48 hours

The transition from week to weekend brought more of the same old story: During Friday lunch at a taco shop near work, my sense of time and space was muddled by an ESPN interview with Biba Golic, who seems to be Serbia's hot new gift to the incredibly sexy sport of table tennis. We arrived a couple of minutes late for the adult session of stake conference on Saturday night, which means we missed our shot at the chapel's padded benches, no small consideration late into the third term of pregnancy. So rather than sitting on the metal chairs in the cultural hall, we spent a good chunk of the meeting on a sofa in the foyer, with a young couple from another ward. I sat next to the wife, in the middle, with our repective spouses at the arm rests. I can't remember the first two speakers, but I can remember the razor nick on the outside of her left gastrocnemius. As the Sunday general session adjourned, I was caught in wave of skirts, heels and calves stampeding out onto the lawn - its effect on me, with respect to everything I'd just heard, was like the magic memory-eraser pen in Men in Black. On my way home on Monday, stopping at the grocery store to get some milk, I passed in the produce section an early-twentysomething who appeared to have just gone on a run. Fantastic, muscular legs and very short shorts. After picking up two gallons, I was overcome by the need to go examine the, uh, cilantro, which just happened to be a few yards from where jogger was visiting with a friend. I love cilantro.

Then that night, my wife asked if I would give her a blessing as she enters the final "stretch" of this pregnancy. We spoke through all the usual issues of faith, belief, power, etc. Since it might be reasonably argued that I'm "worthy" (if one dismisses looking upon other women) on paper, or at least not unworthy enough to use unworthiness as a reason to deny my LDS wife a blessing from her Priesthood-holding husband in her hour of need, I said I needed a couple of days to think about it. So I set a goal: If I could control my eyes and thoughts for two days, I'd give her the blessing.

Tuesday was rough. By the end of the day, I'd counted over a dozen instances in which I consciously had to reverse my default course of eye and mind meanderings, the most challenging of which was the girlfriend (employee of our company) of my boss's son, with whom I crossed paths in HR and couldn't help but notice her red stilettos and the fact that her camisole hung very low under her blazer. But I didn't look long or twice, despite stong inclinations. I was reminded of my mission, and also the months leading up to my wedding, when it seemed at nearly every turn I had to make active, conscious, and often difficult decisions to send my thoughts somewhere other than where they wanted to go. Exhausting. Unsustainable? (The problem with the "Sing a Hymn" solution, is that if you sing from a short list of hymns every time you start to have "those" thoughts, after a while, when you sing those hymns, you start to have "those" thoughts.)

Wednesday was easier. Once I'd run the commute gauntlet of the Gateway Bridal billboard's prom perkies (who aren't all that ravishing, but undeniably young and dewy) and bikini bride relaxing on a catamaran on a Delta Romantic Getaways board (speaking of which, even if you're no Freudian, is this not a hilarious photo?), the rest of the day played out smoothly -- mosly because I stayed in my office for most of it. But at the very end of the day, after most of the staff had gone home, I found myself unintentionally alone in the breakroom with a woman who has, in the past, been a strong focus of my cravings. I was able to have a light conversation with her that lasted a few minutes and featured (ta-da!) zero wanderings. A small, personal triumph.

So last night I gave her the blessing. I emphasized that, while it was done by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood, that power may well be dormant in me, but that I had the authority nonetheless to act as a conduit for blessings that her faith may make available to her. It went well. It was sincere. It put me in a slightly different frame of mind. And I think it was meaningful for her.

Welcome, welcome, Sabbath mourning

Today they changed our bishoprics. The outgoing bishop is a friend, we share a fence, and our kids are playmates, although, despite his wife being among my wife's closest friends (don't misinterpret that as connoting a great deal of two-way intimacy, as my wife doesn't share much about herself, and, being fairly guarded and insular, what qualifies as a "close friend" in her registry would probably be considered something less than that by others who are more socially-prone), he knew only the tip of the iceberg of our struggles since we tried not to burden.

The new bishop is a good guy, about two years our senior, whose parents live next door to us. I served in a previous bishopric with him and can attest to his character and dedication. My wife once referenced him in a conversation about my professional dissatisfaction, thus: "Why can't you just be like [name], who's simply satisfied with the ability to provide for his family?"

This evening, after a series of tense exchanges that started around the third hour of meetings this morning, I asked my wife, "What's up? What's wrong? You've been snappy all day, except for when you've been distant. I know you're tired and physically miserable with the baby, but you've been dishing it out, and I'm really struggling to figure out what I did, well, other than that [name] was made bishop this morning, I wasn't, and that sent you into a spiral." (And maybe other than pointing to the stripper-grade stilettos worn by one of my home teachees--who also used to work with my wife in primary when my wife was president--a couple of rows ahead of us and whispering, "Well, at the very least you can't say I've ever suggested you wear something like that...") She responded, "Every Sunday saddens me because of you. I usually weep at some point or other during the day. You know the reasons why and you do nothing about it. I don't want to talk about it because it's pointless. And no, today it's not because [name] was called as bishop, but now that you mention it..." And that was the end.

The following are some relevant excerpts from a letter she wrote to me about a year ago: "I would also suggest you begin to seek the Lord with diligence and pray with a humble heart. His formula is very elementary. Study, not just read the scriptures, go to your Sabbath meetings and contribute where you can, pray with humility and with diligence and have a meek, serving attitude, and changes within you will happen. Avoid criticism of me, of others in Elders Quorum, of church leaders and it won't burn up the oil you are trying to accumulate. There are other things you can do too, but you need to get down the basics. Other than our marriage, or any marriage you embark on, your children are also a really good reason to begin this process. they need to see YOU involved in living the gospel, and YOU teaching them in FHE, YOU leading out in family prayer, and YOU being emotionally responsible and kind toward mom, and AWARE and HELPFUL when you are home. And most of all they need to hear your testimony. If you figure out that you have one you need to share it with them. Tell them why you know what you know or why you love the Gospel, or how it has healed you, changed you, motivated you or comforted you. How you ultimately learn to accept me or whatever woman you are with is up to you, as it is WHEN you decide to do this. I have learned that the Lord allows us the full consequences of our actions even if we are repentant. Meaning, whatever casualties you cause by your selfishness, immaturity, snobbery, vanity and intellect will be mortal and possibly eternal/immortal effects. How tragic if this means any member of your offspring or your spouse. I know you have a loving heart in there because I've experienced it. I hope you can enlarge that part."

Six, maybe nine months ago, we tarried long after a candlelight dinner in the kitchen, and she gave me what I’d most closely compare to a PPE. (For readers of other faiths: That's nothing that one might assume would follow a mildly romantic meal; it's a Mormon acronym for Personal Priesthood Interview.) She more or less went down the "belief" items on the T-Rec list, asking what I believed, what I didn't believe, what I "knew," what I thought. It was the first time in my life that I've had to actually pronounce things like, "No, I really don't believe that. It's not that I don't want to believe it or am opposed to the idea. It's a concept that holds a lot of appeal. But, no, I really don't believe it." Of course there were no surprises here for either of us. And part of me wonders whether I responded as I did out of belligerence, out of defiance at her having, somehow at once brazenly and caringly, asked those questions and insisted that I answer them -- even when she of course, as I knew, had every right to ask them, at the very least as mother of my children, regardless of all other considerations. But once I articulated them, once the thoughts took voice and crossed my lips, I felt as one entering uncharted territory. It was like the legitimizing effect of something appearing in print. Now I owned them -- these thoughts, these words, these unbeliefs.

'83 flash flashback

On my drive home last night, I was listening to Arrow 103.5 FM's "Ten at Ten" from 1983. When Bryan Adams' "Cuts Like a Knife" came on, I immediately remembered where I was (at my friend Fred's house) when I saw the video for the first and, to my recollection, only time. All I could remember about it was the girl changing into something skimpy in the dressing room, and how mesmerized --and, yes, aroused-- we were by a few, brief glimpses of her skin.

It's interesting to reflect on that, and consider the conversation I'd had with my boss (who was made a bishop recently) earlier in the day of wondering how on earth adolescents survive adolescence today, with everything that's literally, well, at their fingertips. I mean, we had to have connections to get a Playboy; today, you just need a web or WAP connection. But I imagine each generation says something similar about the next. In this same conversation, he mentioned some of the struggles couples in his ward are having --easily attributable by a third party to selfishness, pettiness, unforgiveness and short-sightedness-- and said, "I tell you, if you ever step out of line, I'm gonna kick your butt." It (the conversation, not the threat of butt-kicking, although he's got about half a foot and sixty pounds on me, so that's not something to which I'd look forward) made me want to try harder as a father, husband, and Priesthood holder. That night --I got home after the kids were asleep-- I sat near her on the couch and continued with Rough Stone Rolling (I've been making slow progress on it over the last few months) while she read about Neal Maxwell, one of her favorites.

Coincidentally, I also passed a billboard for Tanya Tucker's upcoming show in Wendover, and remembered being glued to the TV as she strutted her glued-on, black leather pants on Solid Gold, singing...must have been either "Can I see You Tonight" or "Baby I'm Yours," which would have been right around the time of "Cuts Like a Knife."

After-Christmas special

A little something to prolong the yuletide cheer, courtesy of the ho-ho-Ferragamo homepage:












(The girl on the left looks like a mutant, with a face that only a fetishista agency scout could love, and is best objectified here through these crops. Trust me. Kind of like that Spanish model who was very popular in the late '80s and appeared in a movie or two. I want to say it was Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown or some other goofy Almodóvar film, but maybe it wasn't. For some reason I'm thinking a young Penélope Cruz was in it. Anyway, this was a monumental schnoz. Oh wait -- it's Rossy de Palma, and she was indeed in Women.)

Back to the Bay

Through a series of snafus, plans for the precious "use it or lose it" vacation I'd stockpiled for the holidays degenerated over the course of the last couple of months from:

Whole family in Bavaria, to
Me with kids in Bavaria and Italy, to
Whole family minus youngest in Cancun, to
Me with buddy in Puerto Vallarta, to
Quick, five-day, full-family Griswoldian road sprint San Francisco.

As beneficiaries of the generosity of a friend who works for the InterContinental group, we lodged way above our tax bracket, at the same hotel where my wife and I stayed during our weekend getaway a few months ago. On New Year's Eve, while passing through the überchic lobby with two bags of incredible shawarmas etc., I was humored to pass all of the fashionistas heading from their rooms to the street for their night of revelry. Then, and as I gave my toddler his first bite of falafel, it felt right that I would be feeding chicks up in the nest, rather down mingling with those who were out on the town.

Marital tensions mounted during the course of the day on Friday, and by that night, my family at the hotel while I awaited pizza to go, I stood with Florida drubbing Cincinnati on the TV to my left, and a beautiful, sandy blonde twentysomething sitting with with her girlfriends at a table to my right. I thought about the "Go fish" scene (start at 9:00 and grab a dictionary) between Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Garner in Catch Me If You Can, and wondered for a moment what amount of cash would overcome inconvenience, inhibitions, unknowns, age differences, and whatever else she might find distasteful about me or the proposition, and facilitate a quick tryst somewhere, anywhere, nearby. Back up in our hotel room, I thumbed through the in-room copy of Esquire's Fall 2009 Black Book and noticed a Helmut Newton quote to the effect of, "A man must assume that, under the right circumstances, any woman is available." Evidently, my decline is such that even when I fantasize, the "right circumstances" require a cash outlay. (I also noticed Kate Hudson looking particulary perky and pleasant on the cover of the January Bazaar that was stacked between Esquire and Wine Spectator.)

The "male products" dispensor in the Shell restroom somewhere west of Winnemucca this afternoon touted the benefits of The Screamer, yours for only 75 cents: "If she's a MOANER, it'll maker her a SCREAMER. If she's a SCREAMER, it'll get you ARRESTED." The bitter guy in me wants to say that doesn't exist in The Real World. But both the woman who lived and loved directly below us in our second apartment as newlyweds and the roommate of one of my grad school girlfriends, made the very vocal and convincing case otherwise. The resigned guy in me wondered whether it really matters.