Tagged: relationships
My Living Room Came To Life
“I don’t think you understand. My living room came to life. I can only interpret this to mean that my will, my hopes, my desires–that I–manifest the future,” Pete told his friend.
Given that Pete, like any man, has an impressive streak of riding high on life at times, we should note that his claim isn’t quite unfounded. Before explaining his claim’s seeming impossibility, we must first denote 2012’s sublime specimen of synchronicity. Back in 1989, as a mere child of eight our hero saw the film Top Gun. You know, the movie starring Tom Cruise that pretty much did recruiter’s jobs for them ever since? Yeah, that Top Gun. He then went on to become a military pilot. While serving as a pilot, he was a member of a squadron which had an unofficial theme song. The theme song was Bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive. Here’s the kicker. In 2012, Tom Cruise starred in a film called Rock of Ages (which unlike Top Gun did not inspire anyone) in which he (TC) sings Wanted Dead or Alive. Think about that for a second. Coincidence or not, that’s some seriously Mufasa C-O-L shit.
Back to our story…
“No Pete, I do understand. I just don’t think it’s more than a coincidence. I don’t think there is any hidden meaning. I can’t believe I’m even acknowledging the idea that you control the future, but I am, and you don’t,” the Debbie-downer replied.
“You can’t tell me it’s just coincidence. When people walk into this place what do they see first? Metallica hanging on the wall. Then they notice the beautifully 670lb Steinway and Sons grand piano,” Pete said, taking a breath that signaled that he was not going down without a fight. “And last night, for all the world to see, Metallica and a Steinway and Sons piano performed together on the same stage! How many people have Steinway and Metallica in the same room?” he asked, using hand motions to bolster his claim. “How many? Maybe 3. Maybe 20. But I’m one of them,” he said, his crescendo one self-assessment away from its peak. “Man, I feel good right now!”
“Yes Pete. And did you notice that you have a globe of Earth in the room too? And the performance happened on Earth!” his friend mocked. Continuing, he said, “And there are lights in this room! And the concert had lights!” Pete was no longer smiling. “And we’re in a room. And they performed in a room!”
“Go to hell.”
“And there are people in this room…”
Amazing Girl-Child Lives Outside of Space and Time!
Her small size leads you to believe that you know all there is to know about her.
You are correct to discern that she cries a lot, talks a lot, can’t do math, can’t read, eats an incredible amount of food considering her weight, plays with toys, likes to be tucked in at night, asks to have her hand held if she’s not being carried, places a frightening level of trust in adults, and sometimes has accidents.
You’re also correct if you guess that she can’t carry on a conversation which furthers any agenda, she has a surprising stubbornness, her fantasy world is repetitious, and very few of her actions are original. It is easy to see why people like her have lost their appeal. They require attention. They need help. They listen; they believe; they mimic; they obey; they break; they depend on others; they spill their milk regularly.
What you might not notice is that she can’t tell time. That’s right. She doesn’t know what time is. Not just what time of day it is, but she doesn’t have an awareness of time. Can you remember what life was like before you knew what time was? Probably not. But maybe you can remember something about life before you used an alarm clock to remind you that your life was so important that you must stop resting. Being around her–being around them–is the closest thing any of us will get to living without time again.
Without time 40 lbs never felt so light; repetitious stories never sounded so good; cleaning up spills never required less energy; soothing cries never seemed so desirable. Without time raising a child never seemed so natural.
Review of The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman
Timeless and universal.
I have a rule. Well, Ecclesiastes has a rule that I believe is true. It goes like this: “There is nothing new under the sun.” When it comes to “get rich quick” or “relationship” books, it is impossible for me to not use this standard. If a book claims that it has come up with a new way to make money or keep a relationship strong, then, generally, I discard it promptly. I just simply refuse to believe that mankind’s soul has changed in any appreciable way in our existence. That being said, Chapman’s The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate is nothing new. And that is good.
The book’s largest flaw is that it is a book. It really could have been a flyer; I’m picturing a large picture representing perfect bliss overlayed by a few sentences at the bottom. The sentences being something like this:
People express and feel love in different ways. It seems that there are five ways. They include physical touch, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and words of affirmation. Try to speak your partner’s language(s).
Really, though, I’m proud to say that there is an even more fun way to help you figure out your love language(s). How I like to think about these five languages is via one language: song. Want to know which language is yours using songs? Then continue reading.
To start, if you think Kevin Costner defeats Errol Flynn in the battle of Robin Hood’s, we all know the only reason this happened is because Errol didn’t have Bryan Adams’ classic ballad “Everything I Do (I do it for you)” to accompany his swashbuckling sword fights. And your choosing Kevin means that your language is likely “Acts of Service.”
On the other hand, if everyone in the room but you noticed that you sat up during Moulin Rouge as Ewan McGregor belted out “My gift is my saw-ong…” in tribute to Elton John’s unforgettable “Your Song“, your language might just be “Words of Affirmation”.
If it is impossible not to feel warm all over when somebody tells a story about the summer of 1991, the summer during which you recall hearing Extreme’s “More Than Words” on every radio station across the nation as you drove to the west coast to greet Gulf War One’s returning victors, then you’re only hurting yourself if you don’t own up to “Physical Touch” being your love language.
Next, and admittedly a bit of a stretch (but then again, it isn’t my language, so I wouldn’t identify with it. Am I right Gary?), but if the only time you feel like someone really gets you is each year at Christmastime, specifically each time Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” is played, then your love language is “Gifts”.
Lastly, if you can finish, “Eeeiiff eye-ee-eye-ee-eye (breath) shu-uld stay…” without hesitation, there can only be one conclusion. Your love language is “Quality Time”. (That Costner is receiving two shout-outs is beyond me. By the way Ma, he’s looking great once again in an upcoming action flick “3 Days to Kill”. Check out the trailer by clicking here.)
In the end, the book only takes a night to read. Not that you need to anymore. You’re welcome.
****
*Chapman, Gary D. The Five Love Languages. Chicago: Northfield Pub., 1992. Print.
The Plea Answered
Dear Legs,
First, please forgive me for not responding sooner. I was very moved by your letter, and fully intended to write you back that day. But, as you know, life got in the way. I’m sorry for that.
Skipping the weather chit-chat (face already reminds me daily that it has been sunny), I will get right to it. Regarding why I am making you work so hard these days, I think I know. You asked about the reason that I made you work so hard of late. You asked if I was running from “responsibility” or “failure”. With certainty I can tell you “No”.
I do think that I have discovered the reason that I am putting you through this situation, however. Do you remember doing the mediation before the divorce? There was a lot of talk about money and how much I had to pay her. Do you remember the part about how each tax season we’d review our incomes to see if the “Memorandum of Understanding” needed to be adjusted based on how much money she and I were making? I actually feel a bit silly admitting this, silly because I’m sure I can just ask a friend what the real answer is, but if I remember right, the rules to the divorce included that if I became a millionaire, I would have to pay her more than I already do. Well, here’s the thing. I don’t want to pay her more. So it’s shit jobs with shittier salaries for now.
It probably doesn’t make sense to you two, my friends, but I think for these next couple of years I’d rather risk ruining our relationship–yours and mine–than hear another man order me to pay her more money.
I know you’re tired. Believe me when I say I am more than aware that I am the reason you both feel and are tired. I am sorry about that. On the bright side, we’ve made it through one year, and that means only a few more years until this burden is lifted. And you know how time flies. Maybe I’ll even call up my lawyer friend and find out that I’m wrong about the situation.
In any case, thank you for not giving up on me. I will owe you both a lot when all this has passed.
Thoughtfully Yours,
Brain
So I’m Not Allowed To Text Her Back?
“So I’m not allowed to text her back?”
“No!” they said in unison.
“Look. It sucks, okay? I know it does. But you screwed up. You sent her seven–that’s SEVEN–texts without her responding. You freaked her out. Then she stood you up–twice. The only way you’ll know she’s not just stringing you along is if you wait for her to really try to set up a date. If you answer her text now, you’re just playing into her crazy hands,” his friend explained.
“I just don’t get it. You don’t know how she talked, what she said. How does this make any sense? I only texted her that night because we had scheduled a phone call and she didn’t call and it was late. Explain to me how I am in the wrong for letting her know I was worried?” he said, still hurting.
“Listen. You’ve only talked to this girl for a few days. Days! It sounds like the situation looked promising, but the girl also sounds crazy. No one in their right mind talks to people how you tell me she talked to you. That she has stopped talking to you, taken together with the fact that her last text to you demonstrates she can’t tell what day she received a text on illustrates that something fishy is going on. You have to see that, don’t you?” his brother said, chiming in.
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve never really felt this way before. And her voice. If you could just hear her accent… I’m telling you, these things can’t be faked. I need to talk to her again. But you’re telling me I can’t. She texted me just now. Out of the blue. Doesn’t that mean something? I just don’t understand why I can’t text her back,” he cried out.
“You’re right. I don’t understand either. I don’t. I don’t understand the whole situation. I don’t understand women. What is the deal? I mean, we’re smart enough. We should be able to figure them out.”
The three single men were enveloped by a profound silence–a necessary silence if they were to hear the cracking of that sentiment’s foundation. Their smiles and laughter confirmed that they heard it indeed.
Get A Free Blog Review
Last summer an entrepreneur, friend, and sometimes blogger told me, “If you blog daily for six months, you should have 1000 followers at the end of those six months.” Well, it’s been more than seven months of daily posts on Captain’s Log, and I’m sitting at 199. As is the case with most facts, this amuses me. Just the same, seeing that I am a part of the human race, and therefore partial to round numbers, I’m excited to amass follower number 200. And I’m shameless when it comes to getting what I want. So here’s what I’m offering: the blogger who follows me as number 200 will get a free review of their blog. That’s right. I’ll take some time between now and Monday to peruse your blog and then I’ll write the review for Monday’s post. You can trust that I will be sure to say nice things as well as true things. If you’re on the fence, think of it this way: in return for a simple click of a mouse, you’ll get exposure to 199 readers who possibly aren’t aware of your stuff. Heck, I might not be aware you exist.
This is a one time offer, and it is sure to go fast. A little book called “The Magic of Thinking Big” mentions that “everyone you know craves praise”. Well, I’m offering praise in exchange for bliss. Whatdya say?
****
Schwartz, David Joseph. The Magic of Thinking Big. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1959. Print.
Men
An odd group, certainly. The worst men make ritual disembowelment seem like the only sensible thing to do, while the best men…well the best men inspire us to become better men.
Like hitch hikers just dropped at a truck stop, we look around and evaluate the passing scene. Too often we are surrounded by mediocre men.
As constant evaluators, we sometimes forget to report our findings. This is undesirable and unproductive. We can forge a better life through regular highlighting of qualities the best men put into practice.
To begin, they are flawed. More to the point, they recognize they are flawed, and they do not hide it.
Next, they possess a humility that my own awesomeness seems unlikely to ever achieve.
They are genuine, or perhaps authentic works better. You cannot catch them off guard. They are who they are, no apologies, and who they are is worth noting.
They are well-read. Life has seasons, of that there is no doubt. But these men and television divorced a long time ago.
Lastly, for today, they are ready and willing to help, if we’ll only just ask. By help, we mean nothing more than them choosing to spend their limited time on us.
Let us not forget, then, that even great men need encouragement. Let us not forget that these men still exist in this world, feel its pressures, and are pulled daily by the temptation to give up. Let us not forget to say thank you when their life enhances ours.
David: Thank you.
The Amazing Temple Of The Holy Spirit
“Man, we knocked this lot out quick!” he thought to himself, looking up after the concluding push of the shovel. Turning towards his co-worker, Pete caught the tail end of his favorite human activity to witness: unexpected sharp pain–albeit temporary–caused by extreme focus on less important things. In other words, he just watched his buddy nearly knock himself out as he hit his head on a post that intense shoveling had hidden from sight.
As if physical touch could heal all wounds, Pete kept a constant hand on the man’s shoulder while laughing and asked, “Oh man. Are you okay? You really hit that thing hard.”
“Stop laughing man,” the third worker on the project admonished, shaking his head.
“It’s okay,” the injured man said, still not himself. “It’s not my head, but my cheek. My mouth was open and I bit my cheek really hard. Ahh!..shit,” he let out, trying to maintain his man card.
His fingertips still in contact with the wounded man, Pete nearly doubled over with a guffaw that revealed itself to be only the engine of a freight train carrying mankind’s most precious cargo–uncontrollable giggling.
“Jesus Pete!” the third man again chimed in, attempting to add some reasonableness to the situation.
“You don’t…giggle…understand,” Pete managed. “Watching that happen was like seeing a double rainbow. I can’t let social graces ruin this moment! Teehee. He almost knocked himself out and bit his cheek. Man…hahaha…I wish I could’ve seen him when his mouth opened. It was probably all the way. BwaHAAhahaha! Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed that when people bite their tongue or cheek their mouths open to the extreme. It’s like upon chomping down the body screams to the mouth, ‘OPEN!! Open, open, open! Disregard any other thoughts; just open to your widest. Now! And whatever you do, don’t bite down again until we can fully assess the damage.'”
After he had finished his defense, as one they asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
Random Thoughts
A man doing manual labor with a hand towel draped over his shoulder is the hardest worker in the company, and I cannot be convinced otherwise.
The thought of running a microwave for more than seven minutes at a time terrifies me more than anything. I have no idea why.
If the people I see that are wealthy are what you have to be like to become wealthy, I don’t want any part of it.
People seem to be unclear on the point of bumper stickers. Bumper stickers should tell us something we don’t already know about you. Two groups seem especially unclear on this. First, hybrid owners: you don’t need to put a sticker on your car that says anything about being pro-green–we get it. Second, African-Americans: pro-Obama stickers? Is it to shame the remaining 7% of you who didn’t vote for him?
Studies and experience seem to reveal that the more educated people become, the less children they have. Of all human behaviors worth researching with the intent of reversing its course, this one needs the most attention soonest.
Idiotic Embarassing Weakness
“I’m David,” the guy said, extending his hand.
“Pete.”
His handshake was firm, and while the whole situation caught him by surprise, he was glad it was over. He had always wondered what it would be like to meet the ex’s boyfriend. No big thing. In a way he was almost glad to see that she’d latched on to someone else. Maybe there’d be a day when he’d finally be done paying her way.
The next time he saw the two of them, Pete noticed nicely wrapped presents under a well-placed Christmas tree. Seemed like a lot considering Santa hadn’t come yet.
“Whatever,” he thought, brushing off any emotions.
Perhaps it was the monotonous sound of the shovel against the concrete, but a curious thought formed. Standing still, the shovel parallel to the ground, he thought, “Wasn’t her long-lost love named David?” Thinking back to the news video she showed him of this David on the computer screen in his parent’s basement years ago, he instantly flew into a rage. “You gotta be shitting me. No way. I can’t believe it. She’s back with the guy that didn’t take her with the first time around. What the fuck?
“Why would she ever marry another man and have a child with him if all this time she just wanted this other guy? Holy hell. I have never felt so used in my entire life. It’s like I’m slowly becoming white-trash because I met one person,” he thought, as a feeling of madness encroached.
“I can’t wonder on this one; I have to know for sure.”
He pulled his glove off, and took his phone out of his pocket. Looking around to make sure no one saw him texting-while-shoveling, he shot her a quick inquiring text, “Is that David the ol’ PJ, love of your life David?”
Trying to calm himself through work, he found snow-removal’s singularity only accelerated his passions.
“It all makes sense. She didn’t work a day during the marriage. And from what I remember this guy is not one to want for money. Here I am essentially working two jobs to pay her off and stay out of debt that should have never accrued, and she’s living the high-life with an old fling. Are they living together? She better not be planning to do something stupid like move out of Denver. There are things I can take, and things I can’t. I’m not fighting a woman for my child because she’s a gold-digging, lazy, negative louse. Her and her folks. The whole clingy, enabling lot of them can join in a chorus of ‘blood’s thicker ‘n mud’–I’ll stick with right action.
“Surely she’s responded by now.” He checked his phone. “Nope. Why not? I know they’re awake. The little girl can’t sleep past 7:30 for anything. I should’ve seen this coming. I’d always heard about women, and yet I thought I was smarter than other men. So much for that. Should’ve never spent a day with that girl. My God, what have I done? It’s like crazy Charlie Sheen said, ‘You don’t pay a prostitute for sex, you pay her to leave.’ Isn’t that turning out to be the truth?”
He anxiously checked his phone again.
“At last a text!” he muttered. It was just the library letting him know the book he ordered had arrived.
“Come on woman.”
Now inside, his warming fingers checked the device again. Finally she responded. Her text was beautiful for its simplicity: “No.”
“Perhaps she’s not entirely an evil succubus,” he thought, his relief more acute than his shame.
Captain’s Log 