The Noble Ones

For every freedom we enjoy in our nation today, we honor all those who first served and gave to establish these freedoms, all those who have since served and given to protect these freedoms, and all those who are serving and giving right now to ensure these freedoms for the future.

To all of you everywhere, you are the Noble Ones.

On this Veteran's Day and every day, we salute you.

HEROES

Eleven years ago one Sunday morning, I was assisting with the children’s ministry at church. All the kids were gathered for a special event: a visit from a real firefighter. One of our pastors was a career man, and he came to talk to the kids about fire safety.

At the end of the visit, he discussed the scariest scenario: being trapped in a burning building. As he spoke, he began putting on all his protective gear, from pants and boots to coat, gloves, helmet, and finally, the mask. With each item, he continued to speak, especially to the younger children, and said, “Remember, under all this gear, it’s still me.” Of course, to a young child, each item made him look less like the gentle, smiling man that he is, and more like some unfamiliar and frightening creature. With the mask finally on, his face was nearly unrecognizable, as was his voice. He said once again, half shouting to be understood through the muffling, smoke-proof face protector, “You see, it’s still me in here. If you find yourself trapped in a fire, get down low, and look for me. When I come for you, I’ll look like this, so don’t be afraid. When I reach for you as you’re hiding behind a desk or under your bed, don’t pull away. Remember that it’s me. With all the noises and smoke around you, you may not be able to hear me clearly or see my face at all, but it’s still me. When you see this uniform, I’m coming to help you.”

8 years ago this morning, thousands of people were gathered as usual at their schools, airports and office buildings, two in New York in particular. In moments, everything changed beyond description. At the center of the action were the firefighters. The comments that I remember most from people who were there are these: “While we ran as fast as we could down the stairs to get out of that burning building, the firefighters ran as fast as they could up the stairs, into that burning building. In the midst of the noises and smoke around me, I remember seeing their uniforms, and I knew they were coming to help us.”

To those firefighters who ran into those burning buildings, our admiration and gratitude are beyond words. To those firefighters who didn’t come back out, our hearts will forever remember you with sadness and honor. To all firefighters everywhere, thank you for what you do. Thank you for always coming to help us.

It Happened to Me

I’ve often marveled at the mystical relationship between women and their chocolate. Light or dark, world-class or cheap, the fruit of the cocoa bean seems to be an enchanted concoction that can transform the ladies from worn down and woebegone to effusive and exuberant in a single bite.

I’ve even been a bit arrogant from time to time, boasting about how we men are clearly above such nonsense.

But then . . .

The other day, I stopped by See’s Candy in the blackest of moods. I was so miserable I didn’t try to hide it when I walked in. I even refused to buy anything for myself. But the lady behind the counter offered me the obligatory sample, so I returned the obligatory thanks and ate the thing while giving her my order. She filled it, I paid for it, and then I left the store.

As I got into my car, I noticed that my black mood seemed to have vanished. I felt – yes – light and airy. The next thing I knew, I was singing some goofy pop song from decades ago, and bopping around behind the wheel. I was happy. Oh, so happy! I was smiling at nothing!

Then I remembered: I’d just eaten Chocolate. I was shocked, but still smiling. This had never happened to me before. I was so glad to be alone, convinced that I was betraying my fellow guys in the worst of ways. Also, because I couldn’t stop smiling, and I didn’t seem to want to.

So no more boasting from me about male supremacy over chocolate. I certainly don’t want to be a hypocrite. Besides, no one will believe me with this big cocoa-covered smile on my face.

Anniversary

When I was young, I envisioned my dream girl. She had long, curly brown hair, deep dark eyes.

Oh, yeah: and a great personality.

I kept on dreaming.

When I was in college, I met a first-year girl. She was bold, playful, mischievous, and full of laughter. She had a great personality.

Oh, yeah: and gorgeous long, curly brown hair, sparkling deep dark eyes, I started dreaming all over again.

Now at 44 years old, I no longer dream about her.
I get to dream with her.

Thank you, my beloved wife, for making my dream come true 19 years ago today. You are truly beautiful in so many ways, and more wonderful than I could have ever imagined.

I love you, my soul.

When I Knew

“When did you know you loved me?” she asks.

Memories leap toward me, like children offered cupcakes. “Me, me, don’t forget me!”

The night we met twenty four years ago, your first few minutes at college, when I was a Dorm Assistant who had nearly memorized the names of the new freshman, and I had just met your roommate, and your first words to me were the challenge, “So what’s MY name?”, and I guessed wrong and you playfully chided me, and I thought to myself, “I’m going to have a lot of fun with this one,” I didn’t know that I knew . . . but I knew.

Early in the morning on a college retreat in a large cabin filled with our dorm mates, as I slept peacefully on the floor in one crowded room, and several of you came in to find us, and you jolted me awake loudly and more roughly than I’d ever been awakened, and I looked up to see your mischievous smile, and a feeling like liquid joy rushed through me, I knew.

As we walked down the bustling late night boulevard in Westwood, with me in a tie and you in the most beautiful creamy white lace dress I’d ever seen, and I held your hand and felt like we were in a world of our own, like invisible angels, I knew.

When much too late one night after finally arriving exhausted at my apartment to find my roommate answering your phone call, I drove all the way back to rescue you and your fellow damsels from the giant cricket, with each of you screaming, and I walked in to your room to find you standing on your bed, cringing and pointing at the terrified creature, I knew.

That afternoon on the altar, looking at all our friends and family gathered in one room for us, and the last bridesmaid smiled at me and took her place, and you came around the corner on your father’s arm, and the room gasped to see you, and I looked at your face, I knew.

In your high-barred bed in the tiny curtained cubicle of the outpatient room when the surgery was finally over, and you’d never looked or been so worn out, with eyes that would only half open, and you gently handed the cup of water back to the busy nurse, and then you smiled at her, I knew.

The night several months after my father died, when you suggested we sell our house and move in with my mother to help pay her bills and to be there for her, I knew.

The first night you sat on the edge of the bed and waited for me to take your socks off (and every night you’ve done it since), I knew.

Last night, when you were happily dividing up our two small pizzas and you licked each of your fingers with all the gusto of a carefree little girl, I knew.

And I’ll always know.

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.” ~ Mignon McLaughlin

The Gift Arrives

2008 was the year of struggle. How to make ends meet, whether to move or stay put, what to do about the car.

I’ve been waiting for something in the mail. I hate waiting for something in the mail, especially when it’s something special for someone else.

But it finally arrived a little while before the holidays, so I saved it to be a special Christmas present. I was more excited about giving this gift than receiving any of my own.

It was for my wife.

It’s a midnight pearl with crystals set in sterling silver.

She loved it. When I told her how beautiful I knew it would look on her hand, she put it on and glowed.

When I told her that it was also a symbol of persevering through struggle, she tucked into me and cried.

It was a wonderful Christmas.

The Most Romantic Thing

Photo Mendocino

A couple we know commemorated their 40+ years of marriage with a big outdoor party. Their property is a plot of land in the woods near the coast in Northern California. They operate a small retreat center, and have had their share of ups and downs over the years. But on that day, they were truly able to celebrate their lives together.

One of their guests said to the man, “That’s a long time to be married and still be in love with each other. What’s your secret?”

Every now and then, I encounter a question-and-answer moment that seems to make time stand still. This was one of those moments. But the answer surprised me.

“A common vision,” he said.

That’s not the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

I’ve often thought that marriage is a lot like holding hands in a crowded mall. At first it’s delightful. But there’s so much to see and do. I slow down to read this on the left and she speeds up to have a look at that on the right, and all these people keep trying to get between us . . . You quickly decide that it’s easier to just let go and be two. That way, each of you can wander free, or maybe go separate ways altogether, and plan to meet up later to eat.

But when you both agree that walking hand in hand is what you really want to do, it changes everything. You get to share his intriguing read and her fascinating find together. And it’s a blast to discover how deftly you can navigate a crowd when you’re truly one.

That unity, that common vision, makes it possible to become and remain as one. And after 40+ years of life, that is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

With this post, I’m completing my first year of the Loving Her Beautiful blog. Thank you so much for reading – and Happy New Year!

The retreat center mentioned above is Antioch Ranch in Mendocino, California.

“God Bless Us, Everyone”

Photo courtesy of Clip Art

One of my favorite Christmastime treats is the music. Year after year, I listen to the same delightful songs and passionate melodies and never tire of them. Each one is like a single holiday cookie set on a plate filled with cookies, inviting you to indulge in yet another magical piece of the season. I play a little piano, but only a very little. I often think how wondrous it must be to just sit down and create beautiful music off the top of your head, especially for others to hear, and especially at this time of year.

My most favorite Christmastime treat is what the season does to us.

Among my family’s social circle during my high school years was a man who could be truly obnoxious, even in the eyes of a teenager. He was frequently loud and crass, and I remember the looks on the other grown-ups’ faces as they tried not to let his behavior annoy or offend them. He once sang an impromptu song at a party that shocked us. Nearly three decades later, the memory still makes me cringe.

But then one Christmastime, my dad told us that this man had nowhere to go for the big day. Somehow, even with a girlfriend, three children and plenty of social contacts, he was going to be all alone for Christmas. So my dad, who years later still referred to the man as a barbarian, announced, “I’ve invited him for Christmas, and he’s coming.” I’m happy to report that at that moment, the spirit of the season arose in me. I was horrified at the man’s predicament, and adamant that he should absolutely join with us, come what may . . .

All of Christmas day, my thoughts bounced between certainty that we’d done the right thing, and concern about how many ways he might do the wrong thing. When he arrived, he was all smiles and graciousness, as he could always be. Throughout the afternoon, he was jovial and witty, and appropriate. Then the end of the evening drew near, and he shocked us again.

He sat down at our piano and began to play.
Beautiful, lyrical music.
Christmas music.
Off the top of his head.

It is indeed more blessed to give than to receive. But perhaps that’s because in giving our best to others, they give and we receive their best in return. And in that moment, Tiny Tim’s prayer is answered, because God truly blesses us, everyone.

May you and yours be filled to overflowing with all the wonders and joys of the season.
Blessings,
BILL

There’s No Place Like Home

“Be it ever so humble . . .”

Ours is. It frequently evokes phrases like, “If only we had one more bedroom” and “It looks like they didn’t invent storage until after 1952.” The plumbing often rattles behind the scenes at night like a tone-deaf symphony. The kitchen counters are routinely cleared of everything, but over time, one or two items appear, and then they seem to breed or invite a few friends over, or both, until sure enough: oy.

But as we continue to talk about our house, our comments become more about our home. We start saying things like, “But boy, in the spring for just a few minutes at dusk, when the last of the sun’s rays just glow through those curtains . . .” and “Remember our first Christmas tree, right over in that corner . . . ” and of course, coming home from anywhere, walking in the door, setting everything down in the most familiar of surroundings, and happily sighing, “Ahh.”

What I’ve realized is that a home is a lot like a relationship. A relationship is not insufficient because one of you never does this and the other one never does that. Nor is it a treasure because one of you makes $150K a year or can really keep up with the laundry. It’s a treasure because of the moments, like the time he sang you to sleep when you were sick, and the time she held you and stroked your forehead when you finally broke down, and that night you laughed so hard together you thought you’d stop breathing. The real value of a home, much like a relationship, is not what it brings to your life, but the life it brings to you.

No matter how flawed the partners, it’s those moments that make a relationship. And no matter how humble the house, it’s those memories that make it a home.

The Thanksgiving Surprise

“And a Snoopy sleeping bag.”

On my 9th birthday, that was what I wanted most of all. The bright red one in the Sears catalog, with an outline of Snoopy lying on his doghouse, wearing a big smile.

“OK!” my parents agreed.

But when my birthday came, my sleeping bag did not come with it.

“We’re so sorry,” they said, “but sometimes mail order items come much later than we hope.”

I tried not to be too sad. After all, I had a fun party and lots of other gifts. And Halloween was only a week away. So I tried to forget about Snoopy and the sleeping bag.

But the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, I couldn’t help but sag at the shoulders when no belated gift arrived for me.

Before I knew it, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving had arrived. The four-day break was about to begin, and we four children chattered excitedly about how we wanted to spend them, starting with what we couldn’t wait to see on the table at tomorrow’s feast. A ring of the doorbell took my mom away from the commotion momentarily. When she returned, she carried a large UPS box. “It’s for you,” she told me with a smile. Since the few weeks had passed like eons of time to my 9 year old memory, I couldn’t imagine what it might be. But when I opened the box, everything came back to me in a great rush of red. I yanked it out, my forgotten but beloved sleeping bag, bigger than I’d realized and just as red as its picture in the catalog. And there on the front, bigger than life-size and smiling as if he was at last as happy as I was, lay Snoopy on his doghouse.

“Can I sleep in it tonight?” I squealed.

“Of course,” my parents said. “How would you all like to have a slumber party in the family room?”

I was never so happy to go to bed in all my life.

And the next morning we awoke to the sounds and smells of a delicious Thanksgiving feast. But before getting up, I lay in my sleeping bag for a moment on my back, perfectly content, like my old pal Snoopy, and smiled.

After 35 years of wonderful Thanksgiving holidays, that memory is still the most delicious one of all.

Wishing everyone a wonderful holiday filled with family, friends, feasts . . . and plenty of smiles.

Bare Feet

I recently discovered something about women that was new to me: their famous affection for shoes does not require that they always wear them. Sandra at Miss Fluffy Ruffles wrote a post showing and telling her delight with all things froo-froo and frilly, then suddenly shifted gears to say that she equally enjoys being barefoot. One of her readers, Connie at Living Beautifully, offered a comment on Sandra’s post with the same paradoxical passion: a fondness for fancy, but at any given moment she too is unshod and loving it.

Recently, Nancy and I were reminiscing about friends from our college choir. “What was the name of the girl with the short hair? I think she was an alto.”

“Hmm,” I mused, unable to picture her, “was she kind of tall?”

“No, about my height. You know, dark hair, nice smile.”

“Don’t remember,” I shrugged, then suddenly recalled one young lady with a unique trait that she displayed year round, indoors and out: “You mean the barefoot one?”

“That’s her,” Nancy stated.

And despite our own cold hardwood floors, I know Nancy’s up when I hear the soft pad-padding that can only be made by bare feet. I’ll frequently arrive home from work to see her busy-day shoes off to one side of the entry, and hear the same pad-padding coming to greet me.

I’m intrigued by this discovery for one reason: I have total wuss feet. With shoes on, I can run around non-stop from dawn to dusk, on hardwood or concrete, with no issues. I can even dance for 8 straight hours (at least I could 25 years ago in college). But these days, a barefoot walk from the front door to the bedroom closet for my slippers renders my feet cold as ice and aching with agony. I can practically hear them asking, “It was such a good day. What did we do to deserve this?”

As a result, my “slippers” are really not at all. They’re actually an old pair of Ecco’s that served long ago as my Good Shoes. Back then, their famous sole support was attractive. Today, it’s vital.

I don’t understand the logic behind (or under) so-called slippers. How can anyone be expected to walk around on a piece of cardboard and not have cold, achy feet?

I’ve tried to just go barefoot anyway, to get over it, to be a man. I’ll kick off my Ecco’s and carry on with my day. But after a while, I find myself cranky and irritable, feeling that somehow the whole world has turned sour on me, like a black cloud that slowly sneaks over you until it’s darkened the whole sky. Then I realize the truth. It’s not the world, it’s me: I’ve been barefoot for nearly 10 minutes.

I did run around barefoot as a kid. It was different then, but not much. I could race through the grass with the best of them, feeling my toes digging into the soft turf, getting traction like a mountain lion on the attack. But as soon as we hit pavement or that one neighbor’s lawn full of overgrown prickly weeds, I’d switch into the humiliating Tippy-toe Tango. I’d transform from a smooth sprinter into a gawky marionette being worked by a novice, who quickly gives up on attempts at finesse and just shakes the thing.

But somehow, living from indoor shoes to outdoor shoes and back again makes me feel like I’m missing out on something. It seems to me that those who are barefoot enjoy a unique experience of simplicity and carefree-ness, a liberating sense of tossing it all aside for a while, that I don’t. Then I realize that I can. Since reading that blog post the other day, I’ve decided I want to try once again to go barefoot. Maybe I’ll find that I get used to it, like first jumping into a cold swimming pool. After the initial misery, you adjust, and then you wonder why you didn’t get in sooner. Or perhaps my feet will still be cold and achy, but I’ll discover that, like with camping in the woods, the unpleasantries are more than made up for by the experience.

So I’m going to kick off my shoes and give it another shot. I’m going to jump into that pool, head off into the woods, live a little.

With my faithful Ecco’s waiting by the door, just in case.

(A special thanks to my dear barefoot beauty for my new blog banner. I hope you all like it. [I love it!])

Chocolate Cupcakes

I don’t remember having a lot of them when I was young, but I sure remember having them.

They were soft and delicate, so you always handled them gently. Not just to keep pieces from falling to the ground (the 10-second rule never seemed classy enough for chocolate cupcakes), but somehow they made you become careful, like the rambunctious kid who’s suddenly transformed when he’s handed a puppy.

They were spongy and moist, so although they were never messy, they always left just enough of themselves behind so that you could get one last taste by licking your fingers.

Years after year, I chose for my birthday cake a Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip ice cream creation, my absolute favorite. In junior high, I developed a long-lasting crush on a packaged gingerbread mix. Later, I fell in love with fresh banana bread, and my mom’s cranberry nutbread. And to this day every Christmas, I indulge in a two or three day blissfest with an old family friend’s annual date bread.

But when my wife made chocolate cupcakes last week, everything changed. It was like the leading man suddenly discovering that he’s in love with his childhood friend, who’s always been overshadowed by more glamorous competition, but who’s always had a special and overlooked place in his heart. It takes just one last special moment to realize it. Everything else then takes a distant second place, and life will never be the same. The first thought is always, What have I been missing? But somehow the future becomes that much sweeter because now your really know.

There was something so deliciously familiar about her chocolate cupcakes, so much like childhood, so comforting. I’ve heard it said that smells can spring up a well of memories from decades ago, either good ones or bad. By the time I got home from work, the baking smells were gone. But that first bite flooded me with memories, and they were all wonderful:
Birthdays, whether my own or someone else’s. It didn’t matter, as long as there were chocolate cupcakes.
Halloween, because the chocolate color goes so well with orange.
Christmas, because there’s never so much to put on them as there is at Christmas.

There’s always the temptation to try to make a good thing better, so we often went crazy with whipped cream and tubed frostings, and sprinkles and candies, and even red hots. But you’d only do red hots once. Chocolate cupcakes may go with everything, but not everything goes with chocolate cupcakes.

I ate one of my wife’s chocolate cupcakes with thick chocolate frosting (even guys know there’s no such thing as too much chocolate). It swirled and gathered and pointed upward like a bouffant, threatening to topple. It was divine. Then I had one with just a few artistic lines of colored frosting (I was trying to be Carolyn Quartermaine on cake). It looked like . . . well, whatever, but boy, was it tasty.

But at last I had one “plain,” if such a creation can be described this way. No one describes a perfect piece of fruit as plain. I rediscovered a lost love, and I may never put anything on a chocolate cupcake again.

They don’t look like much. In their muffin paper, they’re half invisible, and when you take them out, they almost look worse, like a cat that’s just walked through tummy-high water. But they fit in your hand perfectly, and in your mouth even better. And then you taste them.

They’re also so much fun to make. Whether batter from a bowl or Betty Crocker from a box, they’re quick and easy – we could make them ourselves as kids – and just a bit messy so, once again, you have to – you get to – lick your fingers. And who can honestly say they never disobeyed and dipped their finger in for one good swig? Only those of us who dipped in twice.

But ultimately, they’re more than just fun and delicious. They make us feel like kids again. They take us back to birthday parties festooned with themed paper tablecloths and twisted crepe paper streamers. With matching cups and plates and napkins set for pint-sized company, and the pointy hats with those under-chin stretchy strings that only the most secure and loving dads would wear, that were always catching on the streamers. The elaborate and obligatory cake was always well received, since it presented the glowing candles to be blown out and wished upon. But off to the side on their own pedestal plate, as if waiting for the final and most celebrated grand entrance, were the chocolate cupcakes.

And unlike the lone cake, they always came in a group, like a bunch of your favorite friends or family gathering to celebrate something special with you. What could be more perfect?

The best things in life are definitely not things. But if they were, they just might be chocolate cupcakes.

Wait a Minute, Mr. Postman (Part 1)

“I hate waiting.” ~ Inigo Montoya, Spanish swordsman extraordinaire, The Princess Bride

I hate waiting, too. But I didn’t realize how much until this week.

Friday of the week prior, I ordered an item from an online store, to be delivered to my office. “It’ll go out Monday, so you should have it by the end of next week,” the phone rep told me. I was OK with that, and when it arrived on Wednesday instead, I was thrilled. Two days later, also a Friday, I ordered another item from the same store. This item was extremely special. “By the end of next week,” the phone rep repeated. Next Wednesday will be perfect, I smiled to myself.

Next Wednesday came, but the package didn’t.

No problem, I thought. Tomorrow’s my birthday, so that’s even better.

On Thursday my birthday came, but without my package.

OK, they did tell me Friday. I got lucky last week.

On Friday I waited all day with an expectant smile that was never cast upon my package. I was forced to wait the weekend.

“I really hate it,” I heartily agreed with Mr. Montoya.

By the next Thursday, after I checked my office mail slot for the 48th time, my calm demeanor was tossed out like junk mail. While others pace, I stomped. While they fret, I fussed and fumed like a worn-out steam engine about to blow. Where is it, where is it?! I hollered over and over inside my head. But when I became Gollum and topped off my silent rantings with a shriek of, “My Preciousssssss!” I knew I’d lost it completely.

And as of this last Friday, my package is still not here.

What’s in this package? What’s this thing that’s transformed me from a man of dignity into a mouse of desolation?

Sorry, you’ll just have to wait . . .

If the Shoe Fits

My wife creates exquisite paper shoes.
I have a pair of shoes I wear for outdoor work. Like a beat-up truck or an old hound dog, they’ve been around a while. I refer to them as durable and faithful. My wife calls them a disgrace.

In their defense, these never-say-die troopers are probably 10 years old. They began as spiffy new Rockport office shoes. After a couple of years, they retired into casual wear. Finally, in their twilight years, when most shoes would have laced their last, they rose to the occasion and became the Work Shoes.

They’ve been stepped on and scratched and crushed and bent all out of shape helping me move our home six or seven times. They protected my feet while I scraped 50-year-old petrified carpet pad from the floors of our first house. And they’ve kept the grime and the thorns and the bugs from tormenting my toes while I pulled weeds and dug holes and planted flowers a thousand different times. They’ve helped me stomp through rivers and shovel mountains of nitrolized sawdust around my property. At the end of a long hard work day, they’ve endured countless poundings to dislodge the dirt clods, and umpteen hosings off to remove what was left. They’ve spent endless hot hours drying in the sun, and many a long lonely night out in the cold. But like the Every Ready battery, they keep going and going . . . and they’re always there for me. Much to my wife’s chagrin.

So I say that, like the velveteen rabbit, they’ve transformed from a simple pair of shoes into beloved companions, worthy of honor and respect.

My wife says that, like Old Yeller, they’ve gone bad and need to be put out of their misery. Or at least hers.

Outrageous, I say. Just as the exquisite appearance of her paper shoes reflect the pinnacle of high class and artistic elegance, so the Work Shoes reflect the classic attributes of dedication, hard work and self sacrifice.

Besides, after 13 straight hours, I bet they’re a lot more comfortable than heels.

Candelabra

The word itself is delightful, conjuring up images of romantic Italy and exotic Spain.

In my mind, it’s always the center of a peaceful night time scene, where friends share favorite old stories, and lovers share just-between-us dreams.

In my home, it gently slows my pace, and I discover that I no longer talk, but only whisper.

Like a midnight snowfall, it gently quiets the world and makes time stand still.

One evening my wife hosted my parents for dinner. To our finest tableware, flower bouquets, and simple music, she added a special touch. My father sensed something was different. Tea lights flickered on tabletops, votives glowed behind colored glass, and a simple candelabra illuminated the ceiling. His eyes grew wide as he realized there was no electric light. “It’s beautiful,” he told us. Nearly 10 years later, that memory still makes us smile. With his recent passing, that memory is one of our most treasured.

Last Christmas, my wife greeted my gift with tears of delight: a pair of matching candelabras. For our new home someday, I promised. She’s already put them up.

A lighted candelabra always blends my memories of what has been with my dreams of what’s to come. It reminds me of who I’m from and who I’m with, of what I’ve been given and what I have now. In my busy scattered moments, it quietly catches my eye and reminds me of who I am.

Five Phrases You’ll Never Hear from a Guy

I’ve been gathering these for a while, and I now have a small collection.
I think you’ll agree – and I hope you’ll enjoy:

#5: “I need chocolate.”
(courtesy of Ms. Everywoman)

The quintessential female phrase. It always makes me wonder what women did before this divine delectable was discovered . . .




#4: “I may have to do one wall in turquoise.”
(courtesy of my wife)

I’m still trying to figure out how to respond to this one.




#3: “Now, you TELL me I didn’t need these!”
(courtesy of my wife)

I suppose you might hear this from a guy – but not for these:




#2: “I challenged myself to incorporate more yellow into my life.”
(courtesy of Teresa at Maggie Grace Creates)

I think this one pretty much speaks for itself.




And finally:

#1: “When I woke up, I knew it was one of those days when I just had to wear cotton.”
(courtesy of our dear friend Denise Michel)

This is the one that started it all. When I heard it, I knew it was one of those days when I just had to start writing these down.

Thank you, ladies! Just when we start to think we’ve got you figured out . . . never mind.
Have a great day!
BILL

Behind Every Great Man

BOULDER DAY!


It was Boulder Day, the day the local landscaping company was delivering boulders. Two of them, for backyard décor. I’m not sure what the land-clearing pioneers of the West would have thought of this, but there we were.

The “we” was four of us: Nancy and I, our (female) landscaper, and the (male) Boulder Delivery Guy (BDG). Being a professional BDG (and a really big one), he had no trouble sliding a dolly under Boulder #1 and rolling it toward our main gate.

That’s where the fun began.

“Do you think we should use the side gate?” Nancy asked. The hinges on the side gate are all messed up, and it’s transformed into a support structure for some kind of giant shrub. So naturally I said, “No, no, no, too much hassle. This’ll work fine.”

I was wrong. Boulder #1 was too wide to fit through the main gate, from every angle – and believe me, we tried them all. So the BDG rolled Boulder #1 back to the front yard and all the way around the house to the side gate.

After some serious wrenching and a lot of comments like, “That’s OK, we can paint that,” the gate was open and the BDG rolled on through. BANG! Well, almost through. The boulder was too wide. Again.

“Let’s stand it up on the dolly,” the BDG suggested. Seemed logical to me.

For some reason, Nancy had another idea. “Why don’t we try turning it around and rolling it through this way?” she offered.

“No, no, no, too much hassle. This’ll work fine,” both of us (males) agreed.

We bent down to lift together.
“OK, on my mark,” said the BDG confidently.
“Aye, aye,” I replied confidently.
“You know,” the (female) landscaper said, “I really think Nancy’s suggestion – ”
“Nope,” we (males) cut her off. “We got it.”

The BDG took a deep breath. I followed suit.
“OK, lift!” he said, and we put all our (male) strength into it.
“Lift!” he said again.
“I am!” I replied.
But the boulder didn’t. It just stood there, like one of those cosmic meteorites of the same size, that the museum docents tell us weigh 2 gazillion pounds.
Now I believe them.

“You know, if we try turning it around and rolling it – ” Nancy tried again.
“Nope, won’t work,” we (males) insisted, as we strategized our next attack.
“Yeah,” the landscaper tried, “I’m sure Nancy’s way is right – ”
“No,” we assured her. “It won’t.”

So we tried our ways about 6 more times, digging new grooves into the ground, shaving new grooves into the gate, etc. – all without success. Boulder #1 was still outside the gate.
Time elapsed: an hour.

Finally, we (males) were too pooped to push. As we stood off to the side panting and nursing our blisters, the ladies bent over, turned the boulder around, and rolled it . . . through the gate. I almost asked, “Why didn’t you suggest that?” but fortunately I was too tired.
Time elapsed: 75 seconds.

Undaunted, the BDG went back to the truck for Boulder #2. It was even bigger and more misshapen. At the gate, we two men tried again, unsuccessfully, for about 3 minutes.

“You know,” Nancy began, “I really think – ” but I cut her off immediately.

“Yes, yes!” I said, “Great idea! Whatever it is, it’s a great idea.”

“Well, see,” the BDG began, “that’s not gonna work because – ” so I cut HIM off.

“Yeah, that’s gonna work fine. Let’s go, ladies,” I insisted.

The BDG consented, and working together this time, Boulder #2 entered the Promised Land.
Time elapsed (including the BDG’s attempt at sabotage): 48 seconds.

Someone once said, “Behind every great man stands a woman . . . rolling her eyes.”

I don’t doubt it a bit. But today, they’re also rolling boulders.

A Tisket, A Tasket, Just Not Another Basket!

My wife is the Queen of Storage. I’ll walk out of a room full of items in our tiny house as she sighs, “Where am I gonna put all this stuff?” Moments later I’ll return and everything’s gone.

I have no idea where some of it goes. I leave large vases on the back room counter because there’s just nowhere to put them. I come back later and they’ve disappeared without a trace. I’ll search every cabinet high and low, twice, with no luck. Then I’ll bring home flowers, and Nancy will say, “Oh, yea!” step into the back room, and return seconds later with three large vases in hand.

“Where the heck were those?” I demand.
“In the cabinet,” she says.

Right. The hidden, secret spy false-wall cabinet built by moonshiners during the Prohibition, I suppose. It’s like turning your back on David Copperfield at Ellis Island, then looking back and *poof!* the Statue of Liberty is gone. Then your turn around once more, and it’s back again.

But my wife can do it with everything.
Well, almost everything.

There is one item she hasn’t conquered, one trick she has yet to master. The ultimate disappearing trick of them all: the Mystery of the Vanishing Wicker Baskets.

If you have even one, you can imagine. If you have several, you know my pain:

They can’t go on the shelf cuz they’re just too tall.
They can’t go in the cabinet cuz they’re wider than the wall.
Forget about the closet cuz the door won’t close.
Can’t hang them from the ceiling cuz they’ll smack you in the nose.

And you can’t get rid of any of them, because this one was expensive, and that one was a gift, and we actually used the brown one once about six years ago.

“Just put them in the garage,” comes the voice of wisdom.

Ah, yes, the Room of Impossibly Shaped Items, where the lawn mower and the bikes and the 16-foot tall, 200-pound patio umbrella all dwell in lonely, motionless silence.

But not the baskets. Their shapes and sizes (and handles!) refuse to cooperate. The first three let you stack them easily on the ledge, so that when you push your luck and set the fourth one on top, they can all leap off and bounce around to the ground together. You’re sure you hear them whisper, “Yee-haw!” and “Kowabunga!” and “Aim for his nose!”

So if anyone can get me in touch with David Copperfield, I’ll send you a gift basket.

The Other Ladies of the House

I used to think of my wife and me as masters of our dwelling, and myself as Lord of the Castle.

But the truth is: we are not alone.

Side by side with us dwell The Dress Forms, more properly known as The Other Ladies of the House.

I only recently learned this about them. I had always thought they were just dummies. Then I learned otherwise.

“Where do you want that thing?” I asked one day, as we re-arranged furniture.
“What thing?” my wife inquired.
“That thing in the other room.”
“What thing in the other room?”
“You know, that tall standy thing you put dresses on. The dummy.”
“Oh,” she said, indignantly. “You mean Colette?”
Colette. She has a name? She doesn’t even have a head.



But I have to admit, she does have a presence. I discover it late at night when I walk past her in the dark, and nearly jump out of my skin with fright.
I see it when she’s dressed to impress in the latest garb and accessories my wife has adorned her with.
And I sense it when I stand near her, worn out from a long day of cleaning, and especially from a long day of moving her from place to place. Lifting her from place to place. She weighs a ton, and her stiff, scratchy metal wheels aren’t nice to our wood floors.

So I stand there, sensing her presence, huffing and puffing as we accost each other.
I glare at her in my indignation, trying to make her feel bad for doing nothing to help me.
But she is unimpressed, unphased whatsoever. She simply stands there, proud and tall, disdaining me utterly, then seems to end our standoff with a simple air of “Hmph!”

And I am beaten once again, humbled out of my imagined title of Lord of the Castle and back into Colette’s view of the guy around the house.
So I slink off to take out the trash.

But I have one consolation: she also is not alone. She has some competition:

Meet Della . . .



. . . and this is Marie.



What’s that, Colette dear? You’d like me to move you – that is, lift you – across the room, so you can better watch the sunset? Golly, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged: Della needs a dusting. You’ll just to have to imagine it. Ta!

That’ll show her. Putting on my own airs, I turn my back and saunter away, to go and serve – another dress form?

OK, so who’s the real dummy? You don’t have to answer that . . .

(Sorry for my long absence. Thanks for coming back! ~BILL)