MARRIAGE: How It Works

MARRIAGE: How It Works August 23, 2009

In less than a week my dear wife and I will be celebrating forty years of married life. Thank you for the applause and yes I know it’s all for her. With that kind of track record I feel that I can make a few observations and maybe even give some advice. You all can tell me to take a flying leap. It’s all relative. I’ve written on this subject before and the feedback has been somewhat silent so everyone must think I’m right. Or everyone is being kind and just feeling sorry for my long suffering wife. Whatever, I’m started on this so I’ll continue.

Everyone knows that marriage is hard and requires constant work, is a two way street, is a co-operative effort, is a thing that needs compromises, is built on trust as much as love. That covers most of the standard clichés, I think. Oh yeah, and for a marriage to work well the guy has to remember to lower the damn toilet seat. All of that is true. I suppose there are other things involved and I can think of a couple more clichés. Never go to bed angry at each other. Share more than your bed. Make time to rekindle those old feelings and really listen to each other. Blah, blah, blah.

All of that stuff is really fine advice until you hit one of those impasses involving the decision to buy a new bass boat or take that thirtieth anniversary special vacation. If things can’t be worked out then the result will be two unhappy people that don’t talk to each other for a few months. Let’s just say that I still don’t have the boat and we’ve been on a few special vacations. But the right thing to do is to learn from these kinds of little bumps in the road which come up from time to time. I’m a slow learner, but after forty years I have a better understanding of that fact.

I see couples who have been married for many years who just aren’t happy. Some men forget the girl they married and think the woman living with them is a servant, housemaid, cook and satisfier of his baser urges. By the same measure some women forget the young man they married and think the guy living with them is a big jerk. They may be right, especially if he’s one of those guys in the first example. I know that some men are saddled with women who become nagging harpies. But if they think back a few years they’ll see that some dumb series of actions led to the alienation of their wives. It may not really be true that men are the most frequent causes of failed marriages but in my experience they contribute to the statistics more than women. I’ve seen more guys ignore their wives, fail to listen to their wives and fail to appreciate their wives than vice versa. They may still have their wife living in the house but she’s not really there. Again, I speak from experience. There was a time in our married life when I was headed down the path of dumb actions. Fortunately my wife forced me to listen to her and things gradually got squared away. Since that dark time we have become a good team.

Speaking of teamwork, men blather on and on about that subject. They criticize lack of teamwork on sports teams and in the workplace. They fondly remember the one great team they were on that almost won the big championship. But they somehow fail to see the benefits of teamwork in their own marriage. Kind of dumb, don’t you think?

So what’s the point of this rambling discourse? I guess I’m bragging in a way. And in another way I’m trying to offer some advice. But the real reason for this thing is that our fortieth anniversary is coming up and I was thinking about how fortunate I am. And I guess that’s reason enough.

Have a fine day.

THE HEART OF A GIRL

In a dirty old barroom in a town way up north
The old town philosopher was loudly putting forth
His opinions on everything from the large to the small.
He had something to say and he said it to all.

During a pause in one of the rants
A young man in the corner saw a brief chance
To put forth a question that was bothering him some
So he raised up his glass and his query did come.

Said that young man so pale skinned and fair
“I have a big question that I’d like to air.
A thinker like you an answer you’ll find
In the deep recesses somewhere in your mind.”

“My question is this” he said to the sage
“It has puzzled me greatly since a young age.
Why do women say what men want to hear,
Then tell us we didn’t get anything quite clear?”

“They tell you they want you to do this or do that,
Then when you try it they hit your head with a bat.
They seem to want loving and cuddling too
But if your hands get too close its curtains for you.”

“So how, I ask you, wise man so smart
Can you tell what’s true in my lover's heart?
How can I know when to make the next move
And really get our love going in the right groove?”

The old guy was quiet, he scratched his big chin
He leaned his head this way then that way again.
He took off his hat then put it back on
And finally answered with a voice deep and strong.

“You’re asking a question as old as the hills.
One that has brought on all kinds of ills.
Wise men and thinkers down through the ages
Have written their answers on millions of pages.”

“But all of those answers and all of that paper
Mean less than nothing and I’ll do you a favor.
I’ll tell you the truth in one line, that’s all
Remember it well and live by its call.”

“There’s only one way to think of a girl
If you want to stay happy here in this world.
They mean only well and have kind ambitions
But they all have the hearts of lib’ral politicians.”


Have a fine day.

TABLOIDS EXPOSED: or The Value of Shock

Today I’m planning on baking a couple of loaves of bread. I’ll probably do the whole wheat first and then a white with… Wait a minute that’s the article I’m writing for that foodie blog site. This one is supposed to be on something to out tabloid the tabloids.

It’s really difficult to come up with anything more outrageous than the stories in those colorful newspapers you see at the checkout counters of your favorite supermarket. But tabloid journalism isn’t found only next to the chewing gum, candy bars and BIC lighters. The television is an excellent source of salacious news. And major newspapers and magazines indulge in a great deal of celebrity poop that they attempt to pass off as legitimate news. Even the august New York Times feels that the style of summer shorts that Michelle Obama wore a couple of days ago is worthy of a page three article. Other news venues featured that story as a lead article so I guess you could say the Times showed some restraint.

But now back to the problem at hand. What could I write about that will be as over the top as the tabloids? When I made that rash promise early yesterday I hadn’t looked at the tabloids in a while. So I went to the supermarket and stood in two or three checkout lines to catch up on the news. There was a lot of stuff (still) about poor old Michael Jackson. Patrick Swayze is still battling cancer. Oprah is bigger than ever, although a couple papers said she was losing weight dangerously fast. A whole lot of stars have had such bad plastic surgery that in a group photo they looked like a bunch of ETs with huge boobs that point in three directions. That other fat actress from “Cheers” was prominently featured on a couple of covers. My mission seemed impossible. Then I decided I needed some cheese for a recipe I had in mind so I got out of the checkout line, to the great relief of the little old lady that I had cut in front of, and headed to the deli.

When I got to the deli I asked for a quarter pound of Gruyere sliced very thin. When the deli lady held up a slice to check on the requisite thinness I saw there in that slice of pale yellow cheese the smiling image of MICHAEL JACKSON! I said to the lady “Look at that cheese! It’s the face of Michael!” She said “Yeah I know, it’s been happening all day. There’s Michael in the Gruyere, Michael in the American, Michael in the Swiss, although it’s harder to see in the Swiss there because of the holes.” I asked if he was showing up in the ham or bologna. She told me “No, just the cheeses”.

The deli lady didn’t seem much moved by this spiritual event. I asked her how she could take all this so calmly. She said it was store policy and besides a couple of weeks ago it was images of Abe Lincoln in the German style sliced potato salad. And in February she had Peter, Paul and Mary in the head cheese. I said “Wow, they’re not even dead yet!” She said “They’re not?” This was big news. This was the tabloid event I was looking for. I scurried (can you picture that?) back to the checkouts to see if I could find a tabloid hotline phone number. I figured there must be someplace that a private citizen could report news items to the National Enquirer or the Star. What if you saw Dolly Parton at the Seven-Eleven dressed in men’s clothing. You’d need to report that. Or let’s say you were standing outside the fence at the White House and you saw the president’s kids sucked up into a giant UFO. The liberal media would not touch a story like that so you’d need to report it to a tabloid or, at the very least Entertainment Tonight. But, strangely, there wasn’t a hotline or news tip phone number in any of the papers.

I was getting upset about this turn of events so I went to Customer Service and grabbed the PA microphone from the desk. I said “Attention shoppers. Anyone in possession of a 3G phone with Internet connection please report to Customer Service immediately. A major event of national and religious importance is happening in the store as I speak and we need to use your Internet connection for the good of all mankind. Thank you and there’s a cleanup needed on aisle six.” A young man came up and I asked him to Google a phone number for one or all of the tabloid newspapers, or maybe the Today Show. He asked what the big deal was and I told him about the Michael Jackson image sightings at the deli counter. He said “No way!” I said “Way!” So he agreed to check on the numbers. Amazingly there was no listing of any type. I was frantic. How could these bastions of the Free Press not have a phone? How did they find all those stories that so intrigue such a large portion of the residents of trailer parks in our country? Do they just make them up? Perhaps they do.

Well, since I had a bona-fide miracle on my hands I decided that I would just write this blog article and the power of the Internet would spread the word. So send this to all your friends. Tell them that the Food Lion on RT 10 just outside Dover is the site of the miraculous sightings of the images of Michael Jackson in the cheese at the deli department. Ask for Billie Jean, she’s the best clerk there. If you don’t get there in time for Michael, hang around. Another dead celebrity will be appearing there soon.

Have a fine day.

TECHNOLOGICAL AMUSEMENTS

When I was about ten years old (that would be 1957 if you do the math) I had one or two friends that I might call on the phone. When the infrequent need arose I would pick up the part of the phone that one held in the hand, one end for hearing the other for talking, listen to be sure no one else was on the party line, dial the number on the revolving wheel part with numbers and letters and wait for the ringing sound and answer. It wasn’t complicated. The number I was calling, if it was in the same town and it always was, consisted of four digits. If a person needed to call long distance he or she would dial O. A lady would come on the line and the caller would say “Long distance please, I need to call Aunt Mildred in Poughkeepsie at Export 4595.” After a brief wait Aunt Mildred would come on the line. If she wasn’t available the operator would say that she would try again in a little while and, sure enough, a little while later the phone would ring and the operator would say that she had Aunt Mildred on the line.

Today the phone is much easier to use. My daughter has an IPhone. Let’s say she wants to call Aunt Mildred in Poughkeepsie. She turns on her phone, selects the phone icon, selects her calling list and scrolls down to see if Aunt Mildred is listed. Of course dear old Auntie isn’t there because my daughter would rarely call one of her fictional relatives. So now my daughter goes to her IPhone internet icon and finds a site where she can look up Aunt Mildred’s phone number. Then she transfers the number to her contact list, for future calls, and then pushes the button to auto dial the number she saved. Aunt Mildred isn’t available of course; she’s at the beauty parlor having her quarterly bikini waxing. So my daughter leaves a message on the voice mail. Then she decides that she just wants to tell Aunt Mildred that her cat, which Aunt Mildred had given her a couple of years ago, got hit by a UPS truck and a text message would be better for that purpose. So she punches re-dial and enters a text message with the tragic news. The sad ending to this story is that when Aunt Mildred retrieved the text message she was so upset that she crashed her convertible into a bridge abutment and got killed. Checking text messages while driving, especially tragic ones, is a dangerous business.

Phones are so much more than they were all those years ago. My home phone is a simple device with several fine features. It has an answering machine, call waiting, speed dial, number storage for about a hundred numbers, portable handset and a couple others I don’t recall. Here are the features I use; answering machine, handset finder button, and phone. I also have a cell phone. My cell phone is an old model. It doesn’t take pictures, connect to the Internet, remember birthdays, calculate mortgage rates and payments or play a list of one thousand songs. Actually it might do some of those things but I’ve never been able to figure them out. As a matter of fact one time I accidentally set my ring-tone to play the Macarena and I’ve never been able to stop it. Texting is beyond me. All the other innovations in communication are just so many foreign words; twittering, tweaking and what ever else they’ve invented up through yesterday.

Of course every young person that reads this is thinking “What a technologically ignorant old fool this guy is.” And many people my age, or older, who have mastered a lot of these devices are thinking the same thing. But that’s okay. I don’t have to worry about text messages causing my death. Phone calls will remain phone calls and once in a while I’ll talk to a real live person. If people need to send me messages, I have mastered the skills of email. And computers are part of my technological arsenal along with the microwave oven and digital camera. But I’m holding fast on the telephone, trying to keep it in a slightly more innocent and less complicated age. I have to quit now. The Macarena is playing.

Have a fine day.

SHE'S A GOOD OLD GRILL

It’s been said before, and repeated frequently, that my political articles are the least appreciated of all the junk I write. Even though I find myself eminently entertaining on that particular subject others disagree. People with a liberal lean are especially adamant in their disapproval. And since I have only five committed readers (readers who will admit to the act that is) and of those readers and since 2.5 are liberal, then occasionally I must stay off the politics.

Without the rich trove of material of the political type to draw upon my inspiration is lacking. If I can’t rant about the Obama administration, his myriad “czars”, moronic Senators and Congress people and the crazy crap they do along with shifty state and local politicians then I’m at a bit of a loss. Then I need to be thinking about subjects like religion, sex, popular culture or sports. Or I could, I suppose, write some homely soporific essay about love, kindness or nature. Since I’m poorly qualified due to lack of interest in pop culture or sports, and lack of experience in sex, and a definite desire to not offend another large segment of my audience who are deeply religious then I have to stay away from those subjects. The gentle essay concerning love, kindness or nature lacks the opportunity for blatant exaggeration and ribald humor so that also is out of bounds.

So today I’ve decided to tell you about cooking on a grill. For a couple weekends in a row we were over in the Washington area spending time with our daughter, future son-in-law and new granddaughter. Here in Dover we don’t have cable TV. At their place not only do they have a TV, a big old flat wide screen job with about nine hundred channels, but it is on almost all the time. The new baby seems to be happiest when the Food Network shows are playing so that’s what was on most of the time. She also likes golf when Tiger isn’t playing and soccer broadcast in Spanish. She’s quite discerning for a kid who isn’t even a month old yet.

But let’s get back to the grill. The Food Network was showing several programs with people cooking stuff on the grill. There was an aggressive chef with a Philadelphia accent cooking all kinds of spicy stuff in some kind of competition with a civilian. There was a kind of chubby lady chef in a very posh neighborhood cooking fancy gourmet foods. And there was a guy somewhere out West with a bunch of grills cooking up vegetarian meals. Cooking vegetables on the grill is fine but cooking them without at least a side order of some kind of animal is just plain wrong. Most of the cooks were using gas grills except for the Philadelphia guy who had a plain old Weber charcoal model. The westerner with several grills did have a charcoal grill that he was using to smoke plantains or some other kind of long narrow non-meat product.

I always do my grilling on my Weber kettle shaped charcoal appliance. Gas grills are good but I like the tastes that the charcoal grill supplies along with the suspected carcinogens. Plus, charcoal grills have an inherent sense of drama. There’s the drama of cleaning them out without becoming overcome by a windstorm of ash and dust. There’s the drama of facing the dangers of getting the charcoal lighted without burning yourself, or the house, into an unrecognizable cinder. And there’s the ultimate drama of the uncertainty of getting an edible finished product. At least that’s the case on my grill.

My grill has produced some fine meals. My grill has also produced some disasters that could rival the Hindenburg in fiery destruction. There are a few meals that I can usually do without too many flaws; hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken breasts and various sausages. However, when it comes to steak, fish, roasts or any kind of exotic dish then it’s always a gamble. I can recall an anniversary dinner with lumps of blackened shellfish that started out as lobster. But I have to blame myself for trying to cook those on the grill quite late in the evening without a proper light source. Who knew those suckers would cook that fast. I’ve also ruined some fairly expensive cuts of beef. For some reason I can’t bring myself to buy a five dollar meat thermometer. I do want a meat thermometer but it’s one of those sixty dollar digital jobs with signals and so forth. My dear wife refuses to let me get that tool so my revenge is to give her a steak with the consistency of linoleum every once in a while. Sooner or later we will resolve the difference. The resolution is predictable.

For tonight’s dinner I’m doing everything on the grill. I’ve got a nice steak, some red potatoes cut in thick slices and seasoned up nicely and some big old summer tomatoes layered in thick slices with provolone cheese, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with basil; my mouth waters just thinking about it. I just hope my dear wife gets home pretty soon because the sun is going down and the light near my grill is still busted. I guess I could hold a flashlight in my mouth while I tend to the cooking. Now if I can just find the batteries.

Have a fine day.

ON AGING: a poem

Get up in the morning got a sore back
A cold, damp day can throw me off track.
Medicines of all kinds lined up in a row
Seems they’re all needed to stay on the go.

Up in the night to take a weak pee
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t me.
Blood tests and doctors all part of the plan
To stay on my feet, to stay a whole man.

Vision and hearing aren’t what they were
Gravity’s damage will surely occur.
Golden years are touted by the AARP
More like old lead if you were to ask me.

Flatulence, heartburn long sleepless nights
Bony old legs, age spots in sight.
Skin on my chin and butt hanging low
Don’t really know what’ll be next to go.

Read the obits to see if I’m there
Having some trouble getting out of my chair.
Some things that should be readily up
Need more help like a lost little pup.

But one thing is sure, one thing is true
An old guy can complain it’s surely his due.
Deep down inside he knows he’s got a great life
With grandkids and kids and a tolerant wife.

BIG BANG

This little story is very loosely based on an event that looms large in memories of my early teenage years. That distance of years probably accounts for the wide discrepancy between what really happened and what is written in this account. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

BIG BANG August 1, 2009

It started with a couple of teenage boys on a hot summer night in a small town. The older boy, an upstanding Eagle Scout kind of kid, had just brought his younger cousin to a meeting of the altar boys at the church. Since his cousin was going to be staying for the summer they figured he could also keep in practice as an altar boy and fill in for kids who were on vacation. The meeting had gone well and Billy was already scheduled to help out at mass on the next Saturday morning.

Back in those days the churches in the little town were flourishing. There were three Catholic, one Congregational, two Methodist and one Baptist church. The Catholic population outnumbered the Protestants about ten to one. Jewish residents didn’t have a temple so they met at the homes of the three families representing their faith. Tolerance was alive and well in the town. People got along and inter-faith marriage was not even grounds for disowning the offending children anymore. The only person who seemed to have a problem with people who were not of his faith was one of the town policemen. His name was Bernie and he was a member of one of those three Jewish families.

The Eagle Scout boy, Peter was his name, suggested to his cousin Billy that they go up to the other end of Main Street to get a soda before they walked back home. The diner was open until ten and it was just a little past nine. He said that as long as they got home by curfew, which was also ten, everything would be fine. Billy agreed. Billy thought the town curfew was a dumb rule. He couldn’t see any good reason why a guy as old as sixteen or seventeen had to be home by ten-o-clock. Heck, it was barely dark at that time of night up here in the Northern part of the state.

At the diner Peter had a coffee. He liked to show how mature he was by doing stuff like that. Billy had a cherry coke and an order of fries. Since he had a little more money than his cousin and since he was a generous boy, Billy paid the bill. Billy almost always paid. Peter had a job working in the Catholic schools during the summer. He helped the janitors do the heavy cleaning as they got ready for the next school year. But the money he earned had to go into a savings account for college.

On this night, after the altar boy meeting, Billy was feeling a little restless. He didn’t really want to go back to Peter’s house yet because that would mean having to watch wresting on TV. He hated wrestling, especially up here where the program was from Montreal and was all in French. When wrestling was on his uncle and his grandfather and some of his younger cousins would be crowded around the tiny screen yelling like a bunch of maniacs. His grandfather and uncle would be yelling in French, the kids in English. It was enough to give a guy a headache. So Billy stalled drinking his cherry coke and eating his fries. Peter was making moves on the young waitress in the diner so he was losing track of time. A few minutes before ten Peter told the waitress that he would walk her home. Billy was all for that plan, anything to stay out a little longer.

The diner closed and the three teenagers walked up Main Street. A river ran through the town which cut the business district in half. The Main Street bridge over the river was high above the water. Built close to the bridge from the river banks about fifty feet below, were commercial buildings which rose four stories above street level and formed a large dark canyon. As the three kids crossed the bridge towards the girl’s street Billy thought about how cool that canyon was. He noticed how the rushing roar of the river far below echoed between the walls of the buildings. He also thought that a firecracker thrown from the bridge would make an amazing sound. It just so happened that the fourth of July was coming up and he had some excellent firecrackers right there in his pocket. But he had no matches.

When they reached the girl’s house they went in through the back door into the kitchen. Peter went into the living room to be introduced to his new girl friend’s mother. Peter was a fast worker when it came to the ladies. Billy held back in the kitchen and looking around he spotted several books of matches. He grabbed one and stuck it in his pocket. With the niceties of courtship being completed the boys headed out for the long walk back to Peter’s house. Peter said that if they were to run into the cop walking his beat Billy should keep his mouth shut and let Peter do all the talking. Billy said that was fine with him.

As they descended the hill towards the Main Street bridge Billy checked his pocket for the firecracker that would have the best effect in the giant echo chamber beneath the bridge. He found a winner, an M80. He actually found two M80s. The M80 is an awesome explosive. It’s shaped like a small barrel with a short fuse coming out of the side. They were originally designed for blowing small tree stumps out of the ground and were a common part of farmers’ tool kits. Billy wondered if he should tell Peter what his plan was or if he should just surprise him. On the one hand telling him would be good if they had to make a hasty escape. On the other hand the surprise factor would be really neat. Billy was lagging a few steps behind Peter as they reached the bridge. He took out his matches and one M80 and lit the fuse. He held the firecracker in his hand to be sure that it was well lit and wouldn’t land in the water before exploding. Then he let it fly.

The firecracker flew out in a beautiful arc between the buildings. The little spark of light from the fuse seemed much larger in the deep shadows. And then it exploded. The quiet night air was shattered by a sound never heard on Main Street in that little town. Some veterans of the recent war in Korea were probably familiar with that noise and were probably lunging for cover. Billy noticed a few men rushing out onto the street from the tavern a couple blocks away. He saw Peter turn to him and say something but the explosion had dulled his hearing. Then he noticed out of the corner of his eye a short fat guy in a police uniform laboriously running in his direction from about half way up the hill. His hearing came back and he heard Peter yell “Run for it!” and Bernie, the fat cop, yelled “Halt in the name of the law!” As he got his legs going Billy thought no one in real life would ever yell “Halt in the name of the law!” But he didn’t have time to think about the strange customs of small town cops. He took off after his cousin.

Unfortunately Peter wasn’t as knowledgeable about the town’s streets and back alleys as Billy. Being a basically good boy Peter had little use for escape routes. Billy on the other hand had spent several summers shadowing his younger cousins as they committed minor crimes and misdemeanors often requiring a hasty retreat. Peter made a quick turn next to the hotel and ran into a dead end. Bernie the cop was right behind and grabbed him by the back of the neck and pushed him up against the wall. Billy, meanwhile, had made several zigs and zags and had ended up in a spot just above Bernie and Peter. Policemen in those days were not as constrained by the rules protecting the accused as they are now. So Bernie was pretty rough on poor Peter. His questioning was harsh and accompanied by small acts of physical violence. He got Peter to confess to going to the altar boy meeting and the diner. A couple of slaps to the face elicited the information about walking the waitress home. Billy knew he was going to be given up if the punishment was any tougher.

Bernie was loudly proclaiming the defects of the wise guy Catholic boys in the town. “You guys think you can get away with anything! You think you can ignore the curfew. You think your monsignor will get you out of this? Who was with you on the bridge?” He continued on in this vein for some time. Billy waited. If the cop got more violent then he’d give himself up. But Bernie started to calm down. Peter told the cop that he hadn’t seen who was behind him on the bridge. Billy was amazed that Peter would lie. Peter never lied. The fact that Peter was lying upset Billy more than the slaps and shoves of the angry cop. So he jumped down from his hiding place and turned himself in. He told Bernie that he had been the one who threw the M80 and Peter didn’t know anything about it. He also said that the only reason Peter was out past curfew was because he was worried about the waitress walking home alone so late. And Peter wouldn’t have been so late if Billy wasn’t messing around on the walk home.

But Peter would have none of that. He claimed all responsibility for Billy and for himself. Then he started to yell at Bernie for being prejudiced against Catholics. When Peter would get into a righteous state of mind he could deliver a sermon worthy of a missionary preacher. He said that Jewish people of all the people in the world should be the most free from prejudice, except maybe against Germans. Bernie the fat cop was stunned by Peter’s tirade. Billy was sure that he was going to jail and Peter with him. But then it was over. Bernie, without actually apologizing, told the boys that they could go. He said, in a sheepish and conciliatory tone, that they’d better obey the curfew and lay off the firecrackers. And he walked away.

As they walked the rest of the way home Peter delivered another lecture. Billy listened respectfully and thanked Peter for sticking up for him. As they neared the bridge close to Peter’s house, a bridge quite a bit closer to the river with not nearly as much of an echo potential, Peter said “Got any more M80s?” Billy said “Just one. Need a match?”

The End.