C.J. West's Blog, page 8

Are You Safe At Home?

Imagine Michael O’Connor hiding in a closet while you sit in your living room watching television. You go up to bed and he starts rifling through your things, taking what he wants. You hear a noise downstairs. It’s dark. You’re alone. The noise is too sharp to be anything but someone in your house. A footstep. A thud. You don’t have a dog or a husband. What do you do?

You call the cops. Five minutes pass. You hold your breath.

He’s coming up the stairs. You’re on the second floor. Too high to jump.

If this guy wants to hurt you, he’s going to. You imagine being stabbed. Raped. Killed. He’s almost to your door and you have no defense except to hide.

The sad reality is that cops don’t prevent crime. They react to it. Little solace when you’ve been victimized.

Have you been robbed? I have.

In 1995 I bought a brand new Chevy Cavalier Z24. It wasn’t the coolest car on the planet, but I worked my butt off to buy it. The first night I parked it at my apartment, someone jammed a screwdriver into the lock, got in, and ripped the plastic off the steering column. Luckily the thief couldn’t get past the alarm.

A few years earlier I had a Datsun 210 parked in front of city hall in New Bedford. That car was stolen on a Saturday afternoon. My college textbooks, my golf clubs, clothes. Stuff I was really attached to. I was a kid working my way through college 80 hours a week in the summer and fulltime during the school year. I couldn’t afford to replace all that stuff. But some punk took my stuff and sold it for a tenth of its value.

Years later I lived in a really nice neighborhood, the kind of place you move to get away from city life. Three years ago people started breaking into houses and cars at night. I had had enough of punks walking in and taking what they wanted from me. I had plenty of guns, but nothing suitable for regular carry. I bought a .380 that I could wear every day. And I did.

An old boss of mine said, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

Three times I did what George Zimmerman would have done. I saw cars parked in the neighborhood that didn’t belong and I walked up to them, gun in my belt, and asked what they were doing. All three times they drove away and I didn’t see them again.

I didn’t flash my gun. I didn’t shoot anybody. But these guys knew not to come back.

There has been a lot of media hype and attention to the fact that George Zimmerman was an older “white looking” guy and Treyvon Martin was a “black” kid. The media loves to inflame racial tensions when a story like this hits the news, but what about the facts?

George Zimmerman

Trayvon Martin

What I haven’t been seeing in the media is that the residents of the Retreat at Twin Lakes, the complex where Zimmerman was community watch coordinator, made 402 calls to the police in one year. Are you kidding me? 402 calls. That’s a crime epidemic. No wonder Zimmerman was out there with a gun.

You may be thinking Zimmerman was a nut, calling the cops every five minutes. Nope. According to Wikipedia, Zimmerman called the cops 16 times. So, 386 times other people called.

My question to you is… If you lived in this complex wouldn’t you be out there with a gun next to Zimmerman?

We can’t know the outcome of this case before it is tried, but before you convict George Zimmerman in your own mind, consider the following:

The Retreat at Twin Lakes had 402 calls to the police in one year.
Zimmerman called the cops, one of the rare times he did, because he thought something was wrong.
Trayvon Martin may have been young, but he was 7” taller than Zimmerman.
There is a photo of blood coming out of the back of Zimmerman’s head, taken by a bystander.
Eyewitnesses report Martin attacking Zimmerman, though the information is sketchy.

When I consider these facts it appears to me that Zimmerman was part of the solution. He was out there trying to stop a crime wave around his home. Martin felt threatened by Zimmerman because he was being followed. Based on what I read, Martin had a right to be where he was, but instead of telling Zimmerman so, he attacked. Who attacked whom may not be known, but it appears that Martin was winning the fight and threatened to cause serious injury to Zimmerman by smashing his head against the ground. That’s when Zimmerman shot Martin dead.

Martin’s death is a tragedy. We may never know what really happened, but before you convict George Zimmerman, consider that we all have a responsibility to our community. Right or wrong, George Zimmerman was trying to protect his.

What do you think happened that night?

Intense Sadness is a Reflection of Love Lost

Yesterday I came online to horrible and unexpected news. A friend and supporter from Texas had suddenly turned ill and was in serious peril. Her young daughter who I had met on a recent trip there wrote to tell me that she was in intensive care, losing a lot of blood, and the prognosis wasn’t good.

At about 5:00 pm I posted a status asking for prayers.

The outpouring of support was immediate. Friends posted all over Facebook asking for prayers and support. A prayer vigil was held last night and I continue to receive messages asking about Terri. For those of you concerned about her, I still haven’t heard an update. I fear the worst but hold out hope.

Terri and I at dinner January 2012

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting since yesterday, praying for the family, and hoping the doctors have been able to be part of something miraculous. In the midst of this I am thankful. Visiting her page on Facebook it is easy to see how many people she has touched.

I can’t help being reminded of a Spongebob episode where Plankton dupes him into being mean and then Spongebob saves the day by being aggressively nice. He runs around fixing kites, handing out hotdogs and candy, basically doing good deeds for people as fast as he can. This is Terri Krause to me. She truly cares about the people she meets and is always looking to help in any way she can.

Whenever I talk to Terri she tells me of the neighbor she is baking for or the author she is helping online, or the friend she is praying for. Mother Teresa encouraged us to “Do the little things” because people will line up to do the big things. In my mind it is the little things that bring us comfort in the end because they make us feel loved and cared for.

Today I’m unsure what will happen. My hope is tempered with sadness but underneath it all are joyful memories of her kindness.

My heart goes out to Annalise and Mark. I thank you both for sharing Terri with us.

************************April 24, about 3:00 PM EDT

Here is an update from Mark, Terri’s husband.

Terri is still in ICU. Sunday night and Monday were tough sledding for Terri. She just about died from rapid loss of blood following gastric varices rupture due to her liver condition. This came on suddenly because she has an edoscophy procedure in February which was OK.

Monday morning she had a “TIPPS” procedure done to put a shunt across her live to lower the blood pressure difference between top and bottom of the liver. This reduces the pressure on the veins in the stomach and hopefully will stop the bleeding. She was responsive for the first time this morning wound 10am. The first positive today. This was a big concern because her blood pressure dropped to 30/nothing and the veins they were putting fluid in started to collapse. For the next 48 hrs or so they will be trying to reduce the fluid they are putting into her and trying to stop the blood transfusion

Terri is at a crossroads now. if the bleeding stops in the next 12-24 hrs then she has the chanc to recover. If the bleeding cannot be stopped there are no other options.

I wanted to have my daughter here at the hospital but I found out last night that they are having the STAAR/TAKS tests this week so she has to take those tests while mom is in ICU.

Yesterday I thought we were going to loose her for sure. Today I am hopeful that she has a fighting chance

I would appreciate it if you would post this as I am Facebook less.

Thank you so much for all of your prayers and support. They do make a difference.

******** Update 4/25/12

Terri is still fighting in ICU.

Please keep her in your prayers.

******* Update 4/25/12  3:05 pm EDT

There has been little change in Terri’s condition. Blood counts have been stable for the last 6 hrs.  She is still on ventilator and dialysis. She is somewhat responsive and appears to be in constant pain.

Thank you everyone for your prayers.

Don’t Ask And I Won’t Tell

One windy day in the 1970’s a woman walking home down a city street in New Bedford found hundreds of dollars blowing in the wind. The woman was in dire financial need, her husband hurt and out of work while she was staying home to take care of three young children. The windfall was more than enough to solve her current problems and seemed like a gift from above.

She could have taken the money and used it for groceries or the mortgage payment. But she didn’t. She took it to the police station and turned it in. Who would do that when she so desperately needed the money?

That woman was my mom, a woman dedicated to strength of character and faith.

Mom never let us win at board games, instead she forced us to play better in order to beat her. She never let us cheat the rules of a game or school or heaven forbid, the law. Reality wasn’t sugar-coated to save feelings.

Honesty - on Youtube

You could say I come by my honesty naturally or that mom beat it into me. I speak plainly and can’t hide the truth unless I’m playing poker.

This “gift” has made things really difficult for me at times.

Several years ago I was in a marriage that wasn’t working. We had lots of money coming in and a few people told me that I should start hiding cash just in case. Later, when I moved out, my ex closed all our bank accounts and left me penniless.

Well not, penniless, but I wasn’t headed for the Ritz. I had a part-time job and about $130 in cash that was in my wallet the day my bank card stopped working.

Some might think I made a huge mistake. Some people said, “I told you so.” A few thousand wouldn’t have been a big deal compared to what we earned and it would have been really welcome in those months I was destitute.

BUT… that was a relatively short period in my life. About ten months. And when I look back I feel good about what I did. I was legally entitled to that money and I could have taken some, but it felt wrong. And if I had taken it, my image of myself would have been changed forever. I chose ten months of discomfort over twenty years of shame.

I’m on the other side now and on the road to emotional and financial recovery.

My backwoodsy directness is unchanged and I can face my reflection without fear.

 

This week I was reminded that my folksy, plain-speaking ways catch some people off guard. Someone asked me for feedback on a novel and I sent it in two pieces. My email contained effusive praise and one minor suggestion for improvement.

What I got back in response was a worried, defensive message that assumed I was using praise to water down my criticism. The author saw only the criticism and couldn’t see that I really loved the work… until this person read my formal comments. And then, they realized that I meant what I said. Imagine that. I meant exactly what I said. I loved the work and there was one minor suggestion I thought could make it a breakout hit.

It seems in today’s world most people speak in hints. They think we need to let everyone win so they don’t feel bad, and that we shouldn’t tell someone when they’re doing something foolish. Conversely, when people speak to us we need to guess at what they mean, because they are afraid of offending us.

It drives me nuts.

I’m reminded of President Bush and all the heckling he endured. He spoke his mind on difficult topics in a way we could all understand and he was widely criticized for his candor. Personally I prefer someone who has the guts to tell me what he really means whether I agree with him or not. At least we could have an honest discussion. But lately I think that there are so many special interest groups that you can’t say anything without upsetting someone.

 

What’s a guy to do, never say anything?

Polished politicians (like Barack Obama) do a great job of walking the line of political correctness. But when they refuse to give a substantive answer to questions they send up warning flags for me. It’s obvious they are hiding something and it takes real work to figure out what that something is. I’d much rather hear straight talk than have to dig through a pile of hints for a real meaning. When I see a candidate dodging questions, I start thinking they don’t deserve my vote.

What about you?

Are you frustrated that people don’t tell it like it is?

Do you ever call them out?

 

 

Time To Walk The Plank

On March 29, I posted about Cravings and the new book I’m writing about addiction. I decided that I could get in touch with what my characters were feeling by cutting out all the foods I love but are bad for me. And what better time to ramp up the exercise than when you’re already losing weight on a diet of carrots, cucumbers and baby spinach?

A few weeks later, my friend Jillian Dodd saw the post and challenged me to appear on her MANday page. Every Monday, she features a hot celebrity showing off his abs. Like this guy:

Samoan Rugby Player
Sonny Billy Williams

I don’t qualify as a celebrity yet, so I really have to work my abs.

Jillian and I are targeting July for a photo session and a post if she wins our bet. Details on that coming here soon. In the meantime, I’m kicking my workouts into high gear and I thought I would share what I’m up to.

For any of you who exercise regularly you know the human body is an incredibly adaptive machine. I had been walking around my block (4.1 miles) every day as a way to exercise, rehab my knee, and ponder what to write each day. The scenery here is gorgeous and I enjoy the daily trip through the woods and farms.

In the last two weeks I started running and something incredible happened. The first day I ran about three quarters of a mile and stopped. My heart was pounding and I could taste the blood coursing through my veins.

A few days later I slowed my pace and ran a little over a mile. Then a few days later I ran a little further. Then this week something shocking happened. I ran the entire block and even sprinted the last tenth of a mile. I thought it was a fluke until I did it again yesterday. My calves hurt, but I’m excited.

The running and diet should help me get rid of those last ten pounds covering up my abs, but when I find them I’m thinking they are going to need some work.

Some friends on Facebook have been talking about planks. I wasn’t convinced until last weekend I was doing some research on my new book and my nephew mentioned planks. Finally I had to see what this was all about.

Here’s a basic plank:

Here’s how to do it:

1) Start on your knees, toes and elbows with your arms hanging straight down from your shoulders and your hands together under your face.

2) Press yourself up so your body is straight from your toes to your head. Form is critical.

3) Hold this position and tighten your abs.

It seems so easy. Friends on Facebook say they do this for two minutes. Once you try it you’ll know why it is so good for your abs. It’s not as easy!

I’m not going to tell you how long I can hold a plank. I’m going to use the excuse that I’m really long (6’ 2”). Next week I’ll share my progress on planks and maybe a few variations.

Have you tried planks?

Got a great ab exercise you want to share? I can use all the help I can get.

Step On That Chick And I’ll Smash Your Head

This Monday it hit 88 degrees here in New England, unseasonably warm for April. I took my two girls to Horseneck Beach in Westport to chill on the sand, listen to the waves, and soak up some sun.

To our surprise, the parking lot was packed. And because it is so early in the season the facilities were still closed, which meant no parking fee, no bathrooms, and no lifeguards.

We walked down the path the beach and were confronted with a large roped off area blocking the beach. To get to the water we needed to walk about one hundred yards to either side.

Curious as I am, I checked the small sign hanging from the rope. The area was a tern habitat, reserved to protect a nesting and breeding area. Being a big nature lover I wasn’t inconvenienced by the walk down the beach to find a spot where we could spread our blanket and hang out.

After a while of talking and playing a word game we enjoy, I noticed a woman duck the rope and walk right through the middle of the habitat. I think I have an overactive sense of justice, maybe that’s why I write crime novels. Anyway, I was really annoyed that hundreds of people walked around this rope and this woman thought she was entitled to walk right down the middle. Soon after another and another went, following her example.

For a while I thought that maybe it was too early for the birds to be nesting, but it has been a really warm winter and spring and who is to tell what timetable the birds are on. She didn’t look like a naturalist to me.

Needless to say, I’m not a fan of people who think the rules don’t apply to them. I wondered if other people were thinking similarly, chiding her silently but not saying anything because they didn’t want to seem too uptight.

This morning I’m thinking about rules and polite society in general and something interesting hit me. The rules of our society are put in place to protect people like her. This was a small, middle-aged woman. The rule she broke didn’t protect her, but imagine a time when people did whatever they wanted… Like cavemen.

Yesterday I took my daughter out for ice cream. We waited for half an hour in line behind a lot of mothers who looked a whole lot like that lady. So if there were no rules, I’m the first guy in line. I’m by far the biggest person around. I could have pushed my way to the front, ordered my ice cream and been gone in two minutes.

But I didn’t. Who’d do that?

So my question is… How do you feel when you see people breaking the rules?

Do you get annoyed? Or are you the one parking in the fire lane at the mall?

Where Do You Wear Your Favorite Disguise?

This Friday I played poker with some friends and I noticed myself evaluating the other players based on small gestures, clothing, and many other factors that determine how someone will play.

Who we are plays a major role in how we do many things in life and poker is one of those emotional and logical challenges that brings our character to the forefront. Alan Schoonmaker has a great book called The Psychology of Poker that explains how the makeup of our character determines to a large extent how we play poker.

Indulge me for a moment and let’s talk poker and personality.

Consider these people coming to your table and what they might have in common. A thin man in his forties sits down quietly in his seat. A woman in her eighties sits next to him. And a young guy sits down and immediately starts lining up the dots on his chips.

These three people are likely to be cautious and have a deep respect for money. The thin man certainly has impulse control and he doesn’t seem outgoing. The older woman comes from a generation that learned to be very careful with money. And the guy lining up his chips is whispering that he’s a little OCD. They have given you a hint about who they are and it is HARD to act contrary to your personality. Really hard.

On the other side of the table a guy with an expensive watch sits down. The woman next to him is wearing a scandalously low cut shirt. Next to her a man sits down and slaps the maximum buy-in on the table with a thud.

Betting in poker is communication and these three are much more outgoing and communicative than the others. They want to take risks and they will be more likely to raise, re-raise, or even check-raise.

I will play the same hand very differently depending upon which group of players my opponent is from.

If you read enough poker books you’ll discover that a blend of these two personalities is the ideal style for playing poker. You’ll also learn that some of these things can be faked to give others a false impression of your playing style that will give you a short term advantage against observant players. That is what got me thinking about disguises.

When I play poker I dial my aggression knob all the way up. I make a conscious decision to act (on my cards) differently than my personality dictates. I do this because I read and studied the game. When I first started I played my personality (and lost).

Last Friday was a good example of the adjustments I’ve made over the years. The player to my left raised me three times when it came down to me against him. The fourth time I pushed all-in with a really lousy hand. When he folded I told him I had nothing and was just tired of his raises. He didn’t raise me again that night because he was afraid I’d raise him back and if I did he had no way of knowing if I was bluffing or if I was sitting on aces.

Everyday CJ would never risk all his money on something so risky. But to play winning poker, Gambler CJ realizes that boldness is required and can shape the long term outcome of the game regardless of the result of any particular hand.

I’ve heard numerous writers say that they adopt another persona at writing conferences and author events. By nature many writers are shy(myself included), but that doesn’t work when you need to meet and speak to a lot of people. We need to become more outgoing and bolder on stage or when meeting readers. I’m really surprised when I hear this from friends who I consider to be well spoken in front of an audience.

That makes me wonder…

When do you put on a disguise?

Who Makes You Blush?

Come on in. Pretend you’re a date or a golfing buddy. Your choice.

The first thing that happens when you walk into my parents’ little cape, after you shake hands and sit down is the start of embarrassing story time. This tradition goes back as far as I can remember. Since gas prices are so high, why not come for a virtual visit?

One of my dad’s favorite stories of all time is the fishing song. He’s told it to every woman I’ve ever invited over to the house and he’s told it to my children so many times that one day my daughter mentioned it in a radio interview… She actually sang part of it!

The story begins one January day when we were going to catch eels on the ocean. It was around thirty degrees, maybe colder. If you’ve spent time on the ocean you know that with the whipping wind in winter, it gets mighty cold.

Before we left, my dad checked inside my shirt and saw I didn’t have long underwear on, so he sent me back upstairs to get them. I was about nine years old at the time and for a nine year old I was a tough kid. Dad had us hauling firewood in winter, working in the garden in the summer and working on whatever other projects he could find in between.

So… as cocky nine year olds do, I went upstairs and waited about five minutes and came back down. Sans long underwear. Of course dad didn’t check. You didn’t mess with dad or you got smacked. So we loaded the aluminum boat and away we went.

About an hour later, dad is standing in the water spearing eels, and catching a bunch. The wind is whipping off the ocean and the aluminum seat is conducting freezing temperatures right up my behind. I’m colder than I’ve ever been in my life. The problem was that dad was catching lots of eels and there was no way he was leaving.

I told him I was freezing and I wanted to go. To understand what that meant to nine year old me, you have to hear another story that I’ll tell you later. Trust me for now, I didn’t complain a lot. Almost never.

Dad came over to the boat and checked again to see if I had my long underwear on. He might have taken me home if I’d had it on, but probably not. When he discovered that I’d tricked him he did what I thought was the cruelest thing in the world.

He started singing…

Chrissy Martin don’t wear drawers

won’t you kindly lend him yours…

(Chris Martin is my real name)

Not very imaginative. One verse. Over and over for hours. I never heard the end of that song. He’s told that story to everyone I’ve ever brought home and now I’ve told it to you.

For years I left the room whenever he started on that story. It infuriated me.

A few years ago my oldest daughter realized how much it drove me nuts and started singing it to me. That’s when I did something about it. I thought long and hard about that day. There was a lesson and I learned it well. It certainly could have been taught in a kinder way, but what had been a lightning rod for negative emotions for years lost its sting once I thought about it. It may sound easy, but it actually took a while.

At some point I think I realized that my anger was that he sang the song, not that it was particularly embarrassing. I was just a kid being a kid. That’s a mistake I can live with.

I typed this whole blog and didn’t bang one key, so I guess I’m over it.

Don’t tell that to Charles Marston, the father in Sin And Vengeance. He messed up and paid for it dearly. I wonder if I was channeling that song when I wrote him? Maybe it’s a good thing my dad doesn’t read my books. Or my blog!

What’s the embarrassing story your family or your spouse tells about you?

Does it still drive you crazy?

Six Dollars Please

Yesterday I went to the little grocery store in our one stoplight town. There are two stores to choose from, I usually choose the one my cousins owned until they retired.

I picked up a few things and came up to the single checkout line, my milk getting heavy as I waited. A woman in a red sweater, youngish with no ring on her finger, stepped out of line and headed back into the store to get one last thing. Her friend moved her half gallon of milk so I could put my gallon of one percent on the conveyor.

"Don't want to squish those cakes," she said and smiled.

She had two six packs of beer and a large bundle of asparagus. All she was missing was a good steak.

A cop from another town joined the line.  A sergeant who had already done nine hours that day. Behind him came a man and his daughter.

The woman in the red sweater came back and the line parted for her before she asked.

The girl behind the register was young, twentyish and really filled out her baggy Children's Hospital sweatshirt. Her jeans were snug and slim and as I checked out the stud in her cartilage, I realized she wasn't moving and looked ahead to the front end of the line.

An older woman saw me and said, "Hi. How are your parents?"

I had no idea who she was though her face was familiar. Such are the hazards of living in a tiny town where your family has been for over a hundred years. Everyone knows me even though I've been gone twenty plus years. They know I write books, have two kids, and am recently divorced. "They're great. How are you?"

The cashier held up a lottery slip and told the woman she needed to pick a Powerball. She took a minute to comprehend, looking  around.

"I can type it in for you," the hot cashier said.

I didn't mind the wait. As you can tell by this post, I was doing what I always do, taking in the people around me. The crowd was building behind me, but there was no tension in the line. No rush.

The woman colored in the number even though it took longer than asking the girl to punch it in.

The girl operated the machine quickly, spun, and handed the the lady her tickets. She said, "That'll be six dollars please."

The woman fiddled in her purse. The two women ahead of me, the cashier and even the sergeant saw her fiddle and waited for her to pull out a five and a one or maybe a ten, but she folded her pocketbook shut.

"Hey, remember me," she said to the woman behind her.

The woman with the beer was confused.

She said, "We used to ride at Country Stables. We did a lot of shows."

"Oh, yeah," the second woman said. "I used to have a horse for every event."

They kept on talking. The cashier, the red sweater, the cop, the father, and I all waited. No one said a word. The owner came over and shared something about a winning lottery prize with the woman in red. At that point I was really glad I set my one percent down. I shared a smile with the cashier even though she was way too young for me.

The cashier said again, "Six dollars, please."

The woman went on with her conversation. She was the only one in the store who didn't realize she was holding up the line. She was old enough to forget, but not so old it was likely to be a serious affliction. Standing there, I was thankful to live where I do. Six people were willing to wait for the woman to eventually realize it was her holding everyone up. No one got rude. No one embarrassed her. When the girl asked again, she finally dug in her purse and this time came out with two bills and the line got underway.

When she was gone and it was my turn in line I said, "You had a nice little break there," but the cashier wasn't interested in my overture.

Like everyone else in town she knows where to find me if she decides she's interested. And there is only one other store in town, so it's not like I won't be back.

I hope you enjoyed this real life portrait of the tiny town I live in. Sin and Vengeance and Addicted To Love both feature little towns that remind me of home.

Do you have the patience to live in a town like this?

Would you hold up the line? Or would you go ballistic on someone like this who was ahead of you?

Did You Marry The Wrong Man?

 

The garage door rolled up with a faint buzz that signaled to everyone inside that Sam was home. The Volvo wagon rolled to a stop in front of the second fridge and Sam climbed out and hefted a bag full of documents inside.

Chelsea sat in her usual seat with her back to the door, facing the television. Chris sat at the head of the table, face in a laptop, dinner done, just waiting for his daughter to finally give it up and eat her vegetables. Sam avoided a barrage of requests for intervention on both sides by heading upstairs to prepare a bit more work for the evening.

William yelled from upstairs, "Can someone help me with algebra?"

Chris headed up, peeking into the master on the way, "Can you keep an eye on Chelsea? She still hasn't touched her peas and corn." Not a single question about the workday. Not a single thought to what they might do later. Never a plan for a sitter and time alone on the weekend.

If Chris made more money, they could have taken a vacation together just the two of them. But writing hadn't panned out yet. Sam had asked Chris to give it up a dozen times and get a real job but nothing ever changed.

Chris could have come in for a hug but that never ended well. Best to attend to William's homework.

When the door closed upstairs, Sam came down and microwaved a pork chop, corn and peas.

"Do I really have to eat this stuff? It makes me sick," Chelsea said.

Sam walked over, took Chelsea's plate and scraped the vegetables into the garbage like she did every night. If Chris knew it'd spark a huge fight. Vegetables were important for the kids, but not important enough to fight with them every day.

A few hours later Sam tucked into bed with a novel in the master bedroom while Chris went back to work in the guest room he'd converted into an office.

Several people had told Sam that sleeping apart from her husband had them headed for trouble. But he snored and always worked late. He wanted sex whenever they were in the same bed and he just wasn't giving her what she needed. He should earn more. He should care more about her and what was going on in her life. All he ever did was take care of the kids and the house and write those damned novels.

Chris worked late into the night and crawled into bed only when he couldn't stay awake anymore. Still he felt the sting of rejection every night he slept alone, but at least at a distance it was bearable.

Psychology Today had a great article by Rebecca Webber that suggests a successful marriage is less about finding the right mate and more about becoming the right mate. The couple in the scene above illustrates two key points Ms. Webber makes in her article.

First, that we tend to idealize relationships and expect our partner can and should make us happy. When the one we marry fails to make us happy, we blame our unhappiness on them. Ms. Webber suggests that when we get to the point of disillusionment, we have found our chance to grow and become a better spouse but for most of us it is hard to see the role we play in strained relationships.

The second key point in the article is that couples that "turn toward" each other will work through differences and grow together where couples that "turn away" from each other as Chris and Sam do, are headed for disaster.

While thinking about this article today I considered the romantic relationships in Addicted To Love and how men and women tally the good and bad. According to Ms. Webber, women measure their spouses on various criteria including communication, income, romance and any number of other things important to them. They talk to their friends (and commiserate) about how their spouses fall short. Men it seems only do this in one area: sex.

Not surprising that women more often find themselves dissatisfied with their marriage and initiate divorce twice as often as their husbands do.

Shop Like a Boy

Two aisles intersect at the grocery store. Carriages stop. A little boy dances to an imagined rhythm on large checkered tiles. His own personal dance floor. Feet sliding. Head shaking. Arms waving.

His mother says, "Sorry, he's my wild child."

A man passes.

"Second child syndrome," she offers.

The older boy half hidden behind the carriage offers a shy, "Hello," as the man passes. More like his mother than his little brother. Maybe he wishes he could be so free.

Across the store another little boy hangs from the handles of his mother's carriage. The knees of his running pants sliding along the tile until his body catches up and hangs straight. Then he runs on his knees to keep pace with the steady pull his mother gives on the front of the cart.

He comes to the checkout, seeing every brightly colored package of candy. His busy eyes finding one thing then another. Then he walks around the carriage and finds a display of balloons. Busy. Seeing. Exploring.

When shopping is done a third boy bounces a ball atop a grassy hill. It bounds away down a brightly striped slope and he gives chase as fast as his little legs will carry him. The ball hits a tree, changes direction, and heads uphill.

The boy can't stop. He overshoots. Turns around. And catches up to the ball as it comes to rest. He dives on top of it, relishing the sheer joy of recapturing his toy. You can feel his excitement from one hundred yards away.

As you go through your day, try to cut through the clutter of shopping lists, deadlines, and holiday obligations. It's Friday. Shop, work, live like a little boy today.

Happy Easter!