Lucky Enough

valentine, love, hearts, God

 

Sometimes you find a penny, heads up and you feel lucky
Sometimes you wake up to find the sun shining instead of rain and you feel happy
Sometimes you get lucky enough to find a Valentine that you end up spending the rest of your life with
And sometimes you’re lucky enough that she ends up finding you too and you feel blessed.
And some nights you find yourself falling asleep next to your very best friend.
If you’re lucky enough it happens every night.
And I am lucky enough.
How about that?
We ain’t got a barrel of money but we got something much better.
We got us.
Happy Valentine’s Day to the only one that can still melt my chocolate . . .

always,
~m

Kind

kindness, homeless, love, winter, snow, cold

 

I went to get an iced tea today and was almost knocked over by this foul smelling guy
that wanted some money.

“Got five bucks?” He says.

“What happened to spare change?” I say, half laughing.

“Come on, man. I’m hungry.” He says.

“Come on, I’ll get you something,” I say.

He argued quietly about wanting money but finally accepted my offer of some food.
I’m far from well off but I felt for the guy for some odd reason.
I got him a black coffee and a glazed donut.
Cost me five bucks with my large unsweetened iced tea. (no lemon!)
I gave him the goods and he almost scowled at me.
He wanted the money more, I think.
Truth was he needed food and some liquid.
It wasn’t a Thanksgiving dinner but it was probably the first thing he’d eaten that wasn’t from a dumpster or
an overflowing trash can on Main Street.
I didn’t feel like Santa for the deed nor did I think about it again.
I’m home at my laptop writing right now.
It’s warm and the house smells like Christmas.
The tree looks beautiful and two of my daughters and Pamela are watching the Celine Dion Christmas Special in HD.
God only knows where this somewhat smelly and Blue man is tonight.
Maybe we all need to be kinder, not just because it’s Christmas but because
we’re all in this thing together.
Just a thought . . .

~m

Once Upon A Time

love, infinity, anniversary

This coming Wednesday is a very special day.
30 years ago on November 6, 1983, I married my best friend.
In this day and age of disposable marriages and engagements, I’ve come to realize just how blessed I am, we are.
That’s not to say it’s been a bed of roses for all those years either.
But I never knew that I could fall in love with someone so deeply that I could never see myself falling out of that love.
My best friend IS that love.
And that love has a name.
Pamela.

In good times and in bad?
Check.
In sickness and in health?
Check.
To love and honor for the rest of our lives?
Check.

My blog has ‘our’ story pasted all over it so I won’t even begin to tell you how
I fell in love the night I first saw her; in the dark space of a smoky nightclub, I just knew.
Her hair, her clothes, the way she carried herself, her scent, her smile.
Ah yes, her sweet smile, always her smile.
Imagine my surprise when I actually saw those green eyes in the daylight.
I was like a piece of frozen butter thrown on a hot tin roof.
I still say God had His hand in this.
I can’t imagine life without her; without her grace, her beauty, her patience, compassion, mercy and most of all her unfaltering love.
She is my everything.

Who else would I cook Beef Stroganoff or my special Baked Scallops for?
Who else would be the ultimate inspiration in my music and my writing?
And who would be there to hold me up when all my walls came tumbling down?
(Not many people were looking for that gig.)

Through thick and thin she has been there.
I could never ask for more.

For Pamela:

You will forever haunt my heart,
a subtle whisper in the night, a silent look that says all I want to say
shadows of days to come, hours to love, minutes to say a few . . .
prayers of the heart, through a pulse, the wiping of a teardrop, a moment in time that . . .
silently falls into a warm and safe place where two souls meet and embrace forever, for eternity, for love.
Our shadows are the same, our love; endless, our blessings; many . . .
We are forever One.
Haunt my heart forever more . . . for all eternity

Happy 30th Anniversary to my beautiful wife with the viridescent eyes . . .
I LOVE YOU.
Always . . .

~m

love. eternity

Cryptic Sorry

This is for a very special soul in my life.
So special, in fact, that they get their very own post.
A heart that breaks will heal eventually but the hurt lives on.
Not forever, though.
This love owns this heart of mine, and in my own small way, my heart breaks as well.
Fragile is never ever a good place to be on any given day.
My heart is breaking tonight.
Tears for loves lost . . .
(maybe someday to be found)

~m

Salty Sardines

work, life, reality, fantasy

Had an interesting customer today.
An attorney from the Big Apple nonetheless.
His corpulent and somewhat vocal wife sat her crinkly bumcakes on a leather chair while hubby proceeded
to thrill me with his infinite knowledge of cavendish/aromatic pipe tobacco.

Customer: Yeah, I had a blend you guys make and I liked it. It was called . . .  um . . . 4 . . . 43 . . .  43 something.
Me: 432?
Customer: Yeah, yeah, that’s it. You got something that’s kinda similar but different? (this guy IS a lawyer)
Me: Sure do. (pick up a can of whatever and offer him a sniff)
Customer: Oh, man! That’s way too strong! (It isn’t) How about something a little milder?
Me: Absolutely, sir. (pick up another can of whatever and offer him a sniff)
Customer: Oooh! That’s nasty! Maybe I should just stick with the 432.
Me: I pegged you as a ’432 guy’ the minute you walked in the door, sir. (winking) You like what you like, right?
(we have another name for this blend that’s unfortunately proprietary)
Customer: Yeah, I guess so. (laughing, while gazing not so lovingly at the lounging and now sweating profusely Wifey)
[No AC in store] [No lie]
Me: How much would you like, sir? An ounce? Two ounces?
Customer: Two ounces. I’m just going to peruse your pipes while you do that.
Whiney Wifey: (in a commanding and demeaning tone) You’re not buying anymore pipes today!
(to me she says) He already has too many. (a look of disgust on her face)
Me: How many pipes do you have? (I’m already feeling sorry for this choad)
Customer: 6 or 7
Me: Oooh! You animal! (my associate has over 400+ Castello high grades worth God knows what)
Customer: (smiles, and very slyly says) I started making my own pipes, too. (eyebrows going up to impress me)
Me: Really? (not really curious but being polite)
Whiney Wifey: You should see ‘em! Pff. (offering up a nasty and disapproving grin)
(to hubby) You’re such a loser! (hubby looks at me, and . . . )
Customer: {{{shrugs. admits defeat to his personal ball and chain}}}
I’m wondering if they have children.
To me, it seems a virtual/sexual impossibility.

Whiney Wifey( WW)(Anti-Cougar) finally goes outside to test the weight limit of our all too ancient benches as hubby looks at more pipes.
He finds one, takes it down and places it on the counter before running out of the store like a kid at a carnival to ask for WW’s permission to buy it.
WTF?

I found this sale comical in ways but so damn sad in many others.
Here’s a smart man (supposedly?) being controlled 100% by a woman that defies the definition of ‘loving and beautiful wife’, in my most humble opinion.
She was demeaning and down right salty.
My opinion? She’s in need of some high colonic irrigation. With Liquid Plumber. (ooh. that was a bit harsh)
And who knows, maybe 432 keeps her away from him like Off! spray keeps skeeters away from me.
If it does, he should have bought 40-50lbs of the stuff.
Hey, she’s worth it.

Hot Flash

menopause, women, life, changes

Not really sure where this thing is going but I know that in the end I will probably piss someone off and that is not my intention at all.
There’s just something I feel the need to talk about and my blog is the best damn place to do it.
And why?
Because I own the joint.
(kinda)

Being happily married for almost 30 years you get to know every little thing about your partner.
By partner, I mean ‘the Love of your Life’.
Many guys will laugh at that statement but I will stand behind it every step of the way.
No surprise to the readers here that I love my wife unconditionally.
Always have, always will.
Knowing how they like their tea, their steak done, their burgers done, their bed made and their shoulders rubbed, you just know how they like it.
You don’t ask, you just do.
Biologically, they change through the years (as do us guys) and you have to be a sport, a team player.
But sometimes the games get rough though.
I have never been able to figure out why they call it ‘Menopause’.

1872, from Fr. ménopause, from Gk. men (gen. menos) “month” + pausis “a cessation, a pause,” from pauein “to cause to cease.” Opposite of menarche “onset of menstruation,” 1900, from Ger. (1895), from Gk. arkhe “beginning.”

Really?

There’s MENopause, MENstration, MENtal Illness and so on.
How about WOMapause, WOMstration and WOMal Illness?
Just saying.

1am this morning the blanket and sheet covering me were violently ripped off.
Okay, I get it, the AC is blasting and she was cold.
I’m fine with that.
I was shivering my ass off until I could grab enough of the blanket and comforter to get warm and back to sleep.

2am, the blankets and comforter are shoved over suffocating me while she lays there uncovered.

This happens on a nightly basis and I’m fine with that but really?

I understand on a biological and physiological basis why it happens but I still wonder what the hell?
Estrogen deficit?
Damn you, you hormonal hungry bastard!

Several years ago me and Pam went for an autumn drive through southern New Hampshire to view the foliage.
Some nice Jazz was playing on the radio and the heat was on low with the outside temps in the mid to upper 50’s.
Suddenly, the windows were opened, the heat was shut off and I couldn’t hear the music.

“What’s up? You okay?”  I asked.

“Hot flash, sorry.” She said.

The phrase, “Hot Flash, sorry!” should be a bumper sticker requirement for any woman beyond the age of 50.
I don’t say that in a nasty way just as a reminder for the younger folks driving behind you with no clue as to where you’re going.
[Insane. Wanna come along?]
It could explain a lot.
The rest of the ride was basically, AC on, AC off, Heat on, Heat off, windows open, windows closed, ad nauseum.
Do I feel for you women thrashing through this tumultuous time in your life?
Please believe that I do.
Should this thing should ever come full circle, know that us guys would rather rip our genitalia off.
If that’s what it takes . . .
Or not.
Is it me or is it all of a sudden hot in here?

~m

[with sincere apologies to my wife for me talking about this.  It is fascinating. And yeah, I’m losing my blankie tonight]
[fair dinkum, as they say in Australia]

 

Man of Steel

When Michael Sembello released ‘Bossa Nova Hotel‘ back in 1983,
I immediately bought it.
Michael Sembello?
Who the hell is that?
If you remember the movie ‘Flashdance’, there was a song called ‘Maniac’.
That was Michael Sembello.
This guy/musician/singer has floated underneath the radar for years.
Maybe that’s how he wanted it.
His brother Danny has eluded the mainstream as well.
Both are intensely talented artists.
When I first listened to the album (and it was a vinyl record then) one song
seemed to stick out; Superman

“As you stand at the edge of existence
and the world has forgotten your name
After life after life you remember
the secret

He’s as fast as a speeding bullet
Change the water into wine
And the last time he came
They cursed his name
With a kryptonite cross
they cut him down

[Chorus]
Superman
Are we ever going to see you again
If we do will you teach us how to fly above the sky?

Some say at the end of the tunnel
There’s a light that will show us the way
It’s a light that belongs to the people of every nation, color or creed

I can’t speak for all of the sinners
I don’t know any saints I could ask
It’s been 2000 years since we’ve seen you
We need you
Please come back

[Chorus]

All of the pain in your life
How can we ever repay?
And the answer, you said
is in the life that you led, Superman”

I knew who Sembello was talking about back in ’83.
Then I read THIS.
I thought, “Sembello was already there 30 years ago!”

Maybe it’s just a continuation of a long ago story but it’s one that needs to be told.
I believe in God.
And I believe in artists that convey the Word in a way that invites the world to believe.
And we all know what the world needs.
Yeah, Dionne Warwick said it best . . .
We need LOVE.
We need people to care for that errant stranger lost in the Market Basket parking lot of life.
We NEED random acts of kindness to show the Man upstairs that we still care.
We all need to be Superman, a Man of Steel . . .

~m

The Wicker Chair of Death

Health, death, age, humor, Sopranos

 

James Gandolfini gone at 51.
My close friend PG gone at 57.
Another friend gone at my age, 54, less than a year after he was diagnosed with cancer.
I hate going to see my Grim Reaper doctor.
Just like I hate going to see my Tooth Pulling Bastard dentist.
It’s never good for a multitude of reasons.
I work 60+ hours a week (including my daily commute) sometimes more.
The gym?
A distant dream, although I love the elliptical machine.
But you have to exercise, you say.
And I agree.
But really?
When?
I do walk at least 30-45 minutes a day and eat fried clams once a year.
At the constant urging (and rightly so) of my wife, I finally made an appointment with my doctor for mid-July.
At the ripe old age of 54, I’m starting to feel my oats.
12+ hour days for 9+ years are taking their toll, physically and emotionally.
I am tired.
Alot.
I have tried to be somewhat reasonable about the food that I eat but sometimes life/time gets the better of me and
I am reduced to a Mickey D’s level of nutrition. (98% beef, of that I am sure)
I want to be healthy, I really do.
And now and then I want to bitch slap someone who has the time to be too healthy for their own benefit for my varying sense of mental stability.
Take ‘Headband Lady’ that runs 400 f*(&^%g miles a week through the neighborhood.
She is incredibly fit and probably has a colon strong enough to  pass a small wicker armchair with ease.
And maybe a slight grunt.
Grape nuts,high fiber horkin’ cheese, Supergrains, tofu pups, Whole Foods ‘Pass a Chair’ oil, who knows what the f*&k this woman eats.
And she soooooo looks like a biatch sometimes with her stupid white headband.
Who wears those anymore?
Not Olivia Newton John, I can tell you that much.
I was driving home last week eating/enjoying a Rodeo Cheeseburger from Kurger Bing (so good) when I drove by her house.
I saw her prancing around her lawn like f(*&^%g Superball on acid.
White headband and all.
Does she ever take the friggin’ thing off?
I found out she has one amazingly green front lawn as well.
It must have something to do with the multiple barrels of Grape Nuts stacked outside her backdoor.
Maybe I should ask my doctor about that.
I don’t want to pass a piece of wicker furniture through my lower intestine but passing a Growler or two
could seriously get me into the Guinness Book of World Records.
And it might make my lawn greener.
There’s always hope.
And maybe enough fiber/wicker to fulfill my wildest dreams . . .

Twoscore and several Baseballs ago

baseball, Little League, old days, sad

Just read a status update on Facebook that shot me back over forty years ago.
The update was innocent enough:
“Just watched a kid hit a game winning home run in a little league game across the street.”

I thought about it for a second and commented, “That could have been me 45 years ago.”

Then I thought, 45 years.
I’m getting old.
Not that I feel old but living life has made me realize that the years are soaring by.

The year is 1968. I played for Police Association.
I was #4, although that may be disputed in Oxford High School circles.
I was a pitcher and catcher, depending on what position I played in the last game.
And this was a time when some kids just didn’t make it on a team.
If you didn’t get picked, you cried like a baby and went to bed hoping to do better ‘next year’.
T-ball?
Learn to hit a ball for cripes sake.
At 10 years of age, opposing coaches hated when I pitched because I had a curveball that no one on their team could hit.

“The kid’s too young to be throwing junk,” some would say,
“The kid’s going to hurt his arm,” others would say.

My coach?

“See you next week.”

I have an old baseball in my closet that I wrote on a million years ago: “Beat Bayer Fuel! Won 6-4! Hit 1 home run!”
That old baseball still makes me smile.
There were no strange rules back then, no town-inspired political agenda to follow, no social media available to crucify a kid because of their lack of natural athletic ability, race or creed.

No Internet.
No Sirius XM radio.
No 9/11.
No Ricin.
No steroids.
No conspiracy theories.
No NSA controversy.
No IRS scandal.
No Global warming.
No Bay City Rollers.
No Boston Marathon bombing.
No Watergate.
No Tim Tebow.
No aluminum f*&^%$g bats (God, they suck and they sound even worse)
There was baseball, pure and simple.
[good times]

Technology has changed us.
Changed everything.
For the better?
You be the judge.
As a 54 year old looking back, waaaay back, these days are the ultimate in suck, the ultimate in ridiculous luxury
and overpaid athletes that we deem Gods.
I’ll take my old-fashioned shitty curveball.
I’ll take the old days.
I’ll even take milk delivered in cold glass bottles left on the doorstep of houses in the neighborhood.
But most of all, I’ll take a steaming hot dog with spicy mustard after the game and a bottle of Coke to wash it down with.
Those days were seriously close to Heaven.
Maybe they were Heaven . . .