Having a cold with Lucy

So, I have a cold. Not the flu. Not some sort of bronchial disturbance. Not a sinus infection. A cold, that garden variety plague that has vexed mankind since the dawn of time and against which modern science and medicine have been powerless. As I write these words, I have industrial strength men's all cotton handkerchiefs at the ready, since the laughably inept tissues produced by Kleenex have proven completely worthless. Already, only one paragraph in, and I have availed myself of this handkerchief four times. It's been that sort of afternoon.

This day began with such promise. I actually slept reasonably well, and sneezed only once from 6 am until 8. I was breathing rather well, and all indications seemed to point to a productive day. All came a cropper around noon when my nasal passages became overrun by a host of microscopic organisms of unknown specie who gleefully began lashing the ends of my nose hairs with the tail feathers of the world's smallest bird. At each such lashing, which I felt from my cowlick all the way down to my in grown toenail, my body began its coiled response to the invader. I could feel the birth of each sneeze somewhere around my hip area, then the three or four seconds it took for it to climb up into my generously sized nose. The resultant recoil and noise from each sneeze was enough to awaken Lucy, who would lift her head with her ears pinned back in terror, until she realized it was just Dad sneezing for the 50th time since he got home.

Speaking of Lucy, our girl isn't what you would call a snuggler. Sure, she sleeps on the bed with us, and rests on the sofa with Pam, but usually at the opposite end. But, today when I got home for lunch, she took one look at me and knew that something was amiss. It may have been my red and irritated nose, or perhaps the fact that my voice had dropped three octaves, from Justin Beiber to James Earl Jones. Whatever, she knew that something was up and immediately began shadowing my every move. While I ate some warmed up lasagna, she laid on the floor at my side. When I then collapsed on the bed with my head tilted upward to stop the torrent of cascading post nasal drip...she jumped up on the bed and wedged herself as close to me as she possibly could, using my body as her pillow. This despite what became a deluge of sneezes, each more intense and violent than the next. She didn't budge until I finally, mercifully, dozed off to sleep. When I awoke, she was on the floor directly under my side of the bed, looking up at me as though she thought I was going to die.

For all of you who don't quite understand why some of us own dogs (and a few select cats), this is why. For all of their slobbering, butt-sniffing, idiosyncrasies they are so intuned to us. They notice when we are sick or sad. They know. Then they set about to do something to lift our spirits. They always succeed.

Nothing Else is Maine

Lucy wants to be here...

I want to be here...

Lucy is dreaming of this...

I am dreaming of this...

But, this is February and Maine is a full 28 weeks away, or 114 weeks in dog years. And I have come down with a cold. But February is a good time to pull out your Maine pictures and look at them while blowing your nose and coughing up yellowish mucus. There will be lots of fun stuff between now and  Maine. But, nothing else is Maine. 

This Is Us...a review

Pam and I really like This is Us, a new show on NBC. It is an extremely well written, well acted and well produced drama full of compelling characters and interesting story lines. The plot centers around three siblings, Kate, Kevin and Randall...Kate and Kevin part of a triplet pregnancy where the third child was still born. Fate then enters the picture as a third baby, Randall was delivered to the hospital after being left on the steps of a nearby firehouse. Parents Jack and Rebecca decide to adopt the newborn to complete the natural triplets they had been expecting. The entire show is done in flashback mode as each character lives in real time while struggling with the memories of their past. It is a fascinating plot device that works well where it could very easily become annoying. Like every fully realized human being, each of these characters bring a lot to like and even admire to the table, along with their fair share of failings. At the bottom of it all lies a family that truly loves each other.

This brings us to this past week's episode which I have noticed has produced a torrent of praise from many of my Christian friends on Facebook for its alleged poignant life lesson. To which I say, "What...are you people on drugs???"

Here's what happened. Randall is going though a sort of mental breakdown over the fact that his long lost birth father is dying. Kevin, on the other hand, is preparing for the opening night of a play in which he is starring and producing in which he seems convinced that he is going to fail miserably. Along the way of this ill fated production, he has managed to sleep with the original lead actress as well as the playwrite herself. Literally minutes before the curtain rises on opening night, he gets a disturbing phone call from Randall, who is clearly distraught to the point of tears. As the curtain rises and the lights go up, the lead actress walks out on stage and turns to deliver the opening line to Kevin, only Kevin isn't there. He is seen running through the streets of New York to his brother's office where he finds him crying on the floor. In an admittedly heart warming scene, Kevin comes along side Randall on the floor and holds him while he cries. For this, Kevin has become a hero...for reasons that escape me.

Let's get this straight, a narcissistic Lothario walks out on his coworkers, abandoning them in the literal hour of their greatest need, and is celebrated for it? But Doug, but Doug, don't you see? He had had that talk with his step dad earlier and had been told to do what his Dad would have done! He was just following the example of family first devotion personified be his deceased and noble father, Jack!

Uh...no.

I'm pretty sure that Jack wouldn't have walked out on his commitment to his employer with no explanation, leaving them to deal with a public relations disaster, and the ridicule of all of their time and efforts. I'm thinking that perhaps Jack maybe would have called Randall's wife, sister, or mother to notify them of his distress and promise to go to him the minute the show was over.

I'm thinking that Kevin was terrified of failure, horrified at the prospect of bombing in his first live theatre performance and the withering reviews he would surely get from the New York Times reviewer in the audience. When presented with his crying brother he jumped at the chance to escape his pending failure. When it came down to fleeing or fighting, Kevin bolted, leaving the rest of the cast and crew to deal with being abandoned.

Don't get me wrong, Kevin is a quite charming figure on this show. He possesses a fine sense of humor and an ability at self-depreciation that the rest of his family could surely use. But, calm down people. If Kevin's actions described above are to be interpreted as some sort of Christian virtue, then the bar has been lowered to deathcom 5.

Greatest. Scientific. Study. Ever.

I have it on very good authority that the scientists at the University of Edinburgh are really smart. Seriously. But sometimes smart isn't the same thing as wise. Apparently, 63 years ago, the thought entered somebody's head at this fine school to do a multi-decade research project on the effects that aging might have on human personality. To the surprise of absolutely no one alive or dead, then or now, the scientists discovered that personality at age 77 is quite different than it is at age 14. Speaking as someone who used to be 14, I could have saved them a lot of time and trouble, by answering the question this way..."duh!!"

1. When I was 14, I thought that the finest movie ever made was Billy Jack.
2. When I was 14, I thought that a realistic career goal was to become a shortstop in the big leagues.
3. When I was 14, my number one obsession in life was the tantalizing prospect of getting laid.
4. When I was 14, I practiced the guitar until my fingers bled, not for the love of music, but because I thought it might help me accomplish number 3.

So, yeah. . .life at age 58 bares little resemblance to life at 14. But, it's nice to know that a group of scientists have wasted the past 60 years proving what any sentient human being could have told them if they had merely asked. The experiences of one's life do, in fact, change a person. In a perfect world, these changes improve us, burning away the haughty arrogance and pride of youth with the wisdom that comes with humility. But, sometimes the opposite occurs, where the innocence of youth gets exchanged for the cold-hearted cynicism of bitterness. For example...

1. When I was 14, I laughed a lot more than I do now.
2. When I was 14, I didn't categorize my fellow man into political factions.
3. When I was 14, I played the guitar a lot more.
4. When I was 14, I didn't even know what bitterness was.

So, it's a mixed bag. With age has come some good things, and some bad. In many ways I am better at 58, but in some ways not so much.

Hardest. Job. Ever.

Yesterday, for the fourth time in my life, I toured Monticello. Each time I learn something new, each time I come away astonished by such a life. Although he can be included on a very short list of indispensable men to the establishment and success of this country, and his contributions can never be undervalued, at his grave site, the obelisk that marks his final resting place includes only three of those contributions:

Author of the Declaration of Independence
Author of Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom
Father of the University of Virginia

Seeing it has gotten me thinking about what I would want as my epithet. What thing have I done or accomplished that I would want to be remembered for? It is a singularly clarifying exercise to think of such things. Unlike Mr. Jefferson, I don't have a ten volume book full of things to pick from. Still, it's hard to narrow it down to the most essential.

I would want to be remembered as a good son, a good friend, a good brother, uncle, and cousin because these things would suggest that I loved and cherished family. I would want to be remembered as a good husband because that would suggest that I was faithful to the most important commitment I ever made.

I suppose I would want some mention to be made of my thirty plus years of a moderately successful business career. But having just written that sentence and reading back over it, it sounds so out of place, so inconsequential. Sure, it provided the financial means to do many of the other things, but in and of itself doesn't rise to the level of "good son."

But, after much reflection, I've come to the conclusion that I would want to be remembered the most for being a good...father. The reason is simple; It is the single most difficult thing I've ever done and carries with it the greatest potential for a lasting legacy. If I raise and unleash horrible people into the world, they will continue to pollute it long after I'm gone. But, if I can gift a couple of caring, loving, compassionate and gifted people into the world, my efforts will help make the world better for the rest of eternity. Right?

But, it's so hard. You want to teach them to care about other people, but you don't want them to be taken advantage of too easily. You warn them about the dangers of loving money, but you also want them to be good stewards and know their way around a bank statement. You teach them about God, but you don't want them to wind up so heavenly minded that they're no earthly good. You want them to love and adhere to truth but also live a life full of grace towards those who disagree. You teach them to be compassionate, but not a sucker. You teach them that there is no replacement for hard work, but also compel them to stop and smell the roses. You try to teach them how to think instead of what to think, then spend the rest of your life hoping they don't start thinking stupid things. You want them to become self sufficient, but spoil them rotten every chance you get. You play the parental version of tug-of-war between pampering and pestering, too much of either and all might be lost. Hardest. Job. Ever.

So, here's the epithet for my tombstone:

Good Father.
Good Husband.
Passable Writer.
Baseball Fan.

Notice which one got top billing...

Me and George

When I wrote yesterday's post about the card, I left out some things for the sake of time. But today, I thought I would add them to give you a fuller picture of what it's actually like for a large group of men to shop for V Day cards. The following conversation may or may not have happened, with a young man who may or may not have been named George...

Like I said yesterday, there were maybe a dozen of us on the red/pink aisle, all slump-shouldered, slack-jawed in various stages of exasperation, when I noticed this one particular younger looking guy who seemed more befuddled than the rest of us. I moved over next to him, absentmindedly picked up a Peantuts card with Snoopy and Woodstock sitting on top of the dog house sharing a box of chocolates, and started talking...

Me: So, how long you been here?

George: Little over an hour.

Me: Just getting started, eh?

George: Why are these cards so horrible? How is a guy supposed to buy a card when this is all there is??

Me: Married?

George: Four years. You?

Me: Thirty-four years.

George: Whoa!!  You're like a Zen Master of V Day cards then. Can you give me some pointers?

Me: Sure. ( I showed him the Peanuts card I was holding ) First of all, never, ever buy a card with a cartoon character on the front. She'll think you're not "serious" about the relationship.

George: Yeah, but, some of the cartoon ones are pretty funny man.

Me: The last thing you're going for is funny, bro. V Day is deadly serious business. ( I then picked up another card ) But, on the other hand, this one here is also out of the question...
         
                      You're my last noble thought at dusk
                            My first wish at break of day...

Me: First of all, not true.  Usually the last thought in my head right before I drift off to sleep is something like, How come nobody makes bacon jerky?? Right??

George: No kidding! Ha! And the first thing I think when I wake up is like, Man, I've got to pee like a Russian race horse!

Me: So, poetry cards send out the wrong message too. It's like, you're trying too hard. She knows you too well, dude. She knows that your favorite work of art is that awesome Dogs Playing Poker painting that's hanging in the garage. She's not gonna buy a poetic card from you. She'll think somebody else bought it.

George: ....how did you know about my Dogs Playing Poker painting?????

Me: Lucky guess.

George: Well, if poetry doesn't work, and I can't buy a cartoon one, how am I ever going to get out of this store?!

Me: Settle down brother. Answer this question...do you really love this woman?

George: (heavy sigh)...more than anything actually.

Me: Good. That's half the battle right there. That means that there is a card here somewhere that will speak to you. You've just got to find it.

George: Hey man, thanks! So, no cartoons, no poetry.

Me: You got it.

George: Limericks. What about limericks?

Me: ( sideways glance with upraised eyebrow )

George: No limericks. Got it!

The Card.

Pam and I will soon celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary. Including our dating years, that means that we have also celebrated 37 Valentine's Days. That's an awful lot of chocolate, flowers, and cards.

Last night was a modest affair. She had had a difficult, stressful day, so I decided that I would make dinner instead of going out somewhere and dropping a hundred bucks on some microwaved meal. There wouldn't actually be a lot of real cooking involved, just in case you've begun measuring me for a halo...steaks on the grill, fresh green beans and Bob Evans mashed potatoes. Although, my biggest coup of the night was the Duck Donuts I picked up on my way home from work! The road to my girl's heart is always paved with doughnuts.

The meal turned out perfectly. The steaks were delicious, I did an outstanding job on the fresh green beans(my first attempt), and Bob outdid himself on the potatoes. We ate this Valentines dinner while watching that romantic classic, Blue Bloods, the episode from season six where the obnoxious reporter gets thrown off the six story building and does a nosedive into the Corolla. I don't know about you, but nothing quite sets the romantic mood better than seeing a reporter get what's coming to him!

After dinner, it was time to exchange cards. I have a long a storied history with Valentine's Day cards. Basically, I despise them. If you're a man, you know the drill. You walk into a Hallmark along with a dozen or so of your brethren, head down and focused on the red and pink aisle. The display says, For the Wife. First, there are the super sappy ones that feature elaborate, three dimensional floral displays, some with glitter and soft material for touching, like the Pat the Bunny books you used to read the kids when they were toddlers. The verses in these usually contain the word soulmate. Then you get to the cartoon cards. Usually these are several pages long and feature variations on this theme...sometimes, my wife is funny, sometimes my wife is busy, each "sometimes" has its own drawing featuring the wife acting out the emotion. Sometimes my wife is happy, sometimes my wife is sad...( like she will be if you ever buy her this lame card). Then there are the pretentious ones, with some ironic black and white image on the front, and a one word verse inside...bliss, or...forever. Please.

So every year, the hunt for the perfect card gets more frustrating than the year before. I would just write my own on my business stationary, but then you run the risk of her thinking, "Oh, I get it. You either forgot to buy me a card, or you're so cheep you couldn't cough up a lousy five bucks for a real one. Of course, she would never, ever say this, but it would be inferred by body language or a well chosen, passive-aggressive phrase like, "Oh, this is different."

So, this year I went to Hallmark. I was maybe fifteen minutes in and I found a card that wasn't at all lame, at least it was the least lame one I had seen. I actually liked it. It wasn't Shakespeare, by any means, but it wasn't bad. Pam bought mine while at Kroger. She said it was actually the very first one she picked up. When we opened them, this is what we found....

Pam began to giggle. Then she couldn't stop giggling. What are the odds? How is such a thing even possible? Two different stores, probably a thousand possible cards, and we pick the exact same one.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. That may be true with regards to politicians and your boss, but in a good marriage, it breeds something else...comfort. I know this woman, and she knows me. Although I will never fully understand her, women being exquisitely, beguilingly unknowable, I understand enough to know that she loves me, in a thousand small ways, I know.