I don't care for Halloween. Never have. Not even as a kid. The candy that I collected on those nights of forced marches through darkened neighborhoods wouldn't get eaten and would be in some odd drawer in the kitchen until the next year.
But there is one thing I do on Halloween that I look forward to.. I read Poe.
Edgar Alan Poe has always been one of my favorites. I read something by him this night every year. This year, I'd like to share one of my favorites, "The Tell-Tale Heart."
TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.
I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.
When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.
No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Happy All Hallow's Eve everyone.
20081031
Happy Halloween
20081029
20081028
Is it over yet?
In seven days, the long national nightmare will be over, and we Yanks will have decided who will next occupy 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
At least in theory.
It would be easy at this point to say that everything is a lock, but if the 2000 election has taught us anything it's that nothing is certain. If the 2000 election taught us anything it's that the guy with the most votes doesn't always win. And sadly that isn't anything new to anyone that's ever cracked a book.
I could go on for hours about this election, who I'm voting for, why voting ultimately doesn't matter, how complaints about the two-party system are bunk, blah, blah, blah, but I'm not going to. Nope, there's been enough of that all over the blogosphere. But I will say these two things.
1. Californians, do not deny gay men and gay women the right to be just as miserable as the rest of us poor married bastards. If you feel that gay marriage will lead to the downfall of US society then answer this, how's Canada, Belgium, the Netherlands, Norway, South Africa, and Spain doing? Vote NO on Prop 8.
2. Reading this blog, it should be no surprise to you that I am voting for Barack Obama. I won't try to convert you, but you have to admit, this is pretty damn awesome:
Get out there and vote next Tuesday people.
20081024
20081021
20081018
Baby's First Haircut
It's not that I'm a cheap bastard, I just don't see paying some hack $8 plus tip to do what I could do at home myself. Hell, it's how I keep my coif looking tight, it should work for the boy... right?
I guess there's no denying him now.
20081016
20081015
570
One year, six months, 22 days.
81 weeks.
13,680 hours.
820,880 minutes.
A seemingly insignificant set of digits, merely a footnote to life for most, but a number of such significance in my own life that the tale associated with it must be told. Please indulge my ramblings for a short time while I explain it's importance.
Day one honestly started entirely too damn early. The day had rapidly been approaching far faster than I would like to admit and before I knew it the time had come. Being a soldier all the days before day one were a blur of PT and road marches, cleaning weapons and buffing floors, sleeping on dirt under the night sky and blowing things up. Time seems to pass slowly when you're doing those things, as exciting as buffing floors may be, but as with most things the days were a blur leading to the commencement of this tale.
I was actually sleeping rather peacefully those hours of the early morning, a feat that has always been a rarity in my life. The house was quiet and cool and the windows fogged when I was roused from my slumber by two words, “It's time.” Still in the haze of sleep I murmured, “Time for what,” a phrase that would later be used in the company of stranger, friend, and family alike as shot against my intelligence. Throwing on some clothes and rousing the house guest sleeping across the hall, I set off down the stairs and into the night. As the grass crunched beneath my feet on the way to the car, I looked into the blanket of stars held aloft by the early hours that cold Kentucky December morning and smiled knowing that this was indeed the day.
Several hours had past, and the sun had continued marching towards it's apex behind gray Tennessee skies, when standing in blue jeans and an over sized sweatshirt, tears streaming down and with heart racing, I uttered the words I had been waiting to let loose for months, “Hi. I'm your daddy.” That moment is indelibly etched on my being. Every flash of color, every scent, every detail no matter how minute is permanently a part of who I am. It is a perfect memory. One of such rare happenstance that one is lucky to be blessed with them but a few times in the course of existence. Inevitably these moments come either in times of most joyous celebration or in the depths of our deepest tragedies.
The next 568 days were filled with so many happy memories that to tell them in their entirety would take more words than I have the ability to write. They were filled with first words and steps and a first birthday. It was filled with a fourth anniversary and the first day that I hadn't worn a uniform in some time. There were some really good times in those 568 days. But day 569 was anything but.
The details of the moments leading up to the final seconds of day 569 have fallen away into the background of time. All the things I had done that day seem so insignificant when compared to the enormity of that moment. As I crawled into bed next to the woman with whom I had been bound in matrimony to for 1537 days to that point, laughter escaped her lips. It was the laugh that one has when hiding a joke from someone. That nervous laugh that often accompanies off-color jokes, political speeches, and dreadful moments.
“I filed for divorce today.”
The laughter flowed freely at that point. It built to a crescendo of cackles far more likely to be found emanating from the evil protagonist of The Wizard of Oz rather than the mouth of the woman who gave me the child sleeping blissfully unaware in the next room. The world came crashing down atop me, suffocating all happiness and all joy and instead filling me with anger and rage. Somehow I managed to control the brunt of my anger, even at that horrid moment I knew the innocent child that I had first held in my arms only 568 days earlier needn't be awoke by her parents loud words.
“How could this be?” I asked. “Where we not happy? Hadn't I been a good husband and father? Why are you doing this to me? Why are you doing this to us? What did I do wrong? Don't you love me?” All these things I asked, I pleaded, while my voice strained and quivered and tears sprang at the corners of my eyes. But she just stood there, dismissing each question and each plea as easily as one dismisses a waiter after the check has arrived. In the end the only answer as to why that she could give was that she just wasn't in love with me anymore.
And as time crawled to a standstill I crept into my daughter's room where she lay sleeping. The night light burning from the socket across the room bathed her in a warm glow. She lay there peaceful, silently unaware that her world had so quickly been torn asunder. In those late hours of day 569 I sat on the floor next to her crib, my forehead pressed against the slats of her cribs, and I reached out to touch my child.
I tried to relieve that first day over in my mind. I wanted, no, I need that perfect moment. If only I could recall all those details then maybe I could forget about it all. In vain I closed my eyes and wished that day into nonexistence and I tried to cling to that perfect memory. I silently cried out to God, to Allah, to Buddha, to nothingness, “Please let this all be some horrible nightmare! Please let me wake up! Just let me have that one day back!” But there was no relief, no salvation ever came. The only sound was that of my beautiful child sleeping, her chest rising and falling, and my sobbing which filled the rest of that night.
As the dawn broke on day 570 I set out to collect whatever things I could. Clothes, toiletries, and various bits and bobbles were shoved unceremoniously into bags. Within hours my mother and my sister arrived and helped me load those things into her car. All the while my beautiful baby girl watched the proceedings and wore a look of wonder and of excitement. Inside that beautiful little mind, hidden beneath the curly locks that bounced atop her head, I am certain she thought we were all going away somewhere, perhaps on some fun adventure, maybe someplace new. But as her daddy, the man that introduced himself to her only 569 days before, held her tightly as still more tears rushed down his cheeks, something in her told her that this was wrong. Her daddy was sad and he was going away without her. And as he walked to the door crying she screamed out “Dada no!” Her arms reached out clutching at arm, willing her father not to go, not to leave her.
I scooped her up and kissed her cheeks as she started to cry. I tried to tell her that it would all be alright. I tried to console her in those last moments, to reassure this tiny little person. But she held on tight refusing to let go. Using what little strength I had remaining I held my daughter for one last moment, told her that I loved her, and gave her to her mother.
The sound of my daughter crying and screaming “Dada no” as loudly as she could followed me as I closed the door.
If somehow you have managed to hold on for this long, please just indulge me for another few moments. As I've written this tale and relieved these memories I know that you can imagine the tears that've flowed from me. Tears of both pain and of joy. It is now late, but I wanted you to know this about me, to understand this about me. I want you to know that these two diametrically opposed memories are among the ones that most shape who I am. And if you have held on this long, you are probably wondering why I chose to write this.
Today, October 15, 2008 is the 570th day since my son was born. He is as old as his sister was when that most horrible of memories took shape. 570 days I've spent with him, growing, learning and loving. Much like day one with his big sister, I remember every detail of the momentous day that he was born. It's a perfect memory as well. I hold onto it just as tightly and vividly as I do her's. Now everyday from today is uncharted territory. Everyday from today is something new. But despite all the wonder that lay ahead, in the back of my mind as I watch my son develop and grow I'm going to wonder more now than ever about what I missed starting on day 571 with his sister.
The pain of that horrid day 570 days into my daughter's young life will never be erased, but I hope that the joy and the wonder starting today with the 570th day since my son was born will somehow make it more bearable.
20081010
I got meme all over me.
Believe it or not I've been blogging or the better part of six years.
I know what you're thinking. It's obvious isn't it? What with my rightin gooder werds masterful grasp of the English language it's easy to see that I've been at this for a while. And yet in all this time on the world wide web I've somehow managed to avoid one of the most dreaded “internet memes,” I got tagged with “the six things you didn't know about me.”
Twice.
Within the same week.
Dammit.
There are rules to these things. Things like “post the rules on your site” and “link back to the person that tagged you” and a few others that you've no doubt read elsewhere. And probably most reprehensible is the rule that states that you are supposed to “tag six people to follow after you.” Yeah well I always hated chain letters. Somewhere out there is a headstone that reads “Little Johnny died when someone broke his chain letter” and you know who broke it? ME!!!! That's right Little Johnny I'm the one responsible for cutting off the life force that followed that stupid chain letter around the Northern Hemisphere. It was me. Suck it.
But, I'll play along, but I'm not passing it on. And since one person tagged me with six, and the other with seven, you get eight. Like Little Johnny, this meme dies here and now. The deaths of Renee and Brenda for bringing this plight against me are in the works.
1. I make everything from scratch. Well, almost everything. I don't make pasta from scratch (often), but everything from pizza dough to ketchup to brownies is completely homemade. Pasta sauce? Yup. Cinnamon rolls? Yup. Macaroni and cheese? Please, I make it and then fry the leftovers.
Hell, even the barbecue sauce that I make starts with me making the aforementioned ketchup first and then continuing on with the process. A lot of it comes from being obsessed with cooking. Not a “watch Food Network religiously” kind of way (I've lost interest in most of the channel as they stopped making food for the common man a long time ago. Even my much worshiped Alton has turned against us.), but rather in a “I read cookbooks for fun” kind of way. And you would think that I would've picked up this love of cooking from my loving and amazing mother.
Wrong.
At the tender age of ten (or so) I asked my mom how to cook and her exact words were, “There's the kitchen. There's the pots. There's the pans. Don't burn down the house.”
So being self-taught, if you like what I make, thank you. If you develop food poisoning, it's my mom's fault for not teaching me. But the added bonus of my mad cooking skills is that there is almost no high fructose corn syrup in the house. I've almost completely eradicated it from our lives. And so we're all on the same page here, this:
Is really no different than this:
2. I am an incurable tinkerer. Somehow I have that magical ability to fix damn near anything. Which probably explains why part of #3 never worked out. If I had a superpower, that would be it. In fact it garnered me such praise that the plague that was presented me when I left my unit in Korea was labeled “to Mr. Fix-it” and once I arrived at the 101st they made me the unit armorer. You give me a weapon and I'll strip it down to the last part and put it back together for you blindfolded. MacGyver is my patron saint. You give me a vibrator, some duck tape, a croissant, and a live chicken and I'll build you a space shuttle. And I'll do it all with the same Swiss Army knife that I was given for Christmas when I was 11. The same type Mac carried.
3. I dropped out of college. As much as I desperately want to go back, I question that I ever will. I attended the University of Alabama as an Aerospace Engineering major, but my grades were in the toilet. Despite going completely free thanks to my dad's service related disability, I still had to work to pay my room and board and the hours that I worked were not exactly conducive to healthy study habits. Or attending classes. Part of it went to the fact that I understood the practical aspect of things (see #2 above), but as to the mathematics and theory, I couldn't get it. And I'm talking the kids of things you can visualize here, I'm a very visual person by nature. However, a lot of that has changed since those days, I understand all of those things better now due in large part to the fact that I understand things much better when I teach myself. This is why I'm considering going back to school online. And not for engineering either. Psychology. At Penn State.
4. I snore. And fart in my sleep. Ask the wife. Just thought I'd throw that out there.
5. I can not sleep unless I check to see if my wife's feet are cold. And cold feet don't bother me. I'm built like a sumo anyway, so generation and retention of body heat are not problems. (And yet the heat doesn't bother me either. I am a conundrum.) But the problem is ever since she pushed that watermelon out of her nono parts gave birth to the boy, her feet haven't been cold. Even when she gets back from hockey practice, they're still warm. Dammit I want my cold feet back.
6. I hate living in one place for too long. The byproduct of growing up a Navy brat and then joining the Army yourself is that you move. A lot. So much so in fact that I don't know how to be anything but a gypsy. In my 32 years I've lived in ten different states, three different countries, and had to change my address 31 times. I guess that explains why I constantly complain that we have too much stuff in our apartment. One thing about moving a lot is that you often have to move yourself, and moving yourself means no one else will lift your heavy stuff. And after moving this many times, lifting couches and carrying recliners atop your head down flights of stairs gets real old. But, I'm ready to do it again. If the wife's employer came to her and asked if she wanted to transfer (assuming she would get a corresponding increase in pay commensurable to the difference in cost of living), I'd have boxes ready to go before she got home. I'm so ready to bid adieu to the south and move back to a portion of the country (or even Canada) that actually has seasons, and not “dammit it's hot” and “goddammit it's hot.”
7. I'm totally gay for Matt Damon.
But not Affleck.
Maybe Seth if I were drunk.
But definitely the dynamic duo.
8. I'm rarely ever serious. Sarcasm is a natural defense against stupid. So you never know what of the above is true and what isn't.
Who am I kidding? It's all true. All of it. I am a sad little man.
20081007
Superdad I wasn't
There is a battle that rages in our household every weekend.
An epic fight that pits the will and strength of an intellectual against the tenacity and fortitude of a child.
I should sell tickets.
For reasons that escape me, once the weekend arrives and Rotormommy “takes over” Butters casts off the shackles Dr. Jekyll and full on embraces Mr. Hyde. This monstrously huge child becomes a clingy, unholy terror to all around when Mommy comes home Friday afternoon. And by “all around” I mean the woman who keeps me in pizza, booze, and porn abject happiness.
I can't fault Rotormommy at all for being a doormat to Butters come week's end. Back when I was married to the Harpy, Mac was in daycare and she unleashed the hounds of hell upon us every chance she got. The Harpy was in nursing school and I was still wearing woodland camouflage everyday, so there wasn't much of an option for us. I'd drop her off on my way in and pick her up on my way home (if the fates aligned and I actually had the car and wasn't dropped off) and she'd be a little terror that evening and on the weekends. We didn't know any other way.
But now that things are different, and I'm in a much better place, I get the luxury of lording over Butters every second of the day, so I know all his tricks and all his tells.
His whimpers and whines are easily interpreted and ignored as I trudge along through my day. It's easy to get food prepared, laundry started, or vacuuming done when you know that “Waaaaaaah!” means “I'm fraking bored and alone an you need to come play attention to me!”
Sorry that you're bored, but “sympathy” can be found between “shit” and “syphilis” in the dictionary bud, I got stuff to do, go look for it there.
That's the harsh reality of being a stay-at-home parent, if you let the little moppets run all over you nothing ever gets done. Equally true is the fact that if you let them run all over you casually, you'll pull your hair out all weekend long.
But, far better than I ever did, Rotormommy somehow manages to get through the weekend with the little bugger far better than I did back in the day.
Damn I was a lousy parent, Rotormommy is supermom.
20081001
Happy. Freaking. Birthday.
The visage that just greeted me in the mirror after my usual morning constitutional is another year older.
32.
Damn.
Had I not shaved my head nice and short last week I'm willing to bet that I would've woke to half of it being gray. The beard is certainly getting there. The red and blond is slowly being driven out in favor of something more Gandalf in nature. Why couldn't I be more like Aragorn, rather than Bilbo?
It wasn't always like this though. Before the boobs started to sag, the gut obscured the feet, and I groaned while I peed I was a full on hottie.
Ten years ago I could hump a 70 pound ruck, plus weapon, K-pot, and LBE 25 miles, booze it up that night, and do it all over the next day. I could drop a man at 300 meters, strip and reassemble a .50 blindfolded, and wander the wilds in the dark of night and you'd never know I was there. Yup, I was a stud. But then the knees started to go.
Oh sure, I'm in shape were I a sumo, but nowhere near the shape when I was blowing shit up. I'm more PVT Dewey 'Ox' Oxberger from Stripes than I am PVT James Francis Ryan a la Saving Private Ryan now. But somehow, someway, I managed to land this:
How I managed, seven years ago today, to land that and take her out on our first date is still beyond me. Our first date was on my 25th birthday. And being the gentleman that I pretend to be, I refused to let her pay. Didn't even expect to get any either. I did however break with convention and kissed her on the first date. That's as far as that escapade went.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
And all of that accomplished while still technically married. The divorce was finalized on the next day. I thank my ex-wife, because without her, I wouldn't be as happy as I am with this amazing lady.
So today, the anniversary of the day that I was cut from my mother (I'm sure she'll be calling to remind me of that fact and the 29 hours of hell I put her through), means a lot less to me than the anniversary of the night that started the seven years that have followed. This woman has, for reasons that escape me, tolerated me through the good and the copious bad.
She bought me a Mustang for my 29th birthday, which is now sitting dead outside. She tolerates my obsession with video games, all things geek, and my cooking. She's my dive buddy, even though she's far too stubborn to call a dive, and I have to public admonish her while trying to rub the blue from her skin.
She's my best friend, lab rat, greatest foe, confidant, mother to both my kids, and my savior.
So, seven years mean far more to me than 32 do. She's the reason I don't ask for anything for my birthday. Between her, Mac, and Butters, I have all a man of 32 that's graying, sagging, and getting fatter everyday could ever want.
Happy anniversary baby.
However, I'd happily take a 16 GB iPod Touch if someone's feeling froggy since it is my birthday afterall. Or how about a new car battery so I can fix my pony?
