I've Moved!

Visit holycowhesgonnamakeit.com. Comment, make fun, read some news you might not otherwise see.

Meet you there!

Anxiety

From my teens through my thirties I had a recurring anxiety dream. It was never exactly the same but it always involved the ocean.

I grew up a mile or so from Long Island Sound which is essentially the Atlantic Ocean. Every now and then hurricanes would pass harmlessly to the east creating enormous waves. I loved it, we all did. Huge waves meant the best, most exhilarating surfing you could get in our normally calm waters. Of course they were also the most dangerous and many times I found myself bobbing disoriented with white churning water all around me obscuring the shore and my friends.

In my dreams the waves are bigger. Sometimes the dreams began with me already in the water, but the worst were being on the beach and being unable to escape as wave after wave crashed on shore, dragging me out to sea.

I'd love to have those anxiety dreams again. They were a piece of cake compared to what my subconscious now (literally) dreams up for me.

Now my anxiety dream is that I'm back at the company where I was happiest, where I worked from age 22 to 33. You'd think that'd be nice right? No, no one knows me anymore, even people I worked with for all 11 of those years. I'd actually built up a pretty good reputation there (in reality) I was considered an "idea guy" and a hard worker. I was the liaison between the geeks of the IT department and the money men on "Mahogany Row." In an office of 400 people, I was known by 400 people. In my nightmare no one knows me at all.

Not so bad, right? Fairly average anxiety dream. But then in my dreams I try to call Téa and alternatively she doesn't take my call, or worse, is now with someone else. 

Now my new nightmare isn't being overwhelmed (which waves and drowning are pretty easily interpreted to mean) it's being irrelevant.

People Suck

Ye Olde Cotton Mill & Sweat Shop

Five years into working at Ye Olde Cotton Mill & Sweat Shop Edwina, one of my favorite employees came into my office and collapsed into the chair next to my desk. Chin down she looked at me with tear-filled eyes before totally breaking down.

"Eddy, what is it?" I asked genuinely concerned.

"I got to have my uterus out. I got tumors," she cried softly.

I took her hand. Edwina was already a grandmother, albeit a young one (she was 40) so I didn't think a hysterectomy would be that big a deal, but certainly tumors weren't good.

"What kind of tumors? Did they do a biopsy?"

Composing herself and squeezing my hand she whispered "It's the big C."

I was truly heartbroken for her. It was mid-November and we would soon be entering a slow period and the holidays were looming. It would be a tough time to be out of work, never mind being out of work with cancer.

"Do you want to go home?" I asked returning the hand squeeze.

"No, I got to keep my mind occupied," she replied, wiping her tears. "I'm just going to need time off now and again."

"Of course."

We stood, hugged, and she went back to work. I went to inform Jack and the plant owner that Edwina had cancer. Both were sympathetic, she'd worked for the company for 12 years and she was a very popular lady. Mr. Rick said that we would pay Edwina her while she was out recovering from her surgery, a very generous gesture.

Soon got around the plant about Edwina's condition. Charlotte and Judy organized a food drive so that Edwina wouldn't have to worry about Thanksgiving dinner. So much food was collected I'm pretty sure she could have fed half the county. Money was raised too, not a lot, but Cal the vice president matched the amount raised by the employees so in the end it was a decent sum.

Everyone felt pretty good about what we'd done as a team. We were a fairly small textile company, about 90 people on two shifts, but everyone pulled together for one of our own.

Just before Christmas Edwina had her surgery. Mr. Rick told her not to worry about hurrying back, the company would pay her while she was out. The important thing was that she get better.

The start of the new year is traditionally slow for textile companies, so Edwina's absence wasn't a big deal scheduling wise. In fact it was our usual policy to offer layoffs to our most senior personnel so that they could take about 4 weeks off (collecting unemployment). Some preferred to work so the offer was extended to less senior folks until we reached our staffing needs.

Mr. Rick decided that we would continue to pay Edwina during the slow period rather than put her out on unemployment since her wages were obviously more than a check from the state. I was proud to work for such a generous man.

February rolled around and we recalled everyone as planned, but Edwina said she still wasn't ready to come back. Perhaps we could lay her off a month? Mr. Rick said no, we would pay her another month if that's what she needed.

About that time Mandy, our Aflac rep came in to help me prepare for our annual employee insurance enrollment. We went down the list of employees and discussed who had what plan and what the rate increases would be. We came to Edwina and I noted she had a cancer policy.

"Well that came in handy," I said pointing to Edwina's name on the page. "I know cancer policies are usually a bad investment, but I'm glad she did it."

"Why?" asked Mandy.

"Because she has cancer," I replied, filling her in on the whole Thanksgiving dinner/paying her wages story.

Mandy frowned, pulled out another folder and read.

"She's never made a claim against it."

I was surprised and then again not surprised. I wasn't working with the most sophisticated people.

"She might have forgotten she has it, or she might not know how to proceed." I said.

"Do you have her number? We can call her together and get some money to her," Mandy offered.

I called Edwina's home and discovered she had gone to Georgia for the week. I left a message for her to call me as soon as she returned.

About four minutes later my phone rang; it was Edwina.

I put her on speaker phone and we began explaining how she was entitled to money from her cancer policy and all she had to do was give Mandy her bills and she would handle getting her reimbursed.

This was pretty much our expression.

"No, that's okay," Edwina said.

Mandy and I stared at each other.

"Eddy," Mandy said leaning into the microphone, "you've paid for this. It's okay to collect what's owed to you. It can really help with your expenses."

"Nooo," Edwina's distant voice replied "I don't want to do that just yet."

Our jaws dropped.

Edwina said she had to go, but thanks for trying to be helpful. She clicked off.

Mandy put her hand on my arm.

"She doesn't have cancer, Ian."

I was stunned. Then furious. Then stunned again. Mandy hugged me, gathered her papers and left saying she'd return the next day.

I walked into Mr Rick's office and closed the door. I explained to him what had just happened and the only conclusion that Mandy and I could draw.

"Can you find out if she had cancer or not?" he asked.

"No, HIPAA prevents me from knowing anything about her medical condition. But not filing against the cancer policy...she's stopping short of insurance fraud."

Mr. Rick pressed his finger tips together.

"Call her back to work," he said simply.

"She took our money!"

"We're not wrong for trying to do the right thing," he said calmly. "Call her back into work for Monday. If she refuses, terminate her." He moved some papers on his desk. "But she won't refuse."

Sure enough, he was right. Edwina returned to work on Monday.

Jack was beside himself and frankly so was I. He was able to exact a little revenge though; for the next year Edwina got the shittiest work in the plant. Jack reasoned that she's already been paid for it.

Oh, and the "big C" that she had? Cysts.

People suck.

The Chronicles of Jaycee: Heroin is a Helluva Drug

I'd been working at Ye Olde Cotton Mill & Sweat Shop (thanks for the name, Zack) for 10 years when things came to a head with Jaycee. Jaycee is one of the reasons I hated working in human resources: it turns out people suck.

Jaycee, her sister Ailee and her stepmother Trixie all worked together in sample department. They were all approximately the same age (that made for an interesting dynamic, let me tell you) with Trixie as their supervisor. Jaycee could have been in a Country Girl Calendar. About 5'6" with long brown hair and the most extraordinary blue eyes I've ever seen in person. They were the color of a pristine swimming pool in a mid-day sun. She had a pretty face with a very strong jaw and she was solidly built. (As I said, country girl.) She had runaway from home at 14 to escape the tyranny of Trixie and her daddy (pronounced DEH-deh) and to make sure they couldn't bring her home, she got knocked up. Now at the age of 28 she was struggling with a willful teen son and an 11-year-old daughter with a weight problem.

She also had to cope with her drug dealer husband Ham. Ham is quite possibly the shittiest person I've ever met. He's about 5'4" of grubby good ol' boy charm and was ultimately responsible for me having to come up with a code to announce that there was an armed intruder in the plant. But that's a different story.

There's a big difference between "knowing" someone does drugs and "knowing" someone does drugs. We had reasonable suspicions about Jaycee since her husband was arrested for selling heroin with 500 yards of a school (an incident that truly opened my eyes about how blacks and whites are treated when it comes to drug crimes; that is also another story.) However she never missed a day at work and was unfailingly good at what she did. Then one day May, one of Jaycee's closest friends, came into my office and shut the door. May's face was red and her jaw was set.

"You need to drug test Jaycee right now," she said as if I had forgotten to pick my socks up off the living room floor. (Trust me, I know that tone of voice for that particular offense.)

"May, unless I have cause I cannot march down there and drug test Jaycee. If you're telling me you've witnessed something, then that's a different story."

"Ham gave her a McDonald's bag at lunch and now she's all red-faced and scratching all the time."

I was wondering if red face and itchiness were a good enough cause when May added: "And she's staring at the wall. And she has been for 20 minutes."

May left my office and I walked over to the samples area. Sure enough Jaycee was staring at the wall with the most vacant look I've ever seen. Her only movements were random scratching of her arm, face, thigh, etc.

"Jaycee, are you okay?" I asked quietly.

She turned to me and her bright blue eyes were very bloodshot.

"Hey, Ian," she smiled "Oh, I'm fine."

She moved towards her machine.

"Jaycee," I said, stepping between her and her machine, "I don't think you're okay. In fact, I want you to come to the conference room with me."

Everyone knew that the conference room (which had its own bathroom) was where I conducted drug tests.

Her scratching intensified.

"I'm fine. I need to leave early today though. Ham's going to pick me up in 15 minutes. Is that okay?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Let's go to the conference room, Jaycee."

She was now scratching like she had a flea infestation but she headed for the conference room. The sample area was right next to it so we didn't attract that much attention.

Once in the conference room she stared at me, definitely more aware of what was going on.

"So what's the problem?" she asked casually.

"Did Ham bring you something besides a burger at lunch?" I asked. My meaning was clear.

"I don't do drugs, Ian. I know everyone thinks I do because of Ham, but he's clean too and no I didn't get nothing besides a burger and fries and I don't know why you think I did." Her words were rushed, her eyes were unblinking, and her scratching was getting on my nerves.

I went to a cabinet and pulled out a 5 cup (a cup that instantly tests for five types of drugs) and handed it to her.

"I want you to go to the bathroom and fill this up to this line," I said indicating the "full line" on the little clear cup.

"I ain't got to pee." she announced.

Of course she didn't.

"I'll go get you a water," I offered her helpfully.

She shrugged noncommittally. "Don't forget Ham's comin' to get me in 15 minutes."

"Ham can wait," I responded as I went to get her water.

A one-liter of bottle later, she went into the bathroom with the pee cup. She left the door ajar as I instructed and I could hear her fumbling around. After about 4 minutes she walked back into the conference room with her jeans around her knees holding the empty pee cup. I can still recall the little flowers on her white cotton bikini briefs.

"I cain't pee, Ian, I'm sorry. How about I pee tomorrow?" She was completely oblivious to the fact her pants were around her knees. She scratched her neck which was now turning dark red from all the digging she'd been doing.

"Sure, Jaycee," I said walking out of the conference room. "You can pee tomorrow."

When I got back to my office May was waiting for me.

"Well?" she demanded. "She on somethin'?"

"May, I appreciate you coming to me, but I can't discuss personnel matters with you."

Coincidentally at the moment Jaycee clocked out just outside my door and walked past.

May nodded at me curtly and went back to her machine.

The next morning I informed the plant manager, Jack, what had happened with Jaycee.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered rubbing his face.

Jaycee walked by our office and smiled a huge smile. Her eyes were clear and bright.

"I'm ready to pee, Ian," she chirped as she clocked in.

"I have some stuff I have to get done, Jaycee, I'll come get you." I called back.

Jack and I had been told by employees that we had a core group who when they knew they might be tested, got test tubes full of their children's urine and inserted it into their vaginas to fool the test. You see, the test had a thermometer to avoid a "cold sample" that someone might "donate" to the testee. The test tube would keep the urine at body temperature and since I am a man, they knew that I wouldn't be in the bathroom with them when they had to fill the cup.

Yeah.

We decided to let Jaycee incubate her sample until 10, hoping the discomfort of walking around with a test tube of urine in her hoo-hoo would be some sort of vengeance for wasting our time.

At 10 Jack and I summoned her to the conference room. She looked slightly uncomfortable and actually pretty relieved.

"You want me to go pee now?" she offered cheerfully.

"No," I responded. "We both know you'll pass this morning."

Her smile faded.

"Jaycee," Jack asked levelly, "are you using?"

"No, Jack. I swear. I swear I'm not." Her sincerity was palpable.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

"Oh my God yes, Jack. I am clean. I just had an allergic reaction or somethin' yesterday. I ain't usin' anything. Well, sometimes some weed on the weekends, but y'all know that's just like beer. I might-a tested positive for that, but that's all. You know that stays in your system for 30 days."

I was impressed she knew how long THC remains in the body.

I stood up and pulled my car keys out of my pocket.

"Ian's going to take you down the the Urgent Care for a blood test, Jaycee."

She sagged in her chair.

"You don't need to. It'll show positive for heroin," she sighed. "Am I fired?"

"No," I answered, partially annoyed with having to say that. "Mr. Rick is going to pay to send you to rehab."

Yes, my boss, the company owner was going to pay to send her to rehab.

How that turned out is another story.

Men Only Want One Thing

Today is my grandmother's 95th birthday, so in honor of her, a birthday post.

Twenty years ago my newly widowed grandmother moved into a progressive living community near my parents. Grandma had her own two-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home with a sun room, screened porch and even a tiny backyard. It was really pretty nice.

On my first visit to her new digs I asked Grandma how she liked it.

"I'm not crazy about it," she sighed.

"Really? Why not?"

She frowned. "The men keep asking me out."

"Grandma, you've got guys hitting on you?" I started to laugh.

"They only want one thing," she sighed.

My eyebrows jump in shock.

"Someone to do their laundry," she continued.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

The Ice Cream Kid

Okay, she wasn't quite this small.

Abby was quite possibly the tiniest 9-year-old I've ever seen. Long brown hair hung to her waist, thick glasses obscured big brown eyes. She had Chiclets front teeth that were a little bit buck. She snuffled a lot. She walked with a bit of a limp and she ran with a lot of one.

She was a 2 pound miracle at birth.

She'd been born prematurely the team mom explained to me. Abby's as smart as a whip and her mom and dad (and step-mom) did not coddle her or condone special treatment. As cute as Abby was, they expected her to be treated exactly like everyone else.


Abby expected to be treated like everyone else too and was perceptive of people talking down to her. She may have looked like a 5-year-old (she weighed under 50 pounds) but mentally she was about 25. Unfortunately with her limp and bad eyes she just wasn't athletic.

But athletics at that age aren't all about winning, right? Our philosophy was always:

• Teach them the game
• Teach them sportsmanship
• Teach them to win

You play games to win, but part of my maturation was subjugating my need for winning to their need for learning. Abby had a huge hand in that.

It seemed like no matter how many times I positioned Abby in the batters box when the pitcher went into her motion Abby would turn to face her. That's absolutely wrong in softball and baseball. At one point in my desperation to make Abby stand in the box I laid on the ground and held her back foot in place. For 20 minutes. She stood correctly after that, but her swings were terrible and Abby began to take advantage of her natural gift: she had no strike zone. I mean the kid was three feet tall, her strike zone was barely bigger than the ball. Opposing pitchers took one look at her and sighed.

One night I heard her well-meaning grandfather yell "Scrunch up Abby!" and she did. I called timeout and  motioned her to me.

"You can't hit all scrunched up. Stand like I showed you." I commanded

Abby was the female Brick.

"I can't hit at all, but I can walk. A walk's as good as a hit." she responded dryly. (Seriously, you have no idea how weird it was to hear those words from that tiny person. Imagine Brick from The Middle with long brown hair and glasses and you have an idea of what Abby was like.)

"No it isn't," I grouched. "Hit the ball."

She struck out swinging. The last pitch was about two feet over her head.

The next practice I made an announcement that changed everything.

The Sea Swirl. Best clam fritters 
in the state.

"Everyone on the team has at least one hit," I said, "except Abby." I paused and looked at them. They all gazed at Abby sympathetically (another way little girls are better than little boys). "So this is what's going to happen. When Abby gets her first hit of the season, the whole team is going out for ice cream. To Sea Swirl." Sea Swirl is the local clam shack/soft serve ice cream place. A summer institution.

Fourteen little girls cheered. One stared at me coldly. Abby knew I'd painted her into a corner: now she had to hit.

She became known as The Ice Cream Kid. Her teammates would line up behind the chain-link fence of the dugout, little fingers grasping the metal, jumping up and down screaming for her to get a hit. They would spend every other at bat in the dugout braiding each other's hair or drawing in the dirt, but when Abby was up, so were they.

Abby hated me. A walk was no longer nearly as good as a hit.

Liz, the team mom, told me how much she liked the ice cream kid idea and how enthusiastic Kate and Emily were. Then she told me that she was sure Abby would have been a much better athlete if the oxygen treatment she received as a preemie hadn't blinded her left eye.

Hold the fucking phone.

"Abby is blind in her left eye?" I asked genuinely stunned.

"Daisy (Abby's mom) didn't tell you that?"

I scooped my jaw off the ground.

"No. No she didn't. You'd think blindness might be something you told a coach!" I was livid. No wonder she kept squaring up to the pitcher. The left eye was her lead eye, she couldn't see the fucking ball coming until it appeared in her right eye's vision. No "special treatment" was one thing, putting her in danger was quite another.

I grabbed Marc by the collar and told him what Liz told me. His jaw dropped too. We approached Abby.

"Abby," I asked calmly, "can you see out of your left eye?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot.

"No."

I marched her into the left batter's box. Marc lobbed a ball in and Abby smacked it. She whipped around and looked at me with genuine amazement. The anger I'd felt moment earlier vanished. The chip on Abby's shoulder disappeared.

The next game Abby hustled into the left batter's box as fast as her limp would take her. She stood tall in the box (well, tall for her) and flicked her wrists in anticipation of the pitch. In it came, Abby took her cut and connected. The dugout went wild. The stands went nuts (both sides; it's a small town, everyone knew her).


"RUN!" I screamed, my voice lost in the shrieking cacophony of her teammates. Out of the corner of my eye I saw all 6'7" of Marc hopping up and down.

Abby gamboled down the line as fast as she could. The catcher bounded in front of the plate to pick up the ball (I didn't say she hit it far). Bless her little heart, the catcher sailed the ball into right field. Katelyn, who was coaching first, was beside herself and signaled with both arms (and legs) for Abby to take second. Without hesitation she rounded first and motored towards the second. Well, motoring like Yugo moving up a mountain, but she was trying.

The right fielder corralled the ball and launched a throw in the general vicinity of second base. Abby was safe, both feet rooted on the on the dusty white lump.

I'm not sure I've ever been genuinely happier. I can still see the setting sun glinting off Abby's glasses, her goofy smile, the green grass, the mellowing sky. I turned to our stands behind me and her mom was crying (not boohooing, but you moms know what I mean). The girls started chanting "Sea SWIRL, Sea SWIRL!"

Yeah, I know: she reached on an error. I don't care and I'd punch you if you ever told her it wasn't a hit.

Modern Friendly

The Internet killed pen pals.

I read a listicle of things the Internet killed or is in the process of killing, one of them being pen pals. I had a pen pal when I was a kid, Giacomo from Milano who lived on the Via Venezia. He was assigned to me and we had nothing in common. The letters were always very brief and written on airmail paper which made tracing paper seem thick. After two years of correspondence all I can tell you about Giacomo was that he liked Formula One racing.

Now I have friends of a sort around the world. Yes, I will call them friends even though I'll probably never meet them. Even though in several instances I don't even know their real names. They're certainly better known to me than Giacomo. If pen pals were considered "normal" why aren't the people you correspond with online?

I equate the people I know online to people I know who work in the same building. Over time you get to know them from elevator rides, encounters at the coffee lounge and riding the same train into the city. They're not the people who come to dinner or help you move, but you still know them, their lives, their habits and you're better for it.

Floyd & Sam? I think so.

Beware of Bunny Boilers

Of course there are the people you're not friendly with: the busy bodies, the ones who talk too loud, the ones with the political views that make your skin crawl, the chronically angry. The bunny boilers. Invariably there are nuts that you can't help but like in a weird way--sort of like the street performers who block you on the sidewalk: nuisances but they'd leave a hole in your day if they weren't there.

At my old job, in which I was horribly underutilized, my modern friends helped pass the time. Juls from Chicago reminded me so much of my little sister that I developed a sibling rapport with her (which is a nice way of saying you drive me crazy, Juls, and if at all possible I'd noogie you a bald spot if you beat me again).

Then there's "Janie" (I'll protect your anonymity because God knows the bunny boiler would love to know it and then use it repeatedly). Our friendship defies classification, it's a true "modern friendly" relationship. Part work-wife, part big sister, part buddy, I'm not sure it could exist between a man and a woman out in the real world. But in the snow-globe-like reality of the internet it flourishes.

There's also my British friend, Coff, who is responsible for me writing this blog. She's our international woman of mystery who proves you can know a whole lot about a person without really knowing a thing.

A lot of people inhabit similar snow-globe-like realities whether through online gaming, chat rooms or message boards (does anyone still use message boards?) and they don't allow that world to collide with the one their physical bodies inhabit. I've decided the hell with that. I may couch it in vague terms like "my friend Janie..." but if you are one of my modern friends my family, friends and coworkers have heard something about you. And of course Tea knows you all. Sadly, even the bunny boiler.

Derek Jeter

I have this Jeter card, maybe
I can retire on it some day.

I was visiting my folks and Buffy in Greensboro, North Carolina in the summer of 1993. My sister was the young mother of two kids at that point but she acted like she was 40, which I guess responsibility and children will do to you.

"Leave your emotional vampires," I cajoled, "let's go to a baseball game."

Greensboro's War Memorial Stadium

The Greensboro Hornets were a Yankees Single-A franchise at the time (they're now the Greensboro Grasshoppers and affiliated with the Florida Marlins). Everyone knows I'm a huge Yankees fan and I heard about this phenom they'd drafted named Derek Jeter. Buffy relented, we got great seats behind the plate, ordered beers and sausage dogs (they had waitress service for the "gold seats" which is what I'm hoping heaven will be like) and settled in.

Buffy turned back into my fun-loving little sister as the game progressed and we both commented on how the skinny kid playing shortstop didn't really seem that impressive but hey, the sausage dogs were great and the beer was cold.

Here it is 18 years later, Buffy is celebrating her 23rd anniversary tomorrow (and the fact that her oldest emotional vampire is finally leaving the nest) and Derek Jeter has just gone 5-5 with a home run which just happened to be his 3,000th hit.

Imagine making your living doing this. I do.

Derek Jeter has lived my fantasy life. I'm not going to lie; I still dream of playing shortstop for the Yankees. I daydream about making diving catches or throwing off my back foot even though my shoulder is now so bad I can only throw underhanded. When I played baseball I was the lead off batter like Jeter, a singles or doubles guy who played hard and ran smart (though not so swiftly).

He has nice taste.

Between the lines I am a different person, fierce and unsmiling, hawkeyed and even somewhat graceful. Okay, I was. Jeter is me with more talent. And money. I'm proud of Jeter for avoiding the steroid scandal because I'd have avoided them too. I'm happy he didn't marry, instead choosing to date models and actresses, waitresses and party girls avoiding breaking anyone's heart. (Well, I don't understand why he dated Mariah Carey, but everyone makes mistakes.) Derek Jeter's a good man in the way that I hope I am.

I'm dreading when he eventually retires because that means that Derek Jeter is old, and if he's old, what am I? My little sister could very well be a grandmother when he hangs up his cleats. Good God.

 Téa, I need a hug.

Enough with the Cult of Death

I'm very sorry that Shannon Stone is dead. I'm even sorrier that he died in front of his son doing something as innocent and good hearted as trying to catch a ball tossed to him by the Ranger's all-star Josh Hamilton. Hell, I'd love to have souvenir ball touched by an all-star. It'd be a great conversation piece. But honey, if I die doing something like that, I will haunt you for the remainder of your days if you allow a shrine of flower to memorialize my stupidity.

When did Western Civilization turn into an Egyptian-like cult of death? When did it become the thing to do to build floral shrines to people who die? I'm not knocking how immediately family members choose to grieve, but when did the general public decide "hey, I need to publicly mourn someone I never knew existed."

Why do people who die on the side of the road get tacky shrines of plastic flowers? Stop it! It's stupid. People who choose have grave sites for you to decorate and visit. People like me who choose to be cremated don't want monuments, especially not ones that commemorate the worst moment of our shortened lives.

When children die at the hands of an abuser, don't spend $11 on a bouquet of flowers or a stuffed animal to lay languishing on the ground. Do something! Donate to a shelter, volunteer anything but some meaningless public display of your inappropriate grief.
So Shannon Stone, as nice a man as I'm sure you were, I sincerely hope the Rangers acknowledge your death in a dignified way and the Ranger fans don't feel compelled to build you a memorial of empty beer cups and Ranger caps.

As for your son, I sincerely wish you could unsee that.

Ringtones

Téa got me into ringtones. Before that my Blackberry was as dull as my sock drawer but then I learned the art of self-expression through music. Specifically the music assigned to the people in my life.

My father's ringtone is Darth Vader's Theme from Star Wars. Obvious enough, eh? My mom's is Country Road by John Denver. At one time it was her favorite song and she, Buffy and I would sing it whenever it played on the car's AM radio. My sister's is the theme from Sex and the City, not for what you're thinking, perv; she's been married for 23 years. No, it's because she has a huge fondness for cosmopolitans.

My ex's is the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. It goes to voicemail. Enough said.

Téa's ringtone is Ali in the Jungle by The Hours. She actually made it for me when I was going through a rough time and personally I think it's the greatest "dust yourself off and get back in there" song ever performed. The irony is that she gave it to me but it's so perfect for her.

You know, Téa, you manage it all with so much grace that I forget. I have no idea how you put up with my puppyish enthusiasm on a daily basis. Good God, I annoy me, how do you handle it?

This was all brought home to me last night as I was watching the Yankees-Indians game and you called me unexpectedly when taking Miri home. Here I am glued to the TV watching the game and you're out with the flu after a long, long day taking a kid home. Ali in the Jungle startled me just as I'm having a fit that the Yankee rally fell short while you're out being the great mom.

I don't tell you enough how much I admire you. Then again, when I do you pooh-pooh it. Sigh.

Oh I'm not apologizing for trying to lure into a little, erm, "quality time" despite the fact you had a very long day and the flu. Can't help it...you're irresistible. (Stop rolling your eyes.)

Anyway, if Ali in the Jungle were to burst out of my phone around noon, I'm good to go!

Stop rolling your eyes.

Drafting a Team

"Raincoat Girl or Jean Jacket Girl?" Marc asked Ed, the manager of the Reds.

Do not dress your
child like this for
any tryouts.

We were in the last round of the draft and only two girls were left: Raincoat Girl and Jean Jacket Girl. Talent disappeared pretty quickly in our town's softball league. In fact kids who could catch were usually gone by the end of the second round. After that you filled out your roster with kids who looked like they were least likely to harm themselves and others.

Sometimes it's just
a fashion statement

We had already drafted Leotard Girl (I figured the leotard meant she took dance and thus had some coordination. Wrong. She just liked wearing leotards.) We had also selected Fat Girl in Red Coat Who Couldn't Move Her Arms. No, we weren't assholes making fun of little girls. Thirty cherubs bundled up against the coldest day of the Spring blended together after a while; you ended up identifying them by their clothes. There happened to be two chubby girls in red coats, we got the one who couldn't move her arms.

Keeping the teeth
as far away from the
ball as possible.

Tryouts consisted of each girl taking a turn fielding five ground balls, then five fly balls and taking swings at 10 pitches (notice I said taking swings, not actually hitting 10 pitches). Ground balls were usually a pretty safe event. Watching them try to catch fly balls was often terrifying as you prayed they'd step out of the way before taking a ball to the face. The batting...well, that was usually just an exercise in futility.

One of the biggest differences between boys and girls tryouts is that nine-year-old boys show up to tryouts with bat-bags and $90 bats, new gloves and at least one batting glove. Nine-year-old-girls show up after attending a sleep-over wearing a borrowed glove (they'll get their own if dad thinks they won't quit after the first practice) and some sort of footwear that may or not be ballet slippers.

After coaching both boys and girls, I can tell you hands down I'd rather coach girls. Boys show up thinking they already know everything and they bring along their fathers who are absolutely certain they know more than you.

Girls show up convinced you know more than them, and their fathers are just happy that someone else is coaching them.

So, our team that year?

Kate (9 years old) who showed up with her own glove and cleats.
Jamie (11 years old) she was tall and could catch.
Lindsay (12 years old) she was tall and couldn't catch.
Katelyn (9 years old) she had big blue eyes and rosy cheeks and caught a fly ball.
Beth (10 years old) aka Leotard Girl.
Becky (9 years old) aka Fat Girl in the Red Coat Who Couldn't Move Her Arms.
Emily (9 years old) the girl we chose because she would look cute in the team picture (that was the actual reason we picked her).
Ana (9 years old) aka Raincoat Girl.

They were joining seven girls already on the team picked by the previous coach.

We had four weeks of practice before Opening Day.

Taming the Wild Ego:In the Beginning

I'm an insanely competitive person.

Why am I like this? I was either 4 or 5-years-old when we were visiting my grandparents in New York, my father and I were on the sidewalk waiting for everyone else. Somehow we decided to race (my father at the time was a 25-year-old 6'3" man). I recall taking off down the sidewalk conscious of where the elm trees had lifted up the cement slabs and I remember I was winning. Until just steps before the finish line (well, steps for me, a step for him), my father went ahead and won.

In frustration I slapped his knee (that's how tall I was) and cried "You're supposed to let me win!"

As long as I live I will never forget him looking down at me and matter-of-factly saying:

"I will never let you win."

Okay, old man, it was game on from then on out.

At the age of 10 I was sent to bed for yelling at my father during family game night. I was thrown out of a Little League game for arguing with an umpire at 11. Once, out of boredom, Chris and I offered to play our little sisters in kickball; the three of them against the two of us. We gave them 25 outs an inning and a 50-run lead. Then we made the game last three days until we finally caught up to them and won. My best friend Joe played only one sport: tennis. He would routinely beat me. I paid for my own tennis lessons (never telling him I was taking them) so that I would be victorious. When video games came out, I went a month without doing laundry, spending four-weeks worth of quarters mastering the Galaga machine in the dorm lobby.

My furious need to win was cured by 14 little girls.

Marc, a good friend of mine, had a little girl who was going to play fastpitch softball for the first time. Marc wanted to be the head coach but his travel schedule wouldn't allow it so he asked if I would be the coach and he would be my assistant. I was fresh out of college and this sounded like it could be fun, so sure, I was on board.

Coaching little girls turned out to be one of the best things I ever did in my life: I learned to be the best person I could possibly be around them and they taught me to lighten the fuck up.

For example, I had three of my best players, Kate, Emily and Katelyn around me, explaining some finer point of footwork around the bases. They were looking at me intently, I knew I was getting through to them, imparting my baseball wisdom into their 9-year-old brains.

"Why is the hair on your legs a prettier color than the hair on your head?" Kate asked me suddenly.

"Wha? Huh?" I asked dumbfounded.

"Oooh yeah, it is!" Emily cooed pointing at my shins like they were kittens.

Katelyn looked from my head to my legs and back again.

"Do you dye your hair? My mom does. It looks like the hair on your legs. Why'd you leave the bad color on your head?"

I blinked rapidly trying to figure out how I lost the thread on my valuable teaching moment.

"I don't do anything to my hair. I was blond as a kid. I guess the hair on my legs hasn't caught up yet." The hair on my legs was goldy-reddish brown.

"Um, that's not blond," Kate pointed out.

"Okay," I said sternly, steering the conversation back to the point, "my hair isn't what we're talking about. We're talking about how you step on the base when you're catching the ball."

"Yeah but your hair is weird," Emily insisted.

I stared at the three of them. They stared back at me unflinching.

"Don't have your foot on the bag as you're reaching for the ball," I started again, demonstrating.

"Men have hairy legs," Emily announced.

"But why is it a different color?" Kate asked almost at the same moment.

"It's way curlier," Katelyn observed.

I blinked rapidly again. They stared up at me expectantly. I pounded the ball into my glove.

"Are we ready to continue?"

Kate squinted up at me.

"Look! In the sun the top of his hair is almost the same color!"

I headed back for the dugout.

Oh yeah, the Education of Coach Ian was just beginning.

Téa

I know the exact moment I fell in love with Téa. It was 11:27 PM. I know because I happened to be looking at the clock the instant my heart flipped in my chest like a hyperactive Romanian gymnast. Certainly I'd loved her before this even if I was hesitant to say it, but "in love" is a whole different level. And you'll shake your head when you find out what did it.

She was mad at me. Why she was mad is none of your business, but her anger and hurt were justified and I still cringe when I think of what an idiot I had been. I had to apologize. When I called she was walking her dog to calm herself down, ratcheting up my guilt at the thought of her in the dark with her ancient dog.


We talked quietly, working it out and she accepted my apology. You know that moment in a disagreement when it can go either way, when you can just shut it down or you can offer an olive branch and really move on? Yeah, she made a joke about my voice. I responded with a silly lisp and she laughed.


Téa has the world's greatest laugh. I'm not just saying that. A comedian stopped his show to laugh with her. People in movie theaters laugh harder at her laugh than they do at the movie. The bird mimics her laugh because he gets a huge response from it (the little attention whore). Her laugh is so good I have a recording of it on my phone, and at that moment, her laugh was like the sun coming out after a fierce thunderstorm. 


You think it was the laugh that did it? No, it was the snort that followed. Honestly. She laughed so hard she snorted at 11:27 PM which made me laugh even harder (and then snort) which in turn made her snort...you get the idea. 


I'd heard about people who "talk for hours." I thought that was a myth and worse, just stupid. Yeah, I was wrong. That laugh (and snort) unlocked something in me that I didn't even know was there. We ended up talking for over three hours about nothing in particular, but laughing with each other until we were in tears, hiccuping.


Life moves on and as much as I wish we could laugh like everything was new, it won't be that way again. But Téa, I still turn myself inside out to hear your laugh. On those rare times I can wrangle a snort out of you, the red numbers of my alarm clock jump right back in my mind's eye, reminding me of the moment I fell in love with you.