The very first order of business when we got home from saying goodbye was to collect her things and put them away. Everywhere we looked there was something of hers. A tennis ball. A water bowl ringed with chew marks. A Costco-sized box of Milkbones. And seeing her belongings just made the house seem all the more empty. We simply couldn't bear it.
Ginger, "The Sweetest Dog Who Ever Was" (as she became known to me), joined our family in August of 1998. After years of cat dominance (Libby, whose tolerance for mere mortals was minimal), we had decided to add a dog to our list of dependents. And if we were going to get a dog, by God, we were going to get a "real" dog. No little wussy, yappy, frou-frou debutante "accessory", but a great big, furry, slobbering, barking DAWG. I'd always loved Golden Retrievers, so we contacted a local rescue organization and, after an inspection that would do any adoption agency proud, they matched us with Ginger.
She was nine months old when we got her. Not quite a puppy. But that didn't stop her from acting like one. For the next 13 years.
Time has a way of softening the rough edges, burnishing memories like a jeweler polishes gold. So, truth-be-told, Ginger was not always on her best behavior. We learned early not to leave anything on our counters because Ginger would, as a Golden's DNA dictates, retrieve it. And then eat it. Didn't matter what. Food. Dish towels. Packages. Small appliances. If she could reach it, it was fair game. We stopped buying her "indestructible" chew toys because she would, in a matter of minutes, prove the manufacturer wrong. And this behavior continued well into her senior years, when not long ago she discovered the operating manual for our new HVAC thermostat and consumed it with the gusto usually reserved for a fine steak.
Ginger was also not a good "walker". In spite of some obedience training (now THERE was money well-spent), she would tug at her leash so insistently she would practically choke herself blue in the face. And God forbid you encountered another dog on your walk. Or a rabbit. Or squirrel. Or a wind-blown piece of trash. Because off she would go, in hot pursuit, leash (and your shoulder) be damned.
And being a "sporting dog", unwary animal visitors to our backyard often found themselves in Ginger's crosshairs. It was not uncommon in her younger, faster days to find captured prey at our backdoor. Once, an exceedingly arrogant squirrel taunted Ginger from a nearby tree until it made the fatal mistake of getting a little too close. Final score: Ginger 1, bushy-tailed varmint 0.
But if Ginger was a bit "unruly", she was also exceedingly sweet. She never met anyone she didn't instantly befriend (because she always held hope that this new person would give her some food). She loved to eat and she loved to play. And, most of all, she absolutely adored us, all of us. Almost as much as we adored her.
Trying to pick a favorite memory of her is like to trying to choose your favorite Christmas. There are just too many. Playing ball with her in the backyard (which she would do 'til exhaustion. Hers, not mine). Greeting me at the door when I'd get home from work, the rhythmic thump of her tail on the kitchen floor, and I swear she would actually be smiling. Big, wet "Gingy-kisses". Watching her roll over on her back to become "Upside Down Dog". Scratching her ears. Rubbing her belly until she'd snort in sheer sensual pleasure. Watching her squeeze herself under our coffee table whenever there was a thunderstorm. For a big girl, she was kind of a baby.
I always liked to think that I was her favorite. After all, I was the one who generally played ball with her and took her for walks. Not to mention keeping her well-supplied with Purina One. But I know I'm just kidding myself. Oh, she loved me well-enough. But she really, really loved my wife Kathy.
Kathy was the one who really took care of Ginger. Bathing. Grooming. Appointments with the vet. And Ginger knew it. While Kathy would lavish Ginger with attention and praise I would scoff, calling her "good for nothing", a "smelly old fat dog" and "spoiled rotten" (which she was). But Ginger didn't care. Kathy loved her. And that was all that mattered. And she knew I didn't really mean any of the awful things I would say to her. At least, I pray that she knew.
As she got older, Ginger remained in remarkably good health. But nothing stops the inevitable and the selfish illusion that we were going to have her forever began to disappear, little by little. Her once keen eyesight, capable of tracking a tennis ball from 30 yards, dimmed. Her hearing faded, her appetite paled. Her stride faltered. "The World's Oldest Puppy" was starting to lose herself. She seemed anxious, unsure. And while she wasn't suffering, her bad days were beginning to outnumber her good.
On Sunday, she stopped eating and drinking. Her breathing became labored and she struggled to stand. They say animals can sense when their time is drawing near. Denial is not part of their world, only ours. She spent that night seeking quiet and darkness, resisting our efforts to comfort her.
On her last day, after we had decided to face the unthinkable, I hurried home from work, expecting to find her prone on our kitchen floor, if not already gone. Much to my surprise, she greeted me with a tail wag, got to her feet and headed for the back door. We went out into our yard where she found one of her tennis balls and began to play "keep away" with me. We spent an hour or so out there, in the place that had been her world (and mine to share) for most of her life. And I saw just a flicker of that ebullient light that seems to shine in all dogs, a trace of the rascally puppy she'd always been. So I began to think that maybe it wasn't yet her time, maybe her doctor would offer us some hope that she might remain with us for a little while longer.
But it was not to be. A brain lesion was responsible for her decline and her prognosis was poor. She'd slip away a little more each day, robbed of her exuberance, her dignity, her self. That hard truth, most of all, was more than we could bear. So we decided to say goodbye and let her go.
In the end, it was as good a day as could be expected, given the circumstances. She had treats, she snoozed, she played ball outside. The vet made her comfortable while we stroked her and kissed her and soothed her. We told her we loved her one last time. And then, she was gone.
Fourteen years. That's a pretty good run for any dog. A rich and fulfilling life, surrounded by family who loved her. And were loved by her, unconditionally, in return.
Today was the first day since I don't know when that I truly came home to an empty house. I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. But I know that right now, Ginger is dashing across an endless sea of grass on a glorious summer day, chasing rabbits and tennis balls and wagging her tail in rhythm to music only she can hear. And that makes me smile. And makes the house seem a little less empty, at least for a little while.
When I took off my black fleece jacket, I noticed it was covered in her golden hair. I don't think I'll ever put it in the wash. Not for a long, long time.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Just the Fact's, Ma'm . . .
The other day I was at Sam's Club (I love warehouse clubs, but that's another blog for another day) and while I was there I filled up the Miata with a tank of their very finest premium fuel. When I was done I fired up my iPhone and launched one of my favorite apps, Fuel Gauge, which I use to keep track of my gas mileage. While I was entering the pertinent data, I was interrupted by a rap on my window. Standing outside my car was a Sam's Club "team member" (or as we used to call them, an "employee"), an older gentlemen whose name I didn't get but I'm confident is "Gus" or "Hank". I lowered the window and before I could say anything he asked me this question . . . "Do you like your car?".
Now, seeing as how I am a celebrity and drive an exotic-yet-affordable sports car that is so NOT a chick car, I am often asked this question. I imagine "regular people" see me tooling-around town in my bright red roadster, their weary souls filled with an understandable desire to be like me. And I always reply in the affirmative. But that's not what "Gus" was after. "Gus" was about to impart some of his hard-earned wisdom.
He pointed at my iPhone and told me about a guy, some unfortunate wretch, who just a few weeks earlier was filling his car at the Wawa station on Rosemont Road when a spark from his cell phone triggered a massive explosion, destroying his ride and nearly taking his life. "Gus" then advised me not to tempt fate by playing with my new-fangled gadget while pumping gas.
After a moment of stunned silence on my part, I thanked "Gus" and assured him I would never do it again. And then he walked away, his duty done.
Now I know he was only trying to be helpful. Which is why I chose not to say anything. But his story, and therefore his warning, is . . . completely bogus.
First of all, I wasn't using my phone, I was using an app on my phone. I mean, who uses their smartphone to make phone calls?? Plus, being a member of the local media, I think I might have heard about a flaming fireball engulfing most of Virginia Beach. But that's not really important. What matters is that this is a widely-believed "urban legend". And sometimes it's hard to convince people of the real facts.
But you're saying, "Alright then, smart guy . . . if it's not true then how come the oil companies put warnings on their pumps, huh?". One word . . . liability. To cover their backsides in the extremely off-chance that it actually could happen. Those signs are lawyers talking, not scientists.
All I know is that as of this writing there has not been one single documented case of a cell phone igniting a fire at a gas pump. Not one. Sorry, "Gus". Even the "Mythbusters" guys couldn't get it to happen. And if Adam and Jamie say it's "busted", it's "busted".
It's true you'll find "news" stories on the internet claiming this has actually occurred, usually in far-off places like Indonesia and Australia. But journalism ain't what it used to be. Just ask Rupert Murdoch, if you can catch him while he's not ducking a pie to the face.
And it's not always "urban legends". Sometimes it's misinformation masquerading as fact. Here are just a few of my favorite examples:
A fan cools the air.
Nope. Sorry. Ain't true. Fans just make you feel cooler. They do not actually lower the temperature of the air. In fact, in a small way, they actually warm the air, because the electricity used to run them generates heat. It doesn't mean you shouldn't run a fan. It just means there's no sense keeping one on in an empty room. It's like that old saying: "If a man's in the woods and he says something and there's no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?".
Poison ivy/oak/sumac is contagious.
It might be gross. It's definitely disgusting. But there's no harm in touching someone who has a rash from poison ivy. Go ahead, I dare you. The only way to get the "Mother-of-all" skin irritations is through direct contact with the oil on the plant itself, so stay away. If you find yourself surrounded by "foliage" (which is usually in "nature", which is located "outdoors") remember this rule I learned in the Boy Scouts: "Leaves of three, let it be". Or, as we used to say to our creepy assistant scoutmaster, "Here, wipe with this!".
And if you feel you may come in contact with the dreaded poisonous plantus itchyous, do not wash the area with soap and water . . . it will only spread the oil. Instead, get plenty of alcohol. And by "alcohol" I mean "liquor". 'Cause you're going to need it.
Humans only use ten percent of their brains.
This popular belief began with psychologist and noted crackpot author Williams James, who argued in The Energies of Men that "We are making use of only a small part of our possible mental and physical resources". Science has since proven that humans use practically all of their brains practically all of the time. Which is encouraging and a little bit sad, really. Experts feel that James' mistaken and misguided theories stem from a very small scientific sample, which included only members of Congress and the Kardashians.
Eating "Pop Rocks" and drinking a soda will cause you to explode.
Actually, this one's true. Don't believe me? When was the last time you saw Mikey from the Life cereal TV commercial, huh? I rest my case.
So, the next time you encounter some tidbit on the internet like "Facebook is going to start charging users" or "the Federal Government works for the taxpayers", greet it with a big ol' slice of skepticism. And feel free to ask me and I'll do my best to set things straight.
Or you can ask "Gus". But I'd turn off my phone first, if I were you.
Now, seeing as how I am a celebrity and drive an exotic-yet-affordable sports car that is so NOT a chick car, I am often asked this question. I imagine "regular people" see me tooling-around town in my bright red roadster, their weary souls filled with an understandable desire to be like me. And I always reply in the affirmative. But that's not what "Gus" was after. "Gus" was about to impart some of his hard-earned wisdom.
He pointed at my iPhone and told me about a guy, some unfortunate wretch, who just a few weeks earlier was filling his car at the Wawa station on Rosemont Road when a spark from his cell phone triggered a massive explosion, destroying his ride and nearly taking his life. "Gus" then advised me not to tempt fate by playing with my new-fangled gadget while pumping gas.
After a moment of stunned silence on my part, I thanked "Gus" and assured him I would never do it again. And then he walked away, his duty done.
Now I know he was only trying to be helpful. Which is why I chose not to say anything. But his story, and therefore his warning, is . . . completely bogus.
First of all, I wasn't using my phone, I was using an app on my phone. I mean, who uses their smartphone to make phone calls?? Plus, being a member of the local media, I think I might have heard about a flaming fireball engulfing most of Virginia Beach. But that's not really important. What matters is that this is a widely-believed "urban legend". And sometimes it's hard to convince people of the real facts.
But you're saying, "Alright then, smart guy . . . if it's not true then how come the oil companies put warnings on their pumps, huh?". One word . . . liability. To cover their backsides in the extremely off-chance that it actually could happen. Those signs are lawyers talking, not scientists.
All I know is that as of this writing there has not been one single documented case of a cell phone igniting a fire at a gas pump. Not one. Sorry, "Gus". Even the "Mythbusters" guys couldn't get it to happen. And if Adam and Jamie say it's "busted", it's "busted".
It's true you'll find "news" stories on the internet claiming this has actually occurred, usually in far-off places like Indonesia and Australia. But journalism ain't what it used to be. Just ask Rupert Murdoch, if you can catch him while he's not ducking a pie to the face.
And it's not always "urban legends". Sometimes it's misinformation masquerading as fact. Here are just a few of my favorite examples:
A fan cools the air.
Nope. Sorry. Ain't true. Fans just make you feel cooler. They do not actually lower the temperature of the air. In fact, in a small way, they actually warm the air, because the electricity used to run them generates heat. It doesn't mean you shouldn't run a fan. It just means there's no sense keeping one on in an empty room. It's like that old saying: "If a man's in the woods and he says something and there's no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?".
Poison ivy/oak/sumac is contagious.
It might be gross. It's definitely disgusting. But there's no harm in touching someone who has a rash from poison ivy. Go ahead, I dare you. The only way to get the "Mother-of-all" skin irritations is through direct contact with the oil on the plant itself, so stay away. If you find yourself surrounded by "foliage" (which is usually in "nature", which is located "outdoors") remember this rule I learned in the Boy Scouts: "Leaves of three, let it be". Or, as we used to say to our creepy assistant scoutmaster, "Here, wipe with this!".
And if you feel you may come in contact with the dreaded poisonous plantus itchyous, do not wash the area with soap and water . . . it will only spread the oil. Instead, get plenty of alcohol. And by "alcohol" I mean "liquor". 'Cause you're going to need it.
Humans only use ten percent of their brains.
This popular belief began with psychologist and noted crackpot author Williams James, who argued in The Energies of Men that "We are making use of only a small part of our possible mental and physical resources". Science has since proven that humans use practically all of their brains practically all of the time. Which is encouraging and a little bit sad, really. Experts feel that James' mistaken and misguided theories stem from a very small scientific sample, which included only members of Congress and the Kardashians.
Eating "Pop Rocks" and drinking a soda will cause you to explode.
Actually, this one's true. Don't believe me? When was the last time you saw Mikey from the Life cereal TV commercial, huh? I rest my case.
So, the next time you encounter some tidbit on the internet like "Facebook is going to start charging users" or "the Federal Government works for the taxpayers", greet it with a big ol' slice of skepticism. And feel free to ask me and I'll do my best to set things straight.
Or you can ask "Gus". But I'd turn off my phone first, if I were you.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Mr. (and Mrs.) Cellophane
I don't like to brag, but I've long possessed a super-power, a power many people covet. And yet, if they knew it's true essence, they might think twice about their desire to have it.
For I have long had the power of . . . invisibility.
It started in grade school, whenever I would attempt to answer a question posed by whatever nun was unfortunate enough to have me in her class ("Ha! Short straw! You take him, Sister Malevolent!"). The power grew stronger during my high school years, especially around popular classmates, jocks and girls. And now that I've reached a certain level of "maturity", shall we say, it's become devastatingly effective against any member of the opposite sex between the ages of 18 and 45.
Were this cross mine alone to bear, I would do so with a silent, begrudging reluctance. But, as I have only recently discovered, my "Cloak of Non-Existence" is expansive enough to swathe others.
Enter, Mrs. Cellophane . . . my poor wife.
Now, if you know my wife, you know that the very last word you would use to describe her is "invisible". She is not one accustomed to going unnoticed. But I'm afraid a near-lifetime with me has rendered her translucent.
The weekend of our anniversary celebration was rife with examples of our transparency. On the way out of town to celebrate, we stopped at a local tavern (I don't want to name names, but it rhymes with "The Breen Furtle"). It was early on a Friday afternoon and the waitstaff out-numbered the guests four-to-one. But that didn't prevent all of them from walking by our booth dozens of times, never once acknowledging our presence. Finally, we flagged down a busboy, who seemed confused by the whole concept of "customers" wanting to be "waited on", but who eventually succeeded in getting a server's attention long enough for us to order tall frosty glasses of "dinner".
If this had been an isolated occurence, I would have laughed it off as the "usual dark cloud that seems to follow me everywhere, even the bathroom". But it would set the tone for the entire weekend.
The drive to Our Nation's Capital was uneventful, especially for a summer Friday. The check-in to our swanky hotel went smoothly, so we decided to hit the lounge for another round of "dinner". The restaurant's bar was packed with golf fans (as evidenced by their colorful attire and general Republicaness), in town for the U.S. Open. We found a table in the back, sat down and waited for someone to take our order. And waited. And then, waited some more. Finally, my wife, who's reservoir of patience is surprisingly small considering who she's married to, leapt to her feet and corralled an employee. And using an elaborate series of guttural sounds and hand gestures, was able to secure for us a round of potent and very expensive drinks.
The next morning, at breakfast . . . same deal, different day. We couldn't get anyone in the restaurant to wait on our table. And we had planned on having the buffet, so all we needed was something to drink. Oh, and silverware. That would make enjoying the scrambled eggs a little less conspicuous. Still it took monumental effort to get any attention, making us feel exactly like Tareq and Michaele Salahi, if they could feel anything besides shame.
On our way out, it occurred to me to make a dinner reservation for that evening, as we had tickets to see a play at the Kennedy Center. It was an early curtain so I requested an early reservation, 5:00PM. The hostess replied that 5:30 was the best she could do, but that we could arrive early.
We spent an enjoyable day museum tromping but rushed back to put on our fanciest duds and head out for an evening of fine dining and delightful musical theater. When we arrived at our room, we discovered the management had arranged a surprise: the room was EXACTLY as we had left it, seven hours earlier. I can only guess it was so that we could preserve the memory of our special weekend. It wasn't until we began getting ready that a plaintive knock came from the door. I answered it, only partially attired, and found a member of the crack housekeeping staff fully prepared to enter. I explained that the room was currently housing two full-sized adults and that she would have to come back some other time. It turns out that "some other time" in housekeeping lingo means "never".
Oh, well . . . one less tip to leave.
We arrived at the restaurant at 5:05, only to discover . . . it was closed. It seems the restaurant doesn't even OPEN until 5:30. But in the hostess's defense, when she told us we could arrive at 5, she never actually followed it with, "so we can seat you early". What she meant was, "so we can seat you at the bar and serve you several rounds of potent and very expensive drinks BEFORE we seat you". My mistake.
Dinner was fabulous. What I can remember of it. I've never consumed that many dollars of aged prime rib that quickly before. Kathy's mahi-mah was equally superb and speedy. In spite of the fact that I had informed our waiter of our urgency (and in spite of the fact that the we were the only ones there) dinner was painfully slow arriving. We gobbled, we paid, we bolted. And just made our 7:30 curtain.
The next morning, back for breakfast, I briefly considered setting myself on fire as we strolled into the restaurant, just to get some attention. But then I remembered how long it took to get our beverages the morning before and changed my mind. Sunday's service would prove to be no better than Saturday's. But they do make a damn fine waffle, so I'm almost tempted to forgive them.
Almost.
So, there you have it . . . "Mr. and Mrs. Cellophane Go to Washington". It spite of it all we thoroughly enjoyed the weekend and each other's company. But the near complete absence of anything resembling good service?
Not so much.
I'd write a letter detailing my disappointment to the hotel's management, but recent similar efforts on my behalf have proven fruitless. Apparently my words are as easy to ignore as my person.
I wonder if they'll ever notice if I neglect to pay the bill?
For I have long had the power of . . . invisibility.
It started in grade school, whenever I would attempt to answer a question posed by whatever nun was unfortunate enough to have me in her class ("Ha! Short straw! You take him, Sister Malevolent!"). The power grew stronger during my high school years, especially around popular classmates, jocks and girls. And now that I've reached a certain level of "maturity", shall we say, it's become devastatingly effective against any member of the opposite sex between the ages of 18 and 45.
Were this cross mine alone to bear, I would do so with a silent, begrudging reluctance. But, as I have only recently discovered, my "Cloak of Non-Existence" is expansive enough to swathe others.
Enter, Mrs. Cellophane . . . my poor wife.
Now, if you know my wife, you know that the very last word you would use to describe her is "invisible". She is not one accustomed to going unnoticed. But I'm afraid a near-lifetime with me has rendered her translucent.
The weekend of our anniversary celebration was rife with examples of our transparency. On the way out of town to celebrate, we stopped at a local tavern (I don't want to name names, but it rhymes with "The Breen Furtle"). It was early on a Friday afternoon and the waitstaff out-numbered the guests four-to-one. But that didn't prevent all of them from walking by our booth dozens of times, never once acknowledging our presence. Finally, we flagged down a busboy, who seemed confused by the whole concept of "customers" wanting to be "waited on", but who eventually succeeded in getting a server's attention long enough for us to order tall frosty glasses of "dinner".
If this had been an isolated occurence, I would have laughed it off as the "usual dark cloud that seems to follow me everywhere, even the bathroom". But it would set the tone for the entire weekend.
The drive to Our Nation's Capital was uneventful, especially for a summer Friday. The check-in to our swanky hotel went smoothly, so we decided to hit the lounge for another round of "dinner". The restaurant's bar was packed with golf fans (as evidenced by their colorful attire and general Republicaness), in town for the U.S. Open. We found a table in the back, sat down and waited for someone to take our order. And waited. And then, waited some more. Finally, my wife, who's reservoir of patience is surprisingly small considering who she's married to, leapt to her feet and corralled an employee. And using an elaborate series of guttural sounds and hand gestures, was able to secure for us a round of potent and very expensive drinks.
The next morning, at breakfast . . . same deal, different day. We couldn't get anyone in the restaurant to wait on our table. And we had planned on having the buffet, so all we needed was something to drink. Oh, and silverware. That would make enjoying the scrambled eggs a little less conspicuous. Still it took monumental effort to get any attention, making us feel exactly like Tareq and Michaele Salahi, if they could feel anything besides shame.
On our way out, it occurred to me to make a dinner reservation for that evening, as we had tickets to see a play at the Kennedy Center. It was an early curtain so I requested an early reservation, 5:00PM. The hostess replied that 5:30 was the best she could do, but that we could arrive early.
We spent an enjoyable day museum tromping but rushed back to put on our fanciest duds and head out for an evening of fine dining and delightful musical theater. When we arrived at our room, we discovered the management had arranged a surprise: the room was EXACTLY as we had left it, seven hours earlier. I can only guess it was so that we could preserve the memory of our special weekend. It wasn't until we began getting ready that a plaintive knock came from the door. I answered it, only partially attired, and found a member of the crack housekeeping staff fully prepared to enter. I explained that the room was currently housing two full-sized adults and that she would have to come back some other time. It turns out that "some other time" in housekeeping lingo means "never".
Oh, well . . . one less tip to leave.
We arrived at the restaurant at 5:05, only to discover . . . it was closed. It seems the restaurant doesn't even OPEN until 5:30. But in the hostess's defense, when she told us we could arrive at 5, she never actually followed it with, "so we can seat you early". What she meant was, "so we can seat you at the bar and serve you several rounds of potent and very expensive drinks BEFORE we seat you". My mistake.
Dinner was fabulous. What I can remember of it. I've never consumed that many dollars of aged prime rib that quickly before. Kathy's mahi-mah was equally superb and speedy. In spite of the fact that I had informed our waiter of our urgency (and in spite of the fact that the we were the only ones there) dinner was painfully slow arriving. We gobbled, we paid, we bolted. And just made our 7:30 curtain.
The next morning, back for breakfast, I briefly considered setting myself on fire as we strolled into the restaurant, just to get some attention. But then I remembered how long it took to get our beverages the morning before and changed my mind. Sunday's service would prove to be no better than Saturday's. But they do make a damn fine waffle, so I'm almost tempted to forgive them.
Almost.
So, there you have it . . . "Mr. and Mrs. Cellophane Go to Washington". It spite of it all we thoroughly enjoyed the weekend and each other's company. But the near complete absence of anything resembling good service?
Not so much.
I'd write a letter detailing my disappointment to the hotel's management, but recent similar efforts on my behalf have proven fruitless. Apparently my words are as easy to ignore as my person.
I wonder if they'll ever notice if I neglect to pay the bill?
Friday, June 17, 2011
All My Love, Always . . .
What do you say to the woman you've shared your life with for the last 35 years? How do you tell her that she's grown more beautiful with each passing day, that your heart still skips a beat every time she walks into the room? How do you begin to tell her all that she means to you? Only a fool would try.
So here I go.
I remember the first time I saw her, in high school. She was cute. Damn cute. With long auburn hair, the color of cinnamon. A beautiful smile, turned-up nose. A laugh that could fill a room. And a boyfriend.
I disliked him, immediately.
We saw each other in our school's theater productions. We shared a circle of friends. Eventually, I worked-up enough nerve to ask her out. She said "yes". The first of many that would follow. And that would be our life together.
Always questions from me.
Always "yes" from her.
When I thought we were ready to be husband and wife, she agreed. When I told her that radio was what I wanted to do, she believed in me. When I said my career would likely take us away, far from our homes, she welcomed the idea, eager for the adventure before us.
Always "yes".
So we left our families, our friends and started our journey. Just the two of us, at first. Before too long, three. Then four.
It is not possible to thank her enough for the gift of our children. For being a fiercely devoted and proud mom. For allowing me to be a father, and showing me the way. Diana and Matt are grown now. They're close by and a big part of our lives, just not every day. And I know that's hard for her. Which only makes me love her all the more.
It can be quite useful taking inventory after 35 years. Two apartments. Two houses. Two kids. Two dogs, three cats. Over a dozen cars. Two motorcycles. Several jobs. Three cruise vacations. Two trips to Vegas.
And 35 anniversaries.
There's a lot to be said for marrying your best friend. Together, we've seen good times and bad. For better . . . our beautiful kids. For worse . . . saying goodbye forever to our own parents. It's only then that you realize in the end, you've only got each other.
And yet, after all these years I still can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with. Have a drink with, share dinner with. Sometimes we'll simply look at each and have the same thought . . . how did we get here? How did these 35 years slip by in the seeming blink of an eye? And through it all, she's been there, always, to laugh with me, cry with me. To calm my worries and chase my fears. To show me the man she always knew I could be, even if I couldn't see it myself. Could I really be that man, for her?
Always a "yes". Never a doubt in her mind.
On the day we got married, I remember looking at her, so beautiful. Her face radiant, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of our life together. And then she was walking down that aisle, about to forever put her hand in mine, and I thought, "it doesn't get much better than this".
Little did I know.
Over the years, I've fallen into the admittedly lazy habit of signing all my greeting cards for her with, "All my love, always". Trite, I know.
But it's true. And it's really all I have to offer.
So, Kathy, let me simply say "I love you". I know I don't say it nearly enough. But I hope I show you, every day.
And that 35 more years together won't nearly be enough.
So here I go.
I remember the first time I saw her, in high school. She was cute. Damn cute. With long auburn hair, the color of cinnamon. A beautiful smile, turned-up nose. A laugh that could fill a room. And a boyfriend.
I disliked him, immediately.
We saw each other in our school's theater productions. We shared a circle of friends. Eventually, I worked-up enough nerve to ask her out. She said "yes". The first of many that would follow. And that would be our life together.
Always questions from me.
Always "yes" from her.
When I thought we were ready to be husband and wife, she agreed. When I told her that radio was what I wanted to do, she believed in me. When I said my career would likely take us away, far from our homes, she welcomed the idea, eager for the adventure before us.
Always "yes".
So we left our families, our friends and started our journey. Just the two of us, at first. Before too long, three. Then four.
It is not possible to thank her enough for the gift of our children. For being a fiercely devoted and proud mom. For allowing me to be a father, and showing me the way. Diana and Matt are grown now. They're close by and a big part of our lives, just not every day. And I know that's hard for her. Which only makes me love her all the more.
It can be quite useful taking inventory after 35 years. Two apartments. Two houses. Two kids. Two dogs, three cats. Over a dozen cars. Two motorcycles. Several jobs. Three cruise vacations. Two trips to Vegas.
And 35 anniversaries.
There's a lot to be said for marrying your best friend. Together, we've seen good times and bad. For better . . . our beautiful kids. For worse . . . saying goodbye forever to our own parents. It's only then that you realize in the end, you've only got each other.
And yet, after all these years I still can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with. Have a drink with, share dinner with. Sometimes we'll simply look at each and have the same thought . . . how did we get here? How did these 35 years slip by in the seeming blink of an eye? And through it all, she's been there, always, to laugh with me, cry with me. To calm my worries and chase my fears. To show me the man she always knew I could be, even if I couldn't see it myself. Could I really be that man, for her?
Always a "yes". Never a doubt in her mind.
On the day we got married, I remember looking at her, so beautiful. Her face radiant, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of our life together. And then she was walking down that aisle, about to forever put her hand in mine, and I thought, "it doesn't get much better than this".
Little did I know.
Over the years, I've fallen into the admittedly lazy habit of signing all my greeting cards for her with, "All my love, always". Trite, I know.
But it's true. And it's really all I have to offer.
So, Kathy, let me simply say "I love you". I know I don't say it nearly enough. But I hope I show you, every day.
And that 35 more years together won't nearly be enough.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Dear Soulless MegaBank Drones . . .
An open letter to "one of the country's leading financial institutions" . . .
Dear Sirs or Madams or Bankers,
How are you?
Doing well, apparently, as you no longer seem to need or want my business.
I guess you know why I'm writing. After all, you wrote me first. Twice, actually. Last week to tell me that I had missed a payment on my credit card. And again this week to tell me that, as a consequence of that missed payment, the interest rate on that card was about to be changed to the "maximum Penalty APR", a staggeringly high number, well north of the age when males in this country can rent cars. At first I was somewhat startled by the harshness of your reaction to my tardy remittance. But now that I've had some time to reflect, I believe I understand.
You see, I know I'm not your best customer.
Your card fell into my "Occasional Use, but Mostly for Unexpected Stuff" category. So, obviously I didn't use the card very often. And when I did, I'd immediately pay it off. No balance carried, so no interest charged. Which is why I begrudgingly accepted the "Annual Members Fee" . . . I knew you had a make a few dollars off me somehow. Although I'm still not exactly clear what I'm a member of.
Anywho, because I wasn't accustomed to making a payment every month, I had set up an "Alert" for my account online. I was to be "emailed" five days before a payment was due. But last month, it didn't happen.
I know, I know . . . there was a lot going on last month. The season finales of "Idol" and "DWTS". Not to mention Oprah leaving and the possibility the world was going to end. Plus we both know that "email" and the "internet" are grossly unreliable conveyances, so I'm not surprised it didn't happen. And I guess the bill I got in the mail should've prodded my admittedly-shoddy memory long enough to crack open my checkbook. Oh, right. I didn't get a bill in the mail. Because you begged me NOT to. So I signed on for "paperless billing". I forgot. But it's nice to see you've put the paper saved to good use shipping me dozens of blank checks and additional card offers every month.
So when I received your first cheerful missive regarding the absent payment, I dutifully logged in to my account and, sure enough, you were right! I promptly paid my balance, in full (including the interest charged and a rather "generous" late fee). I thought the matter properly addressed.
I thought wrong.
When I received your latest correspondence regarding the "penalty" I would receive for the one payment I missed the one time I used your card this year, I have to admit I was a little miffed.
Okay, a lot miffed.
In hindsight it was probably wrong of me to fire off that somewhat curt inquiry (via "email", so I'm surprised you actually got it!) about closing my account. But let me add, while mistakes were made, they were made on both sides.
Because someone in your "Customer Service Center" responded (quite promptly, I might add) by saying a) there was nothing they could ( or should I say "would"?) do about the "Penalty APR", and b) telling me exactly what I had to do to close my account.
I'll let you guess what I did next. For BOTH the cards I had with your bank. Oops . . . the "had" kind of gave it away, didn't it?
Now I know your natural reaction to my note will be one of genuine and heartfelt concern for my financial well-being. Awwww, that's sweet. But dry your tears. I'm going to be just fine. You see, I have several other credit cards to fall back on. One I use almost daily. And others that don't mind seeing the light of day on special occasions. And if I'm a little late getting that check in the mail, they seem satisfied slapping a "late fee" (plus interest, of course) onto the balance and calling it even. I know it's a little old-fashioned, but it seems to work for us.
As this is the last time we'll be in touch, let me close by wishing you all the best in your future endeavors. But let me respond to the following line from your last email to me . . . "Although you have chosen to close your account please consider us for your future financial needs".
Ummm, no.
Not a chance in Hell.
Sincerely,
A Faceless Account Holder
P.S.
Hey, you know that bailout you guys got from me and all the other taxpayers last year?
You're welcome.
Dear Sirs or Madams or Bankers,
How are you?
Doing well, apparently, as you no longer seem to need or want my business.
I guess you know why I'm writing. After all, you wrote me first. Twice, actually. Last week to tell me that I had missed a payment on my credit card. And again this week to tell me that, as a consequence of that missed payment, the interest rate on that card was about to be changed to the "maximum Penalty APR", a staggeringly high number, well north of the age when males in this country can rent cars. At first I was somewhat startled by the harshness of your reaction to my tardy remittance. But now that I've had some time to reflect, I believe I understand.
You see, I know I'm not your best customer.
Your card fell into my "Occasional Use, but Mostly for Unexpected Stuff" category. So, obviously I didn't use the card very often. And when I did, I'd immediately pay it off. No balance carried, so no interest charged. Which is why I begrudgingly accepted the "Annual Members Fee" . . . I knew you had a make a few dollars off me somehow. Although I'm still not exactly clear what I'm a member of.
Anywho, because I wasn't accustomed to making a payment every month, I had set up an "Alert" for my account online. I was to be "emailed" five days before a payment was due. But last month, it didn't happen.
I know, I know . . . there was a lot going on last month. The season finales of "Idol" and "DWTS". Not to mention Oprah leaving and the possibility the world was going to end. Plus we both know that "email" and the "internet" are grossly unreliable conveyances, so I'm not surprised it didn't happen. And I guess the bill I got in the mail should've prodded my admittedly-shoddy memory long enough to crack open my checkbook. Oh, right. I didn't get a bill in the mail. Because you begged me NOT to. So I signed on for "paperless billing". I forgot. But it's nice to see you've put the paper saved to good use shipping me dozens of blank checks and additional card offers every month.
So when I received your first cheerful missive regarding the absent payment, I dutifully logged in to my account and, sure enough, you were right! I promptly paid my balance, in full (including the interest charged and a rather "generous" late fee). I thought the matter properly addressed.
I thought wrong.
When I received your latest correspondence regarding the "penalty" I would receive for the one payment I missed the one time I used your card this year, I have to admit I was a little miffed.
Okay, a lot miffed.
In hindsight it was probably wrong of me to fire off that somewhat curt inquiry (via "email", so I'm surprised you actually got it!) about closing my account. But let me add, while mistakes were made, they were made on both sides.
Because someone in your "Customer Service Center" responded (quite promptly, I might add) by saying a) there was nothing they could ( or should I say "would"?) do about the "Penalty APR", and b) telling me exactly what I had to do to close my account.
I'll let you guess what I did next. For BOTH the cards I had with your bank. Oops . . . the "had" kind of gave it away, didn't it?
Now I know your natural reaction to my note will be one of genuine and heartfelt concern for my financial well-being. Awwww, that's sweet. But dry your tears. I'm going to be just fine. You see, I have several other credit cards to fall back on. One I use almost daily. And others that don't mind seeing the light of day on special occasions. And if I'm a little late getting that check in the mail, they seem satisfied slapping a "late fee" (plus interest, of course) onto the balance and calling it even. I know it's a little old-fashioned, but it seems to work for us.
As this is the last time we'll be in touch, let me close by wishing you all the best in your future endeavors. But let me respond to the following line from your last email to me . . . "Although you have chosen to close your account please consider us for your future financial needs".
Ummm, no.
Not a chance in Hell.
Sincerely,
A Faceless Account Holder
P.S.
Hey, you know that bailout you guys got from me and all the other taxpayers last year?
You're welcome.
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