he can stretch out his feet under the seat in front of him. When he hits my feet, he simply pushes harder until I instinctively move them out of the way. I kick back. This is MY space, dammit! “Place carry on items securely in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you.” He shoves harder, and my legroom disappears for good. No matter how cutesy the couple may be, this guy, with his artfully shiny hair style and sunglasses perched on top of his head, is just another jerk who thinks the rest of us are here to make room to suit his whim. I spent the next hour deliberately squishing the contents of his bag with my feet. I am gearing up for a New Year’s Resolution: I will no longer feel obligated to accommodate anyone's rudeness.

With any luck, he had a tube of toothpaste in his backpack.

Thirteen Minutes

Generally, when I tell people about my job, they nod appreciatively. I make a difference, they say.

This is true. I have made a difference. Many of those who participated in the opening weeks of the war were former students of mine, long since gone past the point of needing my tutelage, but nevertheless, they learned when they studied with me. And they did well.

Back when I was in the Navy, when I'd tell people what I did then, they'd nod appreciatively and issue exclamations: "Cool!" I had a reasonably sexy job, when I was in the Navy. Not SEAL Team sexy, not fighter jock sexy, but Big Explosion Sexy. My handiwork on CNN sexy. Wolf Blitzer Sitting On A Baghdad Rooftop And Silently Watching The Show sexy.

But right now, with something less than thirteen minutes left on the time of flight (BOOM!) for this simulation, on the Wednesday (BOOM!) afternoon before Thanks(BOOM!)giving(BOOM!), I'm thinking (BOOM!) that this is a little...no, a lot less exciting than watching paint dry.

And actually, that's not such a bad thing.

BOOM!

Weasels At The Door

I should start by thanking Lisa for this idea.  When she wrote about how her doctor assessed her age and appearance, she reminded me of an incident that happened several years ago, thanks to my ex-wife.  The incident in question happened eight years ago, when I was 36.  I’ve always thought I looked young, and even now at 44, I haven’t even got crow’s feet.  

But let me digress for a moment:

For as long as I’ve known her, my ex-wife has been what I will politely refer to as a “money gatherer”.  Throughout our marriage, even when I handled the bills, she had an uncanny ability to save money.  Though our combined income was more than seventy thousand a year (fifteen years ago), she would grudgingly allow me twenty dollars a week spending cash, out of which, I was to buy my lunches.  She’d somehow manage to keep herself to less than five dollars a week.  I knew very well how dearly she valued a dollar.

In retrospect, I should have realized that when we divorced, she’d still value my dollars very dearly.

I know.  Every ex-husband on the planet complains about his financial woes every time he thinks of his wallet.

This is not the same thing.  Seriously, I never begrudged her a share of my retirement check.  While I was serving the country, she made sacrifices, too…not the least of which was putting her career on hold for the first five years of our marriage while the Navy and I moved us from place to place.  I figure she’s entitled to half of what I earned in retirement for the period we were married, and coincidentally, that’s how the California courts think, too.

As a cynical former co-worker used to say, “You never really know a woman until you’ve faced her in court.”  The value my ex-wife places on a dollar became painfully clear the moment we set foot in the courthouse.  She insisted on a straight fifty-fifty split of my military retirement, though we’d only been married for eight years and eight months, which was just about half of the time I’d been on active duty by then.  So, while she would rightfully be entitled to a quarter of my retirement, she insisted on half.  It became a contentious point, and we fought over it for more than a year.  

By “fought over it”, I mean that we would basically recite Monty Python’s “Argument Sketch” through our attorneys:

Me: Oh, this is futile!
Her: No, it isn’t.
M: This really isn’t an argument.  It’s just contradiction.
H: No, it isn’t.
M: Yes it is! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.
H: No, it isn’t.
M: Yes, it is!  It’s not just contradiction.
H: Look, if I argue with you, I must take up a contrary position.
M: Yes, but it isn’t just saying ‘No, it isn’t’.
H: Yes, it is!
M: No, it isn’t!
H: Yes, it is!
M: Argument is an intellectual process.  Contradiction is just the automatic gainsaying of any statement the other person makes.
H: No, it isn’t.

All this at $175 an hour.  

For a year and a half.

Finally, I asked the court to rule on the issue, and because I was still on active duty and might not even serve out my twenty years, the judge decided that there was not yet any retirement to even discuss and further, since my official state of residence was Connecticut and not California, my ex-wife should take it up with Connecticut at the appropriate time.

Now, it is possible for a service member to request retirement up to eighteen months before his or her date of eligibility for retirement.  My ex-wife knew this, and mere seconds after the eighteen month clock started counting down, she called me to ask what my plans for retirement were.

I had none.  I patiently explained to her that filing my request for retirement made me ineligible for promotion, and that I wasn’t ready to close the door on that just yet.  She insisted that I submit my retirement papers immediately.  I refused, and I held firm.  

All of this leads to the amusing part of our story.

One Sunday evening in December, I came back unexpectedly from an exercise at sea.  No one could have anticipated my being home that night; I’d been gone for six days, was scheduled for another eight days underway, and only an engineering casualty on the ship had prompted our return that night.  

There was a knock at the door.  When I opened my front door, there stood one of the most bizarre-looking characters I have ever encountered.  He stood about five-foot-eight, and wore a long black leather jacket which was open enough to reveal the t-shirt and suspenders underneath.  His pants were baggy and purple, and looked as though they were intended to be the bottom half of a zoot suit.  A yellow fedora completed the ensemble.  

I am not making this up.

He looked like one of the weasel henchmen from Who Framed Roger Rabbit?.

He spoke.  “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Keemberlee Kebbofitch.”  He held out a large manila envelope.  “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

It dawned on me that he was asking for my ex-wife.  “Dude,” I said, unable to contain my amusement, “she lives in Arizona.”

He looked bewildered for a moment, frowned at the address on the envelope, and asked, “Areezona?”

“Yes.”

He frowned again, looked up at me and asked, “Keemberlee Kebbofitch?”

I decided he was stupid, and said curtly, “Dude.  She’s. Not. Here.”  I closed the door and snapped the bolt home.

The next morning, the manila envelope was on my doorstep.  He’d been a process server attempting to serve me with papers informing me of my ex-wife’s petition to the Connecticut courts for half of my military retirement.

On the paperwork attached to the outside of the envelope, he’d described me as “overweight balding male, aged mid to late forties.”

I hate weasels.

In Their Flowing Cups Remember'd

I always get a lump in my throat at military retirements.

It isn’t the awards or the mementos they’re given, nor is it the ritual of the ceremony.

Part of it, I am sorry to say, is jealousy. At most retirements, recognition is given to the retiree’s wife, for her role in his faithful service. I didn’t have that at my retirement, and I feel as though I missed out. I didn’t have a wife or girlfriend waiting on the pier for me when I returned from any of my four deployments. True, I was married for one of those deployments, but my then-wife showed up an hour late for our homecoming, reluctant to drag herself from her lover’s bed.

So the part where the retiring sailor gives flowers to his wife and thanks her for getting him through a long hard career only reminds me of how lonely my life has been.

Another reason for the lump in my throat is patriotism. Until a few years before the end of my Navy career, I never understood why so many veterans get misty-eyed during the Star Spangled Banner. Now, when I hear that melody, or sing those words, or see our flag being carried, it means something. The “land of the free and the home of the brave” isn’t a phrase that describes a house in my neighborhood, a house I’ve never seen the inside of, inhabited by people I sometimes wave to as I get into my car to go to work in the morning; I am free and I am brave. This is my home and that is my flag.

Patriotism turns out to be very, very personal.

The flag presented to me as a token of my service had been flown over the ship I retired in on September 11th, 2002. On the surface, it’s a small thing, being given a flag flown over what was then the Navy’s newest warship on the first anniversary of 9/11, but there were only two flags flown over the ship that day, and the other was presented to an old shipmate who’d been in the Pentagon when it was attacked, and a year later, still wore artificial skin where his own skin had been burned away.

The hardest part of any military retirement for me is when the retiree takes a few minutes to talk about their service, and to try to explain in three or four minutes what twenty-odd years has meant to them. Most of us cry during our speeches, our tears being the only way we can come close to expressing how honored we feel to have had the opportunity to make even a small contribution to the nation and the world.

I have publicly recited Shakespeare only twice in my life; the first was in Ms. Pickens’ sophomore English class (“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…”) and the second at my retirement. Though Shakespeare’s Henry V’s references to Englishmen in this soliloquy make it a little jarring when applied to Americans, the sentiments are entirely apropos:

“He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian:
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,--
Be in their flowing cups remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the end of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,--
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

Gwendolyn

She came to me last night, courtesy of a new friend I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with.  The woman I’ve been waiting for, she who avoided me as I was getting to know my other characters.

Gwen has been an enigma, not out of shyness, but because of her energy.  She turns out to have a vibrancy that just makes it hard for her to stay in one place for very long.  The things she’s experienced at such a young age have led her to seek the surface of things.  She sees even the tiniest of the events of her life with astonishing depth and clarity, but she knows all too well what real pain is.

In the Spring of 1940, seventeen year old Gwendolyn lied about her age to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and supported the Royal Air Force as a radar operator.  At her first posting in June 1940, she became close friends with another one of the “radar girls”, who was engaged to a fighter pilot posted to the same air base.  When her friend’s fiancé transferred to RAF Middle Wallop, she and her friend simply packed their things and followed him there.  

It took quite a bit of talking to get them out of trouble, but Gwen managed to charm the operations officer into arranging for the two women to be posted there.  

Shortly after she settled in, she met Lew Gravenor, and fell in love.  When he left England in 1944, she was just 21, but had put a lot of living into those four years.  

And that’s all I’m telling, for now.

The Fog

A dense fog drifted along the dark streets, tendrils probing among the houses of my neighborhood, accompanied by the mood music of the fog horn.  It’s that time of year again in San Diego.  I’m reminded of the Stephen King short story entitled, “Strawberry Spring”, even though it’s the wrong time of year.

I’m also reminded of another story about Maine…

A New Yorker accustomed to early morning walks at home continued the habit during his vacation in Rockport.  He was especially impressed by the determined lobstermen, heading out into the impenetrable fog that rolled in every day before dawn.

He’d noticed that none of the lobster boats seemed to have radar, so one morning, he asked one of the lobstermen how they managed to navigate the rocky, irregular coast with no radar and no visibility.

“Potatoes,” said the lobsterman, as he shoved off and disappeared into the swirling mist.

As you might have guessed, the New Yorker was thoroughly confused by this characteristically brief response, and he returned to the dock the next morning, hoping to talk the lobsterman into elaborating, even if only a little bit.

“Sir,” he asked, “how can you navigate the foggy coast with a potato?”

“Not a potato, Mister,” said the lobsterman.  “I said ‘potatoes’.  See this sack down heyuh by muh feet?”

The New Yorker nodded.

“Well, every few seconds, I reach down and grab me one them theyuh potatoes, ‘n I chuck it out ahead o’ m’boat.”

Feeling he’d been had, the New Yorker sputtered, “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard!  Throwing a potato can help you navigate?”

“Ayuh,” said the lobsterman.  “If I don’t hear a splash, I stop.”

Good Night, and Good Luck

I didn’t know anything about Edward R. Murrow’s on air battle with Senator Joe McCarthy until tonight.  I’m still not entirely sure I do know anything, but George Clooney’s film Good Night, and Good Luck was good theatre.  

David Strathairn’s portrayal of Murrow was hard-edged, and seemed resoundingly true.  His Ed Murrow was a man of towering integrity and self-effacing humility.  If I’d known him, I’m almost certain I’d have liked him, and absolutely positive that I’d have been awed by his presence.

The stand-out moment of the film is when, in the seconds before going on air with a piece that pulls apart McCarthy’s own statements, he dryly jokes with CBS’s chief executive that he's about to bring down the network.  Both men know that there is the real possibility that may happen, yet the show airs anyhow.  Murrow’s integrity is so far above reproach that the network stakes its very existence on it.  

When we got home tonight, I thanked my daughter for suggesting that we go see this picture, and I told her that whatever she chooses to do in her life, she should aspire to that kind of integrity.  As a father, it’s my dearest wish that she know the admiration and support of her colleagues in the way that Murrow did.

History

My boss sent me an e-mail the other day, asking if I had ever heard of Martin Kalbfleisch, mayor of Brooklyn for three terms between 1861 and 1871.  He (my boss) is reading a book about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, and Martin’s name figures prominently in the building of the bridge.

I did a Google search this evening and learned that Martin Kalbfleisch was born in The Netherlands in 1804, and went to sea when he was 18.  At the age of 22, he emigrated to New York City, where he found work as a clerk, and then as a chemist.  Eventually, he founded a chemical factory, which he ran for nearly twenty years, until he was elected mayor of Brooklyn in 1861.  A year later, he joined the U.S. Congress as a Democrat, but returned to New York after a single term and was elected mayor again in 1867.  He parted company with the Democratic Party while in office, and was defeated in 1871 when he ran for reelection as an Independent.

Construction on the Brooklyn Bridge began in 1869, while Martin was in office.  He was apparently involved to a great extent in the political dealings that were needed to get the project started, and he was (at least if you believe David McCullough’s account) quite the smokey-back-room politician.  Deals were made, and Martin Kalbfleisch’s not inconsiderable wealth made all the difference.

(Of course, he also built the first public school in Green Point, New York, so he couldn’t have been that bad a guy.)

So, back to the original question…yes, I knew of Martin Kalbfleisch.  He’s my Great-great-great-grandfather.

So, I feel a bit of a connection to the Brooklyn Bridge.  

What about you?  Anybody interesting in your family’s history?

It Ain't My Imagination

I have to say that when I began my blog, the last thing I ever expected was to make friends.  

It began with Craig’s List, and reading a Best Of post that gave a link to Kristy Sammis’ blog.  Her self-effacing humor and genuineness inspired me to begin my own, and I hoped that I might find a voice of my own that people might find entertaining.  

Almost immediately, Sherri discovered me and posted my blog’s first comment.  I’m sure that she discovered me by the link to my profile that goes up when a blogger posts a comment on another blogger’s site, and I’d just commented on one of Kristy’s posts.  However she found me, the warm reception was enough to draw me in completely.

The important thing, of course, is that I’m writing.  I’m a writer, and I am actively writing.  I knew, of course, that when I began to write, it would also become important to be read.  That’s happening, too.  

What I did not expect (and by “did not expect”, I mean I was taken completely off guard) was that people would care about what I had to say.  And not just what I had to say, but what I had to say next.  

All of this makes it seem like it’s all about me, that it was always about me, but that’s not the case.  Okay, it is the case, but there’s a growing list of sites I check every day, and sometimes more than once a day.  Because I care about what they have to say.  (Even if, like LJ, they don’t use words.)

Once in a while, these terrific people step off the page and send an e-mail or an IM, and a conversation ensues.  I love what that happens!  One minute, you’re chatting about the writing process and the next, you’re on the phone until the cheesecake cools enough to be put in the fridge.  Out of these small connections there sometimes comes a moment that pops like a flashbulb, an instant in which an Imaginary Internet Friendship becomes real, starting with the two words that mark the beginning of every friendship everywhere: “You, too?”

As friendships grow, real friends challenge each other to grow and change.  It’s been my experience that the best friends deliver that challenge without effort…it just happens, and you find yourself sitting in stunned silence in the wake of an epiphany.

I. Love. That.

So this has become so much more to me than “looking for ways to procrastinate”, as Ramblin’ Girl wrote in her first post.  It’s about broadening horizons, wisdom from unexpected sources, and friendships that I hope will continue to grow.

The Advocate

A little more than two weeks ago, a dear friend – a magnificent woman – was drugged, beaten, and raped.

I could not begin to tell you her story…it’s one for her to tell, if she chooses, when she’s ready.  Today, I’m writing my story, because she’s said it’s okay for me to claim a subplot to her story.  This is about the experience of learning that someone I love has been brutalized.

She and I have not been lovers for more than a year, but we remain friends and she came to me because I used to volunteer as a rape crisis advocate.  She knew that I would know what she should do.  

Rape crisis advocacy is not something one enters into lightly.  To be sure, it doesn’t require a master’s degree, but neither is it a “read this pamphlet, and we’ll call you when we need you” kind of volunteer position.  Even in the emergency room, the rape crisis advocate is nearly always the individual with the best understanding of how to handle the situation appropriately.  The training is intense and frightening, and still nowhere near enough to prepare you for the first time you walk into an emergency room and introduce yourself to someone whose life has just been irrevocably and involuntarily changed.  Quite honestly, nothing – not even experience – can prepare you for the tenth time, nor the twentieth time.  Every one is different.

And yet, every one is the same.  The rape victim is confused, disoriented by the experience, unable to focus, and has trouble making even simple decisions.  Not one will seek immediate medical attention voluntarily, and even though they will all admit that they need to be seen by a doctor, they quite understandably don’t want to be examined as closely as they know they’ll need to be.  They never want to deal with the police, no matter how sensitive the questioning may be.  They will all have to be convinced to submit to a forensic examination, mostly because there is no euphemism for it – rape kit: an ugly term if there ever was one – even though that exam nearly always makes them feel better because it’s the first thing they’re truly in control of after they’ve been assaulted.  Every single one will go through a cycle of disbelief and feelings of betrayal, crushing shame and self-blame.  And every one will just want to go home and be alone, to curl up in comfortable clothes and quietly find their solitary way out of the hollow place they’re in.

One in four women experiences this.  Believe it or not, so do at least one in ten men.  In spite of the classic image of knife-wielding strangers lurking in the shadows, three quarters of all rapes are perpetrated by someone the victim knows.  Most never report it.  

I know this last part very well; it took me 20 years to come to terms with being raped, myself.  I know the cost of not addressing it right away.  Left to themselves, most rape victims will never find their way out of that hollow place.

I received the news with no small amount of shock.  Why would anyone do this to such a sweet, wonderful woman?

It’s been a year or so since I’ve needed my “Go Binder”, the green notebook containing all the materials I’d generally need when I got the call – flyers, pamphlets, phone numbers, pens, note paper, a copy of an old San Diego PD PowerPoint brief  entitled, “Drug-Facilitated Sexual Assaults”.  The binder was right where I left it, in the trunk of my car, a habit I’d acquired because the director of the advocacy program thought I was good at it, and she would often call me when I was not on call.  

My friend was right; I knew exactly what to do.  I answered her questions, gave her phone numbers and addresses and recommendations.  “I’ll come get you, if you want.  I’ll take you to the ER and stay with you, right there, through it all.  I know what they’ll need to do, and what they’ll want to do, and if you don’t understand something, I can explain it.  I’ll make sure the police are nice to you.  They’re going to tell you that you should have a forensic exam done even if you don’t think you’re going to press charges, because if you have it done, then you still have a choice about pressing charges, but if you don’t have it done and you change your mind, there’s nothing you can do.  If you’re sure you won’t want to press charges, I’ll stop them from trying to talk you into it.  I’ll make sure that the ER staff doesn’t forget about you.  I’ll ask the questions you won’t think of until much later, and I’ll hold your hand and remind you that you’re going to be okay, that this wasn’t your fault, and we’ll get through this because you’re amazing and wonderfully strong, even if you don’t feel like it right now.”  And oh, by the way, I love you, and why the hell would anyone do this to YOU?

She very sweetly declined, not wanting to go to the ER, not wanting to be poked and prodded, not wanting to tell her story over and over again to strangers, or for that matter, to anybody.  

I wanted to scoop her up like a little girl, to hold her without a word until she felt better, to do something, anything to take away her pain, or at least see her safely through it.  In the end, I could only tell her that I understood and remind her that if she needed anything at all, she could call any time.

When we hung up the phone, I felt empty.  Drained.  Hollow-by-proxy.

I have sat with the loved ones of rape victims, quietly listening as they wrestled with their own shock and disbelief and anger, but I never related to them as well as I did with the victims themselves; I had no frame of reference.  In answer to their fears and questions, I have only been able to tell them a little of what their friend or fiancée or wife may be feeling, and to expect changes in the future.  The things I said at those times offered little in the way of consolation: things are different now, she needs your unconditional love and support, he needs your understanding while he comes to terms with this.

That afternoon, I was both advocate and friend.  I knew all the things I should do to help her though her crisis, but my love for my friend made the right choices more difficult.  I trust her completely, but I also know that, very often, those who have been raped have difficulty making appropriate choices.  Shock and shame cloud their judgment.

As her friend, I wanted to shield her from making the wrong choices, to prove to her that what happened to her was not her fault.  In short, I wanted to rescue her.  

But as an experienced advocate, I knew that the most important thing I could do for her was to give her control, to present her with options and honor the choices she makes.  It’s a course that runs entirely against my instincts, but I chose it anyway.  In the end, it probably makes me a better friend.

I’ve checked in with her every couple of days since then, just to see how she’s doing.  I haven’t pressed her to talk.  Until today, I haven’t reminded her that she needs to seek counseling.  She says she’s doing better, so well that she feels guilty about not feeling worse, which is perfectly natural.  

As for me, I’ve been taking advantage of the opportunity to look at my “rescuer instincts” up close, and struggling to find the words to write this post.  It’s an important post; a keyword search that leads to this post ought to be rewarded with a useful take-away.   For that reason, I hope you’ll forgive me if I close with a bit of a public service message…

If you know someone who has been raped:

• Remain calm and be sensitive


• Don’t ask unnecessary questions like, “Why were you there? Did you fight back?”  Sexual assault is neither sought nor caused by the victim


• Find out what she or he would like you to do, then do it


• Remind them how courageous they are for sharing this with you


• Respect their privacy, and maintain strict confidentiality


• Don’t joke about the trauma; you will only increase the victim’s feeling of isolation


• Offer to help them get medical treatment and counseling

Never forget the most important thing you can do for a person who has been raped: Let them make their own choices about what’s best for them.

1851.85 Per Day, or Bust!

This is thanks to Princess Diaree, who suggested I check out NaNoWriMo.

I'm taking this evening, or more precisely, the next hour, to come up with a subject.

I only need to write 50,000 words before November 30th. That's almost 1852 words per evening.

This will not be Shakespeare. No, this is a project that asks the Zen question, "If an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of computers for an infinite period of time could come up with all the great works of literature, what could one monkey with one computer produce in just under four weeks?"

I'm aiming low, but I'm gonna have fun doing it.

Google-plexity

I had an interesting experience not long ago. Those of you who are still dating, I wonder how many of you Google your dates? I’m guilty of it…once. (I Googled Freckles. I am not proud of that fact. Also, I found nothing.)

A couple weeks before I wrote this post, I ran through the data collected by my counter, and found that someone had reached my site by searching for my name, first and last. A couple of times. Turns out it was a woman I’d gone to lunch with, around the same time I was trying to get Freckles’ attention. What bothered me about this wasn’t that I’d been Googled, it was that I am certain that I had not told the woman my last name.

Happy Halloween, yo.

Turns out that my computer told her, but I didn't know that until this morning.

Regardless of how she came by that information, there wasn’t any spark, and that was that. We had similar backgrounds (had even been to the same liberty port at the same time twelve years ago, and remembered the same party there), but it was hard to sustain a conversation with her.

Sunday night, I took a woman out for a first date dinner. I’d posted an ad online and she responded. We’d spent an evening exchanging excited e-mails, talked on the phone the next night, and both come to the conclusion that we were dealing with cool people. We apparently have a lot in common: both movie fans, we liked the same TV shows (and I can’t tell you how rare it is to find someone online who doesn’t like “Survivor” or any other reality show), have similar sense of humor…there’s more, but I won’t bore you with the details.

The beginning of the date went well. She was attractive and funny, a good conversationalist. She wore an off-the-shoulder top, which she kept pulling down to keep her shoulders bare. She kept doing that thing that women do with their fingernails lightly tracing along their throats…you know that thing…dead give away that she’s attracted.

At some point, the conversation turned to how unhappy she is at work, and she stopped all her shoulder-baring and throat-stroking. When I suggested we go for a walk after dinner, she agreed, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it and she was just being polite. I tap danced as much as I could, but to no avail.

This afternoon, I got the e-mail. You know the one: “…I think I need to be up front and let you know that although I did have a nice time, I just didn't feel there was any of the chemistry that both of us are looking for .. so at this point I don't feel a second date is in our best interest.”

I’m at a loss for words. If this is the first time you’re reading this blog, I invite you to check out my older posts so that you can appreciate how rarely this happens.

I am at a loss because two people who seemed to have so much in common and similar tastes, who began the evening feeling at least a modicum of attraction for each other, might not be worth exploring for another two hours in another venue a few days later. (Okay, it’s possible that her throat itched, but not that much; it was dark, but I would have noticed a rash. Really.)

I should have known better. Since watching her drive away on Sunday night, I’ve had one question repeating in my head: “Online dating. How’s that workin’ for ya?”

Not so good. Rarely has.

And here’s why. In spite of all the things in common, she’s turned out to be just another one of those people who feels that the guy buying dinner could be replaced with someone potentially better after ten minutes of searching on Match.com.

Fuck the Internet.

I know, I sound a little angry, but honestly, I’m just disappointed in myself for going there again, when it so clearly hasn’t worked for me. And thanks to RadiantSmile for asking this question (a favorite of Dr. Phil’s), “What’s the payoff?” I know what the payoff is for me…it’s a reinforcement of all the negative tapes I play in my head.

So, no, I’m not angry, I’m just feeling stupid.

What I should be doing is paying attention to the women I meet by chance wherever. The cute little waitress in the Greek place I went to for lunch today. The woman who strikes up a conversation in the Post Office. The cashier in my neighborhood grocery store who smiles when she sees me.

You see, there’s a natural order to things. People are attracted to what they can see, regardless of how evolved we want to pretend to be and say that it’s the mind that matters. Yes, it is the mind the matters, because that’s what keeps you going when you look at each other and think, “not looking so good right now.” The connection you establish on an emotional and intellectual level is the sustainer…but the initial glance and the acknowledgement that “yeah, I’d go there”, that’s the booster that gets the whole shebang in the air.

Who am I to mess with what’s worked so well for this long?

How to Have a Quiet Halloween

I don't know about you, but I plan to post this sign on my door:

WE HAVE DELICIOUS BROCCOLI TREATS!!!

Hey, I Gotta What If...

One of my favorite movies, “The Majestic”, begins with that line. It’s so full of possibilities, that line, and then the off-screen voice goes on to describe an idea so devoid of possibilities that it barely qualifies as an idea.

I’ve been mulling over the problem of attraction lately. Whenever I meet a woman, no matter what the circumstances, I ask myself, What if? What if she's attracted to me? What if she's not? The debate paralyzes me.

Why have I been unattached for so long? There’s no doubt I’ve chosen this path, to a certain extent, but I cannot and will not take full responsibility for it. I, who believe wholeheartedly in personal responsibility.

There have been opportunities in the last five years. With perhaps two exceptions, the women I’ve met in that time have been unattractive or unattracted to me. Those two women with whom things clicked? There were Reasons It Could Never Be. No, neither of them was involved when we met, it’s just that life is often more…complicated…than we’d often like it to be.

I know that location has a great deal to do with what’s considered attractive; here in California, most folks place tremendous emphasis on the physical, and the words “athletic” or “fit” being the most commonly used adjectives in the online personal ads I’ve read locally. As one woman wrote, “Disney really ruined it for our generation.”

Maybe that’s the problem: we don’t want to just be in love, we want to be in love in a movie.* Okay, but how can we forget that Belle got to know her true love when he was still the Beast?

Stephanie Klein writes, “I need someone extraordinarily talented. I need to be in awe, and feel proud of the man I’m with. It can’t be because of how well he treats me, but rather I need someone powerful and charged, someone extraordinary, put on this earth to make a difference. I need to look up to him. That’s my type.”

Gets right to the heart of it, doesn’t she?

How do you get to the point of being certain that the person you’re with is capable of making a difference? Is it possible to spot the extraordinary over a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?

I don’t think it is.

I think it takes time. Ten dates, at least. And even then…there will be questions. Most women relentlessly test the men they’re with until they’re sure. If they’re insecure, they continue to test them after they’re sure.

But getting to the point where there’s a second date…how does one do that? It’s a question I’ve wrestled with for a while now.

Stephanie may have given us a hint when she wrote that she needs someone powerful. That’s really what’s been missing in me lately. I am an accomplished man, professionally and personally. I’m well read, smart, funny, and reasonably sane. I do possess a certain amount of power on certain levels, and there’s no question that I’ve made a difference in the world.

But, on first meeting, I don’t project it. I don’t. Why is that?

My astonishing friend LJ and I went out for dinner one night about a year and a half ago, when she and I were still lovers. We sat at the bar instead of a table, because she’s a wonderfully social creature and she likes to be able to talk to people. On this particular evening, she spied two college-age women, standing ten feet from us and looking very thoroughly bored. Before I knew it, she’d introduced herself and invited them over for a drink. After maybe five minutes of introductory small talk, LJ excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, and left me to carry on the conversation with these two attractive young women – not a situation I have ever felt comfortable with. To my surprise, the conversation continued to flow, and when she came back, this dear woman simply stood back and watched with a knowing smile. Later, when we were walking back to the car, she wrapped herself around my right arm and said, “The blonde was into you, did you notice that?” Yes, I had. “So now you know,” said she, “it’s not just me. Other women, even women half your age, think you’re attractive.”

I’d forgotten that story until this evening. Sorry, LJ…that was a helluva gift.

What is it about that lesson that’s so hard for me to accept?

I think I make a choice…I’ve caught myself at it more than once…to avoid doing those things that attracted bad relationships in the past. After all, if I don’t have any relationships, I can’t have another bad one, right? So on meeting someone new, I withdraw, and hide the qualities that might make me attractive.

I justify this behavior by citing how seldom I’ve met someone I’d actually want to date long term. The odds that the next woman I meet will be extraordinary are slim, so why bother?

Hey, I got a what if: what if she is?

Because maybe. Just maybe.



* Shout out to Nora Ephron: Yo, Nora! ‘Sup?!?

Something Wicked This Way Comes...

I have a couple posts in the works, but since last night, I've been thinking about a post about a little tradition my daughter and I have for Halloween: The All Night Scary Movie Festival.

It's not a terribly original post idea, and it seems that Wordnerd got there first, sort of, but so be it. And besides, I'm going to be talking about the movies and not the things that scare me. So, chill.

My daughter moved back to San Diego to live with me when she was fourteen. She and her mother had stopped getting along (okay, she'd gotten sick of her mother's shit, if you want the truth). If a fourteen year old girl wants to leave her entire circle of friends and move to another state, it has to be Important-with-a-capital-I. What sold me on the idea...not that I wasn't immediately thrilled that she'd asked to come live with me...was that her friends all thought she should move, too.

So, when she got here, I did my level best to make sure there were things for us to do together that could become father-daughter traditions...things she'd look back on fondly twenty years from now. The problem with teenagers is that they're changing faster than anybody wants them to. Faster, even, than they want to, themselves. I remember how I felt when the things I loved as a boy were suddenly off-limits as I got older. It sucked.

When my daughter came to me in October that year and said she wanted to go Trick-or-Treating with her girlfriend, I didn't want to just say, "No, you're too old for that."

I offered an alternative: An all-night scary movie festival.

She's a bigger movie-buff than I am, so she enthusiastically embraced the idea.

That first year, we watched, "The Others", "The Shining" (with Jack Nicholson), and "Signs". We had "Poltergeist", and the original "Carrie" waiting in the wings, but we both faded around 1 am.

Last year, she suggested that we do it again, and she chose, "The Village", "The Sixth Sense", and a couple others we didn't get around to watching because we...well...we both faded around 1 am. "Carrie" remains in cellophane.

This year, I've commandeered the list. I considered "It" and "The Stand", because Halloween just isn't, without Stephen King. But this year, the list was almost predestined...my daughter is busily reviewing movies released in 1925 as part of a tribute to her high school's 80th anniversary, so we'll begin with the original "Phantom of the Opera" with Lon Chaney, Sr. (Interesting side note: when I asked the otherwise very knowledgeable Suncoast Video Guy if they had a copy of "the original Phantom", he said, "Did you check new releases?" Uh, no, this one starred Lon Chaney. "Who?" The Man of a Thousand Faces? He stared at me, blankly. "When was it released?" 1925, I said. "Hmm," said he, "sooo, I'm guessing it's not a musical.")

Because my daughter scoffed at "Aliens vs. Predator", we'll also be watching "Alien" (the director's cut from 2003), "Carrie" (at last), and both versions of "House of Wax" (though I am convinced that the Vincent Price version will be creepier, I plan to thoroughly enjoy Paris Hilton's demise in the more recent version.)

It should be a good night.

Word Search

A number of my fellow bloggers have posted about the often bizarre and disturbing keywords that have led to their sites, and I thought I’d check it out myself.  After all, it’d have to be entertaining, right?

In the last two days, 46% of you got to my site looking for Kristy Sammis.  She’s got a great blog, and though I haven’t posted any comments there in months, it’s nice to know that I can bask in her reflected glory.  In fact, being a lazy person at heart, it’s extremely nice to know that I can bask in her reflected glory without having to do anything at all. If you’re looking for her, thank you for visiting, stay as long as you like, and you can find her here.

One person got here searching for Alan Funt.  Not him, personally, because he’s dead, but information about him, I’m sure.  I hope.  Anyhow, I did make reference to him in one of my posts…a favorite of mine, partly because of the fact that it will be good fodder for embarrassing my daughter at various public functions, and the rest because it’s mildly amusing in a pass-milk-through-the-nose sort of way.

A couple of folks got here using the keywords “whale watching movie”, and another used the phrase “best time for whale watching in San Diego”.  To those folks, I humbly apologize.  The title of my blog is not (and never was intended to be) an invitation.  It’s more of a statement of what’s possible, and I’m fairly sure that my office mates would not be amused at the sudden influx of tourists seeking rare glimpses of distant cetaceans.  Please note that it’s easier to see the whales from the lookout point at the Cabrillo Monument a mile down the road.  The view of them that exists from my desk is my own, private view, thank you.  It’s mine, and you can’t have it.

I am not entirely sure what led one person to use the search phrase “does a whale’s tongue weigh 4 tone”, and I am a little afraid to google that to find out the answer to the apparent question, if indeed that’s what it is.  The search engine used was Google Australia, which is interesting.  But most interesting is that the person was more literate when they began typing the search phrase than when they finished.  After all, they did use an apostrophe in the word “whale’s” but dropped an “n” in the word “tonne”, which (correct me if I’m wrong) would be the correct way of spelling “ton” if you live Down Under.  (Come to think of it, Aussies speak what is almost an entirely different language.  During my last deployment, a couple of my shipmates met a pair of local ladies, one of whom said, “Be a dear and get the doona out of the boot”, which apparently required a wildly extravagant amount of translation, all of which was unsuccessful until said young lady led my buddy to the car, opened the trunk and pulled out a blanket.)  Anyhow, I have met some positively wonderful Aussies over the years, and I apologize for not having the answer to that particular question anywhere within my blog.  

Finally, I’d like to thank the Universe for again placing the phrase “you need to find a girlfriend” where I could easily stumble across it and feel worse about being romantically unattached.  I’m not sure if it means anything, but when I wrote this post, the phrase “Kurt needs a wife” came up.  Perhaps the Universe is backing off a bit, or holds less hope for me, which is a particularly humbling thought.  Thanks for that.

Tagged

I had a long day at work today…a very long day.  Eleven hours.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am an instructor…my specialty is “distributed training”, which is to say that whenever I attend any kind of meeting or gathering or sometimes just when I’m sitting in my office, I get this reaction from people who’ve only just met me: “You’re Yoda???”  I imagine it’s somewhat akin to Jimmy Olsen’s reaction if he happened to round the corner and catch Clark Kent in a phone booth with his shirt unbuttoned.

Yes, I teach…generally through the medium of chat…and since I’m not actually in the room with my students, the instructor/trainee relationship is somewhat stunted.  You know, when you’re in a classroom, you can say to the class, “…and after you do that, then do this.”  And everyone nods and takes notes and once in a while asks a polite question.

With distributed training, you say, “…and after you do that, then do this.” And you get any of these possible responses:

• “Do this , then that?”


• “Wait one.”


• “Where is the reference for doing that?”


• “I can’t do that right now, I’ve got General Quarters.  Can we do it at 1600 this afternoon?”

And lately, what I get the most is, “No, we’re not going to do this or that, that’s not how the system works.”

To which I reply, “Okay, so you explain to me how it works.”

And (generally after a very long silence) they’ll reply, “I don’t know how it works.  I need someone to teach me.”

I had…no kidding…nine hours of that today.  The last two hours, they did as I asked, and (just imagine!) everything went deliriously well.

So when I got home today, I was really hoping I’d have a meme to respond to.  Thanks, Sherri!

So here we go:

What were you doing ten years ago?

Ten years ago, I was six months into my year-and-a-half long divorce battle.  Actually, the battle was not over whether or not to get divorced, but whether there would be anything left of me when the divorce was final.  We fought for all that time over the blank in which the court was to fill in the amount of my child support (California has a brobdingnagian formula by which the courts calculate “guideline support” and there’s no use in trying to predict it).  My attorney kept leaving it blank, figuring rightly that the judge would order whatever amount he felt like on the day of our hearing, and my ex-wife wanted a dollar amount in the blank, but was too obstreperous to say so.

I was also wildly in love with a woman named Janice, whom I’d met mere weeks after my ex-wife and I separated.  It was not a terribly good relationship for her, I’m afraid.  I was an emotional train wreck.  She, on the other hand, gave me all the reason I needed to avoid being trapped back into an awful marriage.  I am enormously grateful to her for that.

Where were you five years ago?

I was still on active duty, doing a job that has since been outsourced and given to a civilian contractor, who is, coincidentally, me.  

I was also watching helplessly as the only other long term relationship I’ve had since my divorce ground to a close.  It actually lasted until December, but the handwriting was on the wall long before that.

Where were you one year ago?

Probably sitting right here at this computer.  Or this computer’s older sibling.  

Things haven’t changed much since then, really.  My life is actually pretty stable these days!

What are your five favorite snacks?

Now, we’re getting somewhere.

1. Fudge brownies
2. Cheez-its
3. Dry-roasted peanuts
4. Chips and fire-roasted fajita salsa
5. Cinnamon Caramel Cashew ice cream

What are five songs to which you know all the words?

I’m a musician, and I know the words to a LOT of songs…so I’m going to change the question to “What are five songs you wish you knew all the words to?”

1. Baby Got Back – Sir Mixalot
2. Thirty Thousand Pounds of Bananas – Harry Chapin
3. The Bright Side of Life – Eric Idle
4. Camelot – Monty Python
5. Yakko’s World – Yakko Warner

What are five things you’d do with 100 million dollars?
1. Buy a very nice house on Sunset Cliffs
2. Buy an airplane
3. Retire
4. Set up a trust to make up the difference between what the city budgets for my daughter’s high school and what it would take to actually run the school.
5. Fund wishes for Make-a-Wish kids


What five places do you like to run away to?

1.  Just out – going for a walk clears my head
2.  Almost any place my imagination can take me

This one was hard!  I don’t often run away physically, it’s more a mental retreat for me.

What are five things you would never wear?

Oh, the possibilities are endless.

1. any uniform from Star Trek – The Next Generation
2. A “belly shirt”
3. a t-shirt emblazoned with a “Hillary For President” logo
4. sandals
5. Any item of clothing identical to what my significant other is wearing, if the intent is simply to be cute

What are your five favorite TV shows?

1.  Gilmore Girls
2.  Battlestar Galactica
3.  The West Wing
4.  House
5.  Lost

What are your five biggest joys?

1.  My daughters
2.  My parents
3.  My sister and brother-in-law
4.  My friends: Bear and RadiantSmile
5.  Art: music and books

What are your five favorite toys?

1.  My flight simulator
2.  Tivo – yes, it’s a toy.  An essential toy.
3.  My guitar
4.  My work…yep, I love my job that much.
5.  This position is available.  If you’re female, smart, funny, attractive and sane, and you’d like to learn more about this position, and perhaps actually be my favorite toy, drop me a line.

Five people to pass this on to:

1. Ramblin’ Girl
2. Gray Shyro
3. Betty
4. Etchen
5. Chloe

Object Lesson

Once again, Stephanie Klein touches me, this time with her post on rejection. I’d dealt with the subject, here, in a passing way, and I won’t revisit it.

No, what moved me about Stephanie’s post was how a careless remark from or action by someone we love can shape our view of the world.

Such things are unavoidable, of course, because none of us has any way of knowing what another person holds dear and how they’ll react to what we say and do. And if we stop to consider everything we say and do, we’ll never say or do anything, out of fear that we’ll hurt someone.

The trick is to find some balance between compassion and inaction.

My father is one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met. He is thoughtful, considerate, kind, gentle, honorable, and wise. He is my hero, my friend, my biggest fan…he’s my dad, after all.

He and I were featured in a PBS special on the Navy’s Tiger Cruise program, which at the time was for fathers and sons: Dad or Son would fly out to the last port a ship visits before returning home, and ride the ship back. On this trip, Dad flew to Hawaii to meet my ship. During the trip, the PBS crew took my dad aside and interviewed him about the experience. I don’t remember the question that prompted my dad to say this, but at one point, my dad said, “It’s indescribable, when you see your son has become a man…” He hesitated a moment, his chin quivering and his eyes misty. Later that day, he took this picture of me receiving an award…

You can see the cameraman in the background. The photo is a tad out of focus, because my dad was misty-eyed again…a moment later, he bowed his head and wiped his eyes, and the TV camera caught him at it.

I could go on about the things my dad has done…no son as ever been prouder, or loved his father more.

I have a memory, from when I was perhaps six or seven, of going to the airport to watch the airplanes take off and land. It wasn’t an airshow…it was just a normal day in Windsor Locks. But even then, I was fascinated with airplanes, and I couldn’t get enough.

Then, as now, I was supremely strong-willed, and hated to do what was expected of me for its own sake.

When it was time for us to go, I flatly refused to get into the car. I was determined that we’d stay longer. I threw a temper tantrum. My dad, as calm as ever, did and said everything he could think of to get me to get into the car on my own. He didn’t raise his hand to me…he simply tried to reason with this unreasonable boy, while airplanes roared overhead.

I don’t remember how long we…discussed…it before my dad got into the car, looked at me standing there and said, “Get in the car, or I’m leaving without you.”

I still refused. I don’t remember how many times he made that offer, but I know it was more than once.

And then, he did it. He drove off.

I stood there in the middle of that dirt parking lot, breath coming in hitches, my fists clenching and unclenching, as the shock of being left behind washed over me. I felt abandoned.

Of course, he drove to the end of the dirt lane that led to the lookout spot where we’d been…where I still was…turned around and came back. He was out of my sight for perhaps thirty seconds, but the relief I felt when he came back was indescribable.

I expressed my relief in the form of anger, and I remember that he had a hard time not laughing at me and my impotent, little boy rage. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted to stay.”

I haven’t thought of that afternoon in years, but I can tell you how that incident shaped my world: my greatest fear is of being abandoned. It most often manifests itself in romantic relationships. When I was at sea, I was secretly terrified of falling overboard, because I knew exactly what it would feel like to watch the ship steaming away from me.

Is it my father’s fault that I am terrified of being abandoned? Nope. It’s mine. He offered me the opportunity to go with him, more than once, and there does come a time when an object lesson is required. I would not be the man I have become without that lesson. I needed to be shown that it’s possible to push too far.

I watch myself with my daughters, to see if I’ve done any harm. They are astonishing young women, though I really can’t take more than partial credit, and though I’m confident that they’d grow up healthy and normal and strong, I’m just as confident that they’ll one day have to deal with a weakness of some kind that I imparted to them.

If I do, perhaps they’ll forgive me for it.

Haiku Moments

I have mentioned before that I write haiku from time to time.  I began this as practice for writing, a suggestion I got from One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers by Gail Sher.

When I was in high school, I remember my English teacher…sophomore year, maybe?...giving us an assignment to write haiku.  I hated that assignment, with a passion unlike any other at that point in my life.  How could anyone write a whole poem in just seventeen syllables?  I struggled over every word, and I don’t recall ever putting one on the page.  

I get it now.

Turns out that my instinct was right about the limitation imposed by the fixed number of syllables.  The structure isn’t as important as these three things:

• the literal meaning is pleasing


• there is a deeper meaning


• it offers the reader a moment of enlightenment

Haiku are about living in the moment.

With this realization, I bought one of those blank, lined, hardback journals.  Looking at it now, I remember the moment when I created that first poem; it was in the car, immediately after I left the book store.

Black coffee
Sweetly steaming perfect cup –
Full of life

I’m not sure that meets all three of the elements I listed, but there it is.

There is humor in some of what I’ve written:

cobweb gathers dust
is it spider or I who
needs to clean the house?

Eyelids droop. There’s a
curious euphoria
in being this tired

And melancholy…

Moonbeam alights on
wall too thin for privacy
What is she watching?

There are those which capture how I felt when first in love.

she owns the mirror
black frilled femininity
twirls my breath away

Standing by her car
her embrace is a surprise
I feel unworthy of

We touch. I wonder
where I end and you begin;
Fingers interlaced.

Softly sweet, your glance
at me sideways makes me blush;
When can I kiss you?

unexpectedly
she sings.  it is a moment
of pure joy for me

…and a very few that speak of that marvelous time when love is bright and strong and real:

stretched high on tip toe
only moonlight on your skin
you are breathtaking

closed eyes, I trace
slow circles on flawless skin
you rise to my touch

you moan, back arching
I want to kiss all of you
but where do I start?

I have seen you when
barely awake, yawning, shy,
you are most lovely

I’m getting back to my writing.  I took out Spitfire tonight, read through what I have of that first chapter, added a few paragraphs, some dialogue.

It felt good.