Our first bondage kit

I am writing of this only because it is too funny to go unmentioned, poor taste notwithstanding.

My girlfriend and I were shopping for a "surprise" present for my upcoming birthday at a Spencer's store in the mall. Spencer's is a store with a lot of weird gifts. Some are creepy, some are funny, some are sciency, it's hard to explain. We were looking around the store, soaking it all in when mis-heard something, clearly not what my girlfriend had actually said. What I *heard* was "our first bondage kit". I laughed, turned and looked to where she was pointing: a box with "Our First Bondage Kit" printed on the side in big, bold letters. I swear I'm not making this up, I can't, it wouldn't be funny, too over-the-top, you wouldn't believe me. It had handcuffs, a leather strap, a feather, possibly other stuff.

I guess it's kind of like "My First Pony", the pink plastic pony with big blue eyes and a blond mane they used to advertise on TV to 7 year-old girls. But different. Very different.

Much like 'My First Pony' boxes, 'Our First Bondage Kit' Boxes have helpful illustrations of what one my want to do with the contents. Thoughtful of them, really.

I'm now imagining a movie clip , or, hey! perhaps an ad for 'Our First Bondage Kits': an old couple, in their eighties, walking on the beach, holding hands, maybe one is terminally ill, just a few months left to live. They are wistfully looking back on their life together, their kids, their youth. One turns to the other and says: "Dearest, do you remember Our First Bondage Kit (tm)?". Their eyes well with happy tears at the sweet, gentle memories of leather restraints, gags and handcuffs, whips and chains, screams of anguish and delight. The sun sets to swelling melancolic music as their intertwined fingers tighten and a tear rolls down a cheek.

We got a huge stuffed Homer Simpson doll.

Holiday Traditions

My family has a rather unique tradition at major holidays.

Whereas some American families eat turkey, watch football, gather to sing songs or watch fireworks, we undertake home remodeling projects. We seem to bond over hammers, nails, sawdust and insulation, long workdays toiling in the mud and dust, attics and outdoor brush. Or perhaps just because it's fun.

I should clarify that when I say "fun" it isn't Disneyland fun, body-surfing fun, going out to hear great music or eat good food or drinking "fun". I do know the difference. This fun is hard, tiring, at times frustrating and painful. No, this is the fun that comes from connecting deeply with another human being, getting to really know that person by working with them, achieving something together, laughing at the mistakes we make and the very paradox and weirdness of finding pleasure in hard work. It is the fun of giving of yourself unconditionally, without reserve or expecting anything back, or receiving that gift from others. It is the fun of knowing someone cares enough about you to give up turkey, football, drinking and fireworks, or the fun of being able to express that kind of caring from someone else.

Here are some examples:

- My brother Pete, my dad and I spending a 15-hour day crawling in my sister's house's crawl-space insulating her floor, then another day in her attic (partially insulated with blown cellulose, to make breathing impossible without dust masks) further insulating it. This was Thanksgiving.

- My brother Ben and his friend spending a couple weeks around Thanksgiving building a modest 12'x24', 2-story 'shed' (think 'garage').

- My brother Pete and my Dad coming over July 4th to clear an acre of thorn bushes (3 days), replace a couple doors, insulate and provide a floor to an attic space (30 hours over 2 days), and paint.

- My brothers Pete and Ben coming over another July 4th to help me finish my 1500 sq foot deck project (2 weeks).

- Me and my ex-wife hand-mixing and pouring concrete two Christmases in a row, one in a light snow with a 1-year old in many layers of blankets in the shelter of the eaves.

- Easter Sunday painting the basement my ex and I had just spent the last 6 months finishing (I guess you could count all the holidays in that 6-month period).

- Christmas driving up to Pete's house to meet him and my sister Debbie, who flew in from Charlotte, to help him remove wallpaper, paint, varnish floors, install stove and washer.

- Christmas driving 1500 miles to move the rest of the stuff from my old house, fix up a few sundry things and get it ready for sale. This was with my renter, Brian, who rapidly became a good friend.

This may sound strange to some, but those are some of my happiest, most meaningful memories. Perhaps it's striving toward a shared goal, facing a challenge together. I don't know, but I genuinely grew closer to those people during those difficult but fun times.

In what is perhaps sub-consciously a test of sorts, I spent a couple days just before and after this past Christmas with my girlfriend building a shelf which covers the entire back wall of my garage: 16'x8'x2'. We planned it together, discussed building techniques, measurements, pros and cons of different approaches. We then bought and hauled the lumber together, built it together, laughed together at our mistakes and accidents (it's no fun unless some blood is shed), hooted at the idea of spending all of Christmas Eve day "partying" by doing this.

We loaded up the shelves and I drove my car into the previously-cluttered garage today.

This is the stuff of life, the stuff that builds and cements a relationship. Regardless of what the future holds for my girlfriend and me, she has become part of my ritual of hard physical labor on holidays, brought me more happiness than she probably knows and given me the best present I know of.

Knights and Princesses

Men are born to be knights, it's in our genes.

Most men have a strong desire to be heroic, brave, self-sacrificing providers. It defines men as men.

An illustration of that is how men live to a large degree for their families, and particularly for their ladies. Wanting to please, impress their women is why men work, fix houses, stay in shape, pursue careers. It isn't that men don't have ambitions or interests of their own, but for most, a desire to be seen by their women as strong, useful, resourceful, is a huge part of their motivation.

The old stereotype of women leading men to accomplish things is largely true. Moreover, I think it is good, the way things truly are and should be, political correctness notwithstanding.

I have come to see this first-hand as I am now single.

Whereas I used to occupy much of my time with home improvement projects, yard work, cleaning the house and various other tasks, I now have a very hard time motivating myself to do any of those. Even my hobbies have fallen by the wayside. I am no more lazy than I used to be, I just find myself asking "why"? What is the point of keeping my yard looking good? The fact is that I want someone to impress, someone to tell me how proud they are of me for keeping a clean kitchen, building a deck or shelves in the garage, how good my homemade bread, beer and yogurt is. There are some who undoubtedly see this as a weakness, why can't I just want to do those things on my own? I don't know, but that is who I am, and who I think a lot of men are, probably most.

I want to be someone's domestic knight, hunting down money, slaying bugs and spiders, driving away snakes, rescuing my yard from ugliness, my lady from screaming kids, and gallantly sacrificing my weekends to build sheds and paint siding. I want my woman to look up to me for my bravery and valour, industriousness and tenacity, honour and courage.

Fairy tales are not stories so much as reference manuals on how to be a real man.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a load of dirty laundry to conquer.

Stairs and Laundry Baskets

And now, for your education and amusement, my two girls have graciously agreed to demonstrate for you the proper use of laundry baskets and carpeted stairs. No children have been harmed in the production of these photos... mostly.

Terminal velocity remained sub-sonic... just barely.

What Happens If My Sister Dies?

One of the things I am discovering of late is the importance of acknowledging and speaking the truth, particularly when it is uncomfortable.

When faced with a hard reality, adults so often hide the truth, soft-pedal it, pretend it isn't there, hope it will improve with time. Kids don't do that.

I have a wonderfully outspoken, inquisitive 6 year-old girl, a veritable fount of uncomfortable statements. Here are a few:

- "If my sister died, would we get another kid? I want someone to play with."

- "Is 'Debbie' (the woman I have been dating for 3 months) going to be my stepmother?"

- (laughing) "I forgot you and Mom were divorced, I thought she was still here in the house " (resumes playing)

- "Oh, man, I'm going to miss you when I go to Mom's, I wish you could come with me"

I adore the completely uninhibited openness and honesty of those phrases. There wasn't any hesitation, squeamishness, nothing. Just a question or statement. Take it or leave it, reality is what it is.

I was initially uncomfortable with those statements. She wasn't. She just put them out there and resumed whatever she was doing. Those statements may have made me uncomfortable, but they did not, in fact, kill me, because they were true, and I knew it.

When do we forget how to do that? When do we start couching everything in such carefully crafted sentences, worrying so much about how the truth will be received?

I am more guilty of that than most, I want to please people, make them happy. Like me... please? There is a place for being kind, sensitive, caring. Where that crosses over into an outright distortion of the truth, I don't know, but I cross that line more than I want to.

So here's to being more like my little girl, to seeing and saying things as they are, to not worrying (so much) what the impact of the truth is, to letting reality be what it is, because in the end, it always is anyway.

Words

I love words.

It may be obvious to those who know me, or perhaps merely by virtue of the fact that I write this blog, but I love words.

I love the way words sound, their texture, the way they feel coming off the tip of my tongue or fingertips. I relish the vibrancy of the image well-chosen words paint, how tangibly, almost palpably they can outline the speaker's soul.

Words are the pallet with which I paint my universe and the medium through which I experience it.

I love finding just the right word, the right expression to explain how I feel, what I see. I love feeling I understand exactly what someone is trying to say, getting them.

This realization about myself is a minor epiphany: I am a talker. Talking, listening, reading and writing is how I experience not only the world, but people; how I make contact and establish intimacy with them.

Not everyone is like that. I recently had a conversation with my ex, in which we noted how different we were. She mentioned how she and her current boyfriend can spend 30 or 45 minutes driving somewhere, or walking, or sitting, and never say a word, not one. They consider this good. I think my ex views words as assaults on her tranquility, things to deal with. Given a choice, she would much rather sit in silence, simply peacefully cohabitate, in parallel, never really interacting, just 'being there' for each other. That, to me, is death, but worse. I know, I lived that way for the last 7 years I was married. It killed me.

I do not understand how non-talkers establish intimacy if not with words. Perhaps they don't, or not as much. Perhaps they don't want, need, yearn for it as much as I. I don't know. Despite having been married to a non-talker for 22 years, I don't get them, and I can't because they won't talk about themselves.

Perhaps the 'strong silent' persona is an outward expression of inner strength, security, tranquility. Perhaps my wordiness is the demonstration of the opposite. It may be, but that's still me, I can't change it.

What is funny, almost hilarious, is how incredibly different my ex and I are, yet how we never noticed this most basic, fundamental difference.