Tagged: women
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.
Review of Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston
Push through the first chapter.
Anyone who has worked through Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights knows how rewarding sticking with a book can be. Zora Neale Hurston’s classic Their Eyes Were Watching God is nowhere near as difficult, but the eventually transparent phonetic spelling of the dialect along with the introduction of several female characters does make for a slow opening. Push through the first chapter.
We are quickly introduced to Janie and her life in the deep south. From the start we are told about Tea Cake, who is apparently the man Janie loves after two less-than-successful marriages. Hurston uses the familiar start-with-an-intriguing-end-then-tell-how-it-came-to-be formula, and–as usual–it works well.
The book reeks of female-empowerment, which can be off-putting at times, but upon completion, the reader discovers that that notion was ancillary to Hurston’s sure message.
I’ve always assumed that good books are considered good for a reason. (I say this to emphasize that I’m a half-full reader when it comes to highly recommended books.) For me, what separates a book from other artwork, is the work that’s required to intake it. Reading is interactive, to say the least, and unlike other art-forms, the power of a book rarely fades. Add to this perspective the notion that there really aren’t that many eternal truths, instead just a few that require a steady river of reminding, and it is clear why this novel resonates with readers of all backgrounds.
The setting, characters, and drama are all believable and compelling. Janie’s concluding wisdom conceals any would-be flaws. It is a lesson as old as time, but as refreshing as sweet tea just poured into a glass of crushed ice on a sweltering summer afternoon. Maybe you’re looking to read something new. If so, be sure to check out Hurston’s classic.
****
Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. New York: Perennial Classics, 1998.
Ninety Shades of Green
For Janet.
“Oh God, yes! I do, I do,” I confessed, closing my eyes tighter.
Opening my eyes, I could see disbelief in his baby blue eyes as they maneuvered to find my eyes through the tendrils that now covered them. Never having the courage to broach the subject myself, I instantly affirmed his suggestion. After so many years, I was still unable to resist his eyes–those intense, honest eyes.
Immediately, I regretted everything. What if I was wrong? What if this is all he was really after and after he got it he was going to leave me? No. He wasn’t like that. Not this one. At least that’s what I told myself in order to sustain the warmth that had come over me.
“You ready hon? I don’t think I can wait any longer,” I half-heard him say.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement. I wondered if he knew how excited I really was. I felt like a volcano about to erupt. Just think of it. No, I couldn’t think of it. Just the thought of it was too much.
“Michelle! What are you doing up there?” I later heard him call from across the house. I was so thrilled that I didn’t even realize I had stopped buttoning my blouse and taken a seat on the edge of our bed. Flushed, I stood up, straightened my skirt, finished buttoning my blouse, looked at myself in the mirror, pulled the comforter back to perfect, and headed down the hall to the stair case.
“I’m here. Sorry, I still can’t believe this is finally happening,” I burst.
“Geez. If I would’ve known you were into this, we could have been doing this for years,” I heard him say with his decisive, genuine voice; a voice that reminded me why I loved him.
The way he was standing, so far below me, head tilted up, slightly turned–it was striking.
“You’re sure you meant it?” I couldn’t help but double check, feeling ashamed for infecting the moment with doubt.
“Yes. Wow. You really are something. I’m just sorry it took me 35 years to ask. Why didn’t you ever say anything all these years?” he inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
So You’re Dying To Hear What It’s Like, Eh?
Well, I’ll tell ya. Working at a car wash–for me–is like listening to a broken record on which is recorded Mr. Miagi’s “Wax on, Wax off,” Improved-George McFly’s “Now, Biff, I want make sure that we get two coats of wax this time, not just one,” and Chris Rock’s “Scrape, scrape, scrape…surely two hours have passed…WHAT?! Only 15 minutes!! AHHHHHH!!!!!”
In other words, it’s kinda fun. Thanks for asking.
Thinking It Was Not Worth The Energy
Thinking it was not worth the energy it would take to say “bye”, he looked simply looked at the screen to confirm the call was over.
With an uncommon hunger for clarity, he mindlessly walked to the kitchen. “Hah,” he chuckled, expelling a little air from his lungs, amused that there were always dishes in the sink.
Today should’ve been a good day. He had accepted a new job.
But now? Now he just wanted clarity. He had to trust himself. “Focus man. Focus,” he lectured himself. “Just like you, she’s hurting. You know the truth of the situation. You know what you value, and you know how you came to value it. Look to the Truth. The solution is living in the present. Don’t let yourself get distracted. You know how to filter out the chaff. The conversation was just chaff. Filter it. Filter it.”
Before he knew it, he felt the stainless steel faucet handle, cool and sterile, giving in to his fingers request. The pot, soiled by left-over spaghetti sauce, filled with warm water.
“Time to do the dishes,” he breathed, his energy building.
Captain’s Log 