Connections and the Lack Thereof

Just a couple of reflections on the week…

I mentioned Ann and I were having problems with the computer. We couldn’t connect to the Internet for a while, and it was frustrating both of us. We both have a tendency to let things build up and build up until they explode—not too much unlike a raisin in the sun—and this was no different. We both went to the library or used other computers for a few days, but when that got to be too cumbersome, we sprang into action. I finally broke down and called Verizon, and when that was going nowhere fast, she furiously began to check the wall jack in the bedroom. Now, one might think that this is the first thing we should have done, but it just didn’t seem to make sense that the problem was with the connection between the phone line and the wall jack. The reason for this is that the jack is behind my two armoires, which are practically immovable, and thus we reasoned that since nothing could get back behind that precariously narrow corridor to disconnect the line from the jack, that could not be the problem. Besides, the connection to the Internet was intermittent for about two weeks, and finally it just stopped, so we surmised that it was a problem with our hardware, either the router provided by Verizon or a faulty phone line itself. It just couldn’t be the connection to the jack; that just didn’t make sense, for if it was the connection, it would’ve just stopped immediately without all these intermittent problems. Besides, when I shined a flashlight behind the armoires, the connection seemed fine.

But Ann does not think like me, which in this case was a good thing—kind of. She ripped the armoire away from the wall in a fury that I admired, yet my appreciative smile was tinged with a wince because she didn’t consider how the armoires were affixed in the room. She just ripped the left half of the wardrobe away from the wall, which was screwed into the right half, and thus she stripped the wood and left two visible gashes in the interior panels. Usually I would’ve immediately condemned such hasty action, because this is not the first time Ann has broken or ruined something due to her careless hurriedness, but knowing that she was already agitated, and quickly realizing that this was not the end of the world and that I’d rather have an Internet connection than a flawless armoire, I merely cautioned her to what she had just done.

Of course, the problem was with the connection to the wall jack behind the wardrobe. And of course, I was able to screw the armoires back together again and minimize the damage, which isn’t glaring at all due to the amount of clothes I have stuffed in them. But the lesson learned has nothing to do with either of these things. The lesson learned is that I am realizing more and more every day that there are indeed myriad reasons why I married this woman and will continue to remain faithful to her even if she is not to me. I am completely enamored with her desire to get things done. When she sets her mind to do something, damn does she do it, and she does it with gusto and passion. And I love this about her, this enthusiasm she musters inside herself to get the shit done when it needs to get done. It might take her a while to get there, but I am guilty of the same indolence, so I cannot fault her for that. I tend to burst in bubbles of enthusiasm myself, and in this way we are very much alike. Ann loves to point out our differences, which she points to as reasons why we should not remain married anymore, so I am going to take the advice of a buddy of my buddy’s: Envision your marriage as you would like it to be, not how it is or how bad it can be, and in this way will God’s will get done. I believe this to be solid wisdom, and thus I try to practice this advice as much as I possibly can, difficult as it is in the daily grind. So since Ann likes to point to how bad our marriage can be, I’m going to point to how good our marriage can be, and let God settle the difference.

And one more thing about this past week: I mentioned how good it is that Ann and I complement each other in certain areas, specifically in instances of gullibility. She is naïve in certain areas that I am not, and vice versa. What I didn’t mention—or actually what I edited out of that post—was our proclivity toward seeing the glass as being half empty. Neither of us are strong optimists, though we are optimistic at times. We are even always optimistic about certain things, but by and large we are pessimists, and her cynicism, even more so than mine, runs deep. Sometimes I think Ann sees her glass as being completely empty. Like yesterday, she was complaining about something—I forget what—and, after I tried to console her or cheer her up, she dejectedly said, “These things never work out.” Now even though I forget what we were talking about, I do remember thinking, “Of course these things work out! Why such negativity?” And then my mind jumped—as it usually does—to our marriage, and how positive I am about things working out so beautifully, and how negative she is about things never working out. I know where this deep pessimism comes from: her genetics and her family history. I will not get into specifics, but suffice it to say this is a real uphill battle for her, this whole “things will work out” deal. It is actually hard work for her to be optimistic about things sometimes, especially when it comes to a lifelong commitment like marriage when I did almost everything wrong that I possibly could have (emotionally speaking). I certainly did myself no favors by giving her every reason to think that things most certainly will not work out. So I shouldn’t be surprised when she says things like, “These things never work out.” I can tell her until I’m blue in the face that they can and will. But actions speak louder than words, which is why as of late I have been virtually silent as far as talking to her about our marriage. It’s time for me to put up or shut up, and walk the walk I’ve been talking. I just hope she walks with me.

Ghosts of Flesh and Blood

The most chilling thing happened to me a few minutes ago. I’m watching a bunch of Reading High students playing basketball during their gym class, and the other gym teacher who was with me drifted up to me and said, “Daniel Boone.” I looked at him with an empty expression, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. He said, “You went to Daniel Boone, right?” I said that I did, and he said, “I coached you. Seventh or eighth grade, I think. Basketball.” I told him I was sorry, but that I didn’t remember him. He told me he took me home one time. “Something was wrong with the busses that day. You, and another kid I think, I took home. You lived on a windy road in Douglassville.” I was amazed at this guy’s memory, and told him so. More than fifteen years ago we were in a car together—apparently with some other friend of mine—and he can remember it like it was yesterday. And I still can’t remember his name, even though it was only a little more than hour or so ago that he had introduced himself to me.

I wonder what kind of car we were in. Did he drop me off first, or was the other kid the first to go? Did he play any music? Did we talk? If he tried to talk to me, did I make an effort to talk back? I wasn’t then, and still am not, the world’s most talkative guy, especially in situations where I am even the slightest bit uncomfortable. And I remember that those years of my life were the most uncomfortable I think I’ve ever been. But I find myself wishing I could see myself in his car. I find myself wishing I could tell myself to smile, to be more interactive, because I don’t think that I probably was. Above all, I find myself wishing I could tell myself to not be so afraid.

A few nights ago while I was watching my kids take a bath, I noticed how much fun they were having. Usually they fight over bath toys, or Henry is making his younger brother, Devin, cry because he’s dumping water on him. But this particular evening they were thrilled with just being together in the bath tub: experimenting with the drinkability of soapy water, rudimentarily processing the density properties of some of their toys, and testing gravity as they would soak up water in a rag and then squeeze it out onto their own heads, laughing hysterically all the while. I reminisced back to my own bath tub experiments and found myself wishing I could go back in time and see myself in the bath tub. Was my smile as bright as my kids’? Did I laugh in the tub with my brother as much as my children are laughing together right now?

I thought back to a really bad softcore porno I briefly watched on Skinemax at the beginning of the month. DirecTV was running a Cinemax/HBO freeview over Labor Day weekend, and I was curious to see what I was missing (and I discovered that, other than Curb Your Enthusiasm, I’m not missing much at all). Anyway, this terrible movie was about a dude whose girlfriend broke up with him, and this super hot ghost visits him and takes him back in time to show him how abusive he was in all of his past relationships with all of these other super hot women. Dickens will most certainly have a stern word with anyone involved in this most unfortunate debauchery! But then I thought of Dickens’ masterpiece and, as I was putting the bath toys away, I realized why his story of the miserly and sinister Scrooge resonates so loudly in our cultural psyche. Is there any one of us who would not go back in time to see ourselves with wider lenses, to counsel ourselves with wiser words?

And then I thought of my kids again, and I said a prayer for them. I asked God for their memories to be awakened, that they would remember this particular time in the bath tub, laughing and playing with each other in innocence and purity. And then I said a prayer for myself. Since I cannot change the past, I asked God for strength and wisdom to change the present. I thought that if I now have such a strong urge to go back to my childhood and tell myself to act better, how much more of an urge will I have ten, twenty, thirty years from now to go back in time to this very moment, to know now what I will know then, and to tell myself what to do and how to do it. I imagined that I would tell myself to act more lovingly, to act more kindly, to act more humbly, and above all, to act less fearfully.

So now, as I sit in a faculty room at Reading High School, I think of Mr. Z, my former assistant basketball coach and current colleague. He is one of my Ghosts of Tom Past. He takes me back in time and shows me—shadowy as the images are—my former life. He teaches me that our present times all too quickly become our past. He tells me that the only way to change the past is to alter our present and prepare for our future. If I want other Ghosts of Tom Past to present to me good tidings, then I must act now. Now is the time to act more lovingly, to act more kindly, to act more humbly, and above all, to act less fearfully. There are already too many Ghosts informing me of my shameful past—my wife being one of them—and like Scrooge I am haunted to the brink of madness. I only hope now that my wife can be not only a Specter of Tom Past, showing me how things were, but that she can be an Angel of Tom Future, helping me to cast out all my demons of fear and ignorance.

My mother is a firm believer in ghosts. More and more I think I am, too.

Those Damn Insurance Companies

Disclaimer: Been having computer problems since the beginning of the week; that's why I have not been regular with my posting. (I don't know what Kelly's excuse is. Probably too much sex because the JW's haven't been visiting her, which I'm sure has nothing to do with the Satanic shrine she's got right in the middle of her living room.) I did write this with the intention of fixing it up a bit and polishing it off for this blog, but I'm too lazy right now to do that and will post it as is. Besides, I've got about three other posts brewing and just want to get this one out of the way. If you've ever had a problem with your insurance company, you might relate to this.

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Ann’s car broke down—again. Her car is newer than mine and with a lot less mileage, yet we have more problems with her car—a 2002 Mercury Cougar—than mine—a 1998 Ford Escort. Go figure. Anyway, she called me from her job and asked me to make arrangements for a tow truck and whatnot, which turned out to be a huge endeavor. To make a long story short, I spent about an hour and a half on the phone with the insurance company, trying to resolve a major miscommunication I had with the representative who sold me the policy, her boss, and her boss’ boss. The details are too laborious to mention, and quite frankly, after the ordeal I had earlier this evening, I don’t want to relive it now. One fact I do need to mention is that the supervisor I last spoke with assured me that my claim would be investigated, the recording of the phone conversation between myself and the representative who sold me the policy would be pulled from their archives, and that, after the investigation, if it was discovered that the representative misled me, that I would be reimbursed the entire cost of having Ann’s car towed. But here’s the rub: Ann and I don’t have two or three hundred dollars to cover the initial towing cost, nor is the reimbursement guaranteed because whoever the adjuster is who is investigating my claim, he or she may find some loophole to say that I am in the wrong no matter what the representative told me, probably because I did sign all the forms she told me to. But who reads all the fine print? However, I did hang up the phone with this supervisor fully confident that this matter would be resolved in our favor. For once the little guy would win.

Then I called Ann to tell her what had just transpired. She practically blew me off. She told me we’d never see the reimbursement. She told me no insurance company would reimburse us one hundred percent of the towing cost for a tow that was not specifically agreed upon in the original policy. I tried to explain how understanding this supervisor was, how he listened to me and told me he understood my predicament and how he assured me that he would personally handle this. He told me he was on my side and that he would fight to get my claim heard and reconciled in my favor. I’m telling you, this guy I talked to was nice. But even though Ann didn’t specifically say this, in between her words she was telling me that that is what he gets paid to do and that he’s very good at being a snake in the grass.

So I hung up with Ann dejected. Only a few minutes ago I was quite satisfied with what I thought was going to be a reasonable resolution. But after thinking about it over my burnt pizza which I left in the oven too long because I forgot about it while I was arguing with people at the insurance company, I realized that this is exactly why I married Ann. She sees things through different lenses than I do. And in this way we complement each other. She’s not as naïve as I am about certain things, and vice versa. In this specific instance regarding our problem with the insurance company, she was looking at things realistically while I had on my rose-colored glasses. In the past I probably would have poo-pooed away her opinion on the matter and I would have had the car towed, completely ignoring her input and doing what I wanted when I wanted and how I wanted. But that’s not how I operate anymore. I’m listening to her and meshing her opinions with mine and making better decisions because of her. I just wish I would’ve realized all this a long time ago. I guess I just needed to learn all this the hard way. I just hope I didn’t learn it all too late.