friendship

I (Still) Got a Woman.

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So this morning I’m sitting on my bed, back propped up with pillows, cranking away at my keyboard, as I have been for the last several weeks-worth of mornings just like this one.  I’m busily transcribing the chicken-scratched edits from a hard copy of my book manuscript, clicking “save” more than is probably necessary, as I am terrified of losing the 260 or so digital pages comprising this memoir that have been over a year in-the-making. And I am in full-on “racing mode,” rather than “creative mode.” It’s as though I am working with someone else’s words rather than my own. So I am not being delicate and emotive here.  I just want to finish typing all the damned edits into the Word doc, like yesterday. Because (although she doesn’t know it yet), a certain famous author will soon have my manuscript pressed into her hands, buttonholed into service by some very helpful friends we share in common (Hi Kelly!). Truth be told, these are more accurately described as my wife’s helpful friends. My own connection to the to-be-conscripted author is rather tenuous (Hi Kelly!). So this is the harried state in which I find myself this morning when I turn to the manuscript’s next page and stumble upon a scene I wrote that transpired exactly 4 years ago today:  On our wedding anniversary.  Woah woah woah, hang on a second, people! Of course I haven’t forgotten about our wedding anniversary; I never do.  But I hadn’t paused yet to savor it. And this sort of thing is definitely worth savoring. So I figured this would be a good time for such a pause to savor. A good time to remind myself how lucky I am to (still) be married to my wife. And a good time to re-post something I wrote four years ago, but that could just as well have been written today (with the addition of a few links here and there for context) —

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I bolt awake at 4:00 am. The Kraken has a baseball tournament in Sunnyvale, the first game of which begins at 8 am. Show up time is 7:00 am. The drive will take an hour. We’ll need to be on the road by 6:00 am. Raising Max from his slumber will take 5 minutes. Tyga’s “Rack City” is my go-to “wakeup” song (not to be confused with “walkup” song) with Max. Guaranteed to jumpstart his sleepy head and elicit some questionable hip-hop moves involving thrusting hips that I should probably forbid. Scrambling around the house collecting all the pieces of Max’s uniform will take 15 minutes. This despite my orders last night to have everything packed, zipped, and ready to go. Net, net, this all means a 5:30 am wake-up call. It’s only 4:00 am now, I see. But I slip out from under the covers anyhow, taking inventory on various aches and pains exacerbated by a night’s sleep that has come up short by a couple hours. This is how I begin the morning of Hilary and my 17th wedding anniversary.

This is what my life has come to. And I can’t imagine it any other way.

We’ve had a rough year, of sorts. Family and friends have passed away. I’ve endured several months of being considerably less than 100% myself. We have weathered a handful of bitter disappointments. Slights real and slights imagined. All of which has served to give me perhaps the deepest and broadest perspective on my marriage, and on my life for that matter, that I’ve managed to feel thusfar in my 45 years.

The lemonade–Grandma’s Lemonade–is tasting pretty good.  Still. Even with the wooden mixing spoon picked up off the floor, particles of dirt stirred in there. Maybe a long black dog hair entwined around one of the ice cubes. A few too many lemon seeds swirling around. One of which tries to ruin my sip by jumping into my thirsty mouth along with a big gulp. Gonna need to try harder than that, seed.

So yeah, I’m feeling thankful this morning, 17 years to the day from when Hilary first showed me how much stronger and tougher she is than I. She strode purposefully down the red-carpeted aisle. Standing tall. Clear-eyed. Solid. I, on the other hand, was a puddle. Tears welled up in my eyes rendering me nearly blind, blinking and squinting to keep my burning eyes trained on my approaching bride-to-be. My throat so tight. Had I spoken aloud during her proud walk, Kermit the Frog’s voice would have come out. At best. My mind reeled, as it would years later when our babies popped out in the delivery room (and years later again when my innards were gripped by the elevation and exposure at Angel’s Landing in Zion). It was all I could do to keep my feet and not topple over.

And things only got worse during the ceremony itself. My Best Man had the foresight to bring along something should I need to wipe my brow or corral a cough. Since this was the same guy who bought the Alien Head for $5, perhaps I should have known that that something would be a wad of hotel toilet paper rather than, say, a situationally-appropriate linen hanky monogrammed with something undeniably masculine.  So there I stood, sweat dripping into my burning, bloodshot eyes overflowing with tears. My cheeks blushing red and feeling like they were on fire. Little pieces of hotel toilet paper clinging to my face as I swabbed myself repeatedly in a desperate attempt to keep my shit together.

Probably being in the House of God and all that stuff did not help. I’ve always managed to feel profoundly uncomfortable there (you may recall the 10th Grade Spurious Communion Incident). Never knowing what to do with my hands, either–probably clasped in front, maybe folded behind my back, but I don’t think in my pockets, probably not in my pockets, no definitely not, get your hands out of your pockets! In this wretched state, I glance at Hilary. Her eyes hold mine. Her smile so calm and confident and comfortable. Her right hand squeezing my left just a bit harder now. Not too hard, though; not really a “keep your shit together” squeeze.  And nowhere near the knuckle-crunching vice grip she would deliver as Max came into the world a few years later.  Rather, just enough pressure to push some of her abundant strength and resolve into me. And somehow, I pull through. Depleted. Drained. Spent. Tapped out.  Sweaty red face dotted with toilet paper pieces.  In the end, I made it. Sure. But only because of her.

I mentioned it’s been a rough year. This is when Hilary is at her best, you see. Our wedding day was just my first glimpse of that truth. So during this recent tough patch of ours, she remains: Unwavering. Loyal. Her hand literally or figuratively squeezing mine. Squeezing all of our hands–my hands as well as those of our sons now, too.  And Wailea’s fuzzy paw, even. She’s got us all.

So these are the warm thoughts in my head as I return to Earth and find that I will be forced to sprint across the chewing tobacco-stained and sunflower seed-littered parking lot in order to catch the start of Max’s 8 am game.

Maybe not exactly the sort of anniversary Hilary had in mind.

Then again, maybe exactly the kind of anniversary she had in mind, because I’m spending the morning with our first-born. His birth was the second time Hilary showed me how much stronger and tougher she is than I. So it seems fitting today that I get to sit and just watch Max zip around the field for the next few hours. One of several amazing things in our life together, the product of our union 17 years ago today.

Happy Anniversary, my love. And please keep squeezing my hand.

Half Centurions and a Devil Mask (Frank’s Trail)

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I have written before about this cast of characters. Friends who count 30-something years of shared memories.  Beginning way back with fraternity hijinks committed and tolerated as 17 or 18 or 19 year-olds. Mostly run-of-the-mill stuff; but plenty not for public consumption.  Oddly, most of those involved public consumption, as I think back. Now, more or less, grown men.  With mortgages, high school-aged kids, lengthy professional careers of one sort or another. Family pets.  Wives to whom we’ve been serendipitously hitched for 20-something years. And a penchant for scaring the bejesus out of one another on occasion. 

This explains the mask.  I know you have been wondering about that. I am the guy in the red devil mask.  No, this photo is not evidence of some odd paganistic ritual.  Well, maybe that’s not entirely true.  No half-naked people circling midnight bonfires were injured in the making of this particular weekend, however.  So back to the mask, because it is a curious thing.  And I have been meaning to write this particular blog post for over a month.

You see, the 2nd gent from the left turned 50 back in December.  He shares my own mother’s birthdate, which I have always found intriguing.  He shared the altar with me on my wedding day 20 years ago.  I stood there shakily, sweating profusely — from the ambient air temperature, not from the gravity of the moment. Maybe it was both. In any event, fair to say I’m woozy.  Trying desperately to follow and repeat back the muffled words of the pastor before me. And while I’m mildly annoyed that my best man’s best efforts to stem my forehead faucet involve a fistful of fibrous hotel toilet paper, I’m grateful he’s there for me. My face is more or less covered with small, sweaty fragments of Charmin.  Basically “TP’d” in front of a couple hundred friends and family members. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude for this man standing by me. 

Now fast forward. On a similarly auspicious occasion in his own life some 20 years later — turning 50 years old — how do I repay him? Sure, I fly with another great friend from the west coast to the east coast, where Frank now lives.  To surprise him. For most right-thinking people, that should suffice. Gratitude shown.  The debt repaid. Leave it at that. But alas, right-thinking people rightly think that I am not one of them.  

Exhibit A: The Satan mask.  Most folks pack socks and undies in their overnighters. I stuff a terrifying rubber mask in mine — two of them actually — with every intention to deploy said mask during my trip. And not spontaneously, no.  I’ve planned this out.  Thought hard on it. I believe this is known as “malice aforethought.” Can’t you just see the group of right-thinking people shuffling slowly away from me, with sideways glances? 

Exhibit B: During my Uber ride to the unsuspecting birthday boy’s east coast location, I scour my co-conspirator’s neighborhood via Google Earth.  I push through mild car sickness in order to assess where a proper point of entry at my buddy’s Atlanta home might be so as to maximize the jumpscare factor. As I roll out of the car — my Uber driver Yolanda now giddy in cahoots — I confess that images of stealthy Seal Team 6 storming that Pakistani compound flit through my mind.  I tiptoe down the pitch black driveway, quietly unhitch a backyard gate, and crawl.  On my hands and knees. Peering through the devil mask’s eye slits.  Breathing heavily like Michael Myers, I realize.  As I secretly skitter across my buddy’s backyard deck and into his screened patio.  At least I hope this is his deck and patio.  I’ve never actually been here before, and am really really hoping I Google Earthed the right residence. I’m dressed all in black, with a blood red devil mask on, and shouldering what looks like a burglar’s kit.  Crawling across someone’s redwood-planked deck.  Late at night.  What could possibly go wrong?  The right-thinkers shuffle a little further away, now shielding their children’s eyes.

Exhibit C:  My newly-50 friend has had back surgery very recently.  His body is not as sturdy and unbreakable as it once seemed.  He is, I think, still convalescing. Probably having to chew heavy back pills on occasion.  So I don’t ignore this information.  I do the cost-benefit calculation.  Crunch the numbers.  Do the math.  I conclude that (a) this will be one of the all-time scare jobs, and (b) the odds of my causing Frank to wrench his back and pop his stitches and unfuse his fused vertebrae are astronomically low.   My co-conspirators deliver our unwitting victim to the darkened back porch.  A masked figure lurches out of the shadows.  Frank stiffens and shudders a bit — the best scares often look like this, I have come to appreciate. And as far as I can tell or anyone will admit, no drawers were soiled.  This is how I show my deep and genuine gratitude to one of my oldest and dearest friends? 

My saving grace (I hope) lies in the poem I wrote and read aloud through tear-blurred eyes and with halting voice the following night in a room full of people who are also grateful for Frank. At the risk of embarrassing him a little bit, I’ve taking the liberty of pasting that poem below.  Perhaps another ill-advised and ham-handed attempt to show him my gratitude. Admittedly not from the Right-Thinker’s Playbook.  But it’s the best I can do. And if nothing else, it is straight from the heart. Happy birthday, Frank.  I’m grateful. 

Thanks for reading.  

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Frank’s Trail

Dear Frank, it seems you’ve turned 50

And you know how these sorts of poems go

In your chair you should be shifting

‘Cause what I’ll say, you just never know…


You see, my man, we knew you when

You ran our dear Theta Chi

But before you ruled our wooden bench

You were only a BOG’er, guy


Later, you landed that sweet gig with Apple 

We all know this much to be true

But along the way, remember, you grappled

With the infamous dead-legged interview


Expertly fielding question after question

So grown up, so very mature

You rose at the end to shake hands — a true gentleman

And here is where fan meets manure


Your leg, now numb, sent you lurching 

Uncontrollably forward

Your boss’ adrenaline surging

Turns into a matador

You crumpled to the floor

Dear Frank, remind us, did that offer letter ever find your dorm room door?


Yes, Frank was a “Big Man on Campus” 

Filled with youthful pride

When he pitched Sergeant Paul Dumas

On the business deal of a lifetime


Frank offered a cut of 20 percent

But Dumas, unmoved, dismissed you 

With a furious face bright red, 

Saying “Don’t let the door hit you where the good lord has split you.” 


Our hero Frank was undeterred 

He wowed us with 94 Cup Daily

USA Today devoted nearly a third

Of a page to Frank’s exploits and savvy


A veritable titan of the industry

But let’s not forget our history…


As I recall, for example, there once was a necktie 

Accidentally dipped

In the toilet bowl of a grand high rise 

During a last minute bathroom trip 

Before a meeting with men old and wise

Whom Frank hoped to wow with quick wit

Undaunted, our Frankie, he improvised

From his neck, the “potty tie” ripped

Showed up in the boardroom as “Business Casual Guy”

I’ve no clue if they bought what he shipped


And on another occasion

About this there is no doubt

Frank was to serve as liaison

Introduce bigshots with a deal to work out

But the night before he’d gone out guns blazin’

Forgot to press the alarm clock button down

Woke up feeling fresh, amazin’!

But that meeting? It never went down. 

So Frank, he had some explainin’:


“I slipped in the shower, fell down!

I was knocked completely out!

I came to after 3 or 4 hours

When cold water came out of the spout.”


Ah, and those wonderful parties

Your Upper West Side garden flat

Disgruntled neighbors, those smarties

Threw down bags of urine, and splat!


In truth, it could have been much worse

Chalk it up to life in the City

If your neighbors were more perverse

Those bags would have been, well, shitty


And let’s not forget your “Rollerblade Years”

Frank, you were simply fantastic!

Those Aquafresh skates fueled by 2 or 3 beers

Threw sparks, though made only of plastic


And how ‘bout that challenging ski trail

Suggested by frat brother McMex?

Called “Our Father,” it was not for the frail 

Frank, what the hell’d you expect?


I’m told your yardsale was something to see

Your slide down the ice quite fun

Your Ironman watch sliced your wrist up the sleeve

A million-dollar lawsuit to be won!

Alas, a courtroom you never did see 

The statute of limitations had run


Well, how ‘bout Frank’s counterfeiting skills, then?

So many New Years Eve Balls — for free!

With just a few strokes of his fine pen

Oh and the Apple-issued laser printer was definitely key


Same goes for the Boston Marathon “race bibs”

Frank’s work gave Dave and I thrills

Though looking back now, this was one of those fibs

That led to the fetal position with chills.


I could go on forever, dear Frank

Salty tales like steaks of Delmonico

But the story of your Pre-Cana

Will stay between you, Noeleen, and Father Philatronico 


Alas, my poem has reached its end

Though I have so much more to say

Here’s to your next 50 years, my friend

With just one final thought, if I may

Your wounds from “Our Father” have mended

Your rollerblades long stowed away

But let’s have a few more adventures

‘Cause we’ll follow your trail all the way

Happy 50th, buddy!