After a few years of marriage, the male has learned most of The House Rules – as set forth by The House Frau – intended to create sensible boundaries around those issues where violation most likely would lead to annoyance and potential confrontation.  Among these rules are Issues of Safety (Thou shalt not leave the toilet seat in the full upright position.), Communication (Thou shalt call when expected to be late for supper or when missing an important ETA.), and Household Efficiency (Thou shalt not wear shoes on the white carpet.).  

There are others of course; required, defined, and implemented based on the peculiarities of each union and living situation.  And there are those guidelines, never actually set forth because they are considered as obvious and universal as The Laws of Nature. 

The problem with unspoken rules though is that they assume everyone has the same perspective, appreciation, and interpretation of what is natural, what is necessary, what is universal.  And this is where I stumbled.

It all happened innocently enough, as do many disputes.  I was cleaning out my side – the small side – of the closet … a task much-needed but never relished.  As I filled a few bags with clothes no longer worn, I contemplated space to store – temporarily – the cold-weather sweaters and sweatshirts put aside for yet another Summer in dark, stuffy storage.  My incursion was intended to be only temporary. (So help me, God!)  So I furtively eyed the DeMilitarized Zone (DMZ) that separated our respective clothing.  The male from the female …  The utilitarian from the decorative … The barbarians from the richly appointed Romans …    

As any married man can appreciate, the overwhelming bulk of closet turf goes uncontested to the female.  Of our roomy, walk-in closet I currently control perhaps 20%.  My dearest wife on the other hand, controls 67% of the hanger rod capacity and 75% of the overhead shelf and floor space! 

How this ever became to be a universally accepted practice most likely goes back to the first cave-dwelling female-male union.  Zog, the Neanderthal just turned around one day to find his stuff piled neatly in a corner, while Uba’s decorative animal skins were spread out neatly along the other three walls of their walk-in grotto.  And another of those universal Natural Laws was created!  

Smart, modern married men learned to begrudgingly accept this.  You concede the closet, knowing there will be other, more important issues on which to man the barricades.

 What I failed to appreciate was that the Female of the species will protect her spaces as though they are nuclear missile sites.  To take liberties can turn out like those stories of innocent hikers happening upon a momma grizzly with her cubs, an innocent walk in the woods turns into a mauling in the blink of an eye. 

So the reaction to any incursion was predictable, had I not been so oblivious to the danger. 

But in point of fact, I was only seeking perhaps 12-15 inches of temporary rod space … And only until I could transfer my stuff to an out-of-the-way locale.  Appropriately reckless, I made my move; pushing aside light and breezy female garments, replacing them with my heavy cold-weather mangear. 

The reaction did not take long.  But there was no mauling, no shot across the bow, no need to search for my launch codes.  I returned later to find my stuff simply pushed back across the DMZ; the border incursion clearly recognized and just as clearly pushed back across the long-established border. 

But nudge that I am, I pushed it back.  And that’s when I received that proverbial shot across my bow. 

“What are you doing up in the closet, sweetie?”, asked My Gentle Lady.

“Huh?”, my usual “Who? Me?” response.

“Don’t play dumb.  You’re hogging my closet space.”, countered My Wily Cohabitator.

“Oh, I just need the space for a little … “, I attempted to …

“No, no , no … You have your stuff all spread out there.  You have plenty of room to hang them on your side.”, countered My Precious Prosecutor.

“Well, I just wanted a ….”, I stammered.

“Move ’em or lose ’em, honey!”, suggested General Schwarzkopf, her eyes steely, her mind fingering her launch codes.

Lesson learned and humbled, my guys limped back to the safe side of the DMZ; knowing only that their Obtuse Leader had put them in harm’s way for no apparent good reason.

To all those women who, through their selfless devotion, caring love, and astonishing endurance, provide the stability and comfort that nurtures the soul and stokes the fires of the future!

We miss you, Peg and Joan!

I get a kick out of listening to Donald Trump as he tippy-toes like a Fantasia ballerina along the line dividing successful billionaire from national pol.  He rumbles and blusters.  He could crush you with one well-aimed foot, yet he dances in graceful, casual disregard.  He refuses to utter the words, “I am running for President of The United States!”

The Donald searches for a dance partner

Although I am impressed by some of it, I am unconvinced by the whole of it. 

Not that The Donald couldn’t win should he actually decide to run.  I simply have severe doubts that he will take the ultimate plunge.

Trump says many of the things that appeal to important segments of the Republican Party.  He speaks of repealing Obamacare.  He claims to have reversed his earlier support for the pro-choice agenda.  He goes to CPAC and wows the crowd on how China, our foreign allies, and OPEC are taking advantage of America.  He even questions President Obama’s citizenship qualifications to hold his Office.

But I cannot get over my sense that The Donald’s Mystical Coiffure has no intention of laying atop a President’s head.  Not that I wouldn’t LOVE to see that portrait!  

My disbelief is rooted in the unlikely event that a man with the international business, finance, and entertainment Power the likes of Donald Trump would relinquish said Power to become a politically henpecked – not to mention salaried – Chief Executive.  Perhaps I’m wrong.  Perhaps The Donald has so strong a deep and abiding love for his country that he believes he is The Answer. 

But no, The Donald could perform no better service for his Country than the dance he is performing right now.  And frankly, I doubt that even The Donald sees himself as The Best Man for The Job.  What he is doing with his indelicate ballet is drawing as much attention as possible to the issues he believes are MOST CRITICAL to future U.S. health and success.

Many of us wholeheartedly agree with The Donald in that our national propensity for skyrocketing debt and oil-fueled gluttony are damaging our long-term future; how we could enable our most threatening rivals to overtake us; how we finance the kind of infrastructure investments in China of which we can only dream of here; and how these problems could one day be this country’s undoing.

I just can’t see Trump fixing any of this himself, especially from The Oval Office. 

My theory not only explains The Donald’s sudden bull rush from the high weeds of Manhattan.  It also makes sense of his sudden infatuation with The Birthers.

What The Donald is doing is pushing the political and financial messages that many conservatives cherish.  And drawing as much attention to those messages as possible (hence the birther pronouncements).  His numbers sit atop current Republican presidential polling; and he’s polling even higher when Tea Party favorites Michelle Bachman and Ron Paul are removed from the polling equation.     

What I think The Donald is doing is developing a position that the Real Candidates in the Republican Party will eventually view as a threat to their flanks.  When this happens, an astute politician will do one of two things.  He will attack that threat or he will attempt to absorb it.  Said politician will make those positions his own, especially if said candidate sees those positions as holding sway over a substantial segment of the electorate he covets.

Conservatives and Tea Party Republicans are sympathetic – as the poll numbers show – to The Donald’s message.  But I think they covet a Strawman; a strawman looking to push an important agenda, and then to push away The Job in which The Donald would never want to trapped.

So who might eventually usurp The Donald’s message, and therefore position themselves as The Favorite Son of The Right?  How much more attractive will that title look should it be accompanied by the kind of financial connection only The Donald could offer?   

If it happens, you can be sure those financial connections would not be far behind.  And if it works in November 2012, rest assured that Mystical Coiffure will become an Oval Office mainstay.

May your blessings outnumber

The Shamrocks that grow.

And may trouble avoid you

Wherever you go.

• My fondest St. Patty’s Day memories are my father’s half-serious attempts to convince us that he emigrated directly from the Emerald Isle as a wee lad.  He had The Gift of the Blarney he did.  Unfortunately we kiddies eventually grew wise as we grew older.  Dad could never keep his facts straight, and at various retellings his age during his harrowing crossing of the briny deep was 8,12,10, 6 or 4.  His emigration tale became a running joke at the dinner table whenever he trotted it out.  “What age were you again?”, was the challenge we would toss his way.  But it never seemed to douse Dad’s enthusiasm for the story. 
• The fact that he never stepped foot onto the campus of the University of Notre Dame never stops a good Irishman from rooting for the Fighting Irish football team!

May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent.

• Irish soda bread is best eaten several days after baking, and only if left sitting on the kitchen counter protected by nothing more than a draped cloth towel.  (I really miss those, Mom!)
• It’s hard to imagine a better combination than St. Patty’s Day falling on the opening round of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. 

If you’re enough lucky to be Irish…

You’re lucky enough! 

• I have never been to a St. Patty’s Day parade.
• I hate boiled cabbage!  I possess no love for corned beef.
• One of the best books I’ve ever read was Leon Uris’ Trinity, the story of Ireland’s tragic struggle for independence from Britain and the Protestant-Catholic wars.

As you slide down the banisters of life

may the splinters never point the wrong way. 

• For years I questioned my Irish ancestry, in part because our surname sounded so unlike the O’Briens/Murphys/O’Neils that were considered of typical Irish heritage.  Until one Saturday afternoon watching The Wide World of Sports, we witnessed the Irish amateur boxing team competing against the U.S. squad.  There was an Irish boxer who shared our last name.  He was promptly pummeled by his American counterpart.  Later a friend visiting The Ould Sod on vacation brought back a picture of an appliance store in Dublin that also shared our last name.
• I’d rather eat a green salad than drink a green beer.
• Tonight, I will search my cable and On Demand offerings in an attempt to watch John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man, by far the best Irish movie ever made.  Irish countryside, romance, and a lengthy bare-knuckle fight that any Wayne fan would love!  And Maureen O’Hara isn’t too hard on the eyes either!

May the lilt of Irish laughter

lighten every load.

May the mist of Irish magic

shorten every road…

And may all your friends remember

all the favours you are owed!        

One of the realities of being a parent is that, despite common genetics and environmental factors, you are never exactly sure whom you will be getting in that little bundle of joy.  And certainly, if you decide to try it more than once, eventually you will  be tested. 

Brian has been our test. 

We were almost spoiled by our first foray into parenthood.  Michael came with his own set of challenges.   But once we understood what the issues were, they were fairly easy to manage.  Our eldest turned out to be the most independent, outgoing, and at times the most maddening.  But what we faced the first go around paled in comparison to what awaited us with the second heir.

True stories:

• One night while attending his older brother’s little league game, Brian wandered off with some girls from school. He might have been six or seven. I’m freaking out because it’s dark and he’s nowhere to be found. After calling Carol to let her know he’s MIA (Never a conversation you want to have with your wife.), I hop in the car and start driving around the neighborhood. Serendipitously, I get a glimpse of this shadowy silhouette in a rowhouse picture window, a kid’s backlit profile with a microphone in his hand in mid-song. I knew immediately – as only a parent would – who that silhouette belonged to. Target captured! He had gone to one of the girl’s home, and was entertaining!
• Get a call one day at work. My mother, who watched the boys when both Carol and I worked, frantic. Brian had impulsively lit a paper on the stove as she was cooking dinner. Had panicked and dropped it on the floor burning the linoleum floor, but fortunately nothing else.
• The time he kicked his younger brother out of a fire truck driver’s seat to the concrete floor six feet below because it was “his turn” at the wheel!
• The night I had to stealthily shadow his travels when he decided it was time to run away from home due to parental discipline.
• The day he walked into the principle’s office demanding a classroom transfer because he didn’t like his first-grade teacher.
• Or the time he knocked for a friend to find he wasn’t home. Plopped on a curb to await his return; tired of the wait; found a nail laying on the street; and decided to Etch-A-Sketch a neighbor’s car door.

Brian has been the most demanding … and in ways, the most rewarding.   

With him we faced early developmental issues that proved to be troubling but manageable, even as they were scary to us as relatively new parents.  His problems were never debilitating, nor nearly as serious as other parents face.  They just required a greater level of management from infancy through his school years.  His mother took the brunt of that responsibility, for which Brian and I should forever be grateful.

Brian was also blessed with a personality that could shine through all the problems, and made all the hard work worth the effort and anxiety.  He’s always had a gift for making us laugh; shake our heads in amazement; and at times give his teachers bouts of agita.  Friends and family would tell to us how personable, confident, and entertaining he could be. 

Of course those traits were not always strengths within the conforming environment of a classroom.  And they tend to make you stand out among your peers, making you a target for the punks and dunces.  In the end, it tends to tamper with your personality and self-confidence.

Little has come easy for Brian.  Yet he keeps plugging along. 

It’s difficult as a parent sometimes, because you want to fix everything for him.  But he’s an adult now, so you have to back off.  You want him to learn how to fight his own battles.  You keep encouraging him though; pushing him to break through the barriers he faces on his own.  And certainly, Brian has progressed in many ways but at his own pace.

Brian’s greatest strength is that he has the character, the intelligence and the work ethic to make the most of his life.  He never ceases to impress us with his capabilities, once he sets his mind to doing something.  And the sky would be the limit, if he could simply reach back and drag that confident, free-spirited kid from his past into his present.  He has great things ahead of him.  There is nothing he cannot do.  And anyone would benefit from the opportunity to know him.  Of this I have no doubt.     

No, your children are never identical.  They rarely present you with the same challenges, the same rewards, the same problems, or the same blessings.  But I’m convinced that if you give them the time they need, the encouragement they crave, and the love they deserve, they will make you proud.

Happy Birthday, Brian!

Love, Mom and Dad

The oldest offspring popped the question this week while vacationing in Punta Cana!

Congratulations, Mike & Janelle!