My folks were sitting out on the front porch in the Indian Summer evening when I got up the courage to approach them. Did I have a speech prepared, I don't really remember, but I do recall being determined not to take "no" for an answer. Little did I know that this conversation would later change my life in a way I could never have made up if I tried.
"I'm going to go to the Soviet Union this year." Mind you, this was 1990 and Gorbechev was still in power. "I need to see what the Evil Empire."
The money I needed to go had been set aside for a car, but there would always be cars. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I braced myself for battle.
"Okay, but it's gonna be cold."
Two months later I was standing in the middle of Registan Square in the center of Samarkand, Uzbekistan having my picture taken by my Intourist guide Dmitri. I was literally half-way around the world, trodding the same wind-swept steppes as Tamerlane in a city over a thousand years old. I was exploring the far flung corners of the Soviet Empire. Tashkent, Dushanbe, Shakhrisabz. Twelve time zones from home. Little did I know that this small muslim nation at the foothills of the Himalaya mountains would determine my future.
The years after my adventures in Russia were aimless and without purpose. Jobs and acquaintances became a blur. My life lacked purpose and direction. I was burned out from the frenetic world of restaurants and was seeking a change. Tired of working nights, I found a new home at Starbucks. This was before it became the over-zealous McDonald's of the coffee world. Back then it was a smaller company that had just expanded into the Chicago market, still committed to quality and the well-being of it's employees. Finding my niche, I threw myself into it and began to find happiness.
It did not take me long to move up and gain recognition. I became a management trainer taking over a store that held a regional classroom facility. Although I was on a fast-track up, I remained just as cocky and arrogant as ever.
The management trainers were summoned to a certification meeting at the corporate headquarters downtown. Yawn. Another boring meeting. And not being too keen on one of the heads of HR who would be running the meeting, I was less than thrilled to waste this day.
It was the fishnet stockings that made me notice her. Pretty bold, I thought.
We went around the table telling the group an interesting tidbit about ourselves. Remember, the world revolves around me so I had very little interest in the banalities of others. But then...
"I was with Doctors Without Borders in Uzbekistan."
My head shot up, my ears burned, my eyes wheeled on fish-net stockings. I noticed her with more focus now. Suede skirt. Knee-high leather boots. Big turquoise jewelry. Corn-silk hair. Clear emerald eyes. Curves. Incredible curves. Tingly-climbing-the-rope-in-gym-class curves.
My eyes stayed on her as we continued around the room. When it was my turn I focused on her. I, too, had been to Uzbekistan. Something else about F Scott Fitzgerald, blah blah blah. But what I said I was saying directly to her.
We were given a break. Needing some air I followed the majority of the group down the elevators to the front plaza. A tap on the shoulder.
"F Scott, huh?"
"Uzbekistan, really?"
How much was I a self-absorbed jack-ass in those days? I have no recollection of her performing a tasting of coffee prior to the start of the meeting. Yet I eagerly followed her to the kitchen once we were dismissed offering to help her clean up. I walked her to her car, six blocks out of my way. Discovering I lived close to the store she ran, I was invited to stop by for it's grand opening.
Not only did I show up, I stayed for hours, chatting with her Napoleon-esque district manager, patiently waiting for her to end her shift. A drink? Sure.
It was our first date. That night I fell in love with her walk. We drank black martinis. We had our first kiss.
Today, we celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. We have lived in many cities across this country. We each have fond memories of favorite places. She misses New Orleans, I long for the gentility of Georgia. But we will both always hang our hearts in Uzbekistan.
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
There's a hole in my heart...
For every one there is a different catalyst for a grin. A cold frosty beer? Steve Martins' happy feet. Watching Martha Stewart go to jail. In my experience, there is one thing that can excite and stimulate just about everyone. Young, old, rich, poor. It matters not who you are, it will beckon, taunt, tease in the most benign way, luring you in with a sweet seduction. It's appeal is universal. If it were a character in literature, without doubt, it would be the siren call of the Odyssey. Homer would eagerly agree.
'Tis the doughnut of which I speak. Mmmmmmmm, doughnuts.
That familiar, comforting ring of decadence. Like a pearl within a pink cardboard box, it can alight the flame of jealousy. You guard your favorites like Pentagon secrets. You make a mental listing of tasting order, some saving their favorite for last, others diving right in. Leggo my Eggo? Leggo my Boston Creme! How cruel of you to take my crueller! Hands off my Long John....
Cake or raised, it matters not. Decorum surrenders to sticky fingers, powdered sugar smears, maple bar breath. We lose ourselves in that moment when we spy that perfectly round, supple, fluffy mound of pastry, slathered in confectioner's sugar, oozing globs of lemon custard or raspberry preserves. We gingerly raise it out of the box, examine it's form like the statue of David, bring it to our quivering lips, and softly bite down. An explosion of creamy pudding fills the mouth. You swallow, wiping the powder from your happy, happy lips with the back of your hand. You pull back and re-examine your fried pocket of culinary bliss, inhale deeply, and sigh the sigh of one who has reached nirvana.
The office meeting. You don't want to be there. It's early. You'll be bored. You shuffle in, grimmacing at the prospect of an hour of endless shop-talk. Then you spy it. The ubiquitous cardboard box. A lighthouse guiding you through. Has anyone else seen them? Quickly and with stealth you make your way, flip the top over and inventory the contents. Like the glow from the Ark of the Covenant, it catches your eye. The rare and elusive cherry-chip glazed. Survival instincts take over. No one is going to beat you to your prize. Scanning the room quickly, you hunch over, Nixon-style, and sweep the manna onto a cocktail napkin. Holding it close to your bosom, like a suckling newborn, you skulk over to your seat. For that brief moment your affair overtakes any emotion or dread you had about your meeting. It brings a smile to your face and for a minute or two, all is right with the world.
There are those who claim they don't much care for doughnuts. But ask them if they had to eat one, they will, without hesitation, name a favorite. There is nothing offensive about the doughnut, nothing sinister. A doughnut has no hidden agenda. Cut a doughnut in half and you get two smiles. Doughnuts are happiness incarnate, a spring board to feelings of contentment and child-like glee. Find a man who won't eat a doughnut and you have found a man without a soul.
So the next time you are tediously selecting your perfect dozen, take a moment and thank the baker, for he is, truly, the bearer of good tidings and the architect of true bliss.
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
'Tis the doughnut of which I speak. Mmmmmmmm, doughnuts.
That familiar, comforting ring of decadence. Like a pearl within a pink cardboard box, it can alight the flame of jealousy. You guard your favorites like Pentagon secrets. You make a mental listing of tasting order, some saving their favorite for last, others diving right in. Leggo my Eggo? Leggo my Boston Creme! How cruel of you to take my crueller! Hands off my Long John....
Cake or raised, it matters not. Decorum surrenders to sticky fingers, powdered sugar smears, maple bar breath. We lose ourselves in that moment when we spy that perfectly round, supple, fluffy mound of pastry, slathered in confectioner's sugar, oozing globs of lemon custard or raspberry preserves. We gingerly raise it out of the box, examine it's form like the statue of David, bring it to our quivering lips, and softly bite down. An explosion of creamy pudding fills the mouth. You swallow, wiping the powder from your happy, happy lips with the back of your hand. You pull back and re-examine your fried pocket of culinary bliss, inhale deeply, and sigh the sigh of one who has reached nirvana.
The office meeting. You don't want to be there. It's early. You'll be bored. You shuffle in, grimmacing at the prospect of an hour of endless shop-talk. Then you spy it. The ubiquitous cardboard box. A lighthouse guiding you through. Has anyone else seen them? Quickly and with stealth you make your way, flip the top over and inventory the contents. Like the glow from the Ark of the Covenant, it catches your eye. The rare and elusive cherry-chip glazed. Survival instincts take over. No one is going to beat you to your prize. Scanning the room quickly, you hunch over, Nixon-style, and sweep the manna onto a cocktail napkin. Holding it close to your bosom, like a suckling newborn, you skulk over to your seat. For that brief moment your affair overtakes any emotion or dread you had about your meeting. It brings a smile to your face and for a minute or two, all is right with the world.
There are those who claim they don't much care for doughnuts. But ask them if they had to eat one, they will, without hesitation, name a favorite. There is nothing offensive about the doughnut, nothing sinister. A doughnut has no hidden agenda. Cut a doughnut in half and you get two smiles. Doughnuts are happiness incarnate, a spring board to feelings of contentment and child-like glee. Find a man who won't eat a doughnut and you have found a man without a soul.
So the next time you are tediously selecting your perfect dozen, take a moment and thank the baker, for he is, truly, the bearer of good tidings and the architect of true bliss.
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
An unusual relationship
"Come on, come on, come on." A phrase we've all used in that complicated tango of a relationship where it seems like you do all the talking. We say this at some point with a tense desperation, a plea from which we expect no verbal reply. We gently stroke, give a reassuring pat. We proudly show them off in the beginning, but eventually end up making excuses for their appearance near the end. We find our eyes wandering, coveting the new and exciting. Yet, we stay true as long as we humanly can, 'till death do us part. And though we may move on, we never forget our first.
Every car has a name. No, not the make and model. It's name. You don't date "Caucasian female." You date Jane or Sally or Mac-something. They have names, just as your car has a name.
I drive Luthor.
I have driven The Rocket, Doris, and Ringo. I loved Ringo but lost him after six yers of on-again-off-again love to a cement retaining wall in Las Vegas. The day I said goodbye was heart-wrenching, and yes, I cried. That car was a part of me, part of my identity. We had driven 97,000 miles together. My first kiss with my wife was in that car. Ringo had a soul. He had a voice (which sounded nothing like the Beatle he was NOT named after). We bonded, experienced chapters of my life together. He drove me to my wedding. He was a part of me. And he told me his name. Not immediately. But eventually he did.
It takes time for your new car to open up to you. It takes time to build up a rapport, a trust, a syncopation. This is the beginning of an important relationship. This is what will whisk you away on adventures and what you will rely on for the mundane. You are putting your faith forward and asking the same in return. And once that rythym of routine sets in and you both realize you are in this together and for the long haul, it will happen:
You will get into your car and before you get the chance to put the key in the ignition, you will hear it. A name. Not the one you hope for, but the one that is true. You cannot force a name upon your car. The real moniker will always shine through. The longer you deny the real name, the more tennuous the realtionship. Your car will not trust you, not cooperate, will remain distracted until you say it back. The name. You can't deny the name of your loved ones, why should this love be any different?
Luthor.
That's my car's name. He told me about a week or so after we met. Although he's Swedish, he has a thick Jamaican accent. He's big, ugly and prone to grunts and groans. Just like me, he's never quite healthy, but he tries his absolute hardest to get me where I need to go. And the longer we're together, the stronger the bond. The harder it is to curse him when he's sluggish and cranky. The more it hurts me that I can't do more to make him feel better. We understand each other. And he trusts me because I recognize who he is. I allow his voice to be heard.
Every car has a soul. We all believe that. We have all spoken to our cars at one point or another, and we've done so in the belief that we would be heard. We have all had that proud moment, not of buying, but of meeting. It's that one brief moment when you realize that you and the car are one. It's like falling in love. Maybe not romantic love, but a love that transcends explaination.
So the next time you get into your car, before you just start it up and rocket off, take a moment and ask about it's day. You'll get a whole lot more love back if you do.
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
Every car has a name. No, not the make and model. It's name. You don't date "Caucasian female." You date Jane or Sally or Mac-something. They have names, just as your car has a name.
I drive Luthor.
I have driven The Rocket, Doris, and Ringo. I loved Ringo but lost him after six yers of on-again-off-again love to a cement retaining wall in Las Vegas. The day I said goodbye was heart-wrenching, and yes, I cried. That car was a part of me, part of my identity. We had driven 97,000 miles together. My first kiss with my wife was in that car. Ringo had a soul. He had a voice (which sounded nothing like the Beatle he was NOT named after). We bonded, experienced chapters of my life together. He drove me to my wedding. He was a part of me. And he told me his name. Not immediately. But eventually he did.
It takes time for your new car to open up to you. It takes time to build up a rapport, a trust, a syncopation. This is the beginning of an important relationship. This is what will whisk you away on adventures and what you will rely on for the mundane. You are putting your faith forward and asking the same in return. And once that rythym of routine sets in and you both realize you are in this together and for the long haul, it will happen:
You will get into your car and before you get the chance to put the key in the ignition, you will hear it. A name. Not the one you hope for, but the one that is true. You cannot force a name upon your car. The real moniker will always shine through. The longer you deny the real name, the more tennuous the realtionship. Your car will not trust you, not cooperate, will remain distracted until you say it back. The name. You can't deny the name of your loved ones, why should this love be any different?
Luthor.
That's my car's name. He told me about a week or so after we met. Although he's Swedish, he has a thick Jamaican accent. He's big, ugly and prone to grunts and groans. Just like me, he's never quite healthy, but he tries his absolute hardest to get me where I need to go. And the longer we're together, the stronger the bond. The harder it is to curse him when he's sluggish and cranky. The more it hurts me that I can't do more to make him feel better. We understand each other. And he trusts me because I recognize who he is. I allow his voice to be heard.
Every car has a soul. We all believe that. We have all spoken to our cars at one point or another, and we've done so in the belief that we would be heard. We have all had that proud moment, not of buying, but of meeting. It's that one brief moment when you realize that you and the car are one. It's like falling in love. Maybe not romantic love, but a love that transcends explaination.
So the next time you get into your car, before you just start it up and rocket off, take a moment and ask about it's day. You'll get a whole lot more love back if you do.
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
Will you accept this rose?
Reality television piques my interest. Most of the time, I hypothesize my own performance and roundly criticize those actually participating (I could cook circles around the "chefs" on Hells' Kitchen). The range of programming sways from the pseudo-highbrow (Extreme Makeover) to the criminally insane (Flavor of Love). It occured to me that while most of these shows were competition-based, the majority of that sub-set were grounded in the dating world:
Flavor of Love 1, 2, and 3. I Love New York 1, 2, and 3. Mr. Personality. Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Date My Dad. Farmer Needs A Wife. Rock of Love 1, 2, and 3 . Outback Jack. Paradise Hotel. Temptation Island. Joe Millionaire. Average Joe. Who Wants to Marry My Dad?
Just to name a few...
And then there is The Bachelor.
Never a favorite of mine, I have watched this last season with increasing interest. The network just aired the reunion program as a prequel to the finale. In this yawn-inducing bitch-fest I found myself struggling to find any of the women attractive. Not the two finalists. Not any of the contestants. And after scrutinizing their features, their mannerisms, their attitudes, I realized just why none of them held any appeal for me:
Their lack of principles and shame.
To have launched themselves upon this bloke (he's English this year, so he has an accent that makes him sound classy) in a public forum, espousing profound feelings of true love after only a few days and a few cocktails provided by producers, these women have demeaned the very poetry of wooing. Just as unbelieveable as Luke Skywalker becoming a Jedi in all of about a day and a half (re-watch Empire and you'll realize just how long he really goes through his training)(yes, I totally belong on Beauty and the Geek) is these women believing that they'll be proposed to at the end of a few weeks. How selfless are you if you need to be on camera 24/7? How can someone truly be devoted to the idea of a singular love when carousing with fifteen other women at the same time? In the real world, he'd be a "player", and the women around him "sluts". But on television, the third runner up gets to be the Bachelorette.
The Bachelor has contributed the death and dearth of courtship. Women now feel the need to flay themselves of the digital altar, spewing obscenities and physical threats. They become carricatures of real women looking for real love, not shots at fleeting "US Weekly" fame. Even the one couple who DID end up staying together as a result of said program, Ryan and Trista, whored their nuptuals out to the network and paraded their baby before the paparazzi the way Paris Hilton does boy-toys. What's more appalling than the content is the continuing popularity of this show. Are we really to believe that this is going to be the most romantic rose ceremony ever?
Back to the original argument, that this diminishes the art of relationships. If anything, this, and all reality dating shows illustrate the decline of the committed heterosexual relationship. They are tabloid adventures in titulation. The tabloids themselves exploiting the participants in splashy exposes, reducing them to late-night fodder. Pick up any tabloid and it will contain two constants: who's banging who, and who's split up. Forty pages of this, every week of every year. Think of the major headlines recently that you've secretly peeked at while waiting in line at the checkout counter. Paul McCartney and Heather Mills. Starr Jones. Brittany and K-Fed. Divorce, divorce, divorce. Paris Hilton and this week's Son-Of-A-Greek-Shipping-Tycoon, Lindsay Lohen and some rock band flunkie, Jessica Simpson and the athelete of the moment. Emotionless trysts, at best. If anything, the tabloids do nothing but illustrate the impending extinction of the healthy committed hetrosexual relationship.
Why do I keep specifically mentioning "heterosexual"? The conservative right-wing of America constantly harps on the importance of traditional family values and the importance of defining marriage in our Constitution. The hypocrisy is beyond evident. The Senator who sponsored the most anti-gay legislation is busted in a bathroom stall. Evangelical leaders are caught with gay prostitutes. As we look to our leaders to provide examples for which to follow, the governor of Nevada is trying to evict his wife from the Governor's Mansion as they battle in divorce after 21 years of marriage. Donald trump, who roundly crticizes those who are unloyal to him and don't finish projects, himself has violated his own tennants by divorcing twice. Country music legend Garth Brooks left his wife of 16 years to run off with Trisha Yearwood, herself a married woman. Robin Williams is divorcing after 26 years of marriage. How can the right point to gays and say that their marrying would destroy the sanctity of marriage when there are far more examples of hetero impropreity? How have straight people, in even just this last decade, shown proclivity toward sanctifying the union of a man and a woman?
If you need any more convincing, tune in to the finale of the Bachelor next Tuesday, 10 pm PST on ABC.
(Michael did NOT meet his wife on a reality dating show, but they are hoping to one day be contestants on "The Amazing Race")
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
Flavor of Love 1, 2, and 3. I Love New York 1, 2, and 3. Mr. Personality. Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. Date My Dad. Farmer Needs A Wife. Rock of Love 1, 2, and 3 . Outback Jack. Paradise Hotel. Temptation Island. Joe Millionaire. Average Joe. Who Wants to Marry My Dad?
Just to name a few...
And then there is The Bachelor.
Never a favorite of mine, I have watched this last season with increasing interest. The network just aired the reunion program as a prequel to the finale. In this yawn-inducing bitch-fest I found myself struggling to find any of the women attractive. Not the two finalists. Not any of the contestants. And after scrutinizing their features, their mannerisms, their attitudes, I realized just why none of them held any appeal for me:
Their lack of principles and shame.
To have launched themselves upon this bloke (he's English this year, so he has an accent that makes him sound classy) in a public forum, espousing profound feelings of true love after only a few days and a few cocktails provided by producers, these women have demeaned the very poetry of wooing. Just as unbelieveable as Luke Skywalker becoming a Jedi in all of about a day and a half (re-watch Empire and you'll realize just how long he really goes through his training)(yes, I totally belong on Beauty and the Geek) is these women believing that they'll be proposed to at the end of a few weeks. How selfless are you if you need to be on camera 24/7? How can someone truly be devoted to the idea of a singular love when carousing with fifteen other women at the same time? In the real world, he'd be a "player", and the women around him "sluts". But on television, the third runner up gets to be the Bachelorette.
The Bachelor has contributed the death and dearth of courtship. Women now feel the need to flay themselves of the digital altar, spewing obscenities and physical threats. They become carricatures of real women looking for real love, not shots at fleeting "US Weekly" fame. Even the one couple who DID end up staying together as a result of said program, Ryan and Trista, whored their nuptuals out to the network and paraded their baby before the paparazzi the way Paris Hilton does boy-toys. What's more appalling than the content is the continuing popularity of this show. Are we really to believe that this is going to be the most romantic rose ceremony ever?
Back to the original argument, that this diminishes the art of relationships. If anything, this, and all reality dating shows illustrate the decline of the committed heterosexual relationship. They are tabloid adventures in titulation. The tabloids themselves exploiting the participants in splashy exposes, reducing them to late-night fodder. Pick up any tabloid and it will contain two constants: who's banging who, and who's split up. Forty pages of this, every week of every year. Think of the major headlines recently that you've secretly peeked at while waiting in line at the checkout counter. Paul McCartney and Heather Mills. Starr Jones. Brittany and K-Fed. Divorce, divorce, divorce. Paris Hilton and this week's Son-Of-A-Greek-Shipping-Tycoon, Lindsay Lohen and some rock band flunkie, Jessica Simpson and the athelete of the moment. Emotionless trysts, at best. If anything, the tabloids do nothing but illustrate the impending extinction of the healthy committed hetrosexual relationship.
Why do I keep specifically mentioning "heterosexual"? The conservative right-wing of America constantly harps on the importance of traditional family values and the importance of defining marriage in our Constitution. The hypocrisy is beyond evident. The Senator who sponsored the most anti-gay legislation is busted in a bathroom stall. Evangelical leaders are caught with gay prostitutes. As we look to our leaders to provide examples for which to follow, the governor of Nevada is trying to evict his wife from the Governor's Mansion as they battle in divorce after 21 years of marriage. Donald trump, who roundly crticizes those who are unloyal to him and don't finish projects, himself has violated his own tennants by divorcing twice. Country music legend Garth Brooks left his wife of 16 years to run off with Trisha Yearwood, herself a married woman. Robin Williams is divorcing after 26 years of marriage. How can the right point to gays and say that their marrying would destroy the sanctity of marriage when there are far more examples of hetero impropreity? How have straight people, in even just this last decade, shown proclivity toward sanctifying the union of a man and a woman?
If you need any more convincing, tune in to the finale of the Bachelor next Tuesday, 10 pm PST on ABC.
(Michael did NOT meet his wife on a reality dating show, but they are hoping to one day be contestants on "The Amazing Race")
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
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