Tune On, Tune In, Tuneup?

I made an observation to someone the other day that I am most prolific a writer when I am pissed off or exhausted. I have been neither. In fact, mostly quite the opposite. Secondly, I have been legitimately busy. Ironically, writing. Writing for work, writing for professional groups. Writing, writing, writing. I like to write and for once, it's actually a component of what I get paid to do. Who can complain? Not me. And that's part of the problem.

More than a writer, I am a ranter. I like to rant. Since I try so hard to make this blog apolitical, and this is politics season, I don't have a lot to rant about in this forum. Come have a beer with me and wind me up and I'll give you ranting. But not here. Work is great, Em and I are great. Sure, I'm a little behind on some chores and I could use some more money, but really, is that anything to write a blog about?

Well... There is one thing. Em is training to be and will take over as our church's wedding coordinator late this year. Why? Apparently, in spite of being married to a giant hairy man-child, and having two other part-time jobs and being an integral part of countless committees, commissions, panels, advisory boards and community action groups public and private, sacred and secular, she decided she needed more stress in her life. What could possibly be more stressful than dealing with brides to be?

Well, dealing with bridal parties and mothers and mothers-in-law, but that's beside the point. I think we can all agree to just lump that whole melange under the term "brides."

This is important to me how? Well, it wouldn't be except that being a husband who believes his job does not begin and end at being the breadwinner and fiddling with the greasy bits around the house, so I got sucked in.

Emily said to me in July, "Honey, the couples have to take premarital counseling before they can get married in the church. I want to take it so I know more about it and can help them in the process."

"Super!", I said. "I think you should. It will be interesting."

"Well, I don't want to take it alone."

"So, divorce me and find a new man to marry and do the counseling. Talk about commitment. It would look great on your next performance evaluation."

"As tempting as that is, I want you to take it with me."

"O.K. When is it?"

Sheepishly Em replied, "It's two Saturday mornings in September."

"College Football Saturdays? The only Saturdays of the year that mean anything to me? My reason for living between August and October to say nothing of bowls?"

"They'll be done by 12:30."

"They better damn well be, lest you will find me walking out the door with you or without you."

This is me being supportive and loving and such. Good, eh? O.k., maybe we could use this class after all.

So we took the class over the last two Saturdays and we basically busted the curve. It wasn't really fair, all these doe-eyed youthful twenty-somethings wandering haplessly toward either the best thing they will ever do or the biggest mistake they will ever make. Here among them, two people who have been married for 12 years and regard each other so comfortably we may as well be an old pair of gym shoes.

We did some activities and had a lot of discussion... and you know, it wasn't a bad class. A couple of the guys would look over at me with terror in their eyes as if to ask me, "Is what they're saying right now true?" to which I responded wordlessly with the slightest of smug smiles and almost imperceptible nod. It was actually pretty fun and opened up a lot of good conversation between Em and I. I suppose you can always use a tune-up.

Turns out, I didn't even miss any football of consequence and Em paid me back by being a great hostess with me at our gala event for my work this last weekend so it all works out in the end. She has hers, I have mine, we have ours. It's a pretty good setup.

We applied this knowledge afterward when I got a big appointment in Ann Arbor on a day where we need to be in Indianapolis for a wedding. The appointment, four hours away from our destination is only 6 hours before we need to be there, so like the famous Booker T and the MGs song, time is tight. We were able to avoid panic and came up with a workable solution. Em will get her hair done at a salon while I am in my meeting. I'll already be dressed in a suit, so I'll be good to go. Since Em's hair will be done, all that will be left is for her to slip on her dress and touch up her face, and voila! Instant formal couple, none the worse for wear.

I don't want to get too smug, but we really are starting to get this marriage thing down pat. For now. Stay tuned, these things run in spurts. I may have a good old fashioned rant just around the corner.

A Study in Contrasts

This is an idea I had, malformed and only partially so at that. With all apologies, I will try to work this treatment out for all to see, though it is ill conceived and probably not as funny as it struck me to be when it presented itself as a fleeting thought at five o'clock this very a.m.

Without further adieu, here is a letter written by a civil war era soldier back home to his sweetheart, Cordelia... all Civil War era ladies were named Cordelia. These soldiers were young, and held to the bar of modern standards, poorly educated. And yet, it seems when you read some correspondence or watch a Ken Burns film that these young men were so eloquent, even poetic in their descriptions of battle, life and longing.

 Following this, is something on the order of what you may see today by an average teen or young man to his girlfriend.

My Dearest Cordelia,

My mind aches at the distance between us. My entreaty to the almighty is for us to be reunited safely and soon and that we shall never again be parted so long as God's will be done on Earth. For while here in this untidy place, woven of chaos and fear I cannot be complete for lack of your countenance.

The men are afeared as our previous efforts against our foe have lead to nothing but unceasing death and pestilence, resulting only an utter loss of morale and continued intransigence of the line of battle. As of late, no man here is a soldier so much as an undertaker and no recently dead man's corpse regarded so sacred as to save it the indignities of being stripped of its possessions like one would do with an old twenty dollar plow.

But of course, my love of loves, I shall not continue to press upon you my burden as I envision your frame being laden with worry at the description of my vicissitude. It is with this concern that I lift to you the depth of my faith in my return to you, a man who is able and very much alive all the better for that which I have endured. And as it comes to be so, I shall marry you with immediacy and set aside the horrors of this war and set about providing for you a life which you will regard as a blessing.

It is in my deep and abiding love for you, my sweet Cordelia, that I find my strength to suffer the inequities of war, and hunger and cold. For no campfire, indeed no burning hot sun can provide the warmth my heart desires. Only  your dear sweet smile, the dulcet tones of your melodious voice and the beauty of your face can provide these elusive things.

As I continue on in my struggle, I keep your picture at my breast and envision the coming day whereupon I shall walk up your path, gravel crunching beneath these boots, no longer the engine of war, intent upon only holding you in my embrace until the day is gone and exhaustion sets upon us.

Until then, my darling Cordelia, I shall whisper your name each morning and night in the hopes that somehow the echo of my emotions find your ear that you may know fully the conviction of my heart.

Yours Forever,
Francis Beauregard Tuttle-Ashford Lee III

_____________________________________________________________

Babe,

This class sux. I can't wait 2 see u again in the hall. Yo booty looks so good in those jeans. I don't like them dudes checkin' you out, but what can i do? Study hall blows. It is so boring. There's like, 15 min left and I don't think I'm gonna make it.
Later we should hook up at my place. My parents won't be home for an hour, so if you don't mess around I could tap you like a keg before dinner.

Peace,
Moogie.