Lesson learned

This isn't going to be a funny post tonight (I know, why is this post different from any other post?). But for some reason a particular incident has been on my mind and I can't stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I worked at an agency which shall go nameless. Y&R. There was an art director I worked with there who I never clicked with, nor she with me. Her creative sensibilities were completely different from mine, and it made for a lot of disagreement. Nonetheless, during the occasional times we worked together, we managed to forge ahead and get it done.

I'd never describe us as friends, even though she did ask me to write her wedding invitation because she thought I was talented and funny (some truths can't be denied). I wouldn't say I was glad to do it for her, but I was pleased she liked what I came up with.

It was a cool relationship at best, and only got cooler when I was assigned another art director—one of my favorites to work with and a great friend to this day—and she was going to supervise the project.

Here's where my memory gets a bit like an oil company executive at a senate hearing. I can't recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason she didn't like what my art director partner was doing and decided she wanted to get him fired.

I would have none of it.

After several attempts by her to get rid of my partner, I unloaded and read her the riot act. I did it loudly, in the middle of the department, and at length. It was not my finest hour, but in the heat of the moment, lines clearly drawn, loyalties clearly defined, I was unable to stop. I was a bully in the worst, most unprofessional way. To her credit, she kept her cool and listened to my angry ranting until I was done.

Needless to say we didn't work together after that, and my partner never got fired. Surprisingly, neither did I.

Years later, after I'd left the agency, I heard she was battling cancer. A few years ago, she lost her battle.

I was invited to her memorial service by several people, but I didn't go. It wouldn't have been right or honest given the nature of our relationship.

As I think back on it, she didn't deserve any of my angry antics. Not because she became ill, but because she was a human being.

I believe so much in the golden rule, and I'm embarrassed and shamed by my complete abandonment of it during that encounter. If I could go back and do it differently, I would in a heartbeat. If she were around, I'd tell her I'm sorry, and I had no right to treat her like I did.

But she's not.

What I can do now is pray her two children grow up healthy, with their loving father and nothing but beautiful memories of their mother who was taken too soon.

Sadly, I'm in a position now where I do get to have the last word. So here it is. I'm sorry I treated you that way. You didn't deserve it. And if it's any small consolation, I'm a better person as a result of it and it's a lesson I'll always carry with me.

Rest in peace.

Knock down, drag out

                                          BEFORE                                                                               AFTER

When my pal Janice MacLeod isn't writing about dating, breaking up or Paris, I'm sure she's thinking about what her next literary effort will be. I hope she follows through on one idea she told me about awhile ago. We were talking about her dad and the subject of carpenters came up since that's what he does. She started telling me some of his stories, and mentioned she wanted to write a book called The Secret Life of Carpenters (© Janice MacLeod). From what I could tell, it was going to be a scary book, not to be read at night or during room additions.

The reason that conversation's on my mind is we're about to get started on a remodel here at the ponderosa. And for several reasons, it scares the living daylights (family blog) out of me.

First, as my pal Rich Siegel will tell you, there are things Jews don't do (I think we all remember what happened to the last Jewish carpenter). Anyway, in my house, construction is one of them. Even if it was, I wouldn't remodel my own house. But at least I'd understand what they were doing and know what was going on.

The other thing is when I talk to people who've been through a remodel, they just give me the look. It's the same look you get when you tell someone you're getting married, or buying a house, or having children. The one that says you're about to go through initiation and find out what the club you're joining is like from the inside.

And from what I can tell, it's not pretty.

The consensus seems to be it all comes down to time and money. And how virtually every remodel takes too much of both.

We've saved a little money, but in conversations with our contractors—who we like a lot and come highly recommended by friends and people we trust—we can already see we're going to blow past whatever budget we had (Note to self: avoid the phrase, "While you're here...).

The job is supposed to run about four months. But we're starting right around Thanksgiving because, really, what better time than the holidays to begin knocking down walls and living without hot water. I'm sure the workers taking weeks off for the holidays won't delay the job. Much.

Another thing is I have a hard time seeing the finish line. I look at the plans and it looks great. But I know from the remodel of my daughter's bathroom going on right now that when we start the big job, all I'll see are open walls, exposed pipes, dust and more dust, wires everywhere, and people I don't know traipsing in and out of what was once my kitchen and hopefully will be again.

The good news is I hear it's like having my wisdom teeth out: I go through it once, and then it's done and I can get on with my life painlessly and carefree.

Except in this case, they take the teeth out through my wallet.

Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.