Uh... I'm Sorry?

As a man, the phrase "I'm sorry." should be ready to utter at any given moment when it comes to self-preservation in the midst of spousal argument. Don't get me wrong; I'm all about enforcing the man-code when it comes to issues that most women are not entirely familiar with (i.e. - automotive upkeep, lawn care, BBQ grilling, UFC etc.)... but, in some cases, its a no-win situation to even think about arguing your point. For example, my wife awoke one morning completely livid with me for a transgression committed IN HER DREAM! Normally, my wife is not a morning person so her silence was not unusual but as soon as I leaned over to kiss her goodbye I realized that she was upset and wanted nothing to do with me. Confused, I asked what was wrong and she proceeded to explain in great detail what an ass I had been in her dream last night. Without going into great detail, I had violated one of the 10 Commandments in some interesting ways and she caught me red-handed... IN HER DREAM.

Mistake #1 - I laughed. Soon afterward I realized by the look on her face that it was not funny to her because it was a very real anger she carried over from her dream.

Mistake #2 - I tried to make her laugh by asking if the girl was hot... response was the same as Mistake #1.

As much as I wanted to explain the complete insanity of her anger, I realized that this was a situation that mandated an "I'm sorry." response no matter how much I thought I was in the right. This is not the first time I have transgressed in her dreams/nightmares so I should know better than to make light of the situation and her feelings... self-preservation... remember that its the most important thing when it comes to saying "Uh, I'm sorry?"

An American Pastime?

While watching the Japan/Korea World Baseball Classic final last night, I realized that our beloved American Pastime might not actually belong solely to Americans anymore. Maybe its the inflated salaries, bloated egos or the continuing steroid allegations that just never seem to go away but we, as Americans, have become a little less enthusiastic about the game of baseball. I'm not saying that we don't love the game anymore but you have to admit that our fervor could take some lessons from the Japanese and Korean fans. After watching the USA team "phone it in" against the Japanese team, I pretty much wrote off the rest of the WBC waiting for the end of MLB spring training. Last night I decided to tune in a few innings of the Japan/Korea final only to find myself transfixed by one of the best games I've seen in many months (including the last World Series). The Asian ballplayers and their fans treated this game as if it were their "Game 7" and the end of the season... but it wasn't. This was just an international tournament. Its not even the Olympics but the national pride on both sides was very obvious.

Japanese and Korean fans alike screamed and yelled at every opportunity and hung on to every pitch and every swing. Each time ESPN scanned the crowd, every fan would wave and clap their thundersticks and scream at the top of their lungs no matter what may be happening on the field. It was a true love for the team they were supporting. The Koreans even filled a stadium with 20,000 fans halfway across the globe to watch a live simulcast of the game taking place in L.A. Now that is what I call dedication. But, besides the fan support, the players too displayed an obvious passion for the game. Each player on the field wanted the championship trophy as bad as the other and made sure their fans would get the game they deserved.

It made me a little sad thinking that the USA team should be in the final but their minds were already somewhere else thinking of the season ahead. I only hope that I get to see another quality game like the WBC final somewhere amongst the 162 MLB games this season. Sure, baseball is an American pastime but the Asians paid homage to the game by taking it to another level the USA team never came close to matching.

Bachelor is Biggest Loser...

For fear of having my man-card punched, I will only admit that, over the last couple of weeks, I have caught bits and pieces of The Bachelor while the wife watched religiously on my HD plasma TV. That alone is enough to make any man cringe because, as everyone knows, plasma TVs are made specifically for viewing NFL, MLB, NHL, NBA, MMA and the UFC in all their wondrous glory... oh, and Hawaiin Tropic bikini competitions too. That being said, I normally keep my mouth shut when it comes to the wife's choice of programming but this season's The Bachelor had an interesting twist to it. Jason Mesnick was last season's runner-up (loser) in The Bachelorette so he became the centerpiece in The Bachelor... only this time he brought his 3-year old boy along for the ride. I can't begin to tell you how wrong this is on so many levels but I gave him the benefit of the doubt hoping he wouldn't became the total ass I thought he would. Being a single dad for several years, I can count on one hand the number of women my girls met in 9 years of bachelorhood. This jerk was about to exceed that total in a matter of weeks. As I watched the finale, I caught several things that require this dork relinquish his man-card for good.

#1 - Never, never, never cry on a balcony like a little girl on national TV. This takes the "sensitive" guy concept way too far. Even women are thinking this guy is a wuss at that point.

#2 - Dumping someone is an inevitable part of life if you've ever dated. With the exception of soul mates that met in the 8th grade, most of us (men and women) have had to cut the ties with someone they were no longer interested in or had nothing in common with. This guy asks a girl to marry him, changes his mind, dumps her AND makes out with the other girl in front of her. Usually the crotch area is off-limits in any kind of altercation but she totally had my blessing to take a running start and bury her high heel in his scrotum.

#3 - Children are off-limits all the time. Period. I'm not sure how much they paid his ex-wife to agree to this crap but using your own child as a pawn in a TV show is as low as low can get. Using a dog to meet women is one thing but using your own kid to tug at the heart strings is completely different and despicable. Did anyone ever ask the kid what or who he wanted out of all this?

To sum it up. Jason Mesnick from here forth shall forfeit his MAN-CARD and will forever be relegated to the position of male wanna-be forced to attend parenting classes until said child is no longer dependent on his dumb ass for support. This is after he is given a vasectomy to prevent damage to future children under his care. Let's hope the damage he has done to the male species won't be permanent.

Saying Goodbye...

Last week, I spent an entire day on the road traveling from San Antonio to Carrizo Springs and back to Fort Worth for the sole purpose of visiting my grandmother who has been in a nursing home there. Funny thing about driving solo is that you're left alone with your thoughts for hours on end to contemplate everything from grocery lists to the meaning of life. On this day, it was all about my grandmother. It had been at least a year since I had visited with her and I had heard that her memory was beginning to fade along with her body. When I did have the pleasure of sitting and visiting with her, she would always ask about the kids and then proceed to ask if I was still married to the same woman. I believe it was her way of picking at me about being married three times. She used to keep a wedding photo of my first wife on her walls long after we had divorced. Always an interesting conversation with whomever I happened to take to Little Grandma's for a visit. I remember spending my summers with my grandparents as a child and always wondering why the house was so small. Not necessarily the square footage but the doorways and ceilings. Built by my grandfather, he constructed the home to fit the height of his family, all of whom were no taller than 5'9". You can imagine the lumps a 6 footer would take in the middle of the night walking through a doorway meant for someone much smaller. But, I loved the home because it was the same year after year. Something that never seemed to age and a place I could always return to for a sense of comfort and nostalgia. Same pictures, same furniture, same aroma... it never changed over 40+ years.

I happened to be at a conference in San Antonio last week when I decided to skip the last day of sessions and make a trip to Carrizo Springs to visit Little Grandma. It wasn't necessarily a planned trip and I had even contemplated just going home and visiting her "next time"... which usually meant another few months for me. This time, I drove the two hours to visit her. The nursing home was not what I would've liked it to be. I walked into her room and found her sleeping... she had lost a lot of weight since my last visit. Her nurse walked in and updated me on her condition telling me that she no longer remembered or recognized any visitors and slept most of the time. I figured it would be best not to try and wake her. I sat at the end of her bed and watched her sleep... listened to her body fight for every breath... and mumble occassionally while she dreamed. After awhile, I leaned over, told her I loved her, kissed her forehead, said goodbye and left knowing the next trip back would be for her funeral... only I didn't think it would be 6 days later. Somehow, I want to believe that she knew I was there for that short period of time... at least I hope she did.

* My grandmother passed away two weeks after this posting...

Do Real Men Loofah?

Firstly, let me say that the word "loofah" is in itself too feminine to even utter in the presence of other men. You might as well mix in words like tampon, kotex, bikini wax, exfoliate and pumice stone if you do... and you had better be reading a grocery list your wife just gave you. That being said, I will from now instead refer to the loofah as a "scrubber" which is exactly what it should be called. I've always dealt with my wife's scrubbers as an unavoidable nuisance taking up precious space in the shower while I scrubbed with whatever hand towel happened to be left behind for me to use. I've never been picky about hand towels, shower gels or bar soap as long as I felt it did the job of removing the dirt and smell from the previous day. The problem arose when I began going to the gym on a regular basis and occasionally have to shower to return to work. Hand towels don't normally work in this situation since a gym bag is not the ideal place for a wet towel to sit for several days. Especially when you've been reminded by the emanating smell from your gym bag that you forgot to take it out. The answer? A scrubber.

We've all seen the commercials. Some guy walks by several models hanging out at the gym who ignore him like last year's oil change. He showers with some Axe shower gel and the new Axe Scrubber. Abracadabra! He's a stud and they tackle him ripping all the clothes off his body. Fortunately, I'm a little more media literate than to believe that could happen to me but I buy the Axe Scrubber anyway. With the black and red color scheme, it has the look of something you'd find in your dad's toolbox. Even Axe recognized the need to give it a masculine connotation by labeling it a "detailer". I have to admit that I felt no shame walking through the men's locker room shower with it the other day. Its somewhat smaller than I had anticipated but, on one side, it has a grip that fits perfectly in your palm for a secure grasp while using it. Flip it over and there's a red super scrubber which I'm assuming is for removing bugs, leeches or dirt clods. Draining excess water and drying it was easy as well which gave it high marks in my book. I can do without the wet towel smell in my gym bag.

Do real men loofah? No, but they do scrub.

Sometimes, They Come Back...

I am a firm believer that, at some point in time, everyone does something in life that helps to define who they are as a person. For me, it was the day I became a teacher. I remember being so nervous the first time I had to stand in front of 30 kids and engage them for 50 minutes while I discussed the importance of media in society. Fifty-one minutes later, I knew I had found my calling. Over the next 14 years, I would teach, mentor, discipline, laugh, bandage, counsel and care for over 1200 students that walked through the doors of my classrooms... and I remember every single one of them. The names escape me sometimes but the faces never do. Teaching our young adults is a privilege and I believe everyone should spend at least one day of their life in a classroom to experience the feeling that only comes from looking into the eyes of a child hanging on to every word they say.

So why did I leave the classroom? Well, I could always use the "promotion I couldn't pass up" excuse or the teacher "burnout" cover story... but neither would be the complete truth. The real reason for leaving the classroom? I grew weary of saying goodbye to my "kids". As corny as it sounds, I considered all of them my children and cared for many as if they really were my very own. I watched so many of them grow up in front of my very own eyes. Some spent more time with me than their own parents. Most were with me over several years as they transitioned from awkward freshmen to the young men and women they would become as seniors... and that's when the hard part would come along. Hundreds upon hundreds of students that graduate and disappear into the real world never to be heard from again. Each time a group of my kids walked that stage a small part of my heart ached knowing I may never lay eyes on them again. Teachers aren't supposed to get that close... but many do. I was one of them. To this day, I wonder about so many of them. Are they in school? Did they graduate? Have they gotten married? How many kids have they had? Have they found their place in life? So many questions... but I had to let them go and keep it to myself.

Sometimes, they come back. There is always a small percentage that stay in touch and even stop by for a visit. Most of the time its a quick email or phone call to reach out and let me know how things are going in their lives... or a phone call to deliver the kind of news every teacher hopes to avoid... you hear it in the tone of their voice... the death of a kid. Its a phone call I received just yesterday. Josh was riding in a car that was broadsided by a drunk driver... and just like that... he is gone. I put the phone down, close my eyes and think about him for awhile. I remember his smile, his laugh, the clothes he wore and the sound of his voice. I remember the times I yelled at him, laughed with him and taught him... three years of memories. Its then the heartache returns and I think about his future taken away and the pain his parents and family are going through. Its still hard to believe this is happening. I thank God for allowing me to become a part of Josh's life and remember the reasons for leaving the classroom.

I'll go home and hug my kids... probably a lot longer than they want me to. They'll ask what's up and I'll just say "I love you. Please be careful while driving." They are my full-time students and, unlike all my other students, I know I'll never have to let them go... for long.

I am a teacher.

Gym Snob?

A few weeks ago, I joined a new gym in town just a few minutes from work hoping to begin my annual transformation from somewhat-height/weight proportionate-40-something male to athletic-not-sure-how-old-he-is mature male. Its a transformation I've undertaken ever since I divorced the first of my three wives 20 years ago (a story for another blog). Being health conscience, I've had the opportunity to join several gyms through the years and discovered that, somewhere along the way, I've become a gym snob. Don't get me wrong, when it comes down to it, all the dumbells weigh the same, the treadmills all tread at the same speed and the music is all the same techno-pop-rock jumble you'll hear everywhere else... but, the older I get, the more I expect and/or need for monthly access to my checking account. I've been a satisfied 24-hour Fitness customer for years until the day a friend suggested I take a look at Lifetime Fitness (now referred to as Globo Gym). I remember watching the construction and wondering what a strange location for a five-star hotel to be built. Little did I know that the "hotel" was Globo Gym.

I call it Globo Gym because it reminds me so much of the gym in the movie Dodgeball. When I walked in for a tour, I fully expected Ben Stiller to jump out at me in his spandex tights and porno mustache to congratulate me on making the decision to lose the 15-pack abs I was wearing. Oh, and to utter his trademark phrase "We're better than you and we know it.". As I walked through the gym, I couldn't help but notice the 50+ plasma monitors, personalized children's center, dual indoor Olympic-sized pools, two full-sized basketball courts, 50ft. climbing wall, indoor soccer field, free yoga classes, carpeted locker rooms with sauna and steam room and all types of treadmills and nautilus machinery. All of a sudden, 24 Hour Fitness became a fading thought as I was seduced by all of the amenities thrown at my feet for the low low price of $49 per month... twice what I was paying at 24 Hour.

In the end, I guess you could compare the upgrade of my gym membership to that of obtaining a trophy wife... lot's of beauty, entertainment and upkeep... for a price... but, man it sure is nice.