You Scratch My Back and I’ll . . . Never Mind.

When I was first starting out in the business world I was a draftsman for a computer company just at the birth of the Personal Computer. That meant that my compatriots were all significantly older – basically the age that I am, now, and perhaps even a decade more. I have nothing but gratitude for each and every one of them as I was the typical brash, cocky, arrogant, life-will-never-hold-me-down punk. I bragged and strutted around and really had no ill experiences to quench my fire. These people embraced and loved me anyway. There are still times I wonder about what happened in the rest of their lives after we no longer worked together. Some of them were of World War II vintage. In fact, Fran, the only draftswoman in the crew, got her chance in engineering because of the war. She had become a drafter because of The Draft of all able-bodied young men to go off to battle. This was way before affirmative action and equality in the work place. There was no glass ceiling when Fran started her career. It was steel and concrete and stenciled with the words “Keep Out” when she decided to take on the system. I winced as she tolerated an endless stream of demeaning and sophomoric sexual innuendos and constant barbs and jabs. But everyone respected her knowledge and skills and there was no man her better. Once in a while I would act my age and get a frown of disapproval or a comment like “grow up” from the pit (typical reference to a pool of designers or draftspersons) only to have one in particular apologize and say, “I’m sorry, I forget that your only 19 because you usually seem so much more mature.” I could live off a comment like that for a week, at least.

But, what I did most of the time while getting the benefit of all of their collective years of knowledge was to study their lives. It was such a cross-section of America represented in that group and every personality and temperament was on display. Each had or was having their own trials and difficulties but the disturbing trend among the men was a general expectation that relationships – both professionally and romantically - were disposable and not expected to work out. There was a classification of contract employee known as “job-shopper,” or, “jobber.” These were temporary assignments and basically free-lance arrangements. One jobber, in particular, stood out because he was an artist that spent most of the year on his small yacht, island hopping in the Caribbean. When money would run low he would take a short-term circuit board design assignment. His art was to paint large canvasses using multiple colored paints and the naked bodies of women as his brush. His work was not slapped together during drunken orgies. It was very well thought out, laid out, and executed. A memorable example was one in which the full length of one woman represented the body of a butterfly and two other women in curled postures formed the wings. He represented the full caricature of the job-shopper mentality. No authority was recognized or given more than obligatory lip service and no responsibility was too important that it could not be abandoned. This was the prevailing attitude of most of the men I worked with in that department. Nearly to the man, all were divorced. Some had been divorced several times. I wrote the whole group off as immature, irresponsible, lazy and quitters. There was, however, one peculiar similarity shared by the very different personalities. I observed that lonely men had back scratchers.

A previous post discussed my attitude to losing. I equate losing with failure. The last place I intended to lose was in love. I had my share of dating women that were totally wrong for me but irresistible nonetheless. I had some very specific ideas and a checklist of requirements for the compatible future mate. I got all of those and more with my wife. Neither of us had come from families with a history of divorce. Both sides of our families had preserved marriage through every obstacle and struggle. I would never divorce and my wife believed that about herself just as strongly. Fifteen years after meeting we were over. She moved 1900 miles away and left me stunned. I had failed in every area most important to me as a man. I had become those losers I had disdained two decades earlier. All of the ensuing stages have followed. There was a very eager participation in the belief I could woo her again, as I had at the start. There was no involvement of third parties to make it messy. Surely I was worth her love? There are no such guarantees. That it has been over five years and she has gotten along seemingly effortlessly without me is its own proof. Even if she has done so stubbornly she has succeeded where I have failed nevertheless.

So although I still don’t have any higher opinion of those men or view them less harshly I must count me among their number. And of all of the myriad things I miss of living and loving with my wife – such as turning around to share an experiential moment with someone no longer in the room . . . I miss her enthusiasm when scratching my back. I even miss those preemptive words, “Pick, pick, pick” used to give me less than fair warning she had found some blemish to dig into. Gross, maybe; but a fond, bitter-sweet, and painful memory. I will always miss the heat of her closeness, the fire in her fingernails, the glow in her voice and the delicate warmth of her touch. And I have invested in a back scratcher. Mine is made of the über grass, bamboo. It adds comfort to a solitary man’s day where the flame has nearly gone out.

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I'd Be Taller If My Legs Were Longer

This insightful as well as seemingly obvious observation is a direct quote of my grandfather. He said it with all sincerity and no comprehension of the "Duh" factor. It was passed on to me as a family joke which was supposed to show the good natured folly of how my grandfather approached life. I adored that man and still do. I looked past the easy ridicule and understood the far deeper meaning he intended.

My grandfather meant that he had unsatisfied desires and dreams that he had identified and could even narrow the causes for his failure to achieve them to a simple thing that happened to be entirely outside his control. There is no arguing that had his legs been longer that he would, indeed, have been taller. I think what he was expressing was what went unsaid - a longing that was never realized. Somehow, in his estimation, his stature as a human being would have been enhanced if his physical stature only reflected the way he wanted to see himself, as well as be seen. I never laugh at other people's dreams and aspirations. If I had it in my powers and the wisdom to do no harm and only good by granting others their "what-ifs" I would not hesitate. So, my grandfather's words have become a sort of talisman for me.

I do not suffer his longing for height but I do hope I share other aspects of his lofty character and what may seem as small in other people's eyes makes my legs feel a little longer thanks to him. We do not get to choose into which family we are born. Our gender, ethnicity, geographical location for our entry into this world and similar things are not negotiable. The proportions and colors of our features, our mental processes and whether everything even functions are all beyond our control. So why are we so fixated on these things and wish away our lives trying to hide, modify, deny or demand acceptance of who we are? That's when I quote my grandfather's words. Whenever I catch myself or hear someone else making a case for being a victim of circumstances I remind myself that I'd be taller if my legs were longer.

Interestingly enough that always brings me up short. Because then I must really question myself as to why I believe that changing an unchangeable anything would make me a better, richer, happier me? I need to pause and honestly remind myself that I don't use what I already have. There is no reason at all to honestly believe that if I were handed my wish list of ambitions and aspirations that I would avail myself of them. I'm kidding myself to say I'd be appreciative and put in the effort. When I focus on my misery I'm wishing that my legs were longer thinking then I'd just step above my conflicts, hassles and conundrums. No I wouldn't.

I am divorced. Don't want to be. Never wanted to be. Looks like I'm going to stay divorced, too, because my ex-wife never wanted to be divorced, either, but staying with me proved the worse alternative. My various wishing for longer legs in that situation swirled around the rejection, the claims that I was somehow a victim, the hope that time and good will could make amends . . . and ultimately that the two of us, as mature people, could change fundamentally. Just yesterday a very good friend (because he tells me what I need to hear - not what I want to hear) reminded me that we do not get what we want simply because we wish for it and we do not necessarily get what we want even if we pursue it with all we've got. Whether I fight for a thing or squander the same amount of time wishing for it does not change the outcome either way. Meanwhile I am wasting this minute and this day and countless others suspended in my self-induced nightmare.

I need to stand on whatever legs I've really got - no matter whether or not they are currently able to support me. I need to stretch and exercise and use what I already (or, still) have. One of the largest obstacles for me to see around is accepting that I probably have no means to fundamentally change who I am at the core. That core guy isn't so bad but then he hasn't been introduced to very many people. He's camouflaged by everything I've used to extend myself artificially. I need to get over or at least find a way to see past the likelihood that I can not change myself in the ways my ex-wife wants or needs. I must not ask her to hold on for some metamorphosis I haven't the capacity to realize. I don't need to worry about how long my legs are for that one - I'll be be too crippled for quite some time.

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(I Think) He's GAY?!?!

Once upon a time there was a man - we'll call him, uh . . . ADDhole. ADDhole found the woman he desired above all others. She hated ADDhole. ADDhole was relentless and after six months of tormenting the pinnacle of mortal beings, she weakend, courted, and married ADDhole. ADDhole succeeded in achieving none of the goals he and the feminine ideal purposed together except for the arrival of their children. Storms brewed, winds howled, money flew out the window and the perfect woman returned to her senses (although in a heightened state of duress) and once again hated ADDhole. Well, despised him, actually. They sought counseling. She tried to persuade mental health professionals that ADDhole was entirely unstable and to blame. Counselors and doctors were completely comfortable with agreeing with the faultless one until closer inspection revealed all sorts of flaws in her wonderfulness. It was noted that ADDhole - though not exactly anyone's candidate for Man of the Year - was nonetheless very much in touch with the realities of all circumstances and actually demonstrated a more , uh . . . rational comprehension and understanding of the dynamics at work. Her Grace was inconsolable at such foolishness and divorced ADDhole. Consequences of this action culminated in her leaving the country with the children while IRS cronies and mortgage companies picked clean the carcass of their former life.

ADDhole had presumptuously jumped through many hoops in the final months of the marriage to appease the well-hidden gentle spirit of his wife. When he arrived home to an empty house and an envelope which valued the sale of all of his earthly possessions at approximately $160.00, ADDhole needed to find a place to live and a rock to crawl under. Balling up in a fetal position would have to be delayed, indefinitely.

Unfortunately, but extremely providentially, a fellow traveler and reliable friend had experienced his own wedded dismiss roughly six months prior to mine, er . . . ADDhole's. He allowed ADDhole to move in on a temporary basis and it proved to be a cathartic sort of recovery program. I am happy to report that friend retained most of his sanity, all of his property, his career and at least regular visitation with his children. I will not say he suffered any less than ADDhole. It was evident he went through a tremendously dark season. He will soon be married and I will cheer when it happens. He is a lot more cheery because ADDhole recently moved out of this "temporary" situation. (It might have been awkward after the wedding - you know - just the three of us.) But all of that was just introduction into the gist of this posting.

While living at my friend's house we were on very different schedules through all of the various fluctuating goings-on. We did see a couple games on TV and went to get a meal or see a movie but pretty much one would be leaving and the other arriving. The awkwardness was the awareness - like the feeling you are being watched - that just what our relationship might be was under public scrutiny. A restaurant or movie theater are expressly understood to be the domain of families or . . . [gulp] couples. So, it's one thing if a couple high school age dorks or college frat boys hang out but when you're a forty-something geek - well . . .

Here's the scenario:

• Two adult men share a house and mutually look after the pets. [Yikes!?]

• These guys are seldom seen together but when they are both at home - they never come out and no one but other men go in. [Double Yikes]

• The only neighbors who have any regular contact are an older woman; on the one side of their home, and another adult, single male on the other side.

• The only more suspicious and highly interesting house in the neighborhood belongs to what appears to be multiple families, of Middle Eastern descent - who also are never seen in public and have four or five satellite dishes on their roof!
  

As a point of clarity, in deference to my friend's reputation, his (as I often like to remind him) is a full life. He was always involved in something sociable and there were real, live women at those functions. He played several league, team sports at his place of employment and began dating.

On the other hand, I had resigned myself to celibacy and a self-imposed exile from the company of women. I am certain people looked at me as if there were a sign around my neck declaring, "Freight Elevator - lots of baggage; going DOWN." This wouldn't stop the passerby from wondering if at least something about us didn't "look gay." I don't fit the standards or the dress code for the gay qualification and my friend certainly doesn't, either. But, when has that stopped anyone? It hung in the air like a . . uh, . . . like a rainbow (?!)

So, where is this all going? Well, I'm not feeling in someway threatened by the perception I might be gay. The difficulty is this is one of those arenas where if you try to correct a rumor you confirm a lie. Meanwhile, ignoring being categorized in any way only leaves you wide open to further speculation, hearsay, and prejudices whereby people judge you and relegate you to a convenient (for them) cubbyhole. I have enough difficulty finding anyone willing to evaluate me individually and honestly as it is. There is a uniform and job description for every "type" of person on earth. No one is so easily defined. But that's a rant on my soapbox for another time. My current rant is that Women like very much to gather all of their evidence and observations and define who everyone is - or should be. No topic is off limits among the sisterhood. Then, despite the affected aire that they are inclusive and hold an open invitation for you to "be yourself . . ." Oh, Please.

The fun in all of this is the non-verbal assault always being waged to measure up as a man. (I hear the chortles from the inadvertent double-entendre - but that is a part of where I'm going with this.) As the sentry, of all things holy and decent and honorable in this world, men live by a predominantly unspoken code of behavior. (Any woman reading this should resist your genetic urge to roll your eyes.) There are deliberate, tribally recognized methodologies for EVERYTHING. There are certain ways to stand, sit, lean, sleep, eat, drink and so on.

Scratching oneself in public is not a sanctioned practice - it just can't be entirely avoided.

There are no acceptable circumstances for a whole host of activities in which women enjoy trying to engage men. Any admission to participating in a whole other series of "questionable" activities is also forbidden. And, how CAN a man be expected to carry a purse - even like a football?!? Come On! Certain verbiage has no natural translation in the male brain. Men want to be the masters of efficiency and economy. Any additional language, suggestions, or attention seeking devices complicate what is supposed to be the model of simplicity. You've heard the expression,"Bang for the buck?" That's not a suggestion. So, what need is there for words like "chartreuse," "burnt umber," and other hormonal expositions such as "vermilion,' or "August sunset?" The notion of a "palette" only makes sense if it's slapped together out of wood to support the weight of stacked objects. We don't want to index the incalculable "warmth" of a color.

I would be exaggerating if it weren't for the tangible perception the above conversation mirrors -" But, GAY men are supposed to know all of those things." Really?

So where does that put someone like me who is most definitely a knuckle-dragging male but who also has a highly developed aesthetic eye? I have unusually developed language skills ("for a guy"). I can dress, not only myself, but have a portfolio of successfully dressing women AND not only can I build a house but I can decorate it. I will tell you where it puts me - nowhere. Because women say one thing and do everything contrary to whatever comes out of their mouth. They don't want a man that is a complimentary component replacement for their girlfriend. And even more revealing is that women want equality as long as it is a one-way proposition. They want to gain whatever it is that they believe they are being denied but deny and refuse to relinquish anything they imagine makes them "feminine."

A perfect example of this is wedding preparation. I love to watch the frenzy of activities where the man is handed a list of assigned tasks and must report back regularly on his progress despite never going without be monitored by the bridal posse. Because I have an artistic eye I very much wanted a say in every aspect of the plans and preparation for my own wedding. My fiance' really did her best to include me but it was noticeable that my involvement wrinkled her already worried brow. Other women were far less than subtle about their disapproval at my presence. Their was a palpable sense of hatred towards me at one of the florist shops. The words, "What's he doing here?" were actually mumbled under the clerk's breath; through grit teeth.

My mother observed that I had violated the domain of women - the planning and preparation of a wedding. She informed me that I needed to understand a groom is the Ken doll - not an action figure, like G.I. Joe. I was literally in No-Mans Land.

And, so it would seem, I still am. The danger in listening to women and actually trying to comply with the desires they voice is that the nearer you approach achieving your goal the further it repels you from them. I lost a marriage that way. I've lost a lot that way. The real truth to take away from this is that although men naturally fall into the trap to model themselves on external influences they need to build from within. No other man has the answers for him. Why, then, we implicitly trust women to know more is ridiculous. I'm not offended that a woman doesn't ask me how to be a better woman. I generally like women pretty much how they come before all the game playing and scheming starts. I'm looking for the same chance.

So, maybe I'm doomed and my reputation that I might be gay will stick whether I protest or not.

I do like the theater. I have cried for things other than acceptable male practices such as at sporting events or the death of a dog - so who knows?

I've even tapped my feet while listening to Dead or Alive tunes . . . just never while in the stalls of a public Men's room . . .

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This Space Intentionally Left Blank

Welcome. This blog was to have begun ten months ago but I took the route to jump in over my head and attempt to generate a blog from scratch. Rather than take advantage of existing tools and simply get to work before inspiration and enthusiasm waned . . . etc, etc.

So, those who stick around or are morbidly curious and return from time to time will likely find the aforementioned scenario a recurrent theme. I will set out to re-invent the wheel and I will get side-tracked by sexier or more complicated wheels and then the wheels will ultimately fall off. However, I will categorically deny any personal involvement or knowledge of events of or pertaining to anything resembling a . . . what was that . . . a w-h-e-e-l, did you call it . . ? And, I will have moved on to my next unfinished (but glorious) vision. Those escapades as well as this blog are all to serve the same purpose as everything else in my life: my amusement.

To be fair, this anticipated generation of random chaos is to exercise me of my own thoughts by indiscriminately broadcasting them to humanity. That it is entirely possible so doing will inflict harm on others is something I will endure and accept (philosophically; not legally). I have to listen to my own thoughts without any leniency or mercy. If you visit this site then it is obviously self-hatred and not my fault.

This blog will be a reservoir for anything I find amusing, provocative, disturbing, absurd or intolerable. Obviously - Women, will be the primary topic.

There will be occasion for many to argue I am a misogynist - irreparably damaged and now lashing out in my pain and inner turmoil. I adore women. Any (well, most) conflicts involving matters of the heart have my own fingerprints in evidence, too, but I am not one to roll over and take it. Fortunately I am not experiencing anywhere near the pain I suffered ten months ago when I looked for relief through creating this as a means of therapy. There will be moments where some of what I experienced then will ooze out, I'm sure. There will be less uttered through grit teeth at this juncture.

Which brings us to the other side of the coin. I will not be endeavoring to sell T-shirts. This site might eventually become hated or popular enough to support such a diabolical marketing ploy but I selected the T-shirt theme for much more of its pop culture influence. It is one of those social commentary "catches" for me - like gum stuck to my shoe - that we cannot or dare not speak openly to another human being but we will print anything we want on a bumper sticker or T-shirt. So, I am going to express myself (not that I am ever reserved in doing so) but in a forum where I expect you and WANT you to react and THINK and respond. Not too many of us challenge what confronts us when a car rolls past or a T-shirt crosses the street. I seek to give you that opportunity.

My former brother-in-law and also one of my through thick-and-thin friends both urged me to create a journal or some other means to get everything in my head out in some rational format. This blog will be that medium. But I am tired of only having myself with which to share ideas and I need the stimuli of those willing to take up the gauntlet. Especially if you disagree with me. Please.

So you can have a sense of who you're reading: I am a mid-forties man that is looking to refine rather than re-define myself. I didn't have the luxury of a mid-life crisis as everything I ever wanted is gone. I was part wronged-party and part idiot. I do not believe I will seek out another relationship other than cerebral affairs with women. I am roughly five years divorced. The lovely and talented former wife wants no contact with me that presents me any hope of a second chance. My firm belief in the sanctity of marriage means that I must accept I am now a "lifer" as a single man. With her went our children and my only plans for the future. I am starting over in my career and my social contacts and I do all of this of necessity and not of choice or with much enthusiasm. I am not looking to be whiny or pathetic. (But, Hey. Some people just have "it," you know?) This blog is a means to discover if there is anything remaining wherefore I might look forward. This Space Is Intentionally (but, optimistically) Left Blank.

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