Tuesday night, Gary and I finished moving our wordly belongings, wanted and unwanted alike, out of the house I'd been living in since November of 2003.
I had a lot of memories at good and bad there...mostly good. My kids called it their home, even after the separation that happened there. Every weekend I had them, they were still comfortable there. And so was I...it was a comfortable home. My dad told me that my grandfather built the house for Charles Graham in the 1960's. That made living there pretty special, even if I was renting it.
We threw some excellent parties there; Labor Day, Wintereenmas, St. Patty's Day...eventually it became known as "the frat house" because it was so evident that only guys lived there full tiem after my separation. I guess all in all, I'd say that the reason I don't miss the place any more than I do is because of something I grew up knowing. A house is not a home. It's a vessel for a home to be built in. All the memories I have of that house, I thank my friends and my children for. They are the ones who helped me make those good memories...and one day, we'll make new memories in a new house (that I own this time, I swear it!)
So here's to Seth, Willow, Gary, Stephanie, Curt, Matt, Samantha, Becky, Erin, Jon, George, Dave, Cosmo, Duane, Christina and all the rest of the crew who made my time at "the frat house" so special.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Remembering Nana
As of Wednesday at 2:20 pm, I have no grandmothers left on Earth. My Nana (pronounced "nah-knee"- my maternal grandmother) passed away. She lived a long, full life, but neither that knowledge nor my mental preparations for her death (she had cancer) or my excuses for not visiting her enough at the nursing home, etc., make her passing any easier.
I was sitting around and thought maybe the best way to honor Nana would be to write about her...so that's what I'm doing. Nana was a demanding mother to my Mom, but a giving sweetheart of a woman nonetheless. She was an extremely loving (as well as beloved) and devoted wife, mother, sister, aunt and grandmother.
Nana always kept an immaculately groomed mane of black curly hair, and I rarely caught a glimpse of her without her makeup in place. Any time she left the house or company was over, she was dressed to the nines. She liked to have nice things, and took a great deal of pride in the things she had, as well as herself and her family.
Due to some childhood ailments, I was spoiled rotten by Nana, who made me buffets (or "bus-says" as my baby sister later called them) to eat at my leisure in her living room as she watched "her stories." She also regularly took me to TCBY, a long-dead retail chain, to purchase me the more-than-occasional He-Man or G.I. Joe or She-Ra (the He-Men needed girlfriends...heh.) I remember many days listening to rich foreign men breaking up with ditsy blondes as I played contentedly with my Castle Greyskull action set, safely tucked between a cushy chair and a cushy couch as Nana relaxed in her chair, intent on said scoundrel and hussy.
This was, of course, after my brilliant toddler years, when (after watching far too many butt lube commercials between soap operas and "The Price Is Right") I would ask enthusiastically for "Pepper, H and H." Even then I was a victim of advertising.
Nana helped raise me. I lived most of my young childhood life at her house. This setting - an old white farmhouse, complete with red barn and surrounded by fields - was one of the things that I thank God for as an adult. I'm thankful that I had a place like that to run around in. I'm thankful that it was an idyllic picture of Southern life. It's one of the reasons I will always love South Carolina and the Pee Dee area, so matter how much I complain about artists not making enough money around here...
Nana's house was a huge one story house, with a seemingly huge attic that I never saw. Honestly, I was terrified to go up there; I was certain that some sort of ghoul or antebellum confederate ghost lurked up there, waiting to eat any unwitting children who took the time to climb on the bed in the guest bedroom, pull down the attic door, and climb up (this was well before everyone started expecting meowing Japanese children to jump at at them in attics.)
There was a little white tool shed in the front yard, a huge tree, a fake deer, and an old black metal bench. The front porch held a plethora of white rocking chairs and an old white swing, which I loved to sit in and watch the trees on the other side of the road.
The backyard was massive, leading to fields and forest (all of which I spent my youth exploring.) A tall, split cedar tree stood in the backyard, which I used to climb and play with all the time. A little white stone bench sat at its base. To this day, I still think of it first when I think of Nana's house. Then I think of the warm, comfortable den, with its painted green walls, and the bookshelves, cabinets and fireplace that were built into the right wall.
Just like the lady herself, Nana's house had a great deal of warmth, a unique style and character. I will never forget my time there, or the woman who made that time possible. A woman who loved me with a free and easy devotion, as every child should be adored by their grandparents. And it should be returned by those children as well.
I love you dearly, Nana, and we miss you terribly. I hope (and somewhere, deeply and firmly I know) that whatever you're doing right now, you know that. I hope there are lots of coral colored roses. I hope you're laughing that infectious, wonderful hooting laugh of yours for someone. Goodbye for now, Nana. I'll be seeing you later. ::blows a kiss::
- Shane
I was sitting around and thought maybe the best way to honor Nana would be to write about her...so that's what I'm doing. Nana was a demanding mother to my Mom, but a giving sweetheart of a woman nonetheless. She was an extremely loving (as well as beloved) and devoted wife, mother, sister, aunt and grandmother.
Nana always kept an immaculately groomed mane of black curly hair, and I rarely caught a glimpse of her without her makeup in place. Any time she left the house or company was over, she was dressed to the nines. She liked to have nice things, and took a great deal of pride in the things she had, as well as herself and her family.
Due to some childhood ailments, I was spoiled rotten by Nana, who made me buffets (or "bus-says" as my baby sister later called them) to eat at my leisure in her living room as she watched "her stories." She also regularly took me to TCBY, a long-dead retail chain, to purchase me the more-than-occasional He-Man or G.I. Joe or She-Ra (the He-Men needed girlfriends...heh.) I remember many days listening to rich foreign men breaking up with ditsy blondes as I played contentedly with my Castle Greyskull action set, safely tucked between a cushy chair and a cushy couch as Nana relaxed in her chair, intent on said scoundrel and hussy.
This was, of course, after my brilliant toddler years, when (after watching far too many butt lube commercials between soap operas and "The Price Is Right") I would ask enthusiastically for "Pepper, H and H." Even then I was a victim of advertising.
Nana helped raise me. I lived most of my young childhood life at her house. This setting - an old white farmhouse, complete with red barn and surrounded by fields - was one of the things that I thank God for as an adult. I'm thankful that I had a place like that to run around in. I'm thankful that it was an idyllic picture of Southern life. It's one of the reasons I will always love South Carolina and the Pee Dee area, so matter how much I complain about artists not making enough money around here...
Nana's house was a huge one story house, with a seemingly huge attic that I never saw. Honestly, I was terrified to go up there; I was certain that some sort of ghoul or antebellum confederate ghost lurked up there, waiting to eat any unwitting children who took the time to climb on the bed in the guest bedroom, pull down the attic door, and climb up (this was well before everyone started expecting meowing Japanese children to jump at at them in attics.)
There was a little white tool shed in the front yard, a huge tree, a fake deer, and an old black metal bench. The front porch held a plethora of white rocking chairs and an old white swing, which I loved to sit in and watch the trees on the other side of the road.
The backyard was massive, leading to fields and forest (all of which I spent my youth exploring.) A tall, split cedar tree stood in the backyard, which I used to climb and play with all the time. A little white stone bench sat at its base. To this day, I still think of it first when I think of Nana's house. Then I think of the warm, comfortable den, with its painted green walls, and the bookshelves, cabinets and fireplace that were built into the right wall.
Just like the lady herself, Nana's house had a great deal of warmth, a unique style and character. I will never forget my time there, or the woman who made that time possible. A woman who loved me with a free and easy devotion, as every child should be adored by their grandparents. And it should be returned by those children as well.
I love you dearly, Nana, and we miss you terribly. I hope (and somewhere, deeply and firmly I know) that whatever you're doing right now, you know that. I hope there are lots of coral colored roses. I hope you're laughing that infectious, wonderful hooting laugh of yours for someone. Goodbye for now, Nana. I'll be seeing you later. ::blows a kiss::
- Shane
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Thunder Years
I've been asked many a time why it is I wear dark colors so much, as well as long clothes during the warm summer months. Well, friends and neighbors, I suppose it's psychological. Comfort of a sort, if you will.
It all started when I was a very young elementary school lad. Fresh as a rose, I was walkin' in the line from recess, mindin' me own and admiring the scenery. I do believe we'd had that funny square unidentifiable school pizza that day. Ah, yes. The days before the school system finally realized they were turning us all into blubber butts.
Our gorgeous movie star of a teacher (yes, even then I could appreciate a well-turned heel and a rack of steel ::wipes eye:: ...what was I sayin'...) strides up with her luscious gams and points the finger o'doom upon each of us in turn...
"Now I don't want to hear one peep out of any of you until we get back to the room!" she growled menacingly...dear Lord...had I but been capable of an erection at that age...the beauty...the larger than life rage...she was my dark queen...I loved her and despaired...
...so I kept my little hobbit mouth shut. Unfortunately, my blow hole was not as amiable as my pie hole, and chaos did in fact, my children, ensue.
So I'm in a long line of munchkins, dressed likely in neon "jams" shorts (as was the fashion in the days of stock market suicides, forgetful movie star presidents and fashions inspired by Beelzebub's ugly sister) when suddenly I feel the call of an old, hated enemy - and the push against the olde anal sphincter. I knew there was a flood a'comin', lads, and my good and fluffy Lord had nothin' t'all to do with it.
I grab me sweet little cheeks and start shimmyin' and a shakin', movin' and a groovin', tryin' in vain to keep them squeezed shut (after all, I must not offend my lusty dark queen). My classmates are starting to look at me; halfway amused, halfway bemused with that "oh-my-dear-sweet-God-no" look of building terror on their cute little innocent faces.
I should have known better; after all , this was not my first bout with fanny rapids. I should have remembered the eye of the whale eye; the time of calm before the final unstoppable explosion - that terrible, no good, awful, very bad force of nature that nearly rips your posterior in twain...and thus did the unamable square school pizza wreak it's awful revenge upon my neon "jams" shorts.
A geyser of hot, rancid poo torpedoed from my boiling bung as I screamed out in anguish and pain. Almost as if in slow motion, the children around me overcame their fear of movement and ran in all directions, screaming and vomiting, asking their own fluffy lords why...why.
Why indeed. I stood there, my shorts now dripping pungent turdwater into my innocent high-top Chucks. Silent tears trickled down my poor, blundering little face as I held my head low, my eyes wide and bulging from shock and exhasperated horror.
Among the whispers of "gross" and "ewww" I heard the words, "Oh, God," and my shoulders tensed. My dark queen had discovered me at the most embarrassing point in my young life. Suddenly a gentle hand was on my shoulder, and she began carefully leading me to the classroom bathroom.
Once there she helped me strip down (again, shut your birdfeeders, fucktards, it was innocent on her part) out of my shadden rags. My shoulders must have appeared slumped to my waist as I stood there silently weeping. I finally let go. I bawled like a newborn.
Again the warm, beautifully manicured hand was there on my shoulder. (I wish to emphasize here that if anyone finds this sick or inappropriate, also take into account that this was a happier time beofre bullshit lawsuits and hottie teachers who fuck kindergartners. Before it became illegal for teachers to spank some little bastard, much less innocently try to clean and emotionally mend a poor child who had just shat his entire lower half rather than disobey his kindly war goddess of a teacher. Naughty bastards.)
"Why didn't you just run to the bathroom?" she asked, perplexed.
"You said not to move," I said weakly, fighting back adding, "my lady" or "I would die for you"...yeah, you might say it was a crush. Unhealthy? No argument here...
She tenderly cleaned me from head to toe, except for the private area, which she left for me as she stepped out to check on the rest of the class. After a while, my mom showed up with a change of clothes, and to make sure I had cleaned me long shanks properly - a fact which totally (and healthily) destroyed the enchantment of the situation for me. The only clothes she had been able to get her hands on in the rush of things was a spare outfit that my aunt had kept for just such an emergency for her kid...a black long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.
As I dressed in the long, dark uniform, it felt as if changing into a protective suit of armor. A shield from the hyenas who would no doubt bombard me with witty puns of my pootastic exploits the moment my swollen bum hit my desk. And then I heard my dark queen say from the classroom:
"If ANY of you so much as MUTTERS anything about what happened to that poor boy while in my class, or jokes, or lets him hear anything mentioned about what happened to him today, you WILL be punished!"
And no one did. Thank you, my dark queen. ::bows::
It all started when I was a very young elementary school lad. Fresh as a rose, I was walkin' in the line from recess, mindin' me own and admiring the scenery. I do believe we'd had that funny square unidentifiable school pizza that day. Ah, yes. The days before the school system finally realized they were turning us all into blubber butts.
Our gorgeous movie star of a teacher (yes, even then I could appreciate a well-turned heel and a rack of steel ::wipes eye:: ...what was I sayin'...) strides up with her luscious gams and points the finger o'doom upon each of us in turn...
"Now I don't want to hear one peep out of any of you until we get back to the room!" she growled menacingly...dear Lord...had I but been capable of an erection at that age...the beauty...the larger than life rage...she was my dark queen...I loved her and despaired...
...so I kept my little hobbit mouth shut. Unfortunately, my blow hole was not as amiable as my pie hole, and chaos did in fact, my children, ensue.
So I'm in a long line of munchkins, dressed likely in neon "jams" shorts (as was the fashion in the days of stock market suicides, forgetful movie star presidents and fashions inspired by Beelzebub's ugly sister) when suddenly I feel the call of an old, hated enemy - and the push against the olde anal sphincter. I knew there was a flood a'comin', lads, and my good and fluffy Lord had nothin' t'all to do with it.
I grab me sweet little cheeks and start shimmyin' and a shakin', movin' and a groovin', tryin' in vain to keep them squeezed shut (after all, I must not offend my lusty dark queen). My classmates are starting to look at me; halfway amused, halfway bemused with that "oh-my-dear-sweet-God-no" look of building terror on their cute little innocent faces.
I should have known better; after all , this was not my first bout with fanny rapids. I should have remembered the eye of the whale eye; the time of calm before the final unstoppable explosion - that terrible, no good, awful, very bad force of nature that nearly rips your posterior in twain...and thus did the unamable square school pizza wreak it's awful revenge upon my neon "jams" shorts.
A geyser of hot, rancid poo torpedoed from my boiling bung as I screamed out in anguish and pain. Almost as if in slow motion, the children around me overcame their fear of movement and ran in all directions, screaming and vomiting, asking their own fluffy lords why...why.
Why indeed. I stood there, my shorts now dripping pungent turdwater into my innocent high-top Chucks. Silent tears trickled down my poor, blundering little face as I held my head low, my eyes wide and bulging from shock and exhasperated horror.
Among the whispers of "gross" and "ewww" I heard the words, "Oh, God," and my shoulders tensed. My dark queen had discovered me at the most embarrassing point in my young life. Suddenly a gentle hand was on my shoulder, and she began carefully leading me to the classroom bathroom.
Once there she helped me strip down (again, shut your birdfeeders, fucktards, it was innocent on her part) out of my shadden rags. My shoulders must have appeared slumped to my waist as I stood there silently weeping. I finally let go. I bawled like a newborn.
Again the warm, beautifully manicured hand was there on my shoulder. (I wish to emphasize here that if anyone finds this sick or inappropriate, also take into account that this was a happier time beofre bullshit lawsuits and hottie teachers who fuck kindergartners. Before it became illegal for teachers to spank some little bastard, much less innocently try to clean and emotionally mend a poor child who had just shat his entire lower half rather than disobey his kindly war goddess of a teacher. Naughty bastards.)
"Why didn't you just run to the bathroom?" she asked, perplexed.
"You said not to move," I said weakly, fighting back adding, "my lady" or "I would die for you"...yeah, you might say it was a crush. Unhealthy? No argument here...
She tenderly cleaned me from head to toe, except for the private area, which she left for me as she stepped out to check on the rest of the class. After a while, my mom showed up with a change of clothes, and to make sure I had cleaned me long shanks properly - a fact which totally (and healthily) destroyed the enchantment of the situation for me. The only clothes she had been able to get her hands on in the rush of things was a spare outfit that my aunt had kept for just such an emergency for her kid...a black long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.
As I dressed in the long, dark uniform, it felt as if changing into a protective suit of armor. A shield from the hyenas who would no doubt bombard me with witty puns of my pootastic exploits the moment my swollen bum hit my desk. And then I heard my dark queen say from the classroom:
"If ANY of you so much as MUTTERS anything about what happened to that poor boy while in my class, or jokes, or lets him hear anything mentioned about what happened to him today, you WILL be punished!"
And no one did. Thank you, my dark queen. ::bows::
A Hulking Holiday
Several Holiday Seasons ago (maybe 2003 - definitely before my divorce and my fortunate rediscovery of Curt & Gary - or perhaps they rediscovered me - anyway), I had a group of friends over for a big holiday sleepover party. All the kids were there as well.
My friend Becky bought my son Seth a Hulk voice-changing mask and huge foam Hulk hands that act as EXTREMELY noisy green boxing gloves. well, Seth threw on the gloves and immediately became a little green menace, bouncing his new foamy fists of fury against the heads of his little sister, Willow, and best friend, Sedric.
The "adults" of course, were busy playing with the voice changing mask in the den. There was much giggling and picture taking.
Well, a few hours later things calmed down, and we were all sitting around talking. Seth was sitting in the middle of the floor, now decked out in his Vader-like Hulk mask and gloves, enjoying listening to himself answer questions in the monstrously deep robotic voice.
All of a sudden, Willow runs into the room at fulls speed, launches herself at us, and stops to talk to us. Unfortunately, the little beauty did not realize (or did she?) that she was standing solidly on her brother's crotch (which, I might add, was not protected by green foam or hard plastic.)
Seth started throwing his huge foam arms around wildly, screaming, "Guys guys... get her off me... GUYS... GET HER OFF ME GUYS... GUYS GUYS GUYS!!!" as if appealing madly to all the men in the room, who would surely understand his plight and gallop immediately to his aid.
Now I don't know if you've ever imagined Darth Vader or the Incredible Hulk yelling at the top of their lungs as an unwitting toddler stomps on their exposed nads...but it's hilarious. Poor Seth. We were all rolling on the floor laughing, trying our best (between spasms of explosive, hyena-like laughter) to reach the completely confounded and upset Willow and give little Seth some relief. However, we were all hitting the floor like rag dolls, unable to stop laughing at the poor boy's zany misfortune.
Well finally one of us got to the now-crying Willow and comforted her while the rest of us checked the moaning, disgruntled Seth for serious testicular injury.
I am pleased to say, the crown jewels are intact to this day.
My friend Becky bought my son Seth a Hulk voice-changing mask and huge foam Hulk hands that act as EXTREMELY noisy green boxing gloves. well, Seth threw on the gloves and immediately became a little green menace, bouncing his new foamy fists of fury against the heads of his little sister, Willow, and best friend, Sedric.
The "adults" of course, were busy playing with the voice changing mask in the den. There was much giggling and picture taking.
Well, a few hours later things calmed down, and we were all sitting around talking. Seth was sitting in the middle of the floor, now decked out in his Vader-like Hulk mask and gloves, enjoying listening to himself answer questions in the monstrously deep robotic voice.
All of a sudden, Willow runs into the room at fulls speed, launches herself at us, and stops to talk to us. Unfortunately, the little beauty did not realize (or did she?) that she was standing solidly on her brother's crotch (which, I might add, was not protected by green foam or hard plastic.)
Seth started throwing his huge foam arms around wildly, screaming, "Guys guys... get her off me... GUYS... GET HER OFF ME GUYS... GUYS GUYS GUYS!!!" as if appealing madly to all the men in the room, who would surely understand his plight and gallop immediately to his aid.
Now I don't know if you've ever imagined Darth Vader or the Incredible Hulk yelling at the top of their lungs as an unwitting toddler stomps on their exposed nads...but it's hilarious. Poor Seth. We were all rolling on the floor laughing, trying our best (between spasms of explosive, hyena-like laughter) to reach the completely confounded and upset Willow and give little Seth some relief. However, we were all hitting the floor like rag dolls, unable to stop laughing at the poor boy's zany misfortune.
Well finally one of us got to the now-crying Willow and comforted her while the rest of us checked the moaning, disgruntled Seth for serious testicular injury.
I am pleased to say, the crown jewels are intact to this day.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Christmas 2007
Happy Birthday, Jesus. I know they say you were actually born during the Hebrew harvest time, but whatever. Happy birthday.
Christmas was a Great Morning. Really. Seth proclaimed it, "The Berst Christmas Ever," and obviously that made my morning. Especially since, apparently, Seth and Melissa had the "talk" about the philosophical nature of Santa Claus vs. the actual physical nature of said jolly old elf. So Seth understood that it was going to be a tight Christmas, but was completely understanding by the time Christmas day got here.
In spite of the fact that we all had less to spend this year, the kids were thrilled. And honestly, their hauls of loot were virtually indistinguishable from any other year; the items were just smaller.
Willow received a Snoopy Snow Cone machine (yes, old school, I know, thank you), about 10 princess-type Disney/Barbie dolls, a baby doll, 3 princess movies, the Thumbellina movie, a "Princess Willow" figurine, two books, a stuffed monkey and clothes.
Seth hauled in a Yoda backpack, the last 4 Harry Potter books, a homemade play sword, a real squire's court sword w/ sheath, two pirate water pistols, a stuffed rabbit, a "Seth the Brave Knight" action figure on horseback, a walking stick, a few action figures, a few Transformers, "How to Eat Fried Worms" the movie, and the Pokemon: Diamond and Pearl DS games.
We went to mom and dad's for lunch. After lunch, we all unwrapped presents. We had a good time together. It didn't feel rushed, and we all seemed to enjoy ourselves. There was no family tension or drama. The kids got tons of clothes. and some outdoor toys and movies they'd been wanting.
After that I took the kids to Melissa; we met in Turbeville as usual. There the kids gave me their presents to me; Seth gave me a huge "Dad" pen, and Willow gave me a cool Chinese dragon figurine that matches the two horses I already have.
Yeah, it was a good day. The kids were happy, so I'm happy.
Christmas was a Great Morning. Really. Seth proclaimed it, "The Berst Christmas Ever," and obviously that made my morning. Especially since, apparently, Seth and Melissa had the "talk" about the philosophical nature of Santa Claus vs. the actual physical nature of said jolly old elf. So Seth understood that it was going to be a tight Christmas, but was completely understanding by the time Christmas day got here.
In spite of the fact that we all had less to spend this year, the kids were thrilled. And honestly, their hauls of loot were virtually indistinguishable from any other year; the items were just smaller.
Willow received a Snoopy Snow Cone machine (yes, old school, I know, thank you), about 10 princess-type Disney/Barbie dolls, a baby doll, 3 princess movies, the Thumbellina movie, a "Princess Willow" figurine, two books, a stuffed monkey and clothes.
Seth hauled in a Yoda backpack, the last 4 Harry Potter books, a homemade play sword, a real squire's court sword w/ sheath, two pirate water pistols, a stuffed rabbit, a "Seth the Brave Knight" action figure on horseback, a walking stick, a few action figures, a few Transformers, "How to Eat Fried Worms" the movie, and the Pokemon: Diamond and Pearl DS games.
We went to mom and dad's for lunch. After lunch, we all unwrapped presents. We had a good time together. It didn't feel rushed, and we all seemed to enjoy ourselves. There was no family tension or drama. The kids got tons of clothes. and some outdoor toys and movies they'd been wanting.
After that I took the kids to Melissa; we met in Turbeville as usual. There the kids gave me their presents to me; Seth gave me a huge "Dad" pen, and Willow gave me a cool Chinese dragon figurine that matches the two horses I already have.
Yeah, it was a good day. The kids were happy, so I'm happy.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Love Can Kiss My White Scot-Irish Bahookey
When I was a kid, the grown ladies around me always told me I was going to be a "heartbreaker" one day. The more time goes by - the more relationships I've been in - this seems more and more like some cruel antebellum curse or malign prophecy on their part.
Don't get the wrong impression here...I'm not a guy who gets requests for dates all the time, or even regularly. I'm not bombarded with ladies who want to spend time with the design monkey. But with me, as I'm sure it is with everybody, sometimes the stars line up in a way that seems right enough for further investigation of someone who wanders across my path.
I don't like hurting people, especially women that I let myself get close to. It's starting to seem like after the divorce, my efforts are futile to do anything other than leave a short swathe of hurt or disappointed women behind me.
Why do I keep bouncing from one woman to the next? B/c of this notion I have of a woman out there that is my ideal match. My one, my soul mate, my happily ever frickin' after - whatever you want to call it, she's it.
But I started wondering last week, is this most sacred of quests the noble and worthwhile undertaking that I have always seen it as? Yes, it's just dating, and maybe some ladies fall too hard too fast for me - but if there's nothing really wrong with a woman but I'm just not feeling the "one" vibe or something doesn't feel right and I get out of the relationship...it just seems like there might be an increasingly thin line between my notions of the perfect woman for me and a non-existent fairy tale (or clinical insanity, take your pick.) Could I be happy if I'd just settle down and let myself be?
Let's be honest...prolly not.
Then I'm reminded...my ex and I relied on the initial feelings of love to carry us through, and it didn't. We should have thought through things more before settling. Two wonderful kids, sure. But a true match we were not. So maybe I'm justified here.
Either way, I'm taking a break. Maybe a really long one. I don't know right now. My dad always told me never to say what I'll never do. So I'm not. I'm just saying that love, fate, the stars, Venus, Cupid, whoever or whatever can kiss my Scot-Irish bahookey for a while, b/c I'm tired of dating. Finding the next (and hopefully last) Mrs. Shane McElveen is not a game to me, and it's painful every time it doesn't work out...whether I acknowledge that or not when I'm ending it.
So yeah, I'm out of the dating circuit for a while. I think. Unless someone irresistible and incredibly persuasive comes along. Not that anyone cares, but since when did I ever write these things for you people? LOL.
Don't get the wrong impression here...I'm not a guy who gets requests for dates all the time, or even regularly. I'm not bombarded with ladies who want to spend time with the design monkey. But with me, as I'm sure it is with everybody, sometimes the stars line up in a way that seems right enough for further investigation of someone who wanders across my path.
I don't like hurting people, especially women that I let myself get close to. It's starting to seem like after the divorce, my efforts are futile to do anything other than leave a short swathe of hurt or disappointed women behind me.
Why do I keep bouncing from one woman to the next? B/c of this notion I have of a woman out there that is my ideal match. My one, my soul mate, my happily ever frickin' after - whatever you want to call it, she's it.
But I started wondering last week, is this most sacred of quests the noble and worthwhile undertaking that I have always seen it as? Yes, it's just dating, and maybe some ladies fall too hard too fast for me - but if there's nothing really wrong with a woman but I'm just not feeling the "one" vibe or something doesn't feel right and I get out of the relationship...it just seems like there might be an increasingly thin line between my notions of the perfect woman for me and a non-existent fairy tale (or clinical insanity, take your pick.) Could I be happy if I'd just settle down and let myself be?
Let's be honest...prolly not.
Then I'm reminded...my ex and I relied on the initial feelings of love to carry us through, and it didn't. We should have thought through things more before settling. Two wonderful kids, sure. But a true match we were not. So maybe I'm justified here.
Either way, I'm taking a break. Maybe a really long one. I don't know right now. My dad always told me never to say what I'll never do. So I'm not. I'm just saying that love, fate, the stars, Venus, Cupid, whoever or whatever can kiss my Scot-Irish bahookey for a while, b/c I'm tired of dating. Finding the next (and hopefully last) Mrs. Shane McElveen is not a game to me, and it's painful every time it doesn't work out...whether I acknowledge that or not when I'm ending it.
So yeah, I'm out of the dating circuit for a while. I think. Unless someone irresistible and incredibly persuasive comes along. Not that anyone cares, but since when did I ever write these things for you people? LOL.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Armored Bears and Inner Questions
I decided weeks ago that I'm going to watch The Golden Compass. To be frank, it looks like a really good movie; I'm just not convinced it's a kids' movie.
Months before I heard about the third book in the series, where the heroic kids team up with "fallen angels" in a parallel universe from our own to kill this senile old evil god figure. To be honest, this bothered me b/c it sounded a bit like Satanist philosophy to me. As a Christian who's about to be re-baptised on the same day my son is baptised, this is something that I have to question. This was amid the flurry of opinions from all sorts of viewpoints that I was getting, as my friends range from militantly agnostic to mystics to right-wing Christians.
I did a fair amount of research. I mean honestly I don't think an atheist is going to leave his ideals - his beliefs - out of his books. No one does. Stephen King doesn't. C.S. Lewis didn't. Tolkien didn't. They all injected at least a bit of themselves into their stories.
I think it's only fair for everyone to get their soapbox in America. It's what our country is about. I'm not a boycotter. I don't believe for a second that God hates homeosexuals. In fact, I think anyone who holds up a "god hates fags" banners should have "Ichabod" stamped over their church door, b/c they've failed to teach the love of God and Christ in that place...they have lowered themselves to a philosophy of hatred and intolerance.
Let's face it, Christians. Society tolerates our ideas as much as we tolerate "the world." I for one don't mind hearing a man's allegorical objections to the Catholic Church. I'm not Catholic. But I do value their traditions, and I think that children's books shouldn't have to be toned down due to religious content in order for a movie to be made.
If you're going to write about topics denouncing things I think they should books for teens and abults, not younger. Kids need time to be kids before they have to worry about all this crap. All these varied viewpoints about God. And for a child to even have to consider having their soul torn away from them, even in a fantasy context, or to be forced to slay a tormenting creator that should be loving and aiding them as a father/mother would...it becomes horror. It becomes an unfair, dark thing for a child to have to ponder. I'm not trying to make anyone out to be a villain here, I just personally think it was over the edge.
Do I think that God is offended? I don't know the mind of God; I merely perceive glimpses. Just like all of us who believe in God. I think God is love. Sure he gets offended, sad, angry, lonely...I think he probably feels a lot of things about it. But atheism isn't new to God. Neither is allegory. Neither is fantasy. Or this crazy "free will" thing that He invented. You know, right before He took a day off and took some pain killers from the massive headache he likely got thinking about all the damn necessary trouble that "free will" was going to cause this world. Don't get me wrong. I like being my own person; thinking for myself. If God had made us all automatons, we never would have truly lived. And part of living is accepting others and their views, and living with the consequences of our own actions. I've been a crusading "uber-Christian" in the past. I don't ever want to take that approach again. To denounce people and hurt them; drive them away. And I won't. But I also won't stop believing the things that make me who I am.
I'm rambling...all this opinion hurling is making me tired. I'm going to wrap this up.
So I'll be watching The Golden Compass. And likely any other movie they make. B/c I do value other thoughts, and I want to hear them. And b/c my faith in what I personally belive is firm.
but my children won't be watching it yet. Not until I think they're ready to handle it. Right now, just the mention of a kid's soul being separated from her makes my son cry out in horror and dismay...I'm not OK with that. I'm tired of other people telling me what my children should and shouldn't watch or can handle and should be experiencing. I'm not a fool...I'll decide that for myself. And so should you.
If I've offended any of my friends or loved ones of any belief, it wasn't my intention. No one has been singled out here in my thoughts while writing this. Maybe you think I'm over-reacting here over a stupid movie, but honestly I wrote this blog for myself...not for you. I'm only doing what I think is best for my kids. And honestly, that's all any Christian is doing. That's all any agnostic or atheist is doing. That's all any parent, of any faith, is doing. Maybe we should ask the children how they feel about it. They probably have a great deal more wisdom on the subject than any of us do.
Months before I heard about the third book in the series, where the heroic kids team up with "fallen angels" in a parallel universe from our own to kill this senile old evil god figure. To be honest, this bothered me b/c it sounded a bit like Satanist philosophy to me. As a Christian who's about to be re-baptised on the same day my son is baptised, this is something that I have to question. This was amid the flurry of opinions from all sorts of viewpoints that I was getting, as my friends range from militantly agnostic to mystics to right-wing Christians.
I did a fair amount of research. I mean honestly I don't think an atheist is going to leave his ideals - his beliefs - out of his books. No one does. Stephen King doesn't. C.S. Lewis didn't. Tolkien didn't. They all injected at least a bit of themselves into their stories.
I think it's only fair for everyone to get their soapbox in America. It's what our country is about. I'm not a boycotter. I don't believe for a second that God hates homeosexuals. In fact, I think anyone who holds up a "god hates fags" banners should have "Ichabod" stamped over their church door, b/c they've failed to teach the love of God and Christ in that place...they have lowered themselves to a philosophy of hatred and intolerance.
Let's face it, Christians. Society tolerates our ideas as much as we tolerate "the world." I for one don't mind hearing a man's allegorical objections to the Catholic Church. I'm not Catholic. But I do value their traditions, and I think that children's books shouldn't have to be toned down due to religious content in order for a movie to be made.
If you're going to write about topics denouncing things I think they should books for teens and abults, not younger. Kids need time to be kids before they have to worry about all this crap. All these varied viewpoints about God. And for a child to even have to consider having their soul torn away from them, even in a fantasy context, or to be forced to slay a tormenting creator that should be loving and aiding them as a father/mother would...it becomes horror. It becomes an unfair, dark thing for a child to have to ponder. I'm not trying to make anyone out to be a villain here, I just personally think it was over the edge.
Do I think that God is offended? I don't know the mind of God; I merely perceive glimpses. Just like all of us who believe in God. I think God is love. Sure he gets offended, sad, angry, lonely...I think he probably feels a lot of things about it. But atheism isn't new to God. Neither is allegory. Neither is fantasy. Or this crazy "free will" thing that He invented. You know, right before He took a day off and took some pain killers from the massive headache he likely got thinking about all the damn necessary trouble that "free will" was going to cause this world. Don't get me wrong. I like being my own person; thinking for myself. If God had made us all automatons, we never would have truly lived. And part of living is accepting others and their views, and living with the consequences of our own actions. I've been a crusading "uber-Christian" in the past. I don't ever want to take that approach again. To denounce people and hurt them; drive them away. And I won't. But I also won't stop believing the things that make me who I am.
I'm rambling...all this opinion hurling is making me tired. I'm going to wrap this up.
So I'll be watching The Golden Compass. And likely any other movie they make. B/c I do value other thoughts, and I want to hear them. And b/c my faith in what I personally belive is firm.
but my children won't be watching it yet. Not until I think they're ready to handle it. Right now, just the mention of a kid's soul being separated from her makes my son cry out in horror and dismay...I'm not OK with that. I'm tired of other people telling me what my children should and shouldn't watch or can handle and should be experiencing. I'm not a fool...I'll decide that for myself. And so should you.
If I've offended any of my friends or loved ones of any belief, it wasn't my intention. No one has been singled out here in my thoughts while writing this. Maybe you think I'm over-reacting here over a stupid movie, but honestly I wrote this blog for myself...not for you. I'm only doing what I think is best for my kids. And honestly, that's all any Christian is doing. That's all any agnostic or atheist is doing. That's all any parent, of any faith, is doing. Maybe we should ask the children how they feel about it. They probably have a great deal more wisdom on the subject than any of us do.
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