What happened last night wasn't disturbing in any way. At least, I don't think it was.
Was it?
You decide.
It was my birthday. My 42nd birthday, to be exact, which when I was a kid seemed frighteningly old. Hideously old. Incomprehensibly old.
Fortunately, now 42 years seems like...
Ah...who am I kidding? It still seems frighteningly old, especially when I happen to glance into a mirror as I walk by. You know that person at the pool? The one who's wearing a too-small Speedo even though he's got a body that shouldn't be seen out in public and certainly by no one other than his immediate family? That's me. Except for the Speedo.
Too much hair in all the wrong places. Not enough hair in all the right places. Flab poking out in funny spots. Wrinkles around my eyes that look like a subway map of Manhattan.
I live in fear of taking off my shirt while mowing the lawn, so I spend summers cultivating a vicious farmer's tan that can scare small children at 30 yards.
I kind of look like you took some pasty white dough, squeezed it two or three times in any old random way, then swept some cat hair from the sofa and stuck it on, emphasizing the back.
Delightful.
So perhaps it was just an acceptance of my new body image that made me do what I did last night.
Let me explain.
It was about 10 p.m. My kids were tucked away in their beds, fast asleep. My wife was coming back from a women's club meeting. I was lying in bed watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN.
So my wife walked in, dressed to the nines. (Why do women dress up like that when they get together? It makes no sense. When I get together with the guys, I'm lucky if I brushed my teeth and found matching socks to wear.)
She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. She looked at me, a mischievous gleam in her eye and a hint of a smile playing across her lips.
"It's still your birthday," she said seductively. "What can I do for you?"
There it was. The Invitation. Invitation with a capital I.
The Invitation, especially the Birthday Invitation, meant that anything and everything was on the table. I had permission to order anything I wanted off the spousal menu.
So I thought for a minute. Then I made my selection.
"Well, I'm kind of hungry," I said. "Could you go get me a bowl of granola?"
She looked at me blankly for a moment, wondering if I'd lost my mind. Which, perhaps, I had.
Then she dutifully left the room, returning a few minutes later with my granola.
I thanked her and began eating. My attention went back to the World Series of Poker. She soon went away to do something else.
And you know what? I didn't regret it in the least. I was perfectly content. I was full, I was comfortable, I was happy.
There's always next year.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A Visit From Dad
We’re quite a bit past Father’s Day for this commentary, perhaps, but I don’t care. I want to talk about my dad.
You see, he was visiting this past week. He lives 4 ½ hours away, so he doesn’t get down much. And we don’t get there much either, for that matter. Which makes his visits extra special. If he lived the next block over and I saw him every day after work, and on Saturday nights for dinner, and I spent fall Sundays with him in my living room cheering and cursing the Vikings with a cold beverage in one hand and a bag of lime Tostitos in the other…well, that would be great too. But then I probably wouldn’t get that smile on my face when he pulled into the driveway last week after a four-month absence.
My dad is ex-Air Force, a highly decorated pilot in Vietnam and then a long-time commercial pilot. He’s tough as overdone steak, growly with rude neighbors and barky dogs, testy with fidgety children, impatient when the smallest things go awry, detests incompetence, pouts when he loses at poker which is almost always, and punctual almost to the point of being alarming.
And he’s also the finest man I know, with the heart of a saint and a streak of kindness as wide as a football field. My dad won’t blow smoke up your skirt with compliments. It’s hard for him, I think, to express his feelings as freely as he’d like. Maybe that’s his military background. Maybe that’s growing up on a farm in rural Minnesota. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. A firm handshake and a “I’m proud of you, son” is good enough for me.
My dad would rather show you than tell you how he feels. And he’ll do…well, he’ll do just about anything for you. And he can DO just about anything. Give him a roll of baling wire, a light bulb and an apple core and he’ll build you a car you can drive across the country. Never, at any point growing up, did I feel my dad couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of any problem that I had. My dad’s on it, I always assured myself. Everything will be fine.
I told him before he left home that when he got here I was going to put him to work. This may have intimidated some fathers. It may have irritated some fathers. Not mine. He couldn’t have been more pleased. Helping others, particularly his family, validates his sense of self-worth. “All right. Super. I’ll bring my tools,” was all he said.
Which was also great, because I don’t have any tools. Or any tangible skills, pretty much. So when he goes home and tells his friends that HE helped ME put together some garage cabinets, and hang up some bike racks, and fix the gutters, and fix the broken bed, and repair a leaky toilet, he’ll be lying. HE did it - almost everything. Oh, I handed him the occasional crescent wrench or utility knife, and pointed him in the direction of the beverage fridge when he got thirsty, but that’s about it. He’s had some spinal problems, and putting together those cabinets almost put him into traction for a week. He didn’t complain. And he didn’t stop. Because I needed him. And he was there for me, just like he always was.
At some point in life, you probably get too old to sponge off your parents. I don’t know when that age is. I’m 41. Am I there? Am I past there? I hope not. Because I like when my dad visits and I can point out all the projects around the house that need his attention. And I like it when we finish whatever we’re doing, and he puts his thick, hairy, working-man’s hand on my shoulder and says, “We did it, son. A job well done.”
No. Here’s to you, dad. A job well done.
You see, he was visiting this past week. He lives 4 ½ hours away, so he doesn’t get down much. And we don’t get there much either, for that matter. Which makes his visits extra special. If he lived the next block over and I saw him every day after work, and on Saturday nights for dinner, and I spent fall Sundays with him in my living room cheering and cursing the Vikings with a cold beverage in one hand and a bag of lime Tostitos in the other…well, that would be great too. But then I probably wouldn’t get that smile on my face when he pulled into the driveway last week after a four-month absence.
My dad is ex-Air Force, a highly decorated pilot in Vietnam and then a long-time commercial pilot. He’s tough as overdone steak, growly with rude neighbors and barky dogs, testy with fidgety children, impatient when the smallest things go awry, detests incompetence, pouts when he loses at poker which is almost always, and punctual almost to the point of being alarming.
And he’s also the finest man I know, with the heart of a saint and a streak of kindness as wide as a football field. My dad won’t blow smoke up your skirt with compliments. It’s hard for him, I think, to express his feelings as freely as he’d like. Maybe that’s his military background. Maybe that’s growing up on a farm in rural Minnesota. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. A firm handshake and a “I’m proud of you, son” is good enough for me.
My dad would rather show you than tell you how he feels. And he’ll do…well, he’ll do just about anything for you. And he can DO just about anything. Give him a roll of baling wire, a light bulb and an apple core and he’ll build you a car you can drive across the country. Never, at any point growing up, did I feel my dad couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of any problem that I had. My dad’s on it, I always assured myself. Everything will be fine.
I told him before he left home that when he got here I was going to put him to work. This may have intimidated some fathers. It may have irritated some fathers. Not mine. He couldn’t have been more pleased. Helping others, particularly his family, validates his sense of self-worth. “All right. Super. I’ll bring my tools,” was all he said.
Which was also great, because I don’t have any tools. Or any tangible skills, pretty much. So when he goes home and tells his friends that HE helped ME put together some garage cabinets, and hang up some bike racks, and fix the gutters, and fix the broken bed, and repair a leaky toilet, he’ll be lying. HE did it - almost everything. Oh, I handed him the occasional crescent wrench or utility knife, and pointed him in the direction of the beverage fridge when he got thirsty, but that’s about it. He’s had some spinal problems, and putting together those cabinets almost put him into traction for a week. He didn’t complain. And he didn’t stop. Because I needed him. And he was there for me, just like he always was.
At some point in life, you probably get too old to sponge off your parents. I don’t know when that age is. I’m 41. Am I there? Am I past there? I hope not. Because I like when my dad visits and I can point out all the projects around the house that need his attention. And I like it when we finish whatever we’re doing, and he puts his thick, hairy, working-man’s hand on my shoulder and says, “We did it, son. A job well done.”
No. Here’s to you, dad. A job well done.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Free Time For Kids in Summer? Forget it
I received something interesting in the mail the other day. No, not an actual letter. Who sends letters anymore? I can think of only three groups of people who send real, live, honest-to-goodness letters. They are, in no particular order:
1. The Amish
2. Career felons in the state pen
3. My grandma, who is neither Amish nor a career felon
Anyway, what I received was a magazine listing all the community activities, both adult and youth, for this summer in my city. Naturally, I leafed through the magazine. In fact, I read the entire thing. And my mind reeled with possibilities.
Did you know I can take a class on cooking Hungarian goulash? Hungarian goulash! I had no idea there were even different kinds of goulash. And why are they emphasizing Hungarian goulash? I can walk my town's sidewalks for weeks and not bump into a single Hungarian. It's like offering a class on Cajun gumbo in Grand Forks, North Dakota. It makes no sense, yet I find it oddly compelling. I may sign up.
I can also, if I were so inclined, take classes on line dancing (That sounds uncomfortably like country music), tai chi (I thought that was what you asked if you were looking for a toilet in Beijing. Am I wrong?), singing, jazzercise (I look fabulous in stretch pants. Don't tell me otherwise.), and creative drawing.
I can take classes to learn how to lower my taxes by 50 percent (This may or may not be legal. The course description doesn't go into detail.), speak conversational Spanish in six weeks, get a low-cost bone exam (See? This is why I eat a heaping bowl of ice cream every night - lots and lots of calcium. I eat so much ice cream my bones can scratch diamonds.), play cards on Friday nights with senior citizens, and learn how to waterboard my pesky neighbors while a cardboard cutout of a grinning Dick Cheney looms over my shoulder (All right, I made that last one up.).
Just as importantly, the publication is filled with activities for my children. This summer they can participate in tumbling, sidewalk drawing, cheerleading, bumper bowling, baton twirling, cartooning, theater, magic, writing camp, spelling camp, handwriting camp, and math camp.
Spelling camp? Really?
They can also take private lessons in just about every sport you can think of except for sword fighting, chainsaw juggling, and bungee jumping off the roof of the house.
I can have their entire summer schedule programmed down to the minute: this, then this, then this, then this this this this this this this.
An enlightened critic would no doubt angrily tell me that this is a chilling example of bad over-parenting. I need to let my kids be kids, the critic would huff. Stop controlling their lives. Let them play on their own. Let them explore. Shove them outside at dawn and drag them back in at dusk.
To this I say: You're nuts, Mrs. Cleaver. Stop living in 1954.
The biggest problem in Cleaverworld was Whitey and Lumpy and Eddie Haskell getting heartburn from the peanut butter sandwiches and milk Beaver's mom sent out to them. Now? There are teenagers crushing Bud Lights down at the corner park. Some other bright bulbs are spray painting graffiti on wood fences and throwing rocks at passing cars. And I think there's a registered sex offender lving two neighborhoods over.
Are you kidding? I'm not letting my kids out of my sight.
Besides, who doesn't want to learn magic? Or how to make balloon animals? That sounds a lot more wholesome than being unchaperoned over at little Billy's house duct taping the cat to his garage and peeing on his mom's petunias.
No, I think I'll be signing them up for things.
Lots of things.
And me? I'm just saving room for that Hungarian goulash.
1. The Amish
2. Career felons in the state pen
3. My grandma, who is neither Amish nor a career felon
Anyway, what I received was a magazine listing all the community activities, both adult and youth, for this summer in my city. Naturally, I leafed through the magazine. In fact, I read the entire thing. And my mind reeled with possibilities.
Did you know I can take a class on cooking Hungarian goulash? Hungarian goulash! I had no idea there were even different kinds of goulash. And why are they emphasizing Hungarian goulash? I can walk my town's sidewalks for weeks and not bump into a single Hungarian. It's like offering a class on Cajun gumbo in Grand Forks, North Dakota. It makes no sense, yet I find it oddly compelling. I may sign up.
I can also, if I were so inclined, take classes on line dancing (That sounds uncomfortably like country music), tai chi (I thought that was what you asked if you were looking for a toilet in Beijing. Am I wrong?), singing, jazzercise (I look fabulous in stretch pants. Don't tell me otherwise.), and creative drawing.
I can take classes to learn how to lower my taxes by 50 percent (This may or may not be legal. The course description doesn't go into detail.), speak conversational Spanish in six weeks, get a low-cost bone exam (See? This is why I eat a heaping bowl of ice cream every night - lots and lots of calcium. I eat so much ice cream my bones can scratch diamonds.), play cards on Friday nights with senior citizens, and learn how to waterboard my pesky neighbors while a cardboard cutout of a grinning Dick Cheney looms over my shoulder (All right, I made that last one up.).
Just as importantly, the publication is filled with activities for my children. This summer they can participate in tumbling, sidewalk drawing, cheerleading, bumper bowling, baton twirling, cartooning, theater, magic, writing camp, spelling camp, handwriting camp, and math camp.
Spelling camp? Really?
They can also take private lessons in just about every sport you can think of except for sword fighting, chainsaw juggling, and bungee jumping off the roof of the house.
I can have their entire summer schedule programmed down to the minute: this, then this, then this, then this this this this this this this.
An enlightened critic would no doubt angrily tell me that this is a chilling example of bad over-parenting. I need to let my kids be kids, the critic would huff. Stop controlling their lives. Let them play on their own. Let them explore. Shove them outside at dawn and drag them back in at dusk.
To this I say: You're nuts, Mrs. Cleaver. Stop living in 1954.
The biggest problem in Cleaverworld was Whitey and Lumpy and Eddie Haskell getting heartburn from the peanut butter sandwiches and milk Beaver's mom sent out to them. Now? There are teenagers crushing Bud Lights down at the corner park. Some other bright bulbs are spray painting graffiti on wood fences and throwing rocks at passing cars. And I think there's a registered sex offender lving two neighborhoods over.
Are you kidding? I'm not letting my kids out of my sight.
Besides, who doesn't want to learn magic? Or how to make balloon animals? That sounds a lot more wholesome than being unchaperoned over at little Billy's house duct taping the cat to his garage and peeing on his mom's petunias.
No, I think I'll be signing them up for things.
Lots of things.
And me? I'm just saving room for that Hungarian goulash.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Relationship Strife? Not Any Longer!
Our subject today is health - specifically, the healthy ways to avoid relationship strife and turmoil when it comes to celebrating special days. Let’s open the mailbag.
The first question today comes from John in New Hampton. He writes: “How many special days am I on the hook for with my wife? Between flowers and gifts and dinner for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, anniversary, and others, it’s starting to bleed me dry. What did I sign up for when I got married? What are my responsibilities?”
John, let me tell you something. I share your pain. And if this disturbing and revolting trend isn’t evidence of massive collusion between the greeting card companies, winemakers, jewelers and florists of this country, I don’t know what is. You’ll never convince me otherwise. And yet what are we supposed to do about it? Forget one of those days and you’ve got a standing date with a couch and a cold shower for the foreseeable future.
The next question is from Sandra in Racine. She writes: “Just before Valentine’s Day I was invited to one of those Romance parties with my girlfriends. You know - the kind with stuff that makes a pastor’s wife blush. I was a little nervous about going, but my friends encouraged me to buy the products - one in particular that they recommended. Can I give it to my husband as a gift, even though it’s really for my pleasure? Or would he think that’s too weird?”
Too weird? Not at all, Sandra. Let me put this in baseball terms. To a guy, sharing a bottle of wine with his honey is a slow grounder to second base. Going out to dinner is a pop out to shallow center field. Including a movie in the deal makes it a long fly out to the warning track. But a product from a Romance catalog? That’s a grand slam that not only clears the fence, it clears the light tower on top of the stadium, flies into the parking lot, and smashes into the windshield of your nasty next door neighbor’s car.
This one comes from Hector in Mankato. He writes: “My wife and I agreed that we’d just give each other cards for our anniversary. I gleefully said OK. What do you think?”
What do I think, Hector? I think you’ve just gotten sucked in by one of the classic ruses of all time. You’re crazy if you think she’ll stick to the “one card and that’s it” agreement. There’s no way. She can’t help herself. She’ll give you a shirt, or a bottle of cologne, or a couple tickets to a hockey game, and when she sees you standing there holding nothing but a Hallmark card and a smile, she’ll look like Kathy Bates in "Misery" just before she swings the sledgehammer to break poor James Caan’s ankles: a mixture of hatred, fear, loathing, confusion, and white-hot resentment. Recognize that this was a test, Hector. A test that you nearly failed.
Let’s go to a letter from Beth in Jefferson City. Beth writes: “Is is too much to ask for my boyfriend to sit on the couch with me and watch a romantic movie? I told him I’d like to see Nights in Rodanthe.”
Well, that’s fine, Beth, but remember there’s a kind of barter system in play here. When I was a kid and my friends and I were trading football cards, I knew if I had a Walter Payton card it was worth at least two Wilbert Montgomerys. I knew a Fran Tarkenton was worth two Ken Stablers and one Steve Bartkowski. It’s the same thing with movies. If you choose a sappy Richard Gere flick, that entitles your boyfriend to two Jean Claude Van Dam movies, or one Nicholas Cage and one Vin Diesel. Be careful what you wish for.
Our last letter is from Dave in Peoria. He writes: “My son was born on my wife’s birthday. This means that for the next 18 years I’m excused from taking her out for the evening because we’ll be busy celebrating his birthday. How great is that?”
I tell you, Dave, on the scale of pure luck that ranks somewhere between moving in with a massage therapist and the police accidentally losing your urine sample after you spent a night partying with Michael Phelps. But don’t get carried away. If you think your son is going to want to celebrate his birthday with you till he’s 18, then you've watched too many "Leave it to Beaver" episodes. Wally may not have minded having cake and ice cream with his parents on his 18th birthday, but that kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore. I give your son till age 12 to find a better offer.
Thanks for the letters, everybody! Please read the following:
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I’m looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it’s a friend’s experience, maybe it’s a family member’s experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
The first question today comes from John in New Hampton. He writes: “How many special days am I on the hook for with my wife? Between flowers and gifts and dinner for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, anniversary, and others, it’s starting to bleed me dry. What did I sign up for when I got married? What are my responsibilities?”
John, let me tell you something. I share your pain. And if this disturbing and revolting trend isn’t evidence of massive collusion between the greeting card companies, winemakers, jewelers and florists of this country, I don’t know what is. You’ll never convince me otherwise. And yet what are we supposed to do about it? Forget one of those days and you’ve got a standing date with a couch and a cold shower for the foreseeable future.
The next question is from Sandra in Racine. She writes: “Just before Valentine’s Day I was invited to one of those Romance parties with my girlfriends. You know - the kind with stuff that makes a pastor’s wife blush. I was a little nervous about going, but my friends encouraged me to buy the products - one in particular that they recommended. Can I give it to my husband as a gift, even though it’s really for my pleasure? Or would he think that’s too weird?”
Too weird? Not at all, Sandra. Let me put this in baseball terms. To a guy, sharing a bottle of wine with his honey is a slow grounder to second base. Going out to dinner is a pop out to shallow center field. Including a movie in the deal makes it a long fly out to the warning track. But a product from a Romance catalog? That’s a grand slam that not only clears the fence, it clears the light tower on top of the stadium, flies into the parking lot, and smashes into the windshield of your nasty next door neighbor’s car.
This one comes from Hector in Mankato. He writes: “My wife and I agreed that we’d just give each other cards for our anniversary. I gleefully said OK. What do you think?”
What do I think, Hector? I think you’ve just gotten sucked in by one of the classic ruses of all time. You’re crazy if you think she’ll stick to the “one card and that’s it” agreement. There’s no way. She can’t help herself. She’ll give you a shirt, or a bottle of cologne, or a couple tickets to a hockey game, and when she sees you standing there holding nothing but a Hallmark card and a smile, she’ll look like Kathy Bates in "Misery" just before she swings the sledgehammer to break poor James Caan’s ankles: a mixture of hatred, fear, loathing, confusion, and white-hot resentment. Recognize that this was a test, Hector. A test that you nearly failed.
Let’s go to a letter from Beth in Jefferson City. Beth writes: “Is is too much to ask for my boyfriend to sit on the couch with me and watch a romantic movie? I told him I’d like to see Nights in Rodanthe.”
Well, that’s fine, Beth, but remember there’s a kind of barter system in play here. When I was a kid and my friends and I were trading football cards, I knew if I had a Walter Payton card it was worth at least two Wilbert Montgomerys. I knew a Fran Tarkenton was worth two Ken Stablers and one Steve Bartkowski. It’s the same thing with movies. If you choose a sappy Richard Gere flick, that entitles your boyfriend to two Jean Claude Van Dam movies, or one Nicholas Cage and one Vin Diesel. Be careful what you wish for.
Our last letter is from Dave in Peoria. He writes: “My son was born on my wife’s birthday. This means that for the next 18 years I’m excused from taking her out for the evening because we’ll be busy celebrating his birthday. How great is that?”
I tell you, Dave, on the scale of pure luck that ranks somewhere between moving in with a massage therapist and the police accidentally losing your urine sample after you spent a night partying with Michael Phelps. But don’t get carried away. If you think your son is going to want to celebrate his birthday with you till he’s 18, then you've watched too many "Leave it to Beaver" episodes. Wally may not have minded having cake and ice cream with his parents on his 18th birthday, but that kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore. I give your son till age 12 to find a better offer.
Thanks for the letters, everybody! Please read the following:
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I’m looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it’s a friend’s experience, maybe it’s a family member’s experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
Needed: Interesting Wedding Stories for a Book
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I'm looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it's a friend's experience, maybe it's a family member's experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
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