My mom was famously antisocial on planes, which is a bit odd since she was quite personable. She’d literally psych herself up not to talk to her neighbor(s). And she had strategies. Other people in my lineage lean anti-social.
So on my way to London yesterday, I decided to blaze a new path of airplane neighborliness. My next-door neighbor was a young, East Indian man with two phones. Uber courteous when I first sat down, he took my man purse and stowed it for me since there were no seats in front of us. An hour into the flight I dishonored my mom by asking him, “Are you from London?” He smiled and said, “No, I’m from Seattle, but I travel to London frequently for work.”
Definitely the most interesting dude I’ll meet on my two week Euro sojourn. When I told two of my friends that in Heathrow, they were hurt, but I clarified “most interesting new dude”.
Can’t believe I didn’t get his name because I’d love to follow his career. 33 years old. Ohio State grad, but let’s not hold that against him. Got a PhD from Rice University in Oncology at 26. Works for Eli Lilly doing “small and large” drug development deals. Was on his way to Barcelona for a conference.
I knew he had serious science chops when he was familiar with Multiple Systems Atrophy. We talked about Lynn’s passing and his grandfather dying in India right before his 90th birthday. And him, afterwards, moving his parents from Chennai to Lynnwood, WA.
He met his wife when he was 19 and she was 18. Despite him spending the next 10 days in Barcelona, they’re trying to get pregnant. They’re vacationing in Japan in October.
He speaks English, Tamil, Hindi, French, German, Arabic, and Spanish poorly. He learned Arabic while teaching English in Cairo as a part of his high school education.
We bonded in ways my mom would never understand. So much so, when British Airways informed half the plane, him and me included, that our bags didn’t make it on our flight, he felt comfortable bitching about it. “What am I going to wear out to dinner tonight?” First world problem for a high flyer, figuratively and literally.
Second in a possible series of intros of especially loyal PressingPausers.
Full name, Dan Dan the Transpo Man. Dano is retired, but gets more done in a day than Travis or Scottie who allegedly “work” fulltime.
He’s from Minneapolis and has all the classic signs of Upper Midwest niceness—does not swear, prefers music from the 1950s-1970s, has wood tennis racquets in the garage—until a high school referee making $12/hour makes a questionable call against the local team. Then he loses it a bit. Or when the announcer says, “It’s another Olympia first down!” He despises that.
Why the Transpo Man? Because when he was a working stiff, he was in charge of Washington State’s federal highways. Which was fun because other friends and I had someone to vent to as our commutes worsened. He was always so sympathetic to our plight. Not!
Dan is a physical marvel. He runs a few times a week. Really fast for just having turned 69. And walks a few times a week. And hits the Tumwater Stairs really hard every Tuesday morn. And roller blades. And mows his ginormous yard. And goes to Adoration every Friday morning and prays in advance for a miracle for me once I’m at the Pearly Gates.
Start with Minnesota and add a progressive Catholicism and you get one goodhearted, generous dude. The type of dude who saved up his timeshare weeks to take twelve of his closest friends to Hawaii when he retired. The type of dude who returns from Alaska with salmon for everyone. The type of dude who will invite you to his Sunriver casa if you’re lucky. The type of dude who will take delivery of your new car for you when you’re stuck in Colorado.
He’s not perfect though. He still roots for all the sad (sick) Minnesota teams despite having lived in the PNW longer. He insists on using a nickname for your humble blogger mostly because I’ve never liked it. And, in a nod to Catholic brotherhood, he is likely to vote for Vance for President in 2028.
Just kidding on that last one. Dan is as blue as they come. And he’s an activist, writing letters to public officials and postcards to NC voters and even fancying himself a poet at times. An engineer with writing skills, who’d a thunk it?! A true Renaissance Man. And one of the nicest, best friends a guy could ever hope for.
Back in the day. DDTTM on the far right after trouncing Scottie and me.
My older sister, who lives in NW Indiana loves the Cubs largely because she says they’re the “cutest” team in baseball. She also loves politics; her husband and family; and if my brother-in-law is to be believed, most of all, buying new shoes. She’s the best, better than the rest.
So I texted her Tuesnight, “Team El-Sayed or Team Stevens?” Reply. “Stevens has better numbers now against the R.” Pause, bubbles, then, “Stevens is too pro-Israel for me.”
We know now Michigan voters agreed, but that’s not the real story. The real story is the continuing underrepresentation of redheads in Congress and a bubbling up of previous “Red Scare” rhetoric about communism which is obviously a cover for normalizing ginger-hate.
My reply to my sissy, “I never recovered from McMarrow’s exit. Redheads severely underrepresented in Congress.”
We cannot restore our democracy without having Congress grow a pair and we can’t expect that to happen without a Red Hair Wave in November. Bring the fire! Michigan swung and missed. Don’t let your state do the same.
My brothers, not as lovely as my sister. They taunted me throughout my childhood with, “I’d rather be dead than red on the head.” I think they speak for the vast majority of people with inferior colored hair, for example, blondes, brunettes, people with black hair.
To blunt the probable protests, “You don’t have any hair, how can you identify as a redhead?!” Put this picture in your pipe and smoke it.
Yes, you’re absolutely right, whoever gave me that haircut is a bigger threat to the common good than any nefarious political administration or movement. Can a lawyer please weigh in on whether there is a statue of limitations for suing for Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress? DM your contact info if you’re willing to take my case.
Sam Miller, a comedian from my hometown, Olympia, WA, has lived a few lives. As a comic, he has a lot of momentum, performing before increasingly large crowds.
Speaking of momentum, no family ever sits still. Families are organic, every single one always with some degree of momentum, either positive or negative, based upon the adults’ collective decisions. Often, the momentum is barely perceptible. In Sam Miller’s family’s case, it’s plain as day.
Today, online, he wrote this. I’m guessing he pounded it out, not overthinking it. But lo’ and behold, it couldn’t be more profound.
“One time my dad picked me up and threw me off a dock into the cold waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There was no warning. Before I realized what was happening, I was airborne. I hit that water, and even though I was a good swimmer, it was hard to peel my elbows from my side. I wanted to stay curled up in a ball but I also wanted to breathe and so I swam back to the dock. My dad’s hand came down and pulled me out. I don’t remember what time of year it was, but I just looked it up. Temperatures in the strait of Juan de Fuca hover between 41 and 54°.
He told me he did it because we spent a lot of time fishing the Straits. He wanted me to know what it would be like to fall off the boat or off the dock. That way I would know what that water felt like and I wouldn’t panic.
I thought I did something wrong. I thought he was angry. He told me he wasn’t. I believed him then. I don’t believe it now. I think he got angry and he lost control and he threw me off that dock because my dad was really bad at dealing with his emotions.
I bring this up because I just spent 8 days with my kids and my mom on a vacation/comedy tour. There were multiple moments where I became incredibly frustrated. There was a couple moments where I was just downright angry. I feel like I had really good reason to be angry a couple times.
I’m really proud to report that I did not yell or scream or pick anybody up and throw them.
I know it’s not true, but I used to think me and my family was cursed. My dad died when I was a kid. I don’t know too much about how he grew up because he didn’t talk about it that much but I know my grandma on my dad’s side had schizophrenia. When my dad and his brother were kids, she drove them to Long Beach, California from Salem, Oregon and just dropped them off in the middle of nowhere. My dad had to hitchhike back while taking care of his kid brother. Pretty sure my dad was 12 or 13 when that happened.
What I’m getting at is this…
I have such an opportunity today to do better and I’m so grateful that I have the tools to keep trying.
I’m a pretty good dad, I’m a pretty good husband, and I’m even a pretty good son now. It’s hard but it feels really good. There are times I wish I could throw people off docks.
but…
I don’t think I ever would. It’s not fair to them and it’s not fair to me. Whatever curse my family had, I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me. I owe it to the people that I love and most of all I owe it to myself.”
“I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me.” Amen, brother.
“Rates of ‘gray divorce’ — splits among those 50 and older — have risen sharply in the United States, doubling between 1990 and 2010. Though those rates have stabilized since the pandemic, nearly 40 percent of divorces today occur between people 50 and older.”
Key definition.
“‘Empty-shell marriages’ are ones in which there is no real connection or vitality, where one or both partners are not happy. . .”
The key reasons according to Justin Garcia, the executive director of the Kinsey Institute in Bloomington, Ind., and the author of The Intimate Animal: The Science of Sex, Fidelity, and Why We Live and Die for Love.
“’We as a species are in longer relationships than our ancestors ever were,’ he said. ‘Lifelong monogamy maybe meant a few decades.’ Now, though, there are couples who have been together for 50, 60 or even 70-plus years.
‘That is evolutionarily unprecedented for our species,’ Dr. Garcia said.
At the same time, societal expectations for what marriage can or should be have changed. Baby boomers who got married relatively young — in part because that was simply the norm — are now living through a time when marriage is seen as a vehicle for love and self-actualization, said Claire Kamp Dush, a professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota.
‘We’re not just partnering based on this idea that someone’s going to be the breadwinner and someone’s going to be the homemaker,’ she said. It is possible, she added, that our collective tolerance for staying in just a so-so relationship ‘is going down.'”
RX from the Bay Area, commented, “. . . it’s mostly because women are over it.”
Three other top commenters point to an uneven and unfair division of labor as a key catalyst for calling it quits after decades of being together.
Because the author of the piece only used heterosexual examples, and the author and top commenters focused almost exclusively on unfair workloads, we end up with what feels like a relatively simplistic understanding of “gray divorce”.
For example, the author of the piece references, and the top commenters repeatedly emphasize, that women want to finally be free of caring for their male partners while men who divorce tend to remarry, often quite quickly, because “men need to be taken care of”.
Classic painting with a broad brush. “Some” men, even “many men” would be a much better way to word that.
Let’s consider a counter example. Your fave blogger. At first glance, your fave blogger’s decision to begin dating someone three months after his beloved wife died, after 38 years together, might be further proof of men being woefully dependent upon someone to cook and clean for them. Because, as the female author and top commenters seem to think, men can’t cook and clean for themselves.
Sigh. I don’t know how much depth to go into here, with respect to sharing with you dear reader my rationale for deciding to date before learning it was way, way before my daughters were ready for it. But suffice to say, my rationale had nothing to do with being taken care of. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not to brag, but I can hold my own in the kitchen and I will out clean you. Just sayin’.
How ’bout a four-word summary of what could be a four thousand word explanation. I began dating because I sought emotional connection. Which is one word more than it takes to say I was lonely. Weirdly, the concept of emotional intimacy is completely skirted around in the article and top comments.
A friend and I have been sparing a bit on the topic of the patriarchy. Often while hiking. This will surprise no one. I’m losing. She runs circles around me on the topic because she thoughtfully articulates the negative consequences of the patriarchy on men. A key point that too many feminists gloss over. In particular, she correctly points out that entrenched patriarchal norms make it very difficult for men to develop much, if any, emotional intelligence. Without which, emotional intimacy is a non-starter.
Despite some countervailing evidence, most men can learn to vacuum and load and unload dishwashers. And pick up their underwear. Much, much more easily than they can learn to communicate about their inner lives. And much, much more easily than they can learn to tap into their partner’s innermost thoughts and feelings.
I am not an expert and any reader of the female persuasion correct me if I’m wrong about what follows.
I have a strong hunch that many women would like to have their partners do a load or ten of laundry and make them dinner and clean up afterwards, but what every woman would love, especially in empty-shell marriages, is the opportunity to talk about each other’s inner lives in as vulnerable and patient and regulated a manner as possible. So as to feel safe, to feel seen, to feel loved unconditionally. And then to reciprocate. Over and over. For however many years are left.
What has the post-‘rona world wrought? People connecting. Hell yeah.
Patricia Marx in The New Yorker:
“When my editor asked whether I’d be interested in writing about the growing trend of friends getting together to tackle to-do lists, I thought, “Sounds about as fun as a group root canal.” I e-mailed back, “YES!” It was February; I hate the cold; the research would take place indoors. Also, I figured, it might take a village to make me get that comptroller form notarized, memorize the map of South America (don’t ask), and write my will—an item on my list for eighteen years. (As for to-do-list items that never die, thirty-three years ago, the agenda of a friend of mine included: No. 1, get my figure back; No. 2, dance lessons . . . No. 8, figure out if I should break up with Tim; No. 9, leave Tim. Not his real name, because my friend is still wondering about divorcing him.)
Everyone, it turns out, has a lot of shit to do, and many find the drudgery easier to slog through in the presence of company and snacks. Over the course of two months, I sat in on eight Admin Nights, as these gatherings are often called. (“Are they, like, fossils of extinct mollusks?” a hedge-fund guy at a dinner party asked me, thinking of ammonites.) There was a meetup of young mothers who had a lot of children’s birthday parties to organize, a group of Gen Z-ers whose morning session had a live soundtrack provided by a d.j., and a group of people with A.D.H.D., based mostly in Australia, who meet regularly on Zoom. At the Women in Games get-together, a seven-year-old attendee, brought by her mother, marvelled that grownups have homework, too.”
This morning, on the way to Masters swim practice at the Y, I saw three women running shoulder to shoulder on the Henderson Rd sidewalk by Olympia High School. They were not fast, at all, but that’s irrelevant. They had found each other, agreed to meet up, and were clearly vibbing, talking through who knows what. Simultaneously improving their physical and mental health.
And props for your introverted humble blogger for livening up Masters by asking the women in Lane 3, “Do you know the Masters swim team secret?” Looking perplexed, they repeated, “Masters swim team secret?” “Yeah, this lane has the best technique.” They were touched and proudly added their lane was also the most jovial. Five women connected, happier together, living fully.
Maybe I shoulda started this out by writing . . . some people connecting. Social anxiety shows no sign of abating. And we’re way less likely to see our lonely, socially anxious neighbors struggling to find connection. Because often, they can’t even leave their homes.
Here’s to celebrating connection while continuously extending the circles of friendship we’re lucky enough to enjoy.
You have problems, I have problems. But my greatest problem right now is way worser than yours. I’m seriously undertrained for next week’s circumnavigation of San Diego County.*
So today I did what most anyone would do when unprepared for a big exam, I crammed. In the form of a hard session on an indoor bike at the Plum Street Y. With a coach.
When I ride indoors I just can’t replicate the intensity of trying to keep up with ADub when he attacks at the bottom of one of his fave south Thurston County climbs. Or when BBuck does his patented two mile pulls. Or when MGriffin dials up his diesel on the flats and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose his wheel. Or when TMAT hits SkateCreek, turns, and says, “Get lost loser.”
But today, thanks to my coach, Miss Kaninna, I was able to dial it up. Puddles of sweat thanks to Miss Kaninna, a rising Australian First Nations singer-songwriter and rapper known for blending hip-hop, soul, and punk.
Over the ear headphones were on full Miss Kaninna blast. As a result, I was producing Tadej Pogačar-like watts. I listened to enough tracks to develop a theory on why she continues to fly way under the radar.
There are three recurring themes in her lyrics. The first is aboriginal history and institutional racism which she hits way harder/better than egghead academics. The second is sexually explicit stuff that is just part and parcel of a young rapper’s art. The third is where the problem lies. In terms of Miss Kaninna crossing over to the (dis)USA in particular. There is a strong ACAB element to her lyrics. More to the point, my cycling coach raps about killing police. Do I need to say I don’t condone that?
For American concert producers that has to be a non-starter. My guess is Miss Kaninna is fine playing to and for her own people.
Personally, I dig half of Kaninna’s lyrics and ALL the beats. Introducing my cycling coach, Miss Kaninna.
You’re right, I will ride into shape right around the penultimate day. :)
The Victoria Athletic Club is a smallish, but nice fitness center underneath the Hotel Grand Pacific.
My first widowed travel decisions have left a lot to be desired. Trip two is turning out to be like cognitive behavioral therapy, real belly of the beast grief shit. Last night, on the way to the Fish Market for a halibut burger and very large fries, I kept thinking of all the restaurants that dotted the way that the GalPal and I ate at.
This morning, sitting atop a bike in the VAC, I see visions of her in the pool area. Then remember our lap swim routine where she’d start out swimming in the lane next to me, but then lay in wait under the lane line waiting to see what she could grab as I went by. The second or third time, I’d pull up and say, “DUDE, STOP! I’m trying to workout!” And. She’d. Flash. Her. Smile. Which was her way of saying, “You know you like it.” No more VAC horseplay. No more smile. Ever.
Silver lining. At this rate, I’ll be done grieving in no time, and be fine. Right?
The bike I rode was parked right outside the glass encased squash court. While spinning, I watched a woman, guessing early 70s, do the most badass core routine, on a mat, on the empty squash court, I have ever seen. Pushups, every dead bug variation known to humankind, bridges, and on and on. She’d get up, walk out of the court, over to the pull up bar and rip off a bunch of pull ups. Grab a dumb bell, return, and get after it with more core exercises. This went on and on. I was so intrigued I wanted to chat her up, but there was no way, she was locked in! Each time she approached the door, I thought to myself, okay, this is it, she’s gonna make eye contact. Wrong.
I think to myself, it’s really not fair that a 70-something woman can be THAT fit when, what seems like yesterday, I was pushing 64 year old Lynn around the Plum St YMCA weight room in her wheelchair. Helping her on and off machines and giving her 2.5 pound dumbells to do bicep curls.
Fortunately, no one noticed the anonymous American cyclist tearing up on the bike. Which was good because crying would inevitably sink my application for citizenship. This is a country where people bodycheck one another against the boards. Routinely. I think the official national policy is, “No crybabies allowed.”
Foo’s Carmel Chicken with Asian Greens for the win.
JJ and I were having another meaningful convo in the kitchen recently, which has become Deep Convo Central since our lives have been turned upside down. We weren’t thinking the same about whatever it was we were batting back and forth. Finally, a little exasperated with your humble blogger, she said, “Dad, I can hold two opposing ideas in my head at the same time.” Touché.
That’s what my mind returned to when she texted me this picture yesterday. To explain more fully, a few days ago, I got her monthly newsletter which lately has been mostly, but not exclusively, a beautiful, heart-wrenching reflection on her grieving process.*
Dig this flavor flav:
“The last two years were marked by such a different version of the mom I had had for the first 28 years of my life. She was so sick, she was so burdened by her illness and her symptoms. That has been the version of her most readily accessible in my memory. That has been the version showing up in my dreams, night after night, adding salt to the wound. If I can only see her in my dreams, can’t they at least be happy? Can’t she be healthy? Can’t I have the mom from that green couch? I believe one day they will be happy. One day she will be healthy again and she will visit me at night and whisper in my ear that she loves me, whisper that she misses me, that she’s still with me, if in a different form than before.
I still don’t feel normal, I still feel all sorts of wrong, I don’t recognize many aspects of life right now, I have a limited capacity, I don’t ask as many questions, I don’t beep bop around town. So it goes I suppose. I have such a greater understanding for the people in my life who have lost a parent and the hard work they did and continue to do to survive it. This is truly such hard work. And also, when I look, I see a slowly but surely improving ability to do more things in the day, a desire to socialize a little bit more, and flickers of a self that I recognize. When I am in the space to see them, there are some beautiful corners of grief – richer friendships, increased empathy, and a deeper understanding of the things that are important to me.”
All sorts of wrong coupled with a warm smile. Two opposing feels. At the same time.
*I told her she should be writing books, not selling them.
This morning, on my final Lynn CaringBridge post, I wrote, “Lynn’s memorial is going to be lit.” The truth of the matter is I’m dreading it.
Largely because almost all of Lynn’s most special friends will be there, but she won’t be. What she would give to be able to look each person in the eye, smile, and hug them one more time.
If you’re at the memorial and wondering what I’m thinking it’s, “I really, really wish Lynn was here to see everyone whose lives she touched and to enjoy their company.” Remember, she loved parties.
Last night, Alison asked me how I’m doing. I explained that it all depends upon the level of distraction. Like most people these days, I’m pretty damn good at distracting myself from the permanence of the loss that I wrote about previously. Landman, estate executor details, Facebook reels, UCLA portal comings and goings, U.S. imperialism and related bullshit, etc.
When someone thoughtfully checks-in, like Ali, and I’m forced to stop and remember all that’s been lost, I’m immediately overcome by emotion. I cried in the kitchen.
For me, Saturday afternoon will not be lit. Absent any distractions, I will be a complete and total mess.
I’m approaching the event mindful of what basketball analysts say an offensive player should do when going against a fearsome shot blocker/rim protector. The inclination is to opt for finesse, maintain a safe distance, and lob something high arching up and hope for the best. Counterintuitively, the advice of the best basketball minds is to negate their strengths by driving right into them. Or as the kids say, “Getting up in their grill.”
That’s what everyone coming together Saturday afternoon is going to help me do. Get up in the grill of grief. Jumpstart it. Press “fast forward” on the process.
Prob, so much so, I’ll be fine Sunday morn. Right?
Pressing Pause 