Notes from the Red Bird House

I have been lucky enough to have two beautiful women call me 'the love of their life'. I have been unlucky enough that both chose other paths, paths that did not include me. I ask myself over and over again. Why? Why? Why? Why? Most people kill themselves trying to find great love and when they do, they grab on with both hands so it doesn't get away. And yet these two women, who said they couldn't live without me, are. I'm a forty-four year old realist and I know with the greatest certainty that there are only a few things a human being can't live without and none of them are another human being. Oxygen, warmth, food, water... These are the keys to survival. All that aside, I did (errantly) have the expectation that they would want to be with me. After all, doesn't everyone want to spend the rest of their life with the love of their life? I know I do. I'm a serial non-dater, so much so that I generally tell people that I don't date. It cuts nicely

The problem is that I don't want my old life back. I want my girlfriend and my most recent life back. I know that may sound shocking given that my old life was good, damn good in fact. I could do what I wanted without ever checking in with anyone else. I only had one work schedule to worry about. My DVR wasn't full of 'Housewives'. I traveled. I watched a lot of tennis. I dreamed my own dreams. I planned my own life. I thought exclusively about me. See? Damn good life. So what's the problem? Why don't I just sidle back over to my old life and hit 'resume'? Yeah well... A strange thing happened. I found a better life. For five months and five days, I had a great life, a damn great life. By my math great beats good every time. Great was great. I have to say. Love, beauty, laughter, togetherness beat all. When they are with the right person, and they were. Time was short but it was perfect, as perfect as I can imagine it being. I loved it, her, and us

'Wake me up when it's all over.' When my tears have dried and my soul has found it's way. Right now though I'm not sleeping. Going on two days. I wish I could. I wish I could close my eyes to this nightmare and fall asleep. I wish many things. Above all, I wish I'd been right - that we loved each other enough to love each other through anything; that we were different; that we would survive; that we would do the work; that we would never break up. As jaded as I've been, that's as honest as it can be. I truly believed. Sounds pretty stupid and sunshiny optimistic, doesn't it? I believed in love - our love. Hers. Mine. Ours. And it was beautiful. We were beautiful. She more than me, but yes...beautiful. Now I long for darkness. Escape. Home. Sleep. Not just any sleep. Sleep with my hand touching hers. Sleep knowing that when I wake, she'll be there next to me. It, she, us, though, are no more.

It was game day so that meant pancakes. With the blueberry syrup. “Go Blue”. That's what he would write. With the syrup. On the pancakes. Three of them. Three pancakes. Never more than three. After breakfast, he'd work in the yard for a couple hours. Always in a t-shirt the opposing team's color. Minnesota meant maroon. Ohio State red. Michigan State green. Rake the leaves. Burn the leaves. Burn the t-shirt. Hang the flag. Represent. Shower. Dress in the current year's jersey. Or the old Brady one. That one was his favorite. They'd won a lot of games while he wore that jersey. And maize socks. Maize. It's not just another word for yellow. It's maize. As in Maize and Blue. Left sock and shoe first. He had to, if he wanted the Wolverines to win. He did so he did. With the pregame on the radio, he'd make the half mile trek to the party store. Coors Light for him, a six pack. Cans. Always cans. And never more than six. White wine for her. She couldn

Sometimes I think maybe she was always there. Just waiting for me. Or maybe I was waiting for her. Maybe it was none of that or all of that. Maybe it was just coincidence. A really happy coincidence. She was there and I was there, so we were there. And because we were, we are. For everything I don't know, I know with certainty that we are. We are. One moment were weren't and then we were. And we still are. This is the miracle. Not that we were. That we still are. Nearly four months later. Four months. For me, but maybe not for her, this is rare, so rare that I can count the times I've been here on one hand. And in reality, I don't know if I've ever been 'here' before. So maybe we aren't a coincidence. Maybe we are what we were supposed to be all along, from the beginning. Our beginning. The beginning that came before we became us, when I was me and she was...well her. Separate. Yet maybe knowing somehow someday that we would be. Us.

I liked today. In fact, I've liked the last several days. Hmm... Let me count. Alright, I've liked the last week. The entire last week. Granted a week isn't a very long time, but I refuse to let that fact diminish my liking of it. A blind curve. I'd wanted one for so long - a change, a super cool, amazingly positive change - but I'd given up waiting for it. I drudged through work, school, writing, and tennis without ever knowing that in one moment, one teeny-tiny moment that nearly didn't happen, my life was going to change. It's nothing I wished for or imagined I could possibly want. Yet.... Suddenly, I found myself drowning in an unexpected and inescapable beauty. And blue. Yes, blue. A haunting, distracting, perfect blue that seemed hell-bent on reaching into my soul. I tried to look away. I did. But found I couldn't. I just couldn't. Beauty and blue. My downfall. And my fear. First instinct - Stay. Second instinct - Run. Decision - Head Fir

'Judge not, lest ye be judged". I think I got that right. I suck at the Bible and as an atheist, I don't see myself getting any better at it. The phrase came to mind tonight and I'm going with it. If it's a misquote so be it. I don't worry much about being judged. Which is probably a good thing given that I've been judged a lot. A lot. A lot A lot. Because I'm this, I'm that. Because I do this, and shouldn't, I'm this, that, and the other thing. I should like men, accept Jesus Christ as my Savior, stop cursing, eat fewer donuts and more cheeseburgers, drink less or more (depending on one's perspective), live in a better neighborhood, like to read, drive a better car, stop sleeping with married women, be more ambitious, give to charity, blah, blah, blah. Keep in mind that I'm not breaking any laws. No one is saying that I should kill fewer people or steal less. Yet I am consistently and constantly guilty of something. What's the b

I have a secret and I'm not telling. Not this time. This time it's mine. All mine. Well, I guess it's not all mine. Ok, so half of it's mine. She is free to tell. At least the part of the story that's hers. My story, my part... the part that I'm not telling, that's mine. My secret. I do love a secret. Mine, not other people's. Other people's secrets come with fear and worry and a bunch of what ifs. What if I spill it? What if I forget it's a secret? What if it slips out? What if I tell? What if I suddenly turn into a shitty friend? I don't like those secrets. But my secret... I love it. Because it's mine. My secret has power, it's own subtle yet insistent power. Sometimes it begs me to tell, but then what would I have? Nothing. The sly, denying smile would fade, the butterflies would flutter off. It's power would be gone. It would begin to tarnish. Someone would ruin it. So, I'm holding on. What's mine is mine. And r

When I was young, playing junior and college tennis, we called it 'treeing'. After so many years away from the game and with the way slang changes anyway, I'm not sure they still call it that. I honestly haven't heard the term since returning to tennis a year ago. Back in the day 'treeing' was a good thing. Unless you were playing against it. 'Treeing' meant that you couldn't miss. 'Treeing' meant you could swing wildly with your eyes closed and the ball would still fall in for a winner. 'Treeing' meant you could try shots you always missed and come away with a winner. 'Treeing' meant you could do everything you should never do and still hit a winner. 'Treeing' meant you were having a can't miss day. In tennis, these are the best kind of days, the kind of days that renew your faith and remind you why you love the game. They also make up for all the shitty days; the days you couldn't hit water if you fell out

I can't tell if I feel like dog shit this morning because I finally slept off a little of my recent sleep deprivation or because for the first time in eighteen months, I'm back on my Anti-Everything Pills (called 'AEPs' from here forward). Of course it could also be a lack of caffeine.  Luckily my head hurts too bad to worry too much about it. Moving forward, I'm going to say that it's a mix of all three. This week sucked on many levels. I'll only bore you with a few of those. The rest will remain my private battle because I don't believe this blog is the right place to air workplace grievances. Suffice it to say, actions this week at work did nothing to assuage the general suckiness that surrounded my week. If anything, they made it worse, far, far worse. I'm left with what I'm left with in that arena and the words 'It's whatever' ringing in my ears. Recovering from that part of my week will take more than a decent night's slee

I am burdened tonight by something. Assuredly it's nothing. Or will be nothing tomorrow. It's just to do with tonight and the darkness and the cool breeze. It's the light coming in my bedroom window and the knowledge that my alarm is going to go off much earlier than I would like. It's being here. And not there. Even though 'there' is as mysterious as it's always been. It's absence. And presence. It's the memory of a wind chime and moonlight, of everything that came before. It's a choice. Or maybe a dozen of them. It's being and having and doing. It's wanting and dreaming and wishing. It's the feeling of a gun to the head and happiness held hostage. It's the beat of the heart and a tear in the soul. It is a tonight that won't be tomorrow.

Eleven years ago today, I resolved something. I decided; I made a pact with myself. I was going to do something outside the box. Well, outside my box. I was going to stop procrastinating. I was going to say, 'Hello'. It sounds so simple. 'Hello' or maybe just 'Hi'. Or 'Hey'. I'm sure 'Hey' would have worked. Regardless, eleven years ago today (We can debate why I still remember the date or we can just let that part go. I'd prefer we let it go), I resolved to speak; say anything. 'Hello', 'Hi', and 'Hey' were probably the most logical choices. It would make sense to say any one of the three. That, a smile, and a little eye contact. That was the plan. Did I follow through? No, but it wasn't my fault. I was ready, so ready, so very, very ready. And then... She spoke first. With my plan skittering uncontrollably away, I had to improvise. 'Hello', 'Hi', or 'Hey', the options I'd practic

I don't know what to do with myself. I have a little over an hour until good TV starts and I'm at a loss. Thank goodness for school. School means I rarely have this problem. Thus far today I've been to the gym, played tennis, and run errands so all that's out. Dinner? Just finished. Clean the bathroom? I'm dog sitting for a friend and I don't see myself cleaning someone else's bathroom given that I so seldom clean my own. Take a walk? Actually that's a great idea, but I'm writing now. It took me a solid minute to decide to do this and I don't want to ruin it now. Initially I thought I might write some fiction tonight. You know, maybe add a chapter or two to the novel, but then I remembered that I'm supposed to be on break from school. I spent the semester working on the novel and I'm going to spend a good portion of next semester doing the same. It's like when I abandoned my winter break reading list. I rationalized that I needed th

Most people I know are constantly in the process of acquiring. New cell phones, cars, girlfriends, houses, shoes, bigger TVs, faster computers, better this, bigger that. I'm not sure why they want what they want. Status? Comfort? Just because? I'm not one of these people, so I don't think I'll ever understand. As for me, I don't want anything. Not really. A master's degree would be cool. A one-way ticket to Europe would also be pretty cool, but that's about it. I'm just not into stuff. I used to say I wanted to be able to fit everything I owned in the back of my Xterra. Not any more. I want to be able to fit everything I own in a backpack or at the very least a decent piece of rolling luggage. Ultimately, I want to be portable. 100% completely portable. The way I see it, the world is way too hung up on possessions. I guess I should be thankful that people want more and better and bigger given that I work retail. My livelihood depends upon it. If people

I haven't written about my liver in a few years. Last night, though, a friend who has a marked interest in my liver reminded me that I have 'liver pieces'. She didn't mean that my liver is in pieces (well, not yet anyway). No, she meant a couple blogs I wrote back in 2010 - 'The Smell of Liver Failure in the Morning' and 'An Owner's Manual for a 1969 Model Liver' (Both appear in my book, Notes from the Red Birdhouse ). When I wrote them, they were intended to be a funny take on a very serious subject. My friend's daughter had (and still does have) a rare form of a hereditary liver disease and I was on the short list of people willing to donate a portion of my liver. She ended up not needing mine, but did have a substantial portion of hers removed. Fast forward a little more than two years... That same friend with the daughter with the rare form of hereditary liver disease has been diagnosed with the same disease. I suppose that's why she re

I guess I've become 'that' tennis fan. I'm watching a match played earlier today and I saw the score so I already know who wins. It's the third Rubber (yes, that's what it's really called) of the Fed Cup semi final match between Czech Republic and Italy. I like Italy for the overall win, just as I liked Great Britain over Argentina, Australia over Switzerland, and the U.S. over Sweden before the weekend began. I was up in the air about Russia vs. Slovakia. I am well aware that most American tennis fans barely cared about the US tie much less who might come out victorious between France and Kazakhstan (France killed them 4-1). Remember, I'm not 'that' tennis fan. I'm 'that' tennis fan. I give a lot of the credit this weekend to Tennis Channel, Twitter, and my very cool Fed Cup iPhone app. In my previous incarnation as a tennis fan, I was at the mercy of CBS, ESPN, and Tennis Magazine. Needless to say (though I'm apparently going

Yesterday a friend asked me what I'd buy first after winning the lottery. My response? New luggage. And really, by new luggage, I probably mean a really kick ass backpack. Does this mean that I'm planning to take up backpacking, camping, or hiking? Hell, no. It means I'm taking up travel. You see, the moral of my 'what would you buy story' is this - I'd spend the next full year after winning the lottery following the women's pro tennis tour (WTA, to the initiated) around the world. To do this, I'd need new luggage at best, a kick ass new backpack at worst, depending on how I planned to travel. And given that I've never been one to indulge in unnecessary indulgences, I don't think I'll be flying first class and staying in multi-star accommodations. The way I see it, hopping trains, planes, buses, and other forms of public transportation might be easier with a backpack than with a nice set of rolling luggage. Of course, I might change it up m

I guess I just don't know any other other way to do it. I'm forty-four years old and I'm still trying to improve my tennis game. I rarely play competitively and that has never really been my goal anyway. I like to hit and maybe play a few 'twenty-ones', but I'm not about games and sets and matches all that mess. Competition isn't fun for me (whether I win or lose) and if I'm going to spend what little free time I have on a tennis court it's going to be fun. I hurt my right elbow almost two months ago. I took time off, tried to hit, took more time off, tried to hit, went to the doctor, started physical therapy, took more time off, and finally last Friday afternoon I hit again. There were things I couldn't do without a certain amount of pain, but there were a lot of things I could do. Since then I've hit four more times, including three days in a row culminating in a wonderful hit this morning. I may be rusty, but I'm thankful. As sucky

Sam had never been to Northfield. She knew of it; the college town sat just an hour south of the Twin Cities, but it wasn’t a place she’d ever thought of visiting. Until now. Sam stayed the night at a motel just off the highway outside of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She couldn’t find one that allowed pets so she had to sneak Kate in and out. To avoid too many sidelong glances, she’d gotten up before daylight and hit the road. The three hour drive had gone smoothly and Sam found herself in a strange town with hours to kill before her surprise meeting with Jordan Miller. It never hurt to do recon so Sam headed to the St. Olivers campus to look around. Even at 10:00 in the morning, parking was easy to find. It was a beautiful campus with lots of trees and green-space between the old buildings. To Sam, it looked a lot like her alma mater, Occidental College, though the surrounding area was a lot nicer than Eagle Rock, California had been. Several students sat studying on benches and at bistro