The Laws of Attraction...

I am not a hunk. I am not a pretty boy. I am not even considered by most observers to be physically attractive in any way . 

Try to control yourself, ladies.  I'm spoken for.

There is little I can do about this, short of cosmetic surgery. Lose weight, you say? I have done that in the not-so-distant past and it changed very little, so I decided to gain it all back.

Why start a blog with a paragraph of self-deprecation? Because there is a point I will get to in a while. In the meantime, this blog is intended to be honest and I fear that some readers may be offended or insulted. This is not my intention; this is an exercise in self-reflection. The only person I intend to slight is myself in an effort to understand some things I've wondered for a long time. At this point in my life, I think it is fair to air these thoughts because I am, if fact, married and I am safely "off the market." Sorry, ladies, I know you were all lining up for a shot at this Adonis-like perfect example of the male form. Try to be strong.

Physical attractiveness is a very subjective idea, I realize. My wife, to me, is a flat-out cutie. Would everyone agree? Of course not. It is all in the eye of the beholder, to overuse a phrase. What I wonder about, however, is how that "eye of the beholder" works. I truly believe that it is a sliding scale.

We all know that personality goes a long way in someone being desirable (the only way I have ever had any "game"). I have always been attracted to women who are not fashion models (or generally any of them who have said "yes"). I like my girls to be a bit curvy instead of runway-thin. There have been a few exceptions to this, but there always are (see the above bit about personality).

My first question on this deals with the sliding scale I mentioned. Is my idea of an attractive woman directly related to my own self-image? Is this a self-defense mechanism I have put in place over the years to cut down on rejection? I think it probably is. On many occasions, when I was desperately seeking companionship, I would state that particular girls were "out of my league." I still believe this is true, but it isn't all coming from a case of low self-esteem.

Our society places a whole lot of emphasis on "perfection." Let's take a look at Hollywood; in particular, a mostly-forgettable film which comes to mind called Ed TV. This pops into my head not because it's good movie, but because it calls to mind exactly what I am talking about. In it, the actress Jenna Elfman plays the "plain-Jane" role.

I know, it's hard to look at without throwing up in your  mouth a little.

Sure, they made her up to look a bit more girl-next-doorish than she appears here, but that doesn't change the fact that she is a very pretty woman and, without covering her face, she could not ever pass for "plain" in the real world.

So Hollywood would have us believe that Jenna Elfman is not the girl that we guys would just fall all over ourselves for a chance to drink her bath water. Most of us "real" people would never get a glance from this "plain-Jane." My ideas of attraction notwithstanding, I would certainly not turn down an opportunity to spend a night with this hideous creature (in my pre-married days of course).

The sliding scale works in reverse in this case. Jenna would not be attracted to me across a crowded bar because she is in a different "league" than I am in. She would zero in on the muscle-bound douchebag sitting a few tables away. Now, would I approach her? No, because I know I would never have a shot. I would be more attracted to the heavier girl sitting by herself (who is probably looking at the douchebag as well).

In this scenario, there are many things happening. Do I gravitate to the curvy girl because I believe she is more "in my league" and I might have some sort of shot with her? Am I honestly more attracted to her than Jenna? The answer is "yes" on both counts but I still don't quite know why. I'm really leaning toward my "eye of the beholder" coming from a place of relative safety. I have placed myself in this lower "league" but have, ultimately, become content here. Women who are not "Hollywood hot" are more likely to have a lower opinion of themselves and would, therefore, give me a chance out of desperation and loneliness. This sounds like self-loathing on my part, but it is true. This is the way of our society.

I do not hate myself by any stretch of the imagination. There are lots of things that I have to offer. I like to believe that I'm intelligent, funny, and talented at many things. I think I'm a pretty decent writer (and if you've made it this far in this article, there must be something going on) and I am a half-way decent musician. I can also juggle.

I am the kind of guy that relishes any opportunity to be with a woman. In my life, those times didn’t come frequently enough and so, when they did, I appreciated them more than the pretty-boys ever could. I tried to treat those women kind/silly/crazy enough to be with me like royalty. By necessity, I am an old-fashioned romantic (of course my wife may argue this point).

Would Jenna see me a bit differently knowing these things? Of course she would. A long conversation with her would paint me a different light and, in some scenarios, just might have her leaving the bar with me that night. I like to think I can be kind of charming in my own way, so I probably could get the job done if I played my cards right. So what's the problem?

The problem is that this particular conversation in this particular bar could never happen because I have already been dismissed as not one of the "pretty people." I would never have that opportunity, even if I put forth the effort. If I walked up to her at the bar, sat down, and bought her a drink, she would, likely, thank me out of politeness, excuse herself, and move over and hide next to the douchebag. In many ways, I could have turned out to be her soul mate, but she would never know it because my appearance-deficit would prevent our meeting in the first place. I know this is not true in every case, but I think it's safe to say that it is a pretty standard rule.

As an ugly dude, I have done surprisingly well in the romance arena. Probably better than I deserve. I have been with some conventionally attractive women before; one of them even pursued me. Did she see me across a crowded bar and decide she had to have me? No ( though she did see me across a crowded bar). It just so happened that I was with a crowd of relatively unknown people and was desperately seeking their approval by trying to be funny.  My timing was spot-on that night and I caught the lovely lady's eye... or, rather, her ear. Had she been sitting farther away and not heard my amateur improv, none of it would have happened.

Now is the time to prove another point. I have a lot of very attractive female friends. If any of them are reading this (who knew me before I was married) would like to disagree with me (and I know you truthfully cannot), then where were you when I was single? 

Answer: Not attracted to me. It is fine, I get it, and I found my girl in the end. I believe my wife loves me, but even she would be the first to admit that I'm not easy on the eyes. Luckily for me, she was a rare breed and physical attractiveness was not what she was seeking, apparently. I'm not sure what she was seeking... it was certainly not my money (I certainly don’t have much of that).

A friend recently published a blog where he mentioned some things I said in a late-night, drunken conversation. He sort of quoted me as saying that I hate the pretty people. This is not true; I don’t hate anyone. I do very highly dislike people who get whatever they want in this world simply by how they look. A pretty girl bats her eyes and all the men in the room turn into drooling idiots; it makes me sick. I will admit that this mostly comes from jealousy. I won’t pretend it’s much of anything else, but it’s still too easy a way out for them. I know that you should use what you have, but doesn’t that just bolster how shallow our society is?

I, however, am that pretty girl’s Kryptonite (in more ways than I want to admit). She bats the eyes at me and it just makes me angry. I know she is not flirting with me. I know there is no animal magnetism. I know there is no interest in me save whatever it is she wants me to do for her (get her another drink, give her a cigarette, erase myself from existence). My lack of good looks has actually saved me money and time over the years, so I’m thankful for that.

When I was a child, I wanted to try my hand at acting (I was actually a cute kid…a long time ago). As I got older, I realized that this could not happen as, even at a fairly young age, I realized that I didn’t have the face for being in movies or TV and, thus, scrapped that idea pretty quickly. No amount of hard work, perseverance, and study could land me a leading role in anything. I could be the greatest thespian in the free world (next to John Lovitz, of course) and still never get to play a lead role in anything. When you have goals, why shoot for anything less than the top. In my case, however, there would only be so far I could get. Seemed a bad dream to have if you know you can never reach the pinnacle. I, therefore, tried to move into other talents.

Now, to put aside all this whiny, self-deprecation and posit a different universe. In this fantasy, I have grown up as an attractive man. I have my choice of the women in any social situation I find myself in. I have a good job (which I got by flashing my perfect smile to a female manager in an interview. Yes, it works both ways people) and I am financially secure (we’ll discuss that one later).

Would this mean I was a happier person?  I certainly would get to do some things I will never get to do in my other life.  I would probably have bedded many more partners (and some ailments that come along with it).  I probably would be driving a sports car and living the playboy lifestyle.  In this scenario, I do catch Jenna's eye across the crowded bar.

In this scenario, I am the douchebag.

Would I have ever learned to play the guitar?  Maybe.  Would I have striven to become a writer?  Probably not.  Spending lots of time alone or with friends has bolstered creativity in my life that would have never come from being a hot douchebag.  Would I have learned to juggle?  Who cares.

Most importantly, would my taste in women be the same?  Well, my sliding scale theory says "no."  Some of the women in my life that I love (and loved) the most would never have caught my eye.  I would have been the shallow guy that would have looked right past my wife and gone for the equally shallow (societally dictated) raving beauty that couldn't tell me who the President was (not to say that Jenna is not intelligent.  She continues to be my example for narrative purposes).

In the course of writing this article, I find that I am much happier in the "league" that I am in.

Ain't we cute

I believe that I am a better person for having been born with this face.  The road getting here was a rough one, but I'm here nonetheless.  For all the beautiful people, you can bat your eyes at someone who gives a damn.

The House...

   As the weeks go by, the house is less and less "haunted." Each day (well, weekdays mostly), I take ONE carload of stuff over there. With each trip, the house seems to be settling into the horrible truth that it now belongs to Sarah and myself.
   Already, there is slight disarray evident that puts my own signature on the house. A stack of musical instruments that used to be scattered around my house now haphazardly leans in a corner of the family room. A makeshift bar sits in another corner with its contents overflowing onto the old baker’s rack next to it that has resided there for many years now.   
   As I go, I put some little touches here and there that make it more "me" and, therefore, a bit less tidy. I have to admit to myself and everyone else around me that I am not my father and I am not as neat and organized as he was in the years since mom died. Should I try to keep that status quo? Should I try to become him? I honestly don’t know.
   With the house, along with everything else, I am living in a huge shadow. Mom and Dad were cornerstones of our extended family and represented stability that, I know, people found to be a great comfort. As I add my own touches to the house, I realize that, while I share the genes and a good upbringing, I am not them.
   I have been stressing myself too much by thinking that I will have transform into my father for the good of the family. How can I do that? Sure, I’m loud and grouchy and stubborn, but I think it may stop there. I didn’t have the upbringing that Dad, his brothers, and sisters had. I certainly do not have the same work ethic or staunch dedication to getting things done. I am, admittedly, lazy on many levels. Without the years of physical labor-intensive farm life, I am much softer (and it shows) than he was. Just like my grandfather before him, when Dad raised his voice, people listened (at least they pretended to). When I do, people just laugh or tell me that I sound like him. I am a bizarre parody of the family patriarch.
   I think of Labor Day weekends, Christmases, and other family gatherings that Mom and Dad graciously hosted each year and my promise to bring back or continue these traditions in years to come. I badly want to host these events, but can I live up to the years of memories? The house is a standing monument to my parents, and I feel like people will expect the same classic vibe that the house has provided for nearly thirty years. I’m not sure it will… though I’m going to give it one hell of a try.
   Some members of our extended family circle will not approve of the corner bar or some of the touches that I will put on the house. Some wouldn’t approve of some of the gatherings I plan on hosting there with my circle of friends. Some have not and will not understand some of the things I do for entertainment. While I want to provide everyone in the family with what they are accustomed to, I have to keep at least a part of me in that house. Am I expected to erase my existence and try (and fail) to become my father? I’m not sure how much of "me" is left anyway. Where do I draw the line? So many expectations are thrust upon me, and I understand why.
   To maintain the family status quo, I have to step in and be him. I am all that remains of him and, I think, the family looks to me to be the continuation of him. I represent a future where much of the past recently ended. I understand this and intend to work very hard at it.

   The house, however, is much heavier than the combined materials it is built from.

   I love the house. I spent most of my formidable years there. Most of the turning points in my life happened while I lived there. There are lots of memories, both good and bad, in that place. It is much bigger and much nicer than the one I am trying to empty out right now, but it also carries the burden of a split personality. I really don’t know where I end and Dad’s legacy begins.
   Although I have been keeping quite busy over the last few weeks moving things, it only occurred to me quite recently the conundrum I am currently experiencing.  While I am quite excited to be moving back there and starting the next phase of my adult life (and, likely, the last phase), it is quite a weight to carry.  I have no intention of disappointing any of the family or family friends, but I can't help but think that I cannot measure up.
   It sounds horrible to say, but losing Mom years ago was more emotionally difficult.  Maybe it was because she was the first of them to go and we really weren't prepared for it at that time.  I had no experience in losing parents at that time and hadn't really faced death on a personal level in many years.  Since Mom, I have boasted that "I'm getting good at these things" at each of the many funerals I have attended since.  Can you get hardened to losing loved ones?  Also, when Dad had been diagnosed with the cancer, my head went into "coping mode" from the moment we found out.  Perhaps practice makes perfect in some horrific sense.  Sounds a bit uncaring and, therefore, I doubt my humanity each day.
   Perhaps that's why I am trying too hard.  My survivor guilt (if that term is appropriate here) is kicking me in the rear constantly and forcing me to "grow up" and carry the mantle.  I need to make up for my perceived lack of compassion by turning myself into "Junior."  I feel I need to be a clone (albeit a fatter, lazier one) for the sake of those around me that look to me as the replacement (I know this is unfounded, but a blog is a place to type out this inner monologue).  No one has a gun to my head yelling at me to "be Paul," but I feel I have to.  My life feels like it's no longer mine.
   Maybe it's time to change?  Am I the person they wanted me to be?  Do I measure up?
   The house sends me mixed messages.
   Just last night, I took some of my more childish possessions (contents of my "Geek Room"...some of you know of it) over to the house and a part of me felt that I was sullying its spirit.  It doesn't seem to fit there.  The house still doesn't seem to belong to me, no matter how stubbornly I remind myself that it does.  "Get that shit out of my closet," I can hear him saying, "you ain't junkin' up my house like you did yours."  I still find myself tiptoeing around trying not to piss him off and start the inevitable bull-headed argument that we would have had when I was younger.  Is this normal?  I think it might be.
   The opposite side of that coin is the bitter-sweet excitement that I have such a place to do with as I please.  I have plans and dreams of turning the family room into my man-cave. I'm planning to buy a big flat-screen television as a consolation prize for surviving this ordeal.  The inner child in me is giddy about entertaining friends and having parties there. I am the kind of person who likes to have fun and I am definitely more flippant (feel free to look that one up...I'll wait) than Mom and Dad were. Is this acceptable, or should I grow up?
  So the conundrum (I love these big words, they make me sound smart...I hope I'm using them properly), spelled out in basic terms:

  * I can make the house totally mine and not care what anyone thinks about it and run the risk of my family not being comfortable when they come to visit..or worse,  just stop visiting entirely because it's not what they were used to.

  * I can live in the shadow of my father, erase most of myself in the process, but keep the status quo.

   I'm not, in any way, thinking that the family is that shallow, but I know it will be strange to come from out of town and stay with me, rather than Dad.  I'm one of the kids of the family and I know I will always be viewed as such no matter how grey my hair has gotten.  This is normal human nature and I understand it completely.  It will be weird enough dealing with all that and, psychologically speaking, there will be resentment that I have changed things.  I cannot stress enough that I worry about this every day.
   The house speaks volumes in the form of memories and hope for the future, but it is, not-surprisingly, very tight-lipped on helping me to find some middle ground.

The Chair...

     Since well before my mother passed away in 2007,  Dad, like so many other "men of the house" had his chair.  It was his "king of the castle" throne and, I'm sure, his place of safety.  It sat in the front living room corner angled so that he could see the television and out the window.  Any time we went to visit (or just borrow or steal things from him that he was going to throw away anyway), we knew that we would see the hazy image of him sitting there through the window as we pulled into the driveway.

     It was always the same.  From a place of politeness (that he and Mom taught me), I always called first if I was going over there and, each time, I knew that he had gotten up and unlocked the front door while I was on my way so that he wouldn't have to get up when I got there.  It was always such a welcome site to walk in and see him sitting in his throne.  "Hey, Guy!", he would always say as I entered the living room.   Though it is still a bit rough for me to see, this is what it always looked like:

The evening I brought him home from the hospital after his diagnosis.  

                                          

    The image is grainy and rough, I took it with my cell phone camera (which is not the latest or greatest in technology) right after I got him home to show everyone who followed my "Dad Updates" on facebook that he was finally back in the chair.

  I haven't really seen that picture since he died.  I've seen the thumbnail of it in my windows menu a few times and quickly passed it.  It was too recent...too soon.  Now, however, it doesn't bother me that much.
  A week ago, Sarah and I went over to the house again with a car full of boxes to fill in the little bit of unused space in his attic.  The move to the new/old homestead is going to be a gradual one, which I am grateful for.  While we were there, we decided to rearrange the living room furniture.  It was still tough to see that empty chair sitting in that corner.  Each time we walked in, the "ghost" of him would appear in that recliner because our eyes had become so accustomed to seeing him there.  It was time to start making the place our own.
   Though I had said that I was going to keep the chair (it was a REALLY comfy chair), when we moved furniture, I saw how threadbare and stained it had become.  I decided that it had to go; and, thus, Dad had to go.  The chair represented all that he was in the latter years of his life and it was time to let him go once and for all.  It was not an easy decision, but Monday is trash night and so I went over there, alone, to purge my father from his house...MY house.  I took an old, wooden glider that sat in our living room for years over to replace it (though it had originally came from Mom and Dad's many years ago when I first moved out).  I carried Dad's chair out to the curb, did that washing-of-hands pantomime that you see in comedies, and put the glider in its place.  That part was done.  Pretty cut and dry.
   I waited for it to start bothering me.  A few days went by and I was expecting a rush of guilt.  I started to feel guilty about not feeling guilty.  How could I so casually discard the one thing that still carried my father's essence?  Am I trying to erase him from existence?  Am I a terrible son?
   I don't think I am.
   The rational part of me has taken over and I move forward, ever so slowly.  What would Dad say?  Just like the picture had told me before, he would have given his blessing for me to do what I wanted to and just survive.  Having no children of my own, I cannot know how it feels to prepare a future for someone who is to come after me.  I just have to understand that I don't understand and press on from there.
   This past week has been a roller coaster.  Getting rid of the chair and putting our own little touches on the house has made being there much easier.  One night, however, as Mechele and Luke helped me move a corner hutch into that living room, we found out that another of her sons, Greg, was rushed to the emergency room.
   Once again, I found myself in that dreaded ER, mere feet away from that little room I mentioned in a previous article.  The all-too-recent memories rushed back as I walked in.  I even caught sight of that pretty nurse that sat with us in the little room.  I wondered if, had she seen me, she would have remembered.  Then again, does she have the sort of job that hardens you and makes you detach?  I would bet.
   The word came pretty quickly that Greg had allergies to something and that he was alright.  This helped the mood quite a bit and we had some laughs with everyone which seemed to, somewhat, cleanse that waiting room a bit more.  Still... I don't want to see it again for a while.
   By Friday, I was more or less prepared to move a big part of my life into the house.  The Friday Gathering, as I have mentioned, is something I live for.  It allows me to behave in a juvenile manner and just cut loose the stresses that have been put upon me over the years.  I had gotten terribly excited by Thursday looking forward to some of my friends getting to check out my new/old home.
   Some of them have been around long enough to have been there when I was living there previously, some were new to the scene.  Even my old friend and neighbor, Todd, took the drive up from Akron to hang out with us.  I got to try out the new fire pit I dug (no phone books this time) and it seems to have turned out nicely. Mechele stopped by and my aunt and uncle, Oscar and Gigi (yeah..I like calling you that..I know you're reading) put in a brief visit, which I am VERY grateful for.  Jeff made some brats on the grill, and much beer and other libations were had.  All in all, a very fun evening.  I am looking forward to doing it again this week.  Things are looking up, right?
   Last night, on my way to a party, I got a call letting me know that my friend Deb lost her mother.  All of the happy thoughts I have been having immediately ceased and I was transported right back to another Saturday night not too long ago when I was out trying to have fun.  I should learn to stop doing that.
   My heart goes out to Deb right now because I am still reeling in my own loss.  The phases of mourning and feelings all come back to the beginning and stab me in the chest as I think about her just beginning the process of loss.  She will have to start the journey that I am nearing the end of... I think.  At least the worst part of mine is behind me.  She is only turning the key.
   So I will now find myself, once again, immersed in the aroma of fresh-cut flowers that, like cousin Joe says, reminds me of death and loss.  The service for Deb's mother will be Tuesday evening, just like Dad's.  There are too many parallels going on here, and we're all simply going to have to "stop meeting like this."
   To find a bright spot in all of this, I'm pretty sure Deb and I will become closer friends for having experienced these things so close together.  That I will be thankful for.  I can always use closer friends... there is no limit to how many you can have, which is handy.  I guess our generation needs to step up and take over (God help us).
   I type this on Sunday evening after actually resting for a while.  I think about the two empty houses and all that is to be done with them and I wonder if Deb has a "chair" to sit in and remember.  Should I advise her to keep it?  Should I have kept Dad's?  Just now, I'm starting to regret letting it go.
      

Of Fire and Phone Books...

   It was going to be a weekend of fire. First and foremost, I was having my usual gathering on Friday night and had decided that it would be really cool to burn all the old phone books taking up space in the old telephone table that doubles as a night stand in my spare room. My fire pit is not a real fire pit, but a screened-in, smallish, driveway affair that I use, ironically, in my driveway. My friend Ben suggested that I wait until Saturday, when Mike and Gwen were having a fire night at their house. Their pit is open, big, and ripe for phonebookery.

   The plan was originally to use them to supplement the lack of decent-sized firewood I have at the house. What do I know about burning of phone books? Sure, I should be green and recycle them, but I thought returning them to their base elements via flame would be more fun. Besides, I thought I had tapped Dad all out of firewood over the last few months.

   A day or so later (I think it might have been Wednesday), I found out that Dad had contracted pneumonia again (on top of his lung cancer) and his doctor had told him that, if he didn't feel better by Sunday, he would wind up back in the hospital. This, I knew, would force him to get better. He has a severe hatred of hospitals and I have a severe hatred of going to visit him there.

   There is a fine line that I have to walk with Dad. He hates to be babied and bothered and gets annoyed if you call him too much...so I make Sarah do it. She had reported on Thursday that Dad was indeed feeling quite a bit better and so I elected not to call. Friday morning, I had waited long enough. It was about ten-thirty and I hadn't heard from her so I called him from work.

   “I'm a little better than yesterday, still looking up. I'll live, son”

   A wash of relief rolled over me as it did every time I made sure he was okay. I was elated and emboldened enough to ask him if he still had any more firewood. He informed me that there was quite a bit of older stuff stashed in the barn and that I was welcome to come get it all after work. This was my excuse to go see him, though I was always uncomfortable being there when he was sick. I told him I would rush in, grab the wood, say “hello” and bolt. I also warned him that he was not to help me get it or load it or even leave his chair.

   This would be perfect. I could see him, solve my wood problem, and get out quickly. Selfishness and the desire to hang out and drink with my friends prevailed and I did exactly what I said I would do.

   “...and keep feeling better,” I said as I was leaving, “I'm gonna be too damned busy to be visiting you in the hospital. Don't you dare ruin my weekend.” This was met with a chuckle as Dad and I have similar senses of humor. I took the wood home and partied like it was 1999 (which was over ten years ago and I'm not sure I partied all that hard back then).

   I'm not sure why I didn't feel all that good the next morning, but I suffered through it in anticipation of a quiet evening at Mike and Gwen's. I bagged up all the phone books, hit the drive-through, and made my way to the next fire just as it was getting dark.

   I came with all my standard battle loadout; armed with a folding cloth chair, a twelve-pack of Aldi's diet cola (yeah, I know), a partial bottle of rum in case my mood changed, and the shopping bag full of phone books.

   I spent the next couple of hours drinking can after can of diet cola (can't imagine why I was so dehydrated) and joking tiredly with my friends. I had no energy and was wishing for something to perk me up.

  I decided that it was now time for the phone book sacrifice. I flopped a smaller one into the flames and was rather disappointed to find that they don't burn very well. They seem to just smolder, shoot off tons of ash, and just lay there. We all expected more and decided that they were not at all entertaining... until the pages started turning themselves in the heat. Now that part of it was really cool, but soon it got old and I sat back down in the chair and opened up yet another can of the substance that was feebly trying to suggest that it was diet cola.

The sound of a Star Trek photon torpedo suddenly erupted in my shorts pocket.

  “Oh shit,” I said, “that's Dad's ring tone!” I glanced at my watch... it was 10:30. Far too late for a mundane call.

   “Hello!” I'm sure my voice betrayed fear already.

   “Mr. Manns?” It was not Dad's voice.

   “Um...yes?”

   “This is the [city we both live in] police department. We're here with Paul Manns.” I don't remember what, if anything, I responded with. Probably silence. “Are you related to him?”

   A million thoughts raced around my head and time slowed down. The flames of Mike's fire danced hauntingly in front of me in slow-motion. Everyone around the fire stared at me, completely frozen in worry.

   “Yes, I'm his son.”

   “I found your number in his cell phone. We responded to a 911 call and had to force entry into the house. He was non-responsive; we're transporting him to [hospital I have been at too much] once he's stabilized.”

   “What's wrong with him?! What's it look like?!”

   “All I know, sir, is that he doesn't look good.” The rest of the conversation, if there was one, is lost in the black hole of my memories. I stood up and started folding my chair to leave and briefly explained what was happening.

   “I think this might be it, people,” I said, trying to challenge the powers that be to prove me wrong. When you're a pessimist, you're only ever pleasantly surprised.

   “Don't say that,” someone said.

   “Just go,” Mike snapped at me, “I'll bring your stuff back tomorrow.”

   “Call us when you find out something,” said my friend Tiffany, who had been Dad's verbal sparring partner for years. She always said she loved the “Old Goat.”

   In the next blink, I was driving at terribly unsafe speeds towards home. I tried to call Sarah repeatedly and was getting panicky and very angry at the same time. She always leaves her stupid phone in her purse on the opposite end of the house and I have repeatedly told her that she needs to have it with her in case of an emergency. This was definitely one of them, and she had not listened.

   I called Mechele in my panic and told her what was happening.

   “No! That can't be! I just left him! He was fine!”

   “This is what the cops tell me and it was definitely his phone they called me on!”

   “I'm on my way up to the hospital. Stop by your dad's house and make sure it's secure. They probably broke the front door getting to him.”

   “I have to stop and get Sarah first... she isn't answering her [expletive deleted] phone again!”

   “Alright. Get her and get to his house. The police are probably still there.”

   I flew into my driveway like you see in movies and leapt out of the car without turning it off or shutting the door, thumbing the garage door opener button on my way out. Sprinting into the house, I called down to the computer room breathlessly.

   “Sarah, are you dressed?”

   “Yes, why?”

   “We gotta go. It's Dad!”

   As we raced toward Dad's house (a very stupid, panicked decision looking back on it), Mechele called me from the hospital. They told her he had had a heart attack and they would not let her back to see him. I should probably come straight to the emergency room.

   They won't let her back to see him? He has to not be conscious, because he knows that she is always the first to arrive when he has a problem and he tells the nurses to let her back. God, this can't be good.

This is it, I thought once again.

   “Don't say that,” said Sarah. I must have thought it out loud. Sarah is one of those people who believes that if you say something, it comes true.

   This is it. This time I kept it quiet.

   I hate it when I'm right. I got to the ER and found Don, Mechele's husband waiting for me as she was already in “that little room” at the hospital that is cheerily decorated where they drop the bombs on family and friends. They never used the words “he didn't make it” or “he's gone;” they simply said they had “stopped working on him at the moment.” At first, in my denial, I didn't understand the meaning of those words.

   They told me that the doctor would be in to talk to us. By this time, my aunt and uncle (Dad's brother and his wife) had arrived and someone had already dropped the bomb on them. We sat in stunned silence while one of the nurses (who was very practiced at this job, unfortunately) patiently waited with us. Mechele cried a bit on my shoulder but the truth hadn't quite reached me yet. I was in a haze of disbelief.

   Suddenly, the truth hit me like an errant Mack truck when they asked me what funeral home I wanted the body shipped to. Why were they asking me? Oh, wait...I'm the sole survivor now. All of it falls to me! I have to make decisions.

   I was (and am still) not enjoying making all the decisions the week of the funeral, but I took it all with the numbness of shock that I was surprised to experience and really rather enjoyed my time visiting family and friends. I told everyone that I was aware of the numbness and that I would surely “crash and burn” when everything was over. My aunt and uncle from Florida (my late mother's brother) had come up and traveled with me for the out-of-state part of the proceedings and stayed with me for that week and it was very appreciated. Their advice to me was indespensable.

   I had asked all my friends to just come over to Dad's the Saturday that we got back and just hang out with me for a while. Mike brought over the stuff I had left at his house a week earlier and, against my better judgment, I hit that bottle of rum that was still in the bag with my other junk. We had fun and carried on and it was a great release...for a while.

   I made the mistake, after the friends had gone, of sitting in “his chair.” In the quiet of the post-revelry and with the inhibitions of the alcohol, I crashed and burned...pretty hard.

   Here it is just a few weeks later and, Monday evening, I finally put that bag of phone books out to the curb along with the clothes that Dad had changed out of the last evening of his life. The tree-lawn in front of Dad's house (okay..my ancestral home..my new home) was pretty full already from the shed-cleaning (see previous post) and the phone books and clothes were the final remnants of the horror that was that fiery night in September when the worst thing on my mind was how tired I was and how disappointing the burning phone books had been.

Consulting The Picture...

   I went a last night to face some of the ghosts. The Hyer family, being perhaps the most helpful people in the world toward my family, offered to help me clean out some space in Dad's shed/barn/teenage-hangout-from-the-80's. Not wanting to be alone in all that (which I know they were silently aware of..thanks guys), I took them up on the offer. Knowing that I have too much crap of my own (that I don't want to sort and purge right now), I was going to need some space over there to pile boxes full of things that will never see the light of day again. I understand the idiocy of this, but getting rid of his stuff is difficult enough without sorting mine.

   In typical fashion, Mechele beat me there by minutes and already had a pot of some really good food warming on Dad's stove. We talked for a while about my future plans and what to do with my current house and then proceeded back into the fray. Wading our way through a good-sized pile of things that might have made people featured on “Hoarders” call for a dumpster, I found little bits of my life mixed in with Mom and Dad's. It was, overall, a fairly pleasant experience thanks to my support team who dispensed much advice on me, proving that, while I now own two homes and four cars, I don't know a steamy pile about anything at all.

   The main item of interest for me was the removal of a twenty-or-so-year-old broken riding lawnmower that hasn't run since Bill Clinton's first term. The layers of dust that had settled on it had actually taken on the quasi John Deere green color of the mower itself; something I never knew was possible (probably should have paid attention in science class). As we, in our hillbilly wisdom, decided to tow it out of the barn with a truck and a chain, I found myself aggravated that Dad had held on to this piece of antiquated metal for all these years. I winced a bit when I thought of the argument that would have occurred if I had said something to him just a few weeks ago about it, and found myself wishing that fight could actually take place now. I know I wouldn't win, but it would feel awfully good to lose.

   Long before the myriad of insects unfortunate enough to be caught under the flat tires of the mower had twitched their last twitch, the corpse of the mower was hefted up into the back of a pickup truck and hauled away for scrap. Some lucky garbage-picker/entrepreneur just made about twelve bucks for themselves. My way of bolstering the economy.

   After everyone had left, Sarah and I walked around the empty house making plans on what to keep and what to change. In the master bedroom, a photo still hangs that I made for Dad the Christmas after Mom died. It is a photo of the four of us taken at the Hyer house on Mom's final yuletide. Dad had a smaller print of this picture framed on his dresser that I had surreptitiously stolen and scanned. I digitally cleaned up the image and superimposed the four of us into a Thomas Kincade painting that Mom and Dad were very fond of. I enlarged it, framed it, and hid it in the spare bedroom at my house waiting for him to come over for dinner Christmas eve.

   I don't care much for the picture myself. I look very bad in it (not that I look particularly good in any photo...or in real life for that matter) and was at my overall heaviest when it was taken. Dad, however, loved it and loved what I had done with it. He said that it captured Mom better than any photo he had seen. I gave it to him that first Christmas without her after we had promised not to exchange gifts that year (and after I had unwrapped the Playstation 3 from him that had already broken that promise). We all got a bit teary eyed and that picture still hangs in the short hallway in his master bedroom.

   As Sarah and I made redecorating plans, I looked at that picture. This time, and in this rendering, Mom and Dad seemed to be agreeing with all of my plans. They were happy that I was moving forward and facing the demons. This picture, for all my dislike of it, was giving off the positive vibe that maybe, just maybe, things would be alright. Despite the quiet and eerie chill of the empty house, I had started to become excited about the future. “That's it!”, they both said from inside the frame, “It's about time, son. Go on with your life, we're happy here in the memories. Go make some new ones for yourself.” The mood of the night had turned upbeat and, for the first time since everyone had gone home, the house had a happy feel to it.

   I sit writing this blog well past my bedtime. Why? Tonight was not a happy night at all. Riding on the high of yesterday's uptempo mood, I decided to accomplish some things at the new house (I purposefully am trying not to call it Dad's any more...but it's not easy). Without going into any detail, I will just say that everything I attempted to accomplish tonight failed for idiotic reasons. These were fairly mundane homeowner things that anyone else on the planet could have easily gotten done. Not the big boy. The last man standing; the strong survivor who has taken this tragedy with a stiff upper lip; the mature one who is rock-solid and moving forward has experienced what the internet people call an EPIC FAIL. Hours of errands and planning yielded absolutely no results (other than spending money on things we cannot use and hoping we can return them). All that was accomplished was a trip to the Arby's drive-through, a hearty belch or two, and several items being thrown across a garage in anger.

   I can't bring myself to face either of the photos now. Am I angry with him for leaving me in this predicament? Probably... I'm not sure on that one. I know what Dr. Phil would tell me, but who listens to that guy? Of course, I got this mad at idiotic bad luck when my parents were still alive, so maybe it's not that. 

 Often times, it seems like my life is an old 70's sitcom where I am the bumbling oaf who has good intentions but never seems to be able to accomplish them. When these stupid things happen to me, I can literally hear the laughter from the studio audience and it enrages me. All intelligent thought ceases at that moment and I become violent to inanimate objects. I spiral out of control and say things that mature forty-somethings shouldn't say. I have never grown up.

   Then, it got worse.

   I asked Sarah what I would normally do when stupid things weren't going right. Of course, she answered “You would call your dad.”

   I can't look at the photo right now.

The First Attempt...

   Recently, some major changes have occurred in my life, throwing me into a large tailspin.  In September, my father passed away due to complications from lung cancer (isn't this the way to hook people, by bringing down the room?).  As he was my last surviving parent (Mom passed in 2007) and I have no siblings, the flurry of paperwork is already overwhelming for me and my very confused wife.  Ah, Sarah... with all she's been though in her life (which I won't go into here), she has all this to contend with.  She had bonded quite a lot with Mom and Dad since we were married in 2001 (and somewhat before that) and has taken both of these deaths in many ways harder than I have.
   Though some would not understand, I feel very bad for her as I have inherited my childhood home and am about to uproot her from the only home she's ever worked for (with the help of some inheritance money from both of our families).  With logic and finances dictating the obvious decision to move into the bigger, nicer house, what choice does she have?  She recognizes the "logical and financial decision," but she still can't help but feel she's being dragged off without any say in the matter.  She's smart enough and mature enough to realize the wisdom in this, but it doesn't help the unfounded feeling of being whisked away into a new (and likely easier) life she never asked for.  I truly feel bad for her, but what can I do?
   We have been, like so many others, struggling to survive financially for many years.  I believe we were a bit premature in buying our little house in 2005, but we've made the best of it in a troubled economy (if that isn't an entirely overused phrase lately).  With this latest development, our financial burden will ease considerably.  This is good news for us, but at what a price?
   I have a love/hate relationship with my current home.  It was exciting and liberating to be the first-time home-buyer and, at first, was totally in love.  Irrationally, though, since then, many very bad things have happened in the intervening years and I have illogically blamed them all on the house as if it were a magically cursed mistake.  Many childish arguments have ensued over the years with Sarah over our declining financial situation; always culminating in me making the mature and rational decision to "sell this f**king moneypit!"  Sarah always claims that I hate this house and, in some ways, she may be right.
   Now I am faced with the reality of leaving here, and I'm sure that I will miss this little hovel more than I can imagine at the moment.  I really have had some good times here, despite it all.  Those in the know will fondly remember the endless Friday night party/gathering/raping-of-good-music-with-my-guitar that I have come to live for.  At my wife's suggestion, years ago, I did up our one-car garage as a white-trash party room where I can host a bunch of twenty/thirty/forty/fifty-somethings that I have had the honor of befriending throughout the years as we drink from the sinful bottles haphazardly arranged on the aging kitchen table I call my bar.  These people are my life's blood and a good chunk of the reason I wake up in the morning.  Again, Sarah's hidden wisdom prevailed back then.
   My ancestral home is pretty big and will serve as a much better place to gather and live.  It's a two-story, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, colonial.  It's been well cared for and they even had a gorgeous sunroom built on the back a couple of years ago.  It's downright palatial for me and the wife and our two pet rats.  Dad left us plenty of money to pay off the last of the 30-year mortage (bought in 1981, so it's nearly done).  So, a ostensibly a free house, two nice cars, and a pretty sizable chunk of 401K money all for me and my lost and displaced wife.  What could be better for a spoiled-brat-only-child and his cute little life-partner?

I want none of it.

  Occasionally, I just look at the framed picture of Mom and Dad taken on the final cruise my mom was able to take (and the photo-manipulation job I did at Mom's request to erase some medical bruising on her arms...  that I never got done when she was alive) and I choke up a bit.  They stare out at me telling me that I need to move on; that they have worked so hard all their lives to make sure I had a future once they were gone.  At 41, I have to be the "big boy" now, but I just stomp my feet and yell in my best mature voice "I don't wanna!"
   To put even more pressure on, I have also inherited what my cousin Joe said (as the minister at Dad's funeral); the need to be "the glob of glue" that holds the family together.  Dad was neither the oldest or wisest of our large family, but he certainly was the loudest (a trait which he passed on to his son) and, for this, he had become the unnamed patriarch of the Manns family.  It now falls to me (at least in Ohio) to try and step up and take over this role.  How will I really do this when most of the family still considers me to be "one of the kids?"  It's going to be a long journey; one I hope I can make for the sake of all around me.
   As it stands, I loathe going over to Dad's house.  Very little is moved or changed since the late-Saturday where he was miraculously able to dial 911 and save all of us the unpleasantness of discovering him lifeless the next day.  After the funerals and gatherings were over and Lenny and Lisa went back home to Florida, the house is a forlorn echo of the man who worked so hard to erase the ghost of Mom from it since 2007.  Now, I have to power up my unlicensed nuclear accelorator, call Bill Murray and Dan Akroyd, and do some metaphorical ghost-busting of my own.  The long, sad road of making it our home has begun but at a very slow rate.  Of course, there is mountains of paperwork and legalities to get through first, but I need to get over there and start soul-cleansing; walking that fine line between embracing and erasing his memory and influence.  Then, there will be that eerie first night that we sleep there in that king-size bed surrounded by the essence of Mom and Dad that will likely always be there.
   I look at the picture again and they both have that face on now that says "Don't be stupid, son, it's your house now.  Do what you want with it.  We're gone and we don't care."  Even in death, they scold me for being silly.  I would listen to them... but they left me all by myself so I'll act silly if I want to...

   I stick my tongue out at the picture and say "nya nya nya."