Sometimes fantasy IS reality

Commuting to the city for work has many unexpected treats.  The physical benefit of walking over a mile along the river before the workday, the feast for the eyes in watching a gorgeous city wake, the chance to share stories with my fellow commuter, these all are blessings that the average short term commuter is not afforded.  The sweetest bonus, that may seem odd, is the connection you can have to some of the city's homeless.

The streets that take one from the train to the various office buildings gives a glimpse into the lives of the homeless residents that live in our city. Some of them appear to be in the throes of drug and drink addiction, some mentally ill (such as the man who pretends to conduct business complete with an old Wall Street Journal and some sort of earpiece), some merely down on their luck; it isn't necessary to know the hows and whys. Chicago can be a generous town. If you pay attention you'll notice that many people walking to and from their job seem to have relationships of a sort with the people who beg on our corners and bridges. Take for instance the people who stop and chat with the man on the bridge who greats everyone with a smile, sometimes a salute and shares pictures of his new grand baby. Or the woman who most mornings brings food to a man further down this same bridge. There are the guys I blogged of earlier who stand by the train and wait for the toddler to give them a smile and share a bit of affection, and the man that stands at the corner, cleanly but shabbily dressed, wishing everyone a blessed day.  I have my own personal buddies. On my walk home I have the guy on the other bridge that will occasionally grasp my hand when I give him money and tells me he loves me.  This interaction, along with the old guy who sells streetwise and says "have a good evening" and winks at me every night puts a spring to my step. No matter what my day is like, it is instantly better.  I truly believe that these connections help you stay human.

My fellow blogger and I normally walk to work from the train together.  We have formed bonds with our own special set of "on the way to work" buddies.  One of them Mike, sits outside the Starbucks, calls us J and J. If we are not walking together Mike will yell "HEY J, WHERE'S THE OTHER J?". Mike is missing part a leg and seems to be a mascot for many who pass him by.  Besides money, he's the recipient of coffee and food from work a day folks who stop and discuss small pleasantries which sometimes lead to insights of his life.  Just like with Mike, after time, you create a bond and start to hear their story. This leads me to one of our favorites, Jeff.  For years Jeff sat every morning on a bench near the Wrigley building.  He had a paper, coffee and maybe food. Many people stopped to talk to Jeff as he had a story he loved to tell.  He had been homeless due to drugs and drink combined with a sad childhood and lack of opportunities. Jeff worked on getting himself clean and became someone that was a strong voice representing the homeless.  He talked to people passing by and even got a chance to talk with city officials. He chatted about the book he was writing and let us read it.  The book is a rambling, hard to follow, bit shocking autobiography of where he'd been and where he is. My fellow blogger made copies for Jeff in hopes that he would find someone to champion his efforts. He would talk about his shoulder that needed an operation, his kids and how he was trying to mend that relationship as well as get to know his grand kids.  He was a fixture of our morning and added a bit of sunshine to the day.  From time to time Jeff wouldn't be on the bench, he would later explain that he couldn't get a ride from the homeless shelter, he was in the hospital with his shoulder and once or twice that he was with his kids. We rarely worried when we didn't see him day to day, however, that changed when we realized we had not seen him for a month or two. That month or two became a year, followed by another one.  Often when you no longer see a homeless person in their spot it means that time has taken its toll and they've succumbed to illness or violence that is common among this group.

With a heavy heart we realized this may have happened to Jeff. One day as we walked by Jeff's bench, we came up with an alternate thought. Jeff often talked about his kids in Champaign Illinois. A few times he had visited with them and it seemed to go well.  This is not always a truth you can count on when many of our homeless friends share a positive experience.  Often times the positive experience, much like the claims of getting clean and sober are more of a fantasy than a reality. Perhaps a fondest wish of how they hope it can be.  Many are forever waiting for the family to come save them, the job opportunity just around the corner, the invitation to a better life that is simply not going to arrive.  However with Jeff, my fellow blogger and I started to depend on our fantasy that Jeff was living with his family and all was well. That he was happy, in the lap of love and thriving.  The fantasy was one we had no way of proving or disproving until one day last week.  A normal day, walking along the beautiful river, the sun on our faces.  We look forward to walking through the plaza of the newly renovated Wrigley building, restored to its original grace and elegance.  Chatting away we didn't notice the well fed older gentlemen sitting on the bench.  "HEY!! HEY"! We turned to see....JEFF!  He looked wonderful and healthy.  Well taken care of and loved.  When we asked where he had been he said "I was living with my kids in Champaign.  I just re-connected with my older son, its a struggle but we're working on it".  We chatted a bit, he told us he was up for a week to see all his friends he made, like us, who stop to connect with him all those years he sat on that bench. He was still working on his book and would be back when he had copies for everyone.  We delighted in learning that the fantasy we constructed was very near the truth.   Much like the Grinch, our hearts grew three sizes that day.

The moral of this story? Turns out, that sometimes your fantasy isn't a fantasy at all. It's hopeful reality.

Fireworks - No Avoiding Them This Year...

Last year the 4th of July fell, inconveniently on a Wednesday, with a work day following.  I recall it was very hot, over 100 degrees and we couldn't travel as we normally do to visit my parents in Wisconsin. So I chose to stay in, skip the the local fireworks displays (not a big fan of them anyway), and just rented a movie.  I am re-posting the blog that I wrote last year on the 4th of July.  Somehow it mysteriously vanished from the Whine Press archives and the reason still remains a mystery.

Anyway, this year is shaping up to be much more of what a holiday should feel like:  long (4 day) weekend, comfortable temperatures (today is in the 60's!), the ability to travel to Wisconsin and back with extra days to spare!  And the potential to take in multiple fireworks displays on the 4th and 5th. Doesn't that almost make up for my complete lack of spirit last year?  I'm still not a big fan of fireworks, but hey, given all the time off with my family, a string of days to eat and drink indulgently, and hopefully, more tolerable temperatures... I think I can endure the popular ritual...

Last Year's Post:

I’m not a big fan of fireworks.  There, I finally proclaimed it.  A statement like that, I fear, makes me feel almost anti-American. It could be as blasphemous as saying I don’t see what the big deal is about the Star Wars franchise (incidentally, another true statement), or that I will be perfectly content to never have been to Disney World or Vegas and have absolutely no intention of doing so.  I missed the fireworks this year and feel no sense of regret for it.  It’s not like I have anything against the annual tradition, and I have had my share of viewing several shows during my lifetime, but at this point I feel as though I can take it or leave it (gasp!).  But really, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all, right? (GASP!!).

I’m writing this post late afternoon on the 4^th of July, 2012 -  so I actually have more opportunity to seek out a nearby fireworks display, if I so choose.  I think I will pass this year.  For starters, it is a record 100 degrees outside and add the dew point of 70 percent makes the actual feel-like temp somewhere between 110 and 115.  Why would anybody want to subject themselves to that?  I’d rather sit in the cool confines of my home with a glass of wine, while attempting to justify my non-patriotism to my family.  This can easily be accomplished with the lure of the recent DVD release of 21 Jump Street, which I just happened to pick up earlier today from the Blockbuster Express kiosk down the street.  Oh I suppose if I could view a fireworks display from my front porch, backyard, or even a short walk away I might take 20 minutes and a cool drink and take it in.  But the idea of driving to a destination, vie for a space, wait for the pyro-technicians, until they are good-and-ready, fight off mosquitoes and endure mass exodus traffic is more than I want to bear on work night.  This is yet another reason for my apathy—tomorrow is a work day, with this year’s 4^th being on a Wednesday.

Or perhaps I’m just making excuses and I really do harbor some anti-American sentiments that I have a difficulty admitting to myself.  After all, I’m also not a big fan of baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, marching bands or parades for that matter…

I really shouldn't own a house...

I started my married life and had my children on the west coast.  I am from the Midwest but have always felt connected to Southern California.  The beaches, the way of life, the kaleidoscope of people who are attracted to her.  It all blended into the perfect existence for me. I loved the beach rentals that I had and the life we led.  Having children changed that blissful reality.  I missed having older adult mentors to help guide me as a parent (okay, I missed free babysitting).  I desired the more staid yet structured life that to me was the heartland.  I yearned to own a house which Southern California made an almost impossible dream.

Shortly after I had my second child an opportunity arose for my little family to move back to the Midwest. Eager for some normalcy (and free babysitting) we jumped at the chance and moved back to within 5 miles of where I grew up.  Since the opportunity was a business one for my husband, this meant that he go house hunting without me.  My sister kindly accompanied him in the house hunt.  My first glance at the house they chose was the day I moved into it.  Believe me when I say the look of awe on my face was not one of delight.  It was a big house....a big house filled with wallpaper......but not for long.  I set about removing all wallpaper (and finding several large holes which explained the wallpaper) and painted.  I didn't paint well, but I painted.

Then I started to notice that this house had a personality that mirrored mine.  Not quite right.  It started in the kitchen.  The refrigerator had an ice maker.  Hallelujah! Crushed ice!!  However, to get the ice maker to deposit ice in your glass you needed to lean against the door while you pushed the lever to get ice.  We have changed refrigerators but many who come to my house still lean against the door when getting ice.

Next was the stove.  For a brief period of time everything seemed wonderful. Wonderful until the oven door refused to stay shut.  Problem solved though by placing a chair against the oven door!  We quickly learned not to use a metal chair and then quickly learned not to leave the kitchen while we baked as the wooden chair got so hot I swear I used to see sparks begin to flare up.

There are windows that that don't stay in an up position, carpeting that moves when you move, and bathroom floor tile that sticks to your feet after you have showered.  What is the point of all this?  We never ever ever tested any of these things before we bought this house.  It was as if we glanced at the house, saw there were some rooms and said "yep, it'll do pig" and signed the papers.

All of these things are minor (only because the chair against the oven never did catch fire) and were stupid not to catch but I have saved the two biggest "why do you even own a house" moments for last.

The downstairs of the house has been eternally cold.  We have had furnace people come out to fix our furnace and never really pursued how cold it is.  We have replaced a furnace and never mentioned it.  Shortly after replacing the furnace I noticed the fan stayed on all the time and that there was a buzzing sound.  I did what anyone would do... I took a video so that I could capture the sound.  Oh yea, and then I called the furnace repair guy.  A very nice man came over and started pointing at boxes and asking me "whats this?" And I said, "I don't now".  He said "Hey do you know that your humidifier has the water intake shut off?" Me "We have a humidifier?"  Him "Yes, that is what is making the loud noise.  When was the last time you had the water on to this?" Me "Um" Him "I think you've had this humidifier running since you bought the house but to no avail as there is no water connected.  Its also dying. Can I remove it?" Me "Yea,Um, Er".  Him "The other noise is your carbon monoxide detector.  It doesn't work anymore" Me "I have a carbon monoxide detector " Him "Not one that works.  Oh, hey, have you noticed that it is really cold downstairs?" Me "um" Him "How long has the main valve from the furnace been shut to the downstairs vents?" Me "um". That is when it first occurred to me "I probably shouldn't own a house".

The kicker to this tale happened this past week.  We decided to replace the sliding glass door. A very nice man came to do the install. The first words out of his mouth where "Did you know that your sliding glass door was put on backwards?  Anyone could have simply lifted off the door from the outside and strolled right in.  Didn't you ever notice that other doors have the screens on the outside, not the inside?"

Yep.  Probably should have just rented.

Aspie? Well that Explains Everything!

 
It seems that I display an adequate amount of traits to place neatly on the spectrum for being classified as an “Aspie”.  An Aspie is the affectionate term for a person having Asperger's  syndrome.  Asperger's syndrome (AS), also known as Asperger's disorder (AD), is an autism spectrum disorder (ASD) that is characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction, alongside restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. It differs from other autism spectrum disorders by its relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical (peculiar, odd) use of language are frequently reported.  In short, Aspergers is a high-functioning form of autism. Most Aspies exhibit profound intelligence in selective areas, as well as the capacity to be highly creative and imaginative.  

This explains a lot! And the more I explore those traits and behaviors that define and characterize an Aspie, the more that I'm convinced that I can classify myself as such.  My wife and children have no doubts whatsoever in accepting my recent self-diagnosis. It was like an "Ahaa!" moment for the entire family, once I began to share my findings.

What initially prompted my exploration into Asperger’s syndrome was hearing speaker and author, David Finch at our local community college. Finch was diagnosed with Asperger’s later in life (age 35). The undiagnosed condition nearly ended his marriage.  Finch wrote the New York Times bestseller, Journal of Best Practices, a memoir.  My wife and I have been lately attending literary, celebrity and book signing events at the college.  We’ve find it makes for an enlightening, often entertaining and relatively cheap night out and a good break from routine.

Mr. Finch’s talk was scheduled to run an hour and a half.  I believe this event was free, so we decided that we would stay for some of it and bolt once it started getting boring.  He ended up speaking for 2 hours and we stayed for the duration.  David Finch recalled his experiences with Asperger’s from grade school through adolescence, his college years and professional career.  We found him to be entertaining, while at the same time he painted a painfully close-to-home account of an Aspie who’s learned to adapt in a neurotypical world.  All I could think as Finch spoke was, WOW!  That is me!  I could completely relate to his journey through life.  My arm was bruised as my wife kept nudging me in that way as to express her thought…”sound familiar, Jim?”.

There are a couple online tests available that further reinforced my suspicion that I might be an Aspie.  In the first quiz that asked 50 questions, I scored 3 points from what is considered being full-blown Asperger’s.  Apparently, most who received a similar score were 86 percent likely to be diagnosed with the condition.  The second test I took, the Aspie Quiz, asked 150 questions.  In this test I placed more between Aspie and Neurotypical, but weighing slightly heavier on the Aspie side.

I always suspected that there was more to my peculiarities – my social awkwardness and avoidance of social interaction and frequent need to be alone with my books.  This also explains much of why I found it almost impossible to focus and learn in a classroom setting, unless it was a topic that I was really interested in.  This could also account for the fact that my formal education ended in 10^th grade.  Most people, until they know better, naturally assume that I’ve had a college education.  It’s very awkward for me when asked what university I’d attended.  There was no diagnosis back when I was in school for conditions such as ADHD, ADD, ODD, OCD or Asperger’s syndrome.  Everybody just thought me shy, awkward and odd, well actually, I’m still all of those things, but much like Finch, I’ve forced myself to adapt as best I could to a neurotypical  world.  It’s not easy, but through the years I have found coping mechanisms to help with my social anxiety. 

I often find myself scripting out dialogue in my head before going to social functions, almost as if assuming a character role.  Hmmm…I wonder if this is why I seem pretty clever at writing screenplay dialogue?  Sometimes the use of props is helpful to me.  Holding onto a pen in my pocket or fiddling with a rubber band has always been a great aide for some bizarre reason.  I must always have an escape plan.  A few weeks ago I attended a wedding shower for a co-worker.  I care and respect this person very much and sense that she herself has had some difficulty conforming to what’s been deemed as the neurotypical model. My friends must also be intelligent, or I find little use for their company.  I will force myself to engage in social situations if the person who’s the focus is someone important to me.  Generally, I do well once I adjust to the surroundings, have a couple drinks and seek out a comfortable and familiar group to converse with.  This particular event also had a definitive time frame, which helps.  I do very poorly with ambiguity.

The party was at a house and an unfamiliar setting for me, but I’m good as long as I have an escape plan in place.  When I walked into the house, the party was in full swing.  I was greeted at the front door by a familiar face, the daughter of a dear friend, who offered to take my jacket.  I immediately asked where she was meaning to store it.  She offered to take it upstairs with all the other coats.  Oh no!! Panic…  I said that doesn’t work for me – so I neatly tucked it near the front entryway, in an alcove that nicely accommodated an antique chest of sorts.  I never felt the need to make an escape, but I always like to know that I have the option.  And as usual, I did have a good time.  I always leave these situations wondering why I obsess so much at the prospect of social engagement, creating so much unnecessary anxiety.  

I have a new found freedom in knowing I’m an Aspie. This is actually a positive breakthrough in understanding some of my oddities – it would fill a book in itself if I actually took the time to chronicle all of my strange do’s and don’ts, my aversion to certain noises, forcing myself to look people in the eyes, my abhorrence for small talk, my ritual practices and strict adherence to routines.  I’ve learned to keep much of this stuff at home, so it is really my poor, patient and loving family that must endure the brunt of it. But at least we now have an explanation after all these years.

Next week we are going to a Q&A session at HarperCommunity College. The guest speaker is Lauren Cohan, who plays Maggie Greene on AMC’s television zombie drama, The Walking Dead.  Now what revelations could that possibly bring?  

You work where???

This past weekend I was honored to be included in hosting a bridal shower. My dear friend is getting married in two weeks.  Her sisters and I occupied another friend's house and crockpotted

our butts off.  As one does when large groups of sisters and friends get together we spa'd pre-shower.  We spa'd hard.  Mani/Pedis, Facials, Massages, Scrubs - we were clean, polished and exfoliated.  When I first arrived at the spa, I found my friend and her sisters in a lovely low lit alcove, sitting on a cushioned bench, drinking coffee out of enormous cups. There was jazz music being piped as background music to the general hum of women. My friend began to tell a story about her sister-in-law.  "Well, Marcia, she works at the whorehouse and so she knows these about these types of things" I, in shock, looked at each of her sisters for their reaction - they calmly took another sip of coffee, not one of them spilling a drop.  Whorehouse???  "Excuse me, where does Marcia work?" "The courthouse". Oh. Oh my, well that explains it.

It got me to wondering....I think I have selective dirty hearing.  How often have I heard the dirty version of a normal sentence?  But it's not just me...it's my sister as well.  I wonder if it is genetic.  Take my dad's wake.... We walk into the room that is holding his casket.  We all approach.  He is laid out in splendor - his mortal shell clad in his deacon robes....his face free of pain and agony.  It was a truly beautiful moment and very unlike any my siblings and I have ever had.  My brother says "Oh, doc looks so good. They did a great job.  He doesn't have that dead look".  I say "Quick! check his pulse!!".  My sister looks horrified.  Now, I'm sure the average reader might also be horrified as I'm talking about my dad here, but my sister, Tos, is my, Zep's partner in crime when it comes to irreverence.  I am thinking I might have gone over the line when she hisses "WHAT....DID...YOU....SAY?".  I repeat sheepishly "quick check his pulse".  She replies "OHTHANK GOD!!!!! I thought you said, quick, check his balls!".  We collapse into laughter in front of my dad's casket.  My brother, my sister, my mother and I. My children stand by horrified.  We now have tears rolling down our faces as people come in to pay their respects. I heard our "grief" was very touching to the first round of mourners.

I think I can trace this problem of dirty hearing back to my childhood. I was forever mis-hearing things and thinking certain words meant something dirty when they did not. Sort of setting the stage for hearing normal words and hearing the dirty ones.  Oh how I laughed anytime I heard the astrological sign Virgo (virgin - yea not dirty to you, but this was the 60s!!), organism (nuff said) and for a few years I thought a rectum was a quadrilateral (It's a rectangle...a rectangle!!).  Yes, my childhood WAS a magical place.

I'm sure if I cleaned my ears out, got my head out of the clouds and looked intently at the person speaking to me I could cut down on the amount of misunderstandings but seriously, isn't it more interesting to think that kind suburban Iowa women do paperwork at the whorehouse?

Mistaken Identity Theft...

I stole somebody's identity once. It's true, it happened a few years ago, not as a means to something sinister or for personal profit, or for anything untoward at all for that matter.  It all began as a joke that somehow went awry. But the joke now seems to be on me as this person I ended up deceiving, seems to think I'm somebody they really know...or knew at some point in their life.

This all began when a couple of years ago, I received one of those party evite invitations through my Yahoo email account. I'm going to refer to her as Sheryl Dee.  So I get this evite to to a summer pool party for this person, Sheryl, whom I believe was celebrating her 50th birthday, or something.  The name did not immediately ring a bell, so I thought I would peruse the list of other guests.  Not only did none of the guests' names on this list sound even vaguely familiar, but I noticed that this pool party was taking place in a few weeks, in some small town in Sonoma County, California. When I did a search, I discovered that it was nearby Santa Rosa, just north of the wine country, near the coast.

Well obviously this Sheryl woman had mistaken me for some other Jim Farina, not the most common name, but there are more of us around than I would've guessed. So I did what most anybody would do in such case...I ignored the invitation and went on with my life. Well a few days later, as these evite services are wont to do, I received a follow-up reminder for this party. Sure, I could've simply deleted it, as most normal people might. But my curiosity got the better of me. I opened the evite once again and began reading the responses from people who accepted the invite. There was also a list included on the evite of suggested items to bring - mostly liquor. There were a lot of comments from acceptors along the usual lines:  Can't wait!, I'm there!!, How could I miss this!!!. some of the comments lead me to assume that this might've been a reunion of sorts, or from people who'd not seen each other for some years. One person seemed to suggest that they had some cosmetic enhancements done. A strange thing to put in a response, but hey, it is California.

I was intrigued.  I couldn't resist. So I accepted the invitation and said something along the lines of:  "Count me in!  I will bring the Vodka!"  And then I said something like, "I've had some work done myself, but will wait till were at poolside to unveil - you might want to have a couple drinks first!" So now that I responded, I received an email each time anybody else responded, either accepting or declining the invitation.

This was too much fun. I shared with some friends what I had done and we followed the prank up until the party date had eventually come and gone. I thought it interesting and mused at the fact that famous film director, Alfred Hitchcock, who had produced many works around this theme of mistaken identity, loved this area of northern California. Hitchcock, in fact filmed two movies: The Birds, and Shadow of a Doubt in the areas of Bodega Bay and Santa Rosa, respectively.  And here I was stealing another Jim Farina's identity and playing out a true, at least in my own head, Hitchockian drama.

Well many weeks had passed and I'd all but forgotten about this silliness, when I received an email from Sheryl Dee, the host and honoree of this pool party.  Thankfully, I was not the sole recipient of this sad message. There were about a dozen others who were receiving this same message. Sheryl wanted us all to know that her father had just passed away after she'd spent some days at his bedside as his life slowly ebbed away.

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this news. I couldn't just ignore this and continue on like nothing happened. It's just not in my nature. Obviously there was the "real" Jim Farina someplace who needed to know about this tragic passing of Sheryl Dee's father. I decided, pretty much on the spot, there was only one thing to do, and that was to immediately come clean with everything. The proverbial jig was up!

So I sent Sheryl a message telling her everything. How I was having fun with her evite and assumed the identity of some other Jim Farina, I lived in Chicago and had only been in her area once on vacation to San Francisco. I then expressed my sympathy at the loss of her father and told her that I hope I didn't cause too many problems and that hopefully somebody else brought the vodka.  Sheryl was very understanding of everything. She thanked me for my honesty and told me that I was a very nice and sincere person. End of story? Not really.

Some months ago, Sheryl Dee sent me a LinkedIn request to join her network. I have this weird rule, like many of my quirky rules that govern my life. I NEVER send friend requests on either Facebook or Join my Network requests on Linkedin. If you are connected to me by any of these means, it is because I accepted a request from you. So if you are somebody who abides by the same rule as I do, chances are we will never be connected via social media. Does Sheryl continue to think I am the Jim Farina that she apparently knew from someplace else in her life?  And then a few weeks ago, she endorses my expertise...

Can she not see my profile picture? I don't know you, Sheryl Dee!!!!  Is this some kind of a twisted payback for how I duped her with the whole party thing?  I'm not really sure.  One thing I know - two can play at this game. I took a break about midway through writing up this blogpost to endorse her work in Vancouver, Canada...  And so the drama continues...   

Here comes the ?

I've been thinking a lot about marriage lately.  I'm one of the fortune few who have navigated a rocky path and been rewarded with a rich robust satisfying marriage.  It has taken me completely by surprise.  I had thought that there would a separation of ways, a division of assets and a sole path taken by both of us.  We were lucky enough to meet a wonderful woman who, although being picked by random, seemed tailor made to sew back the pieces of our marriage.  She taught us a lot about who we were, how to set expectations and the stupid arrogance we both suffered from.  But that isn't really what I want to chat about.  Yea, I'm sure many are delighted that we are frolicking through the heather, eating strawberries and drinking champagne while listening to an old Carpenters tune but all of this brought a serious issue to mind.  Same sex marriage.

Gay rights has been one that I've been a champion of ever since my first time on the dance floor at "The Transfer" in Santa Monica.  There is something about being surrounded by hot sweaty men, dancing to a disco beat and not once getting inappropriately grabbed. While not always the best for a young woman's self esteem,  it does make a good basis for some life long friendships.  This group of people were my core family when I was living 2000 miles from home.  They celebrated my ups and my downs, my life tragedies and my personal successes.  They cooked for me, cleaned for me and yelled at me when I needed it.  They rescued me from anorexia, bad relationship choices and most importantly, boredom.  The sense of family among many of these couples seemed more real and intense to me than most of my married heterosexual friends.  Why on earth would anyone care if my gay friends got married?  I certainly didn't. Come one come all (or as my brother says "sure, let everyone be miserable...").

And now the irony........some on the conservative christian right use the argument that gay marriage is a threat to heterosexual marriage.  I'm not sure I understand this. If gay marriage is legal, does that mean all of a sudden all the men and women in hetero marriages will leave their partners for members of their own sex?  Are us heteros really as uncommitted to each other that men marrying men and women marrying women will break our bonds of matrimony?  Just don't get it....and the irony I spoke of earlier??? A gay woman saved my heterosexual marriage.  That's right.  My therapist is a lesbian.  Ironic huh?  I hardly think that if she can legally marry,  on our next visit she'll do everything she can to ensure we split up.

So folks, I don't get it.  My thought?  I think its jealousy.....us hetero's know, there is no way that our weddings can match up to our gay brothers and sisters wonderful soiree's that will join them as spouse and spouse.  Bring on the fabulousity!!

That Fleeting Sense of Winter Solitude...

Living in the Chicago area once meant that you could count on about 30 inches, or roughly 76 centimeters of snow during a typical winter season. Thinking back on my grade school years, I can't recall a winter where there was not a blanket of snow covering the ground between the months of December and mid-March.  it seemed like back then it was unusual not to have snow.  We never saw the grass, generally, till around the first spring thaw.

Things are quite different in recent years. Everybody  is talking about "global warming" and erratic climate changes all over the world.  Places in the south, where snow was more uncommon are now finding themselves buried to their waists. I remember last March, the temperature in Chicago had the mercury rising over the 80 degree mark for a couple days in a row.  I distinctly recall going to the Lincoln Park Zoo on March 15th, with my family and wearing short sleeve t-shirts and shorts. My kids were grumbling about being too hot! 

Experts at the Climate Prediction Center, said about that phenomenon, to give a hearty thank you, in part, to something called the Madden-Julian Oscillation. Like the proverbial butterfly flapping its wings in Africa that helps to cause a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, far-flung climate patterns hundreds or even thousands of miles away were helping fuel the nation’s bizarre, record-shattering March heat of last year.

Who's to say where this is all going. I received a pair of cross country skis several years ago as a Christmas/birthday present.  This was one of the best gifts that I can recall. Since then, I always looked forward to grabbing my boots, skis and poles and heading to the nearby woods, spending a few hours each weekend gliding across the neatly groomed trails. Often I would bring a camera, my iPod and I would just have an amazing time, alone in total solitude.  

The exercise is always an extra bonus - being so caught up in the act of skiing through pristine woodlands, conquering the sometimes challenging terrain, I never realized how hard I was working all of my muscles until I got back to my car. Once I stopped, I realized that I was quickly getting chilled, soaked to the skin with perspiration. The late afternoon was always my favorite time of day to ski. I'd typically finish my circuit as the sun, hanging low in the sky, would cast some long shadows - orange-crimson shades lending an ethereal, an almost timeless feel to my being. It is difficult to put into words - something bordering very closely to the spiritual realm though. 

I generally would go home, peel out of my damp clothes, shower and get into something soft. I would next build a real wood fire in our fireplace, pour a good glass of wine. I'd bask for a time, holding on, as best I could, to that wonderful sense of euphoric bliss. But these impressions quickly pass as surely as peaceful slumber erodes as we fully wake to the many obligations of a new and busy day in the life.

Yesterday, March 2nd, 2013, I donned my skis for the first time this winter. The snow less common these past years than it has been. There had not been much activity on the trail at Volo Bog Natural Area, so the trails were not well-groomed, the going was not as sure. It almost seems as though others who once shared this passion with me had given up - perhaps not making the effort to uncover their ski gear for these few short weeks preceding spring. Somehow, it wasn't quite the same yesterday - it felt like something is off. So was that it? Has winter abandoned me?  Have I abandoned it? I'm not sure. Maybe I'll have another go at it - maybe not.

I left my ski gear in the car though, just in case...

                

The Perfect Blog Storm...

It's been some time since I've posted a blog here at The Whine Press.  I need to get back into a regular rhythm again as I have been faithfully maintaining two blogs up until the new year. I'm not sure what happened to cause this lapse.  My other blog, Arkenstone, which is dedicated to my journey in creating, marketing and hopefully one day, selling or optioning my award winning screenplay, Martin Eden has been fun to watch the following from all over the world.  You see, I need to blog again if only to keep my name and work active in the search engine realm.

I've had nearly 1000 page views on Arkenstonenow. Perhaps my clever strategy to choose a name which I knew, at the time I launched the blog, was likely to be searched out more after the release of the film version of The Hobbit.  I read Tolkien's book and thought the Arkenstone, which was a long lost gem of the dwarvish protagonists in the tale, and key element to the story, was sure to get some search engine action once the film was released. It seems to be working as my posting to Arkenstone has lapsed along with this blog, but somehow is getting a good amount of traffic.

Well as it turns out, I have been charged with possibly starting a 3rd blog on the website of The Orchard EFC. This is the church where I attend. I have just returned from a mission trip to Haiti and was asked, if I would be willing to promote, generate and solicit interest in awareness for our work in Haiti. How can anybody say "no" to church folk?

So I need to get back on track and get more disciplined about the practice of writing. I want to continue The Whine Press along with my good friend Zep, as a means to express whatever is on my mind. I feel the need to maintain the Arkenstone blog as a professional tool and means to promote and showcase my screenwriting accomplishments. And once I decide to launch my next blogging initiative, it will be a space where I can express my passion and share with my Christian family - promoting work relating to spiritual and eternal significance.

When I consider it, I have an outlet for the personal, professional and spiritual aspects of my embodiment.  It's an ideal balance, a perfect trinity of mind, body and spirit. Amazing! Not my plan.

And to think, when I began writing this post, I had fully intended it to be a piece about how I really like the fact that snow storms are now given names, like Nemo.  So weird how the writing process can hijack your mind...