Sometimes your friends are right next door. You can stop in anytime you want, because the door is always open. There’s a place set at the table, whether you show or not. You trim their hedges without asking, and when you arrive home one day, your lawn is mowed without explanation or expectation.
Sometimes your friends are all in one place. In the high school cafeteria, you swap lunch money from day to day without bothering to keep track, because, hey, I’ll catch you tomorrow, ok?
Sometimes your friends are under your own roof. If you are lucky, you’re married to a very good friend. They read your moods and know when to hug you and when to leave you alone.
When you were 5 years old, everyone you met was instantly a friend. A little boy seen briefly at the mall, a girl you climbed the monkey bars with, it didn’t matter whether you ever see them again or not. Instant bonding, quickly forged, just as quickly forgotten, but no less important.
Sometimes friends are always right there, even when they’re not right there. You lose touch for a week, a month, a year. Then you pick up the phone and begin exactly where you left off.
And sometimes friends know exactly when you need them. If you’ve been friends long enough, it almost defies explanation. You reach for the phone to call and it rings under your hand. Or you sit at home musing on how to get through a situation, and they call you with the answer from 450 miles away. How does this happen? One mind, living in two brains? I don’t actually mind not knowing. Just the circumstance is cause for wonder and joy.
Thanks, friend.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Monday, April 26, 2004
Age must give way to youth, no doubt. But not yet, not yet.
According to Bartlett's Quotations, the above is ascribed to "Mason Cooley, U.S. aphorist".
According to Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, an aphorism is 1 : a concise statement of a principle
2 : a terse formulation of a truth or sentiment
In other words, Mason Cooley is a person known for stating the truth, I suppose. Man, I wish I could get paid for that.
None of this, though, has much to do with today's entry. I just liked the quote.
I’m getting older, but I refuse to believe it. So many things have happened lately to try to make me feel older that it seems the world is conspiring to age me 20 years in only a few months. And to make it more confusing, a huge part of me recognizes this, but another huge part of me doesn’t feel it at all.
For example, I’m buying a house. This is something that happens to adults. Last time I checked, I didn’t think I was that much of an adult. (Then again, I’m 33. Maybe I should check again.) When did I become one? I don’t recall waking up one morning and thinking, “Hey, looks like I’m an adult now!”.
To add to that, my daughter is now at the age where she’s pulling things that I distinctly remember pulling as a kid. You know, stuff like talking back, stomping your foot in a huff, lying to your parents, and being a tattletale on your younger brother. It’s the ancient parents’ curse: May you have children that treat you the same way you treated me. And it works. Parents don’t even need to announce the curse out loud. It just happens. And my parents have acknowledged that it happens not by gloating, but simply with a knowing smile and nod when I mention that their granddaughter ate all the popcorn and then blamed her brother. (This is another trap I’ve fallen into. When my children have done something good, they are “my children”. When they’ve done something questionable, they are “your daughter” and “your nephew”. When they’ve done something detestable, they become “the boy” and “the girl”.)
And to top it all off, my sister is engaged. She’s been seeing the guy for a couple years now, and he’s a fantastic person. I love him greatly, and he loves her greatly, and she loves him greatly, and everything’s just lovey-dovey. However, she’s my little sister. My little, innocent, youngest-sibling baby sister. And although we all knew it was coming, now it has happened, and that’s different. She’s not a girlfriend, she’s a fiancée. And in the fall of 2005, she’ll be a wife. And probably not too far after that, a mother. (I know, I know. That’s how these things happen. Intellectually, I’m fine with that. But please refer to the 4th and 5th sentences in this paragraph.)
And none of this mentions the fact that lately the topic of discussion among my friends and I has been back pain, how poorly we’re sleeping, whether or not our children are learning to use the potty (Not toilet. Adults use the toilet. Kids use the potty.), what music “kids these days” are listening to, how much better things used to be, what the political scene is, and when our next doctor’s appointment is.
Is this what it’s going to be like forever? I don’t think so. Life is what you make of it. Sure, there are responsibilities, and hard parts, and right now I’m in one of those, but it will pass, and things will get fun again, simply because I’ve decided so. And someday I’ll be a grandparent, and my kids will complain about how their kid destroyed the vacuum, and I’ll just give them a nod and a knowing smile.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go use the potty.
According to Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, an aphorism is 1 : a concise statement of a principle
2 : a terse formulation of a truth or sentiment
In other words, Mason Cooley is a person known for stating the truth, I suppose. Man, I wish I could get paid for that.
None of this, though, has much to do with today's entry. I just liked the quote.
I’m getting older, but I refuse to believe it. So many things have happened lately to try to make me feel older that it seems the world is conspiring to age me 20 years in only a few months. And to make it more confusing, a huge part of me recognizes this, but another huge part of me doesn’t feel it at all.
For example, I’m buying a house. This is something that happens to adults. Last time I checked, I didn’t think I was that much of an adult. (Then again, I’m 33. Maybe I should check again.) When did I become one? I don’t recall waking up one morning and thinking, “Hey, looks like I’m an adult now!”.
To add to that, my daughter is now at the age where she’s pulling things that I distinctly remember pulling as a kid. You know, stuff like talking back, stomping your foot in a huff, lying to your parents, and being a tattletale on your younger brother. It’s the ancient parents’ curse: May you have children that treat you the same way you treated me. And it works. Parents don’t even need to announce the curse out loud. It just happens. And my parents have acknowledged that it happens not by gloating, but simply with a knowing smile and nod when I mention that their granddaughter ate all the popcorn and then blamed her brother. (This is another trap I’ve fallen into. When my children have done something good, they are “my children”. When they’ve done something questionable, they are “your daughter” and “your nephew”. When they’ve done something detestable, they become “the boy” and “the girl”.)
And to top it all off, my sister is engaged. She’s been seeing the guy for a couple years now, and he’s a fantastic person. I love him greatly, and he loves her greatly, and she loves him greatly, and everything’s just lovey-dovey. However, she’s my little sister. My little, innocent, youngest-sibling baby sister. And although we all knew it was coming, now it has happened, and that’s different. She’s not a girlfriend, she’s a fiancée. And in the fall of 2005, she’ll be a wife. And probably not too far after that, a mother. (I know, I know. That’s how these things happen. Intellectually, I’m fine with that. But please refer to the 4th and 5th sentences in this paragraph.)
And none of this mentions the fact that lately the topic of discussion among my friends and I has been back pain, how poorly we’re sleeping, whether or not our children are learning to use the potty (Not toilet. Adults use the toilet. Kids use the potty.), what music “kids these days” are listening to, how much better things used to be, what the political scene is, and when our next doctor’s appointment is.
Is this what it’s going to be like forever? I don’t think so. Life is what you make of it. Sure, there are responsibilities, and hard parts, and right now I’m in one of those, but it will pass, and things will get fun again, simply because I’ve decided so. And someday I’ll be a grandparent, and my kids will complain about how their kid destroyed the vacuum, and I’ll just give them a nod and a knowing smile.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go use the potty.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Pipe dreams
As the sun goes down at night, I lay in bed and dream.
I dream of a house called Rental.
Upon leaving this poor man’s castle, the road of purchase winds down through the valley
and to the wood.
Thick tangled brambles rise up to bar my way;
Loan origination, escrow fee, survey and state tax roots trip my feet.
PMI, assessment, title examination, hazard insurance branches scratch my face.
A deadfall of title insurance blocks my way.
I work around it, only to find myself at the edge
of Downpayment Cliff.
Sliding down the gravelly slope, I hear the wolves moving through the forest.
Wolves with names, the names of Appraiser, Inspector, Broker, Lawyer, and Seller.
Racing ahead, I come into a clearing.
There is a house, the same house, but with a different name.
It is Mine.
A new dawn has come. Closure is here.
I dream of a house called Rental.
Upon leaving this poor man’s castle, the road of purchase winds down through the valley
and to the wood.
Thick tangled brambles rise up to bar my way;
Loan origination, escrow fee, survey and state tax roots trip my feet.
PMI, assessment, title examination, hazard insurance branches scratch my face.
A deadfall of title insurance blocks my way.
I work around it, only to find myself at the edge
of Downpayment Cliff.
Sliding down the gravelly slope, I hear the wolves moving through the forest.
Wolves with names, the names of Appraiser, Inspector, Broker, Lawyer, and Seller.
Racing ahead, I come into a clearing.
There is a house, the same house, but with a different name.
It is Mine.
A new dawn has come. Closure is here.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Life's valuable lessons
In the past ten minutes, I’ve learned two valuable lessons. The first will save people trouble on a daily basis. The second will save America millions and potentially affect the outcome of the next presidential election.
We are leaving for the weekend to see some family in Connecticut, and so we are doing all the things necessary for such a trip. That is, my wife is panicking and I’m saying reassuring things like, “Relax, we have plenty of time.” Meanwhile, I’m actually doing some semi-constructive things, like trying to convince the kids to clean up (which is about as productive as trying to convince a cat to do something against its will) and doing the dishes. So I walk into the kitchen to do some dishes, and there’s a white foamy puddle spreading out across the kitchen floor. Like a mutant amoeba from a B flick, it extends its pseudopod towards me and (I swear) moans.
I remain nonchalant. In times like this, I am like a well-oiled machine. I know exactly what to do, and I do it right away. I call to my wife.
“Uh, Chris, we have a problem with the dishwasher.”
Mind you, this comes at exactly the wrong time. Our vacuum cleaner died, our clothes dryer died, and we’re trying to buy a house on a budget and a time limit. So the idea of needing a dishwasher is not a pleasant one.
Christine enters the kitchen. Now it’s her turn not to panic. She takes one look at the living, breathing creature coming towards me and says, “Oops.”
“Oops?” I repeat, in what is destined to go down in history as one of the most intelligent comebacks ever recorded.
“Yeah. Oops.”
“What do you mean, ‘oops’?”
“I mean, I guess you can’t put dish washing detergent in the dishwasher.”
So there’s lesson number one, folks. Don’t put dish washing detergent in the dishwasher. (And by this, I mean the stuff you use to do dishes at the sink. By all means, keep using the stuff meant for the dishwasher. If you don't use anything at all, your dishes get crusty. This too, I know from experience.(I don't know what happens if you use laundry detergent. A future experiment?)) If you do use dish washing detergent, then halfway through the cycle you can open your dishwasher to see a wall of white foam. Penetrate this wall, and you may be able to catch sight of your dishes (which, by the way, turn out sparkling clean). And most of all, if you choose to ignore my advice and use the detergent anyway, don’t bother filling the little time-release container in the dishwasher. Half the required amount is more than enough.
The second lesson came just after we had finished mopping up after the first (using the kitchen rug rather than a mop because “it needed washing anyway”). My 3-year-old son came into the kitchen with tears in his eyes. He had an imaginary scratch on his little finger that needed tending to. So of course, being the dutiful father, I gave it a kiss and said, “All better?”
He grinned, nodded, and ran off, happy as could be.
So I started thinking, why don’t hospitals take advantage of this power of healing? Imagine this. You fall down the stairs and hear a “crack!” in your leg. Searing pain lances up your thigh. You scream in terror, whip out the cell phone, dial 911. Four minutes later, the ambulance arrives amid a flurry of lights and sirens, and with an exhibition of the most amazing efficiency, stick you on a stretcher and whisk you off to the hospital. At 60 mph, they truck you down the streets, whipping around corners, calling ahead to give all your pertinent medical information to the ER docs. You back into the ambulance bay, they wheel you out, through the doors, down the hall, and into a private room. The curtain is drawn shut. A few minutes later, a pretty nurse comes in, looks at your chart, and says, “Well, what have we here?”
You say, through gritted teeth, “I think I broke my leg.”
“Oh, what a shame!” she says. Then she leans over and kisses it. “There. All better?”
And you hop off the bed, thank her, and walk home.
Think of how this would revolutionize the medical field! Insurance rates would nose-dive. The cost of medicine would beat Canada's. The only time you would be able to sue for malpractice would be if the doctor kissed your left wrist instead of your right. Medicare, HMO’s, long waits in the doctor’s office would all be things of the past. All we need is someone to promote it. So who’s it gonna be? I guarantee, whether it be Bush or Kerry, the sure route to the Oval Office is in the simple slogan, “Kiss a Boo-Boo, Make It Better”.
We are leaving for the weekend to see some family in Connecticut, and so we are doing all the things necessary for such a trip. That is, my wife is panicking and I’m saying reassuring things like, “Relax, we have plenty of time.” Meanwhile, I’m actually doing some semi-constructive things, like trying to convince the kids to clean up (which is about as productive as trying to convince a cat to do something against its will) and doing the dishes. So I walk into the kitchen to do some dishes, and there’s a white foamy puddle spreading out across the kitchen floor. Like a mutant amoeba from a B flick, it extends its pseudopod towards me and (I swear) moans.
I remain nonchalant. In times like this, I am like a well-oiled machine. I know exactly what to do, and I do it right away. I call to my wife.
“Uh, Chris, we have a problem with the dishwasher.”
Mind you, this comes at exactly the wrong time. Our vacuum cleaner died, our clothes dryer died, and we’re trying to buy a house on a budget and a time limit. So the idea of needing a dishwasher is not a pleasant one.
Christine enters the kitchen. Now it’s her turn not to panic. She takes one look at the living, breathing creature coming towards me and says, “Oops.”
“Oops?” I repeat, in what is destined to go down in history as one of the most intelligent comebacks ever recorded.
“Yeah. Oops.”
“What do you mean, ‘oops’?”
“I mean, I guess you can’t put dish washing detergent in the dishwasher.”
So there’s lesson number one, folks. Don’t put dish washing detergent in the dishwasher. (And by this, I mean the stuff you use to do dishes at the sink. By all means, keep using the stuff meant for the dishwasher. If you don't use anything at all, your dishes get crusty. This too, I know from experience.(I don't know what happens if you use laundry detergent. A future experiment?)) If you do use dish washing detergent, then halfway through the cycle you can open your dishwasher to see a wall of white foam. Penetrate this wall, and you may be able to catch sight of your dishes (which, by the way, turn out sparkling clean). And most of all, if you choose to ignore my advice and use the detergent anyway, don’t bother filling the little time-release container in the dishwasher. Half the required amount is more than enough.
The second lesson came just after we had finished mopping up after the first (using the kitchen rug rather than a mop because “it needed washing anyway”). My 3-year-old son came into the kitchen with tears in his eyes. He had an imaginary scratch on his little finger that needed tending to. So of course, being the dutiful father, I gave it a kiss and said, “All better?”
He grinned, nodded, and ran off, happy as could be.
So I started thinking, why don’t hospitals take advantage of this power of healing? Imagine this. You fall down the stairs and hear a “crack!” in your leg. Searing pain lances up your thigh. You scream in terror, whip out the cell phone, dial 911. Four minutes later, the ambulance arrives amid a flurry of lights and sirens, and with an exhibition of the most amazing efficiency, stick you on a stretcher and whisk you off to the hospital. At 60 mph, they truck you down the streets, whipping around corners, calling ahead to give all your pertinent medical information to the ER docs. You back into the ambulance bay, they wheel you out, through the doors, down the hall, and into a private room. The curtain is drawn shut. A few minutes later, a pretty nurse comes in, looks at your chart, and says, “Well, what have we here?”
You say, through gritted teeth, “I think I broke my leg.”
“Oh, what a shame!” she says. Then she leans over and kisses it. “There. All better?”
And you hop off the bed, thank her, and walk home.
Think of how this would revolutionize the medical field! Insurance rates would nose-dive. The cost of medicine would beat Canada's. The only time you would be able to sue for malpractice would be if the doctor kissed your left wrist instead of your right. Medicare, HMO’s, long waits in the doctor’s office would all be things of the past. All we need is someone to promote it. So who’s it gonna be? I guarantee, whether it be Bush or Kerry, the sure route to the Oval Office is in the simple slogan, “Kiss a Boo-Boo, Make It Better”.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)