I’m not a recognized critic and I don’t have the clout to stimulate a following but I can’t tell you enough how much I like enjoyed this post by BloggingwithBojana.com
via ODE TO WISDOM, Waltz No. 1
Do you have to be old to be wise?
Can you be young and wise?
Can Wisdom only be gained from experience?
Is wisdom just regurgitated hand-me-downs by old fogies?
Bojana takes a fresh look at a timeless topic. Please check it out.
I’m not a conventional person. In fact, I go significantly far out of my way not to be. I always joke that I don’t think before I speak, I prefer to be as shocked as everyone else by what I will say. When someone says “I think I know you” it’s not uncommon for me to reply:
“Oh, do you watch porn?” or “Ever see Cops?”
Most people can handle it, I’m big enough to avoid problems if they can’t. Sarcasm is a wonderful thing but it can be lost on the weak-minded. More than one person has walked away from me shaking their head in confusion or disbelief. It’s harmless fun for me, I amuse myself while exposing the lack of sense of humor in others.
Today I volunteered at the local food pantry. I committed to the director when I moved here that I would do it every week for at least the winter and as often as I could the rest of the year. I am one of the only volunteers that work every week, the other volunteers have schedules like the 2nd and 4th week etc. Long story short, I meet new volunteers every week. Nice people, all townsfolk, all of them knew my father. Today I was with 4 complete strangers, and I was the only male. One of the nice ladies said, “you look familiar”. Without hesitation, I replied,
“you probably saw me on America’s Most Wanted.” She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Until another woman, who apparently knew who I was said to her
“This is ____ ___________’s son.” The startled woman said “Oh, I see. Well, that explains it. Your Dad was a smartass as well. Nice man though.” She was smiling so it was ok.
Sarcasm, tough love, finding humor in inappropriate situations, it’s a long family legacy that I embrace. I come from a long line of smartasses and it’s a proud tradition. We’re also a rugged bunch. We don’t grieve for long. We adapt to whatever happens. We can take a hit, get up and wipe the blood from our chins and move on to the next fight. My wife, on the other hand, is not at all like this, nor is her family. When we had children I knew that our parenting styles would be a constant source of disagreement. Fortunately, we found balance.
My sarcasm and inappropriate sense of humor would prove to be a dominant family trait. Despite my wife’s best efforts to suppress it, my children have warped senses of humor and are hopeless wiseasses. It really infuriates my wife. When my oldest daughter was in third grade her teacher said to her “Oh, I see you speak sarcasm young lady.” My daughter replied
“It’s my second language.”
Her teacher was not amused, based on the hot stare she gave us at the parent-teacher conference. My wife gave me the hairy eyeball.
My oldest son had a parent-teacher conference soon after. The teacher remarked that when she would tell a joke that was of a more adult nature in class, only my son would be snickering in the back row. She wanted to know what kind of household we were providing for our children. I immediately shot back, asking her what kind of jokes she was telling in class. Once again my wife gave me the hairy eyeball.
It wasn’t as if our children were raised at an Eddie Murphy concert. It was just our way of preparing them for the world. I believed in taking away the stigma of things by talking about them instead of sheltering them from it. I would make concessions to my wife and make sure to emphasize caution and be ready for the worst in people but at the end of the day, they knew what the world was even if it was through bad jokes.
One incident comes to mind, because I will never live it down, was when my youngest daughter (# 4) was 7 years old. We lived in a massive apartment complex and my wife and I was outside talking to a new resident. A very reserved woman with an obnoxious little dog. We were being neighborly, making small talk when my youngest ran up and said “Dad, can I go to the playground and meet Cassie?” The playground was well beyond our sight but she was a trustworthy kid so I said’
“Ok, but tell me what you do if a man pulls up in a white van.”
“Hold out for the big Snickers” she replied.
“Right. Have fun.”
I looked over and my wife was livid. Our new friend’s jaw was on the ground. I said, “Say what you want, she gets it.”
There are so many more examples but I won’t bore you. The point is that my kids have grown to be self-sufficient and strong people. And they are good citizens with solid values. They had the misfortune of seeing their parents struggle with money, go through a foreclosure and a bankruptcy, and their father seriously ill. But they learned from it and they make me so proud. I will help them with anything, but they don’t need it.
The other night a friend of mine asked me how my oldest was doing. I told him how well things were going for her. Graduated top of her class, new job, boyfriend and a new puppy… He cut me off. “Boyfriend?” What’s that like for him? I can’t imagine how scared he is of you.”
“You would think”, I replied, “but if he fucks up he should be more scared of her.” She is strong and tough and doesn’t need me unless her car breaks down. That’s how I want her to be. That’s how she was raised.
Last night she called while walking her dog. She had been fighting with her boyfriend lately so I asked her how they are getting along. She explained that it was fine, she wasn’t happy with how he’s acting but she’s being grown up about it. She told me if need be she’d take her puppy and move back in with her Grandmother. I told her that I was proud of her, that she didn’t turn out like the Disney Princesses she grew up with, helpless damsels waiting for a man on a horse to rescue her. Her reply was priceless.
“Nope, I’d tell him to get the hell off of my new horse.”
God, I love her. Even if she is just like me.
I’ve been away
but now I’m back
doin’ what I do
don’t give me no flack
I may act nice
hell, I really am
but know the difference
between kindness and weakness
A low profile I may keep
A good distance as well
but backed into a corner
I’ll make your life hell
I know what is what
and who knows who
aggravate and abuse me
you will never outlast me
my resolve is steady
my eyes on the prize
heaven forbid
if you underestimate me
https://lindaghill.com/2017/12/27/what-is-just-jot-it-january-2018-rules/
I wake up craving you
I want you tall
I like you hot
I want to take you orally
black is awesome
your Brazilian is my favorite
you warm me
wake me
I tremble without you
strangers meet over you
I get a headache without you
I can’t get enough of you
but if I try
I can’t sleep
You are coffee and I fucking love you
https://lindaghill.com/2017/12/27/what-is-just-jot-it-january-2018-rules/
Tonight I reached 500 likes on my blog, yesterday I broke the 50 followers mark.
When I started this blog I needed an outlet to exorcise my demons, cope with my situation, learn about myself and see if my story would be interesting.
Writing has always been an interest of mine, having someone read what I write a goal. I am so thankful for those of you that discovered my little corner of the internet.
To some, 50 followers and 500 likes is a drop in a bucket. To me, it means everything.
Thank you
But first a joke:
Q: How do you get an 80-year-old lady to say the F-word?
A: Have another 80-year-old lady yell Bingo
All kidding aside, I did it today. I’m a bad man.
When I first moved up here in August I made it a point to get to know as many people in town as I could. It’s a nice community and I didn’t want to be the “new guy” that people stared at for long (in a town this small it could take years). In addition, I needed money so I put it out there to the few that I met that I was available for small jobs. In an aging community such as this, I was sure that I would be utilized. One woman, in particular, was excited at the prospect of some help and invited me over to show me some projects she wanted to be done. She was a sweet lady in her early 80’s, very fit for her age with an 1800’s era farmhouse that was clearly in need of major repairs. She offered me some work in her enormous yard, all manageable stuff, and left it with me that she would call when she was ready for me. She never called.
I saw her at the Community Club meeting in December and I asked her, nicely, why she never called me. She had seemed so eager after all. She dodged the question and I let it go. I would find out later that she is very poor and probably is unable to pay me. We never actually discussed money, but I know that I would be reasonable with her. Anything helps after all. I decided that I would say something to her.
As the meeting wound down and everyone was putting on their coats, I approached her and said “We never actually talked about money, but I assure you it’s not a big deal to me. If you need something just call me I’ll be happy to help.” She looked as though someone had removed 200 pounds from her shoulders, the elephant in the room had left. She thanked me and went home.
She called me Saturday morning. She asked me if I would help her remove some snow from her roof. It was an understandable request, she certainly has at least a foot of it on her house and her roof is old. I told her I would be over to take a look at it Sunday at 11. I went over and when she showed me I wanted to say no. I’m in the middle of a disability claim and falling off a roof would certainly be inadvisable. It looked brutally difficult and time-consuming and I wasn’t sure if I was up to it. We talked for a while and in the course of the conversation, and she wasn’t trying to do this, she painted a picture of how alone she was, how overwhelmed with the maintenance of the old house, and how she was struggling with this brutal winter. I immediately knew that I would help her. As the conversation wound down on its own momentum, I said “I’ll be here Tuesday at 10. It won’t rain between now and then you’ll be fine.” She was so very happy.
I wasn’t. I was dreading it. It would be hard, treacherous work. But the weather would at least be warm.
I showed up this morning dressed in my best waterproof gear. Boots, snow pants, gloves, shovel and snow rake and I was ready to go. I trudged around the back of the house through unbroken snow (harder than it looks), climbed the ladder and immediately knew I had made an enormous mistake. There was more snow than on Keith Richards’ coffee table. But I went to it.
It was brutal work, it was warm enough that my feet went right down to the slippery surface. I almost fell off the roof twice. I had to move all of the snow to the front of the house because the back side was weak and I may fall through. 3 hours later I had managed, after frequent breaks to suck wind, to shovel all of it to the front side of the house. I was exhausted. I slid, no joke, to the ladder on my back and headed down. Once I trudged to the front of the house I realized I had completely filled in her shoveled walkway with the snow from the roof. 45 minutes later that was done. And so was I.
Exhausted, I went into her open barn and sat down on a lawn chair. A few minutes later she pulled in to the driveway and came in the barn. She was pleased with the work and could see that I was wiped out.
“Thank you so much, how much do I owe you?”
I looked up and said, “You owe me nothing.”
She was flustered, insistent that I simply couldn’t do that. I told her I wouldn’t take her money. She started to cry.
I explained to her that I was going for a different reaction. I wanted her to be happy. To have one less thing to worry about. She was so truly grateful I almost got emotional. I knew that I wasn’t going to accept any money from her that previous Sunday. I surmised that she would have to pay a snow removal service hundreds of dollars she didn’t have if I said no. Now that I was done, alive, vertebrae intact and out of cardiac arrest danger, it felt right.
“I have to do something for you, at some point,” she said, more composed. I told her I lost my hat. If it blows off the roof in the spring let me know.
You don’t give to get. You give for the sake of giving. Today I was able to make an old lady cry. And dammit, I’ll do it again. ‘Cause I’m a jerk like that.
Peace
https://lindaghill.com/2017/12/27/what-is-just-jot-it-january-2018-rules/
My phone vibrated for what seemed like the one-hundredth time that morning. I was stuck in another endless meeting and I knew that checking my phone was taboo. In order to see if it was an important message or an FB notification required me to dig my phone out, it was a gamble because my megalomaniac boss had a “thing” about cell phones during meetings. I gambled, unlike most in my office, my job required of me a lot of access by our customers so it wasn’t uncommon for me to take a call. It was a company phone after all. I put the phone in front of me while feigning interest in the monotony going on around me and glanced at the tool bar. It was an FB message from my mountain biking buddy Barbara.
did you hear about Rick?
No,what?
He died last night
call you as soon as I can
That indelible moment when you realize you just lost a good friend.
Rick, Barbara and I mountain biked together. Barbara and I were part of a larger group but we paired up a lot because we were the same skill level, had similar schedules and were close friends. Rick was a Fire Chief by day who was a friend of a friend of Barbara’s who had recently joined us on some rides. Rick and I became fast friends and it wasn’t long before he and I would squeeze in an extra ride on nights when others weren’t available. The night before was one of those rides and I had the bloody shin and bruised ego to show for it.
Rick had gladly assumed the role of making me a better rider. He wasn’t much to look at but he was very athletic for his age and body type and surprisingly coordinated. He had been making me try increasingly difficult terrain and I was doing well. That night we went somewhere new, a State Forest notorious for its technical (difficult) terrain. 30 minutes and 2 miles in, I followed him across a makeshift bridge of 2X4’s over a muddy ravine. I panicked, I helplessly watched as my front tire wobbled and I went in, face first.
It was horrible. There was only black, putrid mud. I went in elbows deep, my torso from my chest down was drenched. I stood up, in disbelief, starting scraping the shit off of me and there is Rick, laughing his ass off.
“I’m sorry to laugh, I should ask if you’re ok first.” He wasn’t sorry, he was having a blast. I must have been a sight!
I was a little bloody, but my ego was bruised worse than my leg. And my bike was broken, the front brakes were damaged. The wheel wouldn’t move. I was looking at a 2-mile hike carrying a bike. Then Rick somehow fixed it enough that I could ride it out. He just happened to have the tools.
In the parking lot, he looked at me and we both started laughing. I was a mess, covered in mosquito bites (the little bastards loved the smell of that mud) and I was stained black.
“Want a picture for memories sake?” Defeated, I agreed.
I’m glad for this picture, after all how would I know that I would never see him again? He died at home, of a heart attack about 4 hours after that picture was taken.
I called Barbara, she was an emotional wreck. It turns out they were dating. He was estranged from his wife, I knew that she was a “cheater and a liar” from our many conversations while pounding through the woods. She had found him, she went to his house after he didn’t answer her calls. She asked if I would go to his wake, of course I agreed.
Have you ever been to a Firefighter’s wake? Or a Chief’s for that matter. There were thousands of people, police details, Firefighters in full dress, friends, family and respectful citizens patiently waiting in a line that would wind through the old Victorian Funeral Home for 2 hours. Barbara and I and a few other Mountain Biking friends waited together. Finally, as we reached the point where we could see into the viewing room, I saw a pair of legs that looked hauntingly familiar. The first thought that came to mind I immediately tried to chase out of my head.
No! The widow, AKA the cheater and liar is Deb?!?! I waited impatiently now, to get a better view. As I got closer I realized it was true. The widow was my first serious girlfriend out of High School. Not the one that got away, I let this one get away. She lied to me and cheated on me too. I, 20 years before Rick met her, parted ways with her for the same reasons.
I got to the receiving line, we made very awkward small talk and I got the hell out of there. Outside, Barbara asked me why I looked so messed up. I told her. Her answer…
“only you, dude. Only you could go to a funeral and have this happen.”
Rick was a very nice man. I know we would continue to be good friends had he lived. But it turns out we shared a lot more than he would ever realize. I know that he would laugh his ass off if he heard this story.
I’ve been told many times that I would be great in politics. I could be the “anti-politician” and be completely different than anything that the world has seen. I would be honest, not-for-sale, transparent and accountable. I would create a third political party and I would call it the No-Nonsense Party. I would only address issues on my desk that are important, valid, urgent and sensible. My desk would have a placard on it with Smilin’ Harry Truman’s famous “the buck stops here.”
“Nope, that’s stupid. Veto. Next.”
“Are you kidding me, get outta here with that!”
“Are you seriously asking me to approve that?”
The government would work for the people again. This would be me.
Problem is that I would get fewer votes than Jill Stein. I may as well ask for a “3 way” with Charlize Theron and her best friend. It will never happen. No one would vote for me because I’m too honest. Brutally honest, as a fellow blogger kindly referred to me as yesterday. I don’t mean “I didn’t cut down the cherry tree” honest, but instead “incapable of bullshit” honest. People say they want honest until it comes to them. Then you’re an asshole.
Honesty is more than telling the truth. It is a distinct lack of pretense. A transparency. The ability to look at things as they really are and accept what you see, even if you are studying yourself. Honesty is asking for an opinion and opening yourself up for an answer you might not like. In my case, it is showing the world who I am without fear of reprisal.
There were times in my life when I tried to reinvent myself. To restrain parts of my personality. I didn’t do well. There’s a difference between behaving to fit in where necessary, an office cubicle for example, and holding back the real you. I did my best work, made the friends worth keeping, had the best times when I embraced my inner Foghorn. That’s the real me. The link below will explain the Foghorn thing.
https://wordpress.com/post/goodtobealivetoday.wordpress.com/1933
Everyone talks about New Year’s resolutions, what is manageable and what is a predetermined failure. I made only one resolution this year. To be the best person I can be. To be real. Some people like it, I know my real friends do. Some of my fellow bloggers have commented on my willingness to put my ass out there for the whole world to see, as if brutal honesty is uncommon.
So Politics is not for me. I can’t speak in circles. I don’t want to deal with liars and sycophants. I have no tolerance for bullshit. I’m not capable of being fake. I’m real, it’s working for me and I’m going to ride her until she bucks me off.
When you know someone is dying it is like being staked to the ground watching a snowball headed for your face. You can do nothing but wait and let it happen. And it stings like a bitch when it hits you. My friend Tony died today. I was expecting it but a massive ouch just the same.
This won’t be a long post, I already wrote a post about him a couple of weeks ago that nobody read so I wouldn’t want to subject more of you to not read it again. (here is the link if you do)
I am feeling so many things right now. I am sad that the world lost another honest, hard-working, simple and decent man. He had the adoration of his children, the devotion of his wife, and the respect of everyone that had the good fortune to meet him.
I’m upset that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. It’s bad enough when someone goes and you realize that you have unfinished business; or that you are unhappy with the last thing you said to that person; or that you meant to visit them but you just didn’t get around to it. But I made the effort. I reached out to the family, asking to visit Tony, but Tony didn’t want visitors. He just wanted to be alone.
Finally, I am feeling nostalgic. One of the only things about working at that miserable restaurant was working with him. It continues to baffle me how any task, like sweating your ass off while serving hundreds of people in one night, can be fun when around those that you love. And I do love Tony, he was like a second father to me. When I was mad at my own, it was Tony who reminded me to love and honor my father because he only wanted the best for me. This from a guy who worked every weekend and holiday, never seeing his family. to do the best for them that he could.
I don’t know what kind of work ethic I had when I met Tony but I know what it is now. I credit him so much for that. Work meant something to him, it wasn’t a source of “braggadocio”, it instead gave a man his honor. I would come to value the accomplished feeling of a job well done, of contributing, of making a difference.
Losing Tony is like losing a part of me. I take comfort knowing that as recently as a few months ago I saw him. We enjoyed a cocktail and I gave him an envelope that he wasn’t allowed to open until I was gone. Inside was a letter telling him how much I cared for him, thankful for all that he taught me and how grateful I was that he had beat Round 1 of Pancreatic Cancer. I know he read it, but he wouldn’t mention it even if I asked.
At least I don’t have the awful burden of things unsaid. I just wish I could have sat with him and squeezed out of him one more of his trademark laughs.
He always told me to say hi to my Dad for him. I hope he gets to do it in person. I’m sure they are in the same place.
Goodbye dear friend
It is amazing what can be conjured up from the dark recesses of the psyche. So many experiences laying dormant, waiting for the right odor or sound or phrase to bring it to the forefront of your mind. Yesterday, as I was composing what I now realize was a poorly planned but heartfelt post about being passionate, I accidentally triggered myself. In attempting to tell a story, I forced myself to think about her…the one that got away. Now I can’t chase the memories out of my head.
I have stated in previous posts that I have never really been happy. I don’t say this in a please feel bad for me way, I’m not like that. I say it because for the longest time I have felt a bit numb, detached and joyless as if I’m on the outside looking in at my life. I’m there but I’m not present. I now know that I was incorrect, I was happy. A long, long time ago in a Galaxy far far away.
In the mid 80’s I was in college, I had a part-time job, a full head of hair, a motorcycle and a love that comes around but once in a lifetime. That knowledge would have been helpful then, but that’s not how this works is it?
I met her in the library. Cramming for an exam, I look over and I see the adorable raven-haired, dark-eyed girl with the pink sweater giggling with her friends. Glancing up from my book every so often I would catch her gaze every time. Finally, I jokingly told her that if she doesn’t stop giggling I would report her to the librarian. That was her cue to pry herself away from her clucking friends and join me at my table. Her approach seemed to be in slow-motion, walking gracefully in her modest but tasteful clothing, her head bowed slightly indicating a gentle shyness, eyes locked on mine the whole time. When she sat down across from me and I got my first good look at her up close I was smitten. A dinner invitation was soon proffered and thus began a great story. A brief, tumultous story that would end badly and suppressed from memory for a long time.
The last time I thought of her was driving home from Mom and Dad’s lake house about ten years ago. I had the kids in the car, wifey had stayed home that day. We had enjoyed a great day of sun and fun, now they were all chilling as I drove and listened to some music. My son said, “Dad, are you crying?” Shit, I realized that I was. Pearl Jam’s Black was on and Eddie’s lyrics, which I had heard a thousand times before had just bitch-slapped me back to a place I didn’t want to go. Eddie wailed
I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life
I know you’ll be a star
In somebody else’s sky
But why
Why
Why can’t it be
Why can’t it be mine
I don’t remember how I explained it away but I was able to change the subject. But I thought of her the entire ride home. I accidentally, and unkindly, came up with a term for my wife on that ride, my Silver Medal.
I was an entirely different person with her than I am today. I was affectionate, I was passionate, I expressed myself without fear of reprisal and I wasn’t afraid of showing my love. Her personality was different. She was quiet and soft-spoken but could speak volumes with her eyes. Her eyes could tell me anything, I know because I couldn’t stop staring at them.
We would fight, no couple is perfect. I took her quiet nature for granted sometimes, or I didn’t read her eyes correctly and I would say or do something stupid and she would let me have it. She was always right. Especially when she said that someday I would take her for granted one too many times. I did, and I lost her. The pretty girl that could have had anyone, but chose me, was done with me.
I would try for months to get her back, she would have nothing to do with me ever again. Her eyes were only angry to me by then. I left her with a parting thought, I told she was my only love. I meant it. I moved on, but I never got over her.
I would see her again. We were on the same cruise ship. On our honeymoons.
Coincidences like that just don’t happen. I saw her on deck. She looked at me and quickly looked away and that was it. There was nothing there. My wife never knew. I put on a good face for her. But the thought of her on the same ship with her new lucky fucking bastard husband was devastating to me.
I was true to my word, I would never find another that made me feel the way she did. My wife and I had it good for a while but I would never willingly allow myself to be vulnerable again. My wife would become an emotional cripple so in the end, it worked out just fine.
After dredging all of this up, I am thankful that my psyche buried all of this shit. It’s too painful to think about what my life could have been like. This type of thinking is dangerous, for starters I wouldn’t have my amazing children if not for the way it turned out. Aside from that, it is a giant reminder of how stupid I can be.
I am glad that my windshield is bigger than my rearview mirror, I have so much to see that is ahead of me and I can’t be distracted by what is behind me. It’s just plain dangerous thinking.
#JusJoJan Daily Prompt – January 5th, 2018
