Chapter 35

Are we not men? We are Betamax!

At 3 am, just about an hour later, I woke up in a

clammy night sweat, emerging suddenly and brutally
from a dream that in which I was gradually tearing
the nail off of my big toe just as it began to bleed
(but that too is another story). I was extremely
thirsty, had to piss like no tomorrow and my mouth
was cotton dry. After stumbling into the bathroom I
easily missed the toilet in the dark (not the seat
dear, the toilet and yes, I wiped up the mess). Then I
crawled back into bed and tried to find a comfortable
position to pass back out in. She who does not wake
up once asleep did not move from underneath the
covers where she lay entombed in white. Just how
did she breathe in there I often wondered…

I closed my eyes and as I did so I knew

immediately I was fucked, I wouldn’t be falling asleep
any time soon. My next hour was an epic struggle,
shifting from uncomfortable position to even worse
ones trying to understand just why I picked a fight
with she who lives here too earlier that evening.

I kept going over the short but nasty argument

we had earlier in my head again and again. As often
as I did I could not make sense of it. Why did I react
so bitterly? Yes I was drunk, yes I was upset but
what I really wanted to do was to talk about the day
and how miserable I felt about it. Why did I get so
angry when she made that mild comment about
dinner not being ready? She wasn’t angry at me and
she might have been trying to be funny. Well maybe
not funny, that would be a stretch but none of that
mattered in the big picture. My outburst was uncalled
for, my behavior was counterproductive and sadly
out of sorts.

So what was going on? I couldn’t shut my mind

off as the noiseless red digits silently continued their
march (not that I missed the ticking of the alarm
clock) and the minutes of time passed. As they did
my adrenaline subsided, the thought process
gradually cleared and the truth about what was
bothering me came slowly into focus.

One thing was crystal clear. I was extremely

resentful of being stuck at home. I was tired of being
there and exhausted by doing home improvement
projects to pass the time. Worse yet, when I finally
escaped this personal pleasant penitentiary I was
immediately captured standing on the border of work
and shipped back. (“Have a nice show the guard
asked in German as I stood in line. Why did I answer
back in the mother tongue).

This was some sick kind of spatial boomerang to

be stuck on.

There was something else bothered me a lot

more. A simple yet perplexing question. Where was
my wife? A much deeper and heavier subject that I
couldn’t talk about with she who works harder than I
do because that particular conversation had no
upside. There is no blame that you can reasonably
hope to attach to your hard working spouse. At the
same time, there an unexplainable sense that
something has been lost remains, akin to the feeling
of a tooth you used to have that has been pulled. It
was there and you can feel where it used to be and
you can’t stop running your tongue over the now
empty space. In the case of our relationship, the
something that was missing was the person on the
other side of the bed, the empty space that I was
dealing with.

I will freely admit that I have been steeped

deeply in the tea of equality a little too long. Just as
with an over brewed cup of tea, it is a reality that
sometimes tastes bitter.

I remain is solidarity with the belief that women

were right to leave the house and explore their inner
working dreams and visions. At the same time, this
separate but necessary path left a negative effect
upon her family and the husbands that were left
behind.

To make things worse, lots of professional

women adopted the very same scorned male habits
(you know what they are) that they denigrated us for
without the humility to admit it. Look in the mirror.
You stayed late at work and missed their ball games
and weren’t there to see the tennis matches and
drama performances or to have dinner with us before
8 pm just like our dads did.

Do I sound bitter? Perhaps, but those moments

don’t come back around again, that is for sure. Of
course these are generalizations so why stop now?
When confronted with these issues, many women
routinely lay blame at the feet of the historical
dominance of the male. Look, there is no question
about how good men had it in the generations before
us. Hell yes we did. The guys in the 60’s had their
personal secretary, 3 martini lunch season ticket king
of the roost perfectly cooked and generously sliced
prime rib world. They did. I can tell you with equal
certainty that those images do not remotely
resemble not our modern male lives. No, no, no and
no not one bit bit bit. It just isn’t so. We bought into
equality and got in there with our wives and held our
ground as equals.

I say unequivocally to those women who are in

successful healthy relationships with men and
continue to blame our tribe for all that ails the world
to get over it. Get over it because we need you. Yes
men can do better. Yes we continue to evolve and to
grow. We all will grow stronger if we learn from each
other’s strengths as we all become better people.
We do better with you there working with us side by
side.

Here is the disconnect that I wrestle with. We

showed up at Lamaze class and tried to understand
(it was way too weird for me and I am sorry to say
this but I was relieved when she went into preterm
labor and we didn’t have to go back again). We
changed the diapers, shared the dishes and did the
wash. We were there when our kids broke their wrist
and our daughters lost soccer matches and cried all
the way home.

That is ok. In fact, that is not the issue at all.

The problem I have is that I have met very few
women willing to take on the dirtier tasks of mandom
that we are still counted on to do. Am I
exaggerating? I don’t think so. How many women
will set a trap for that rat that has been hanging out
in the garage and be willing to throw away the kill?
And if I am wrong and you are the woman who will
get out there and help frame a window then god
bless you, you look good with a hammer in your
hands a pair of Betty Lou tight cut off jeans and a
halter top.

Things are just out of balance.

And to impale myself on the cross here, this is

not to mention that slack we should get just for
having to be there during that 20% of the month
(that is 30 divided by 6) when you are out of your
collective minds in hormonal upheaval. This isn’t
blame it is a fact. We can’t leave the house during
that 20% of the time when you go code red. Or take
a 6-year sabbatical from our relationship when the
roller coaster hormonal dance becomes even crazier
in menopause. No, modern men punched our ticket
for the ride with you and it is a lot wilder then women
take responsibility for.

Let me phrase it differently. I am not searching

for enlightened women or men, I am searching to
become a more enlightened person and for me that
route can be found by being in a fully realized
couple.

I am also searching for well-deserved slack when

the 49er game goes into OT.

At some point I ran out of energy and my inner

rant ended, who knows when. When I woke up at
7:30 the next day ready to tell she who is not there
about all of this she was already gone. No perfume
on the pillow, no smile to greet me, no hug, just the
fold in the quilt, her wrinkled flannel pajamas and
the remains of a cup of coffee to let me know she
had been there sometime during the night and
morning.

Hi honey. Good morning dear. And how did you

sleep?

Still, I did not feel bad considering except for the

ritual burning in my stomach and dry eyes. My long
meditation about men and women and life had
cleared my mind. Cooked a massive batch of huevos
rancheros and fixed a double latte. Got out the
sporting green. Settled in to read about the Warriors
latest injury rash when it hit me like a two by four to
the center of my forehead, as if I had run smack dab
into the middle of a cement wall. I had no idea what
I was going to do for the rest of this January winter
day or for the rest of the month for that matter.
Adrift again without a plan or even the scent of one.

This is where it happens in the every day

boredom of transitional life and too much time.
When you make the call. Where the personal aspect
of transition has to begin. Where you hope that the
inner work pays tangible dividends and all that time
spent dragging yourself to yoga or meditation and
reading philosophy starts to pay off. Where there is
an exit that you can take from the otherwise
predictable results of a day such as this. A place
where you won’t be watching the rerun of Superbowl
XXIII again.

There wasn’t much more to think about. Throw

the dishes in the sink and hit the mancave. Put on
the yoga practice CD and sweat out the anger and
booze from last night. Get a big coat, take big foot
out for a walk again. Come home, back in the
mancave hit the cushion and meditate. Not as
pretty as a Montana spiral but much more real.

This particular meditation began just before

lunch. I submit it had a lot to do with the eventual
subject matter. It came to me quickly in a flash, a
swirling vortex of imagery that cleared slowly,
energy I could not control. There were leaping
baguettes and yellow splashes of mustard, thinly
sliced columns of twirling meats, geysers of salads
and juggling tomatoes. I was lost in the glory simply
known as sandwich.

Why is the sandwich such a unique experience?

Is it the variety of infinite possibilities that are
presented in its structure? The fact that so many
combinations exist with one thing in common: that
they are surrounded by bread with a geometric
variety of choices inside.

It all stars with bread. That is where my

mediation deepened. So basic to life, so deeply
woven into our history and many to think about!
From Pita to wonder, whole wheat to Kaiser roll,
challah to brioche to lavash. As the breads danced in
and out of my imagination they guided to me to
imagine the sandwiches that quickly followed.

I visualize the moment of truth. The bread is on

the cutting board. I need a good sharp knife,
something with some serration please. The bread is
fresh, no need to toast. No need to be shy here, I let
my manful meditation fly into a variety of
condiments, the mental grocery store is open for
business. I think salsas, pesto, chimichuri, moufelatta
and pickled onions. The salt pepper vinegars (red or
white) and olive oils stand at the ready.

My mind slowly engages the meats and cheeses

that but holds tight sway as this subject alone could
carry me away for the rest of the day. Just how am I
feeling? Conservative? Fresh roast turkey or ham.
More aggressive? Procsuitto, copa salami. Middle of
the road? Roast beef.

Now I think back over the sandwiches that I have

loved over the years and let them come back to me
to a whirl of delights.

The Panini. Here the sum of the whole is so

much greater than its parts, the flat crisp bread, the
cheese that melts as it all fits so well together.

Lox and Bagel. Of course this is a sandwich!

Cold smoked salmon, wild caught please. Slice thin
red onion. Rich cream cheese (no non fat needed in a
manful meditation). Fresh chewy bagels (sorry to the
bagel wimps, it must have density and it must not be
steamed to be manful). Chives, capers, lemon,
dressed to my hearts content.

Bao. Now hold on, there are the traditionalists

that might say that a donut like ball of steamed
white flour stuffed with bbq pork or steamed chicken
thigh meat is not a sandwich because it isn’t
assembled. To you I say this is my meditation.

Hummus in Pita. Anyone who has traveled in

the mid east knows the love of fresh pita stuffed with
creamy olive oil tinged hummus, pickled vegetables,
salad maybe some chopped tomatoes.

Grilled cheese and its second cousin the tuna

melt.
A dripping BLT. Corned Beef and Pastrami with cole
slaw and Russian dressing from Cantors or Juniors.
Even the self-effacing choice of PB&J on white has a
moment of glory.

Then meat disappears and roast portabella

mushrooms, eggplants, red bell peppers take their
place. These are not time, the garlic and balsamic
vinegar makes the thickly cut grilled vegetables rich
and forward. Feta and ciabatta await.

As the pace finally slows the thoughts deepen. I

search for the balance between the ingredients and
bread. The bread must envelop but not overwhelm
them, they must dominate but the structure must
maintain its integrity. Too much liquid and it falls
apart.
 I am done. I cut the sandwich in half and put the
beauty on a plate. Get some chips and some cole
slaw and sit down someplace comfortable. Take the
first bite. Savor the juxtaposition of the core flavors,
the bread and the seasonings. See how they blend
and compliment. Take my time and enjoy each bite
and then work the second half. Then I repeat this
core visualization five times.

I open my eyes. Once again, I am famished. Ah,

but the fridge is full. While it wasn’t a long it was
satisfying. As I finished I felt a tingle, a sense, a
cold breeze that moved through the mancave that I
could not recognize. Did I see a finger pointing at
me?

After lunch (roast turkey on wheat mustard

cheddar tomato romaine dull and effective sorry) it
was back to the computer for a session of job search
and networking. I sent she who is always at work an
email telling her that it was important to me that she
be home for dinner on time, that I needed to talk to
her.

She called within 5 minutes wanting to know

what was wrong. I told her that nothing was wrong
but that we hadn’t seen each other for days and that
I needed to talk to her. She promised to be there by
7.

There are lots of forks in the road and regretfully

I have to say that how you look at things is
ridiculously important to their turnout. I could have
been pissed and would have been on so many days
that she didn’t even notice that I was at the house
that day and not at the Fancy Food Show. I had to
decide: even if she was oblivious to my day to day
plans, what good would I accomplish by hitting her
over the head with that fact.

Is it really that easy? Of course not. No one

wants to be a cheerleader all of the time, to feel like
they are the one in the relationship that cares about
it getting better, that they have to always be asking
for what they want. This gets out of balance easily
and I know that all too well.

In any case, this evening was not the time to

bring that up. I needed someone to talk to and that
someone was her. If only life was as pretty as the
harmonies of the Flames behind James Brown at the
Apollo when he sang Try Me. It isn’t. It’s a day-to-
day grind where balance comes not from a single
event but from managing expectations and enjoying
what is all around.

Today’s soundtrack on the shuffleski.

DeLaSoul. Let, Let me in. Just let me in. Sure

looking fine and straddling all of the styles.
BB King. I’m a blues man. I am a good man.
The Beatles Please Please Me. Oh yeah.
Eres, Café Tacuba.
Tangled Up In Blue, Bob Dylan
One By One All Day, The Shins
Mr. Brightside (duke dance mix). The Killers.
Isis, Dylan again.

Ain’t no lockin up now, is there?