Ms Communication

Today is my birthday. Most likely, it's the last birthday I ever have. No, I'm not planning to do something rash. I'm not dying of cancer, either.

For the last two weeks, my wife asks me what I want to do for my birthday. My answer is always the same; nothing. I want no fuss made. No party. No dinner out. No movie. Nothing. Unfortunately, my wife forgets I am a man which means the words coming out of my mouth mean pretty much what they do in the dictionary. There are no hidden meanings, no hoping she won't listen to me and do something anyway.

My birthday is a time of reflection about the past year. What were my mistakes? What can I do better this year? Sometimes, reflecting happens on a hike by myself or a trip to the library. Maybe it's a drive or a walk down the street. Sometimes I like to include others so I can tell them how much I value their love and friendship. My birthday is not about cake and presents. It's about presence and the present.

On her way out the door, Robin makes suggestions about where we will go to dinner for my birthday. Since she didn't listen to what I said all week, I'm pretty much resigned to a dinner out. I even offered to make dinner myself but to no avail. During the day, I work with my editor putting the final polish on a magazine article, spend time trolling monster.com and craigslist for another writing gig, write an email to someone I worked with 20 years ago on the same subject and talk to a technician about servicing some fuel injectors.

By this time, my wife comes home with a couple of wrapped presents and is all excited about taking me out. She goes out for a run and I ponder whether I should make another case for low-keying my birthday. By the time she comes back, I decide not to say anything. Big mistake.

Now we're out at the restaurant. My skin is literally crawling because I meant what I said; no fuss please. I can't believe how uncomfortable I am with all the attention. The whole time, I'm wondering how much damage I'll do to my marriage if I bolt.

So I violate Newton's First Law of Marriage (Make your wife's happiness your own) and tell her I wish she listened to me all last week. Robin replies since I didn't say anything today, she thought I changed my mind. I try to tell her how I want to spend my birthday and why. Big mistake. Now I'm ruining her good time because all she wants to do is treat her husband on his birthday. Unfortunately, I make the situation worse by staying with the subject when all she wants to do is change it. We curtail the dinner early and she smolders all the way home. Once home, she throws my toothbrush and some toothpaste out the bedroom door and slams it shut.

So what kind of jerk denies his wife the opportunity to celebrate her husband's birthday with a few tokens of affection? Let's see if I can explain it to you any better than I explained it to her. First off, I'm horrible at both giving and receiving gifts. Talk about anxiety and flop sweat. I've built 16 car engines but I can't buy a gift without panicking. So I don't want to inflict that kind of agita on anyone else. Even if that person exhibits no such behavior.

Even as a kid, I did not enjoy my birthday parties. However, I enjoy going to your birthday parties. My birthdays themselves were always a minefield. A few of them went very badly. On my 11th birthday, my aunts, uncles and cousins are all over to celebrate. Everybody's laughing and having a good time. The television flickers in the background. Suddenly, a special report interrupts the regularly scheduled program so we all pay attention.

Okay, that doesn't sound like much, especially in this day and age where everything is a "special report." Back then, interruptions in regularly scheduled programming occurred only for real news like the Kennedy assassination. This time, a somber Chet Huntley told us astronauts Virgil "Gus" Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffeee burned alive in a pure oxygen environment while testing their Apollo 1 capsule on the pad.

Talk about putting a damper on the festivities. The Space Program was a big deal and a source of pride. Now America had their first casualties in the Space Race. It was a huge blow and a horrible way to die. Everyone was numb. They all just left. I don't even remember if I got to blow out the candles.

Another January 27th celebration ended early with a heated discussion about religion. Seems the older generation was taken aback when they heard some of the younger generation didn't believe what they believed. That argument changed the boundaries of conversation in our family for many holidays to come. At least they waited until I got to blow out the candles.

There are a couple of other examples but you get the picture. I tiptoe around the date reflexively, as if too much attention means something bad happens.

There is another reason (I can hear the women reading this post saying to themselves, "There better be another reason."). Other than being born, meeting my wife is the most pivotal day in my entire life. Everything changed on February 14, 2003. I found someone who believes the content of my character is more important than the content of my investment portfolio (she's probably rethinking that one).

Every day I spend with this woman is like Christmas, Mardi Gras and a hundred thousand birthdays rolled into one. Every day she does me a million little kindnesses and doesn't even know it. Every day I wake up next to her and give thanks because she's still there. When her daughters are over and I'm cooking and the girls are laughing, I rejoice because I have people to do for. I'm part of something bigger than myself. I might be the second string, but I'm in the game.

Even when we argue, even though I'm doing some couch time when I finish writing this thing, I want to get on my knees and thank The Almighty and match.com for providing this 53-year-old balding, freelance voice talent, writer, mountaineer and mechanic with someone who loves me so much, she can be really pissed at me. You can't be that mad at someone you don't care about.

Every day of my marriage is such an enriching experience, such a huge and powerful force, anything above and beyond that (like too much attention on my birthday) is way too much. Total circuit overload. Like welding without protective goggles.

That's why my birthday is a time to sort things out. Birthdays are an unchanging milestone so they mark your progress as a human being. There are a lot of areas I must improve at or I am afraid I'll be alone again managing rental property for avaricious management companies, unrealistic owners and ungrateful tenants.

By the time I have some grip on the whole marriage thing, I'll be 127. That's the downside of a first-time marriage as a fifty-something. Twenty-eight-year-olds make the same mistakes I make. How many incidents like this can a marriage endure before it erodes? Can I work out the communication issues? I hope so. Otherwise, I'll never get off the couch.

Still Choked Up Over Christmas

What a week. Everybody in the house is or was sick, including me. My wife had a virus, her youngest daughter Natalie has tonsillitis, Natalie's visiting cousin Kyle is under the weather from a tough semester at K-State and I caught my current illness from my wife. We are so far behind, we took the Christmas tree down yesterday. That's right. Our house still had Christmas decorations up on January 9. If it wasn't for the kids taking the initiative (they pink up sooner than the old folks), the tree would still be up. Thanks to Natalie's boyfriend James for pitching in. Unfortunately, James may be next to go down because of it.

My wife Robin's blog, Pomegranate Vintage Modern, reflects her beautiful yet frugal aesthetic sense but does not reflect the somewhat crispy Christmas tree drooping forlornly in the corner of the living room. You heard it here first: A penetrating behind-the-scenes look at how tastemakers really live. Next: Secret hidden photos of Martha Stewart buying velour loungewear at Wal-Mart.

This Christmas was a memorable one in many ways. Previously, I alluded to cutting back on gifts this year so everybody got more creative. Robin gave me one night at the fabulous old Biltmore Hotel in downtown LA. Now I have to decide who I'm taking (That's a joke, honey. No, it's humor.... OWW!). In an effort to encourage and inspire the girls' interest in all things design, I prepaid for tours of three LA architectural landmarks (Schindler House, Gamble House and Frank Lloyd Wright's Hollyhock House).

Gift opening lasts two hours, even with a third less booty overall. Each newly sprung present creates endless rounds of discussion about how to use the item to the fullest extent. One blouse elucidates countless combinations with various and sundry apparel either pre-owned or newly received by the recipient. Women discuss clothes like guys talk about variations in the New York Football Giants' blitz package. I'm still new to this world.

The best part was having the kids hanging out at the house all day, lounging around and watching movies. We rarely get to see them in repose anymore as they always jump up and head out on one expedition or another. Of course, this is when all the exotic bugs and diseases carried from their various far-flung habitats like Manhattan, Kansas, San Francisco and Silver Lake commingle and plot to take out the old people.

While the kids are relaxing, Robin and I make preparations for our prime rib Christmas dinner. My mom made a lovely donation so part of the proceeds went to a very nice hunk of beef, on sale of course. We're short a green vegetable so Robin asks me to sautè some broccoli. So I drop some into a skillet with hot olive oil and garlic. Robin tastes a piece of broccoli and I turn back to the pan. A second later I receive a sharp poke in the back. I whirl around and Robin mouths the word "choking!"

My first instinct is hitting her sharply between the shoulder blades. That doesn't work. Robin is caught between breaths with a fearful look on her face. Suddenly I realize we have a full-blown situation. I spin Robin around and perform the Heimlich Maneuver but nothing happens. Robin is still choking. I pull her so hard she leaves the floor with my arms gripped around her sternum. Finally, the piece of garlic or whatever moves enough for her to draw a breath. She starts coughing and finally clears her breathing passages completely. The kids are still watching a movie, unaware of the drama in the kitchen.

Funny thing about Real Life; there's no musical prelude to let us know something dramatic will happen in the next moment. One minute we go about our business. The next minute brings heart failure or an accident or choking. I lose about ten seconds before realizing my wife is checking out. When I perform the Heimlich Maneuver, I forget to ball one fist, cover it with the other hand and stick it under her sternum to concentrate the force. In wrapping my arms around her, I need way too much force to accomplish the job. If the lodged piece is any bigger, this story has a different ending.

I learned my First Aid as a Boy Scout in the late Sixties / early Seventies. In the past, I used my skills to help others. At college, I clamped my hand over a pumping arterial bleed stemming from a one-car collision with a bridge abutment I witnessed on Storrow Drive in Boston. My father and I administered mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions on a man at the Golden Lantern Restaurant in Warwick, RI. I've immobilized broken limbs, treated for shock and helped keep a fellow runner from dying of heat stroke. The upshot is I do not panic. Instead, my instinct is to move forward, not away.

However, those were all strangers. When my wife can't breathe, I take too long to recognize the danger and forget key details in administering aid. For one second, I allow myself to think about what happens if Robin dies and how I explain it to her daughters. Thinking inhibits reflexive action reinforced by repetition and sows the seeds of panic.

Therefore, my New Year's resolution is to find the funds for and take a First Responder course so I can be certified in First Aid. The most likely use for such knowledge is our backcountry wanderings and mountain climbing. Chances are, I know and love the person receiving the medical attention in that situation. Christmas is a warning. I hear it loud and clear.

Tree'd Volume II

Yes, it's New Year's Eve and I'm still writing about Christmas but that's just indicative of how this holiday season unfolded. We are both behind the eight-ball for the last month and we make it through Christmas by the skin of our teeth.

We still have much to do on Christmas Eve. Robin has the day off so we head out to buy last minute items like stocking stuffers. There is no better place on Earth for stocking stuffers than Big Lots. Scores of cheap and close-out items but always a few nuggets amongst the clinkers. Unbeknown to us, our local store terminated its lease and sold most of its stock over the last month.

We enter the store and see aisles of empty shelves. After three weeks or so, only the most mutant items remain. Actually, this is a golden opportunity for marketing students and working professionals. They should all take a tour of that store to see ideas that someone signed off on but should stay in the darker recesses of the marketing mind.

Ideas like Bald Guyz Wipes. Yes this is a real product. No I can't make this up. Bald Guyz Wipes are moist towelettes made specifically for wiping your personal dome. What happens if you use them somewhere else? Do the Bald Guyz Police jump out of your gym bag and arrest you for Unauthorized Use Of Marketing-Targeted Products? Let's look at the following official Bald Guyz bullet points:

• Specially formulated for the bald guy.

Are bald guyz different physiologically? Are we endowed with special Bald Guyz Powers? Am I not living up to my Bald Guyz Potential? Are we poorer spellerz? Can I join a group like the NAABP?

• Cleans and Freshens

Help me understand why a piece of skin exposed to the open air needs, er, "freshening."

• 16 wipes in each box

Are you sure that's enough? After all, if my head needs freshening, I should do that like once an hour, right?

• Green Tea extract cleans your head from the natural oils secreted during the day while providing a cool fresh feeling.

If those "oils" are natural, why are we cleaning them off? Their continual reappearance tells us maybe they're important. Or maybe this forward-thinking company wants to sell you a product called ChappedHead later on.

• This quick drying Swiss formula will give you a clean and renewed feeling, leaving your head with a natural healthy look.

Picture with me a roomful of white-coated Swiss scientists stroking their Van Dykes and uttering pithy truths like, "Yah, I zeenk it needz more uff zet grrreen tea shtuff. "

There is also a product called "Lifelike Legs" or something to that effect. Hang the life-size Lifelike Legs out of a garbage can or car trunk and use the Lifelike Kicking Action to fool your friends. A regular laugh riot.

Great men and women are dying in Iraq so we can waste valuable resources on crap like this.

Time is critical and we need to wrap presents. For weeks I tell myself we need Scotch Tape. Here it is Christmas Eve and still no Scotch Tape. Nerves fray. Both of us get snippy and start taking it out on each other. Robin asks me to pick up her prescription at CVS when I go buy Scotch Tape. I want to scream because I will have to wait for the prescription to be filled but I take one for the team and hold it in.

Now I'm at CVS waiting in line to see the pharmacist. In front of me is a small man made smaller by sitting in a wheelchair. He knows the pharmacist and they're laughing over something. HIPAA mandates I do not divulge. Later on, while searching out the Scotch Tape, I find him having a lighthearted conversation with a clerk. After minutes of searching, it turns out the Scotch Tape is over by the magazines and our friend is already there reading Motor Trend.

I want to strangle this guy. He has no right to be upbeat in a wheelchair on Christmas Eve. Then I realize it's my attitude that needs adjusting, especially since I'm planning a nice surprise gift for all the girls this scaled-down Christmas. I buy a box of those chemical heat pads for Robin as a peace offering. Her upper back is killing her lately. These pads bring relief.

So I'm shamed into cooling it for Christmas Eve. Scotch Tape in hand, I ready myself for The Final Hurdle. Unbeknownst to everyone I suffer secretly from Gift Wrap Anxiety Syndrome. I cannot produce one passably wrapped rectangular package in less than an hour. In the same amount of time, I can pack a transmission for shipment across the country.

Three hours later, I emerge from my office perspiring after wrapping three packages. In the same time, Robin wrapped thirty gifts. No baloney. Now she's curled up on the sofa watching A Very Special Christmas Eve Presentation of HGTV's Property Virgins. Seems a young couple expects their first child real soon but can't find anything in their price range. The Realtor shows them a partially completed manger conversion. I think I've seen this one before but I can't remember how it comes out......

Tree'd: Volume I

The spirit of Christmas finally smacked me in the face like a refrigerator falling off a speeding furniture truck. Last Saturday, my lovely wife Robin and I participated in an event we like to call The Annual Christmas Tree Lug. There is a Christmas tree lot at the end of our street about a quarter mile down the hill from our house. Parking is at a premium and it's too much of a pain to put the tree in the trunk so we walk down to the lot and buy our tree.

Like much of America, we downsize Christmas this year and carry that theme to our choice of greenery. We opt for a skinny six foot tree instead of the usual seven- footer, saving fifteen bucks and perhaps ten pounds of tree in the process. Of course, my wife wants to bargain the price down too. She'll bargain over anything from groceries to electronics at the drop of a hat. Robin is probably the only woman in America who enjoys buying a car. It took me a long time to find a woman who relishes frugality as much as I do. My love for her knows no boundaries because of it.

So we pick out our tree, pay our reduced price and lug the tree back up the hill. After a bit of trunk trimming, the tree stands proudly in our living room ready for decorating.

Now we pull out all the Christmas music. Nobody does Christmas music like The Jingle Cats. Thank God. The joke and the novelty wear out their welcome after the first five seconds. Any more than that and one is either certifiable or has a house full of seven-year-olds.

Actually, we lead off with the inimitable Vince Guaraldi and music from A Charlie Brown Christmas. This album is a real touchstone for my generation of fifty-somethings. Guaraldi's playing is superb as well.

While futzing with the lights, we segue to An Oscar Peterson Christmas. Why these two people rate their own Christmases separate from the rest of us I do not know. The album alternates between admirable restraint and admirable tearing it up.

Once the lights are up and rearranged 42 times, Oscar has had his moment and my wife hauls out A Windham Hill Christmas. Now here's an entire organization with their very own Christmas. Does anyone share anymore?

While my wife handles most of the ornament placing, I start preparing the London broil thawing out on the counter. A little seasoning rub and into the broiler it goes. There's nothing like the broiler on an early '50s O'Keefe & Merritt gas range. Adjustable rack height and flame level make it the Cadillac of broilers and a must for steak lovers everywhere.

Now the house smells like steak and baked potatoes microwaving in the "nuke." This is enough to make me cry on its own but go ahead and add in the Celtic Christmas music wafting out of the stereo and the live tree smell. I'm ready to go.

Then I look at the tree. On it are favorite ornaments from when Robin's daughters were little, mixed in with newer stuff from my life with them. Since I weaseled my way into their lives, many of the ornaments I added have an outdoor theme. There's a little hiking boot, a lantern, a mountain tent and a pair of snowshoes. There's also my favorite shown in the photo above.

If you can't make out the shape, I will tell you the white thing is a roll of toilet paper. Most backpackers know the plastic international orange trowel is the international symbol for, well, you can take it from here on your own. I love this ornament. Robin's daughters hope the cats carry it off and bury it somewhere.

So now the music plays, the steak sizzles, Robin looks very cute decorating the tree, and she's handing me some ornaments. At that moment, I realize how much history hangs from its branches. Every family's tree is a totem. Each ornament is a little bit of history and comfort. The cats like batting them around too.

For most of the 19 years since arriving here at the Outpost, I did not put up a Christmas tree. I felt I had better things to do with my hard-earned money. My job was to strive and suffer until I reached The Ultimate Goal. That was a mistake. Perhaps putting up a tree and staring at those ornaments would make me miss my family too much when they're 3,000 miles away. Now with Robin and her two daughters, knowing our tree is truly il nostro albero brings a new and exciting level of happiness.

Now I'm ready to fall on my knees and thank God for allowing me even this small glimpse of marriage and family life as a husband. Most of my friends married in their twenties so they have a twenty-five-year head start. I am a mere rookie.

By now, Robin wonders what's up with me. I can't begin to tell her all the different feelings coursing around simultaneously. So I grab her and we dance until I get it back together enough to talk to her about it. Evidently, she's not used to the men in her life confessing the simple truths about themselves because it looks like she's ready to cry too.

There's No "I" In Team But There Is In "Married"

My lovely wife Robin and I entered the state of Holy Mortal Wedlock about two and a half years ago. This is her second trip, having two beautiful and ridiculously intelligent daughters with her first husband. This is my first marriage. Not too many men get married for the first time at 50, unless they lead the Warren Beatty life first. I did not lead the Warren Beatty life.

We met online. Okay, I hear the howls of derisive laughter from here. Tell me again how meeting at a club or party or even a wedding is better than meeting online. With online dating, one can sort through a few pics and write some letters, leading eventually to talking on the phone. If all systems are go, meet in a public place. Bring a wingman if you're still nervous. Your wingman can sit nearby at Norm's or House of Pies with the other party's wingperson. Perhaps they make a connection and start seeing each other as well.

Despite living only seven miles apart, there's no other way our lives intersect. Online dating is a great way to break out of one's normal crowd, especially if one finds oneself meeting the same type of person over and over again.

Sure, there are pitfalls. People do lie. Women sometimes lie about their appearance. Men have been known to lie about their circumstances. Do people lie more online than they do at closing time in a bar with the beer goggles on? Most people are sober online unless it's 2:00am and the beer goggles are still on. At that point, you're more apt to write the Stupid Drunken Email to your ex.

Besides, savvy online daters can read between the lines. We all know the true meaning of words and phrases like, "curvy," "has curves," "creative" and "athletic." Besides, what is an athletic build really? If a guy's gut looks like a basketball, that's athletic, right? From what I hear, the answer is yes.

Some people don't lie outright but they give the truth a good beating. For instance, I learned "average" height for an American man online really means 5 feet 4 inches. I was once rejected by a tallish woman because she told me over the phone I "sound short." I insist my real height is in fact the 5 feet 11 inches reported in my profile. She replies if I admit to 5 feet 11, I am probably 5 feet 6.

Online dating facilitates identifying crazy people before meeting face to face. If a person writes a 12,000 word profile outlining their desire to be understood, chances are good you won't understand them either. If a woman's photo shows big hair and high-waisted jeans, chances are 1987 was the last time she was happy.

One time I get to the calling point with someone who spends the last half of the first call bagging on her ex. The next time she bags on her ex for an hour. The third time it's ninety minutes. After that, I suggested we might change the subject. She told me I was just like all the other men who never listen.

Get my point? Online dating is also a public service. Another potential murder-suicide averted.

Say what you will. Since I entered the state of Holy Mortal Wedlock, I no longer dwell on the circumstances of our meeting. I'm married, I like it and work to stay that way. Now I try to understand exactly what it means to be married.



My wife insists we are a "team" but sometimes we both act like we're alone. Let me know if the following rings true:

My wife is in the bathroom applying eye makeup. The door is open. I walk in and say, "Honey..." Now she's shrieking and I have to peel her off the ceiling.

"You scared me, " she replies shakily after catching her breath.

"How? by walking in and saying, 'Honey...?'"

"Well...I didn't expect you to walk in."

"Okay, let me get this straight. We're married. We share the house, yet you don't ever expect me to walk into the open bathroom? Ever?"

Here's another: I'm entering the shower. Halfway in, I realize my wife removed the freshly laundered washcloth I placed in there previously. Now I'm dripping wet and fuming because I must drip over to the linen closet to retrieve a fresh one. My wife inquires about the tirade later.

"What was all the swearing about?'

"You took the new washcloth out of the shower. I was forced to walk through the house dripping wet to get another one."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? There was no washcloth...."

"Why didn't you just get in the shower and call for me to bring you a fresh one instead of stomping around all mad?"

Hmmm. She had me there. However, I ignored Newton's Second Law of Marriage (pick yer battles ya eejit) and put up a front.

"Because...Because...I am a man. A man always provides for his own washcloth."

Yes I said that. Looking back, it doesn't make sense to me either. My wife endures this logic on a daily basis for two and a half years now. Truth be told, I forget for a moment I have a teammate.

Teammates pick up the slack for you sometimes when your "A" game deserts you. When your shot's not dropping, you compensate with more hustle and tenacious defense. Encourage your teammates when the day isn't theirs. Cajole them for sloppy play.

Little by little, I get the picture. Marriage most resembles basketball, though a good argument can be made for doubles tennis, ping-pong or badminton.