The Empire Strikes Back

"If I ever lose my faith in you, there'd be nothing left for me to do." -Sting

We started with a couch. A three-seater sofa. That's the first thing My Director and I owned together. We took a major plunge, moving in together after she graduated from college. My dad and I picked it up from the furniture store in my hometown. When we got back to my parents' house, I called her on the old land line. (Cell phones weren't quite a thing yet in 1999.)

There's the old couch. in the middle of
our old condo.

"This is it," I told her. "We're building our Empire."

Our Empire. I have always referred to our life as that. I haven't shared that on this blog until now. We've built quite the little Empire in the fourteen years since we bought that couch, if I do say so myself. But it all began with that couch, which first sat in our one-bedroom roach motel of a railroad apartment.

It moved everywhere with us over the years. Two apartments, a condo, and our house. We had to get rid of it last year. It was getting pretty beaten up. Had our basement not been wet at the time, we could have stored it down there. That would have been nice. As much as you tell yourself you don't want to become attached to things, this couch was special. It represented the start of our Empire.

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For This I Am Forever Thankful

"How do I know when it's love? I can't tell you but it lasts forever." -Van Halen

When do you know the person you're with is the one with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? I knew early on in my relationship with My Director, but our first Thanksgiving clinched it.

Hall of Languages
Syracuse University

It was 15 years ago. We were in college at Syracuse. We had been dating just three months. I knew earlier in the semester that she was "the one," but when I took her temperature to see if she felt the same way, I didn't get the response I was looking for.

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9/11: A Constant Reminder

"I woke up this morning to an empty sky" -Bruce Springsteen

An Emmy sits on our mantle. Not many people can call themselves an Emmy-winner. But I can.

That gold statue serves as a constant reminder... of an accomplishment. And of a tragedy.

I won my only Emmy for my work covering the first anniversary of September 11th. That statue is so bittersweet. It almost seems like there shouldn't have been awards that year.

There was a feeling of helplessness when the attacks hit, and the towers came down. I especially felt helpless because all I wanted to do was get into work. I couldn't at first because the city was on lockdown. There was a bigger feeling of helplessness from our inability to provide any information or comfort to the countless families whose loved ones were missing.

I remember our reporter standing there live at the Armory, interviewing relative after relative awaiting word. None came. All he could do was comfort them. Temporarily. Momentarily. And all we could do was watch through the screens in the control room and not loose our sh!t, and concentrate on the next shot to go to.

It seemed every waking hour, for that entire year, was about 9/11. The firsts. The first month. The first Christmas. The six month anniversary. The wars. Then summer, and the planning for the one year anniversary.

Leading up to the first anniversary was like opening an old wound. I remember pouring my heart into that special. Not for me. But for them. The victims. Their families.

Obviously, I didn't do it for any award. I did it because it was my job. And I did it because I - we - felt that somehow we were serving these people in some way. We were easing their pain however slightly by telling their stories.

That night, when we signed off at 11pm, we all went out. Everyone at the station. Talent, bosses, technical crew, producers. Everyone.

We got hammered. I got really hammered. We were blowing off steam... a year's worth of steam. There was so much work to do from the moment that first plane struck to the moment Seinfeld (Seinfeld of all things) rolled right after us on the one year anniversary.

We all took a deep breath. And finally exhaled. I don't remember much about that night. I remember a friend put me in a cab to send me home... from the East Side of Manhattan to New Jersey.

Then I remember collapsing into a heap in the bathroom of our apartment maybe 45 minutes later. Kicking and screaming and crying and punching. My wife (who was my fiance' then) came in. I had obviously woken her up because it was late at night/early in the morning.

The tears started flowing, fueled by the alcohol, and they just didn't stop. She came in to console me. I remember yelling, "I can't do this anymore." And "I shouldn't have taken on this project. I can't handle it."

Over the next several years, I earned the job of 9/11 producer at each station I worked. Despite my drunken pronouncement in the bathroom in the early morning hours of 9/12/02, it became my thing.

But I could never forget that first time. When all of those memories came rushing back. When I finally let go and let loose.

Ten years later, I still wish there was more I could have done to help those who lost someone. Something more than wall-to-wall coverage. Something more than producing an Emmy-winning show.

But I can't. Nothing I can say or do can take away their pain.

9/11 taught us about the strength and triumph of the human spirit in the face of unspeakable tragedy. A daily reminder of that sits on our mantle. It is a testament to them.

And that is why I'm proud of that Emmy. But I'd trade it in a heartbeat if it would bring them all back.

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Shelter From the Storm

"If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds and that old north wind should begin to blow." -James Taylor

My daughter will only know how terrified I was of Hurricane Irene if she reads this post one day.

Terri. Fied.

Why? Because I just didn't know. I didn't know if I took all of the necessary precautions and stocked up on all of the necessary supplies. I didn't know if I was making the right decisions.

I didn't know if I could do it without my wife.

She had to work this weekend. This was move-in weekend at the college where she works and it's her event. She had to make sure everything went smoothly. Make sure everyone was safe.

But what about us?

I protested. I guilt-tripped her. I told her she was putting herself in harm's way by staying in the city, which was expecting a direct hit from the storm. I said her bosses were being stubborn. I laid it on thick.

She told me, "I have two words for you: nine eleven."

She was right. When 9/11 happened I was gone for nearly a week. I stayed in the city. I put myself in harm's way. We were on high alert. My station was a block from the United Nations, a potential target.

So I relented. I knew where she wanted to be. The same place where I wanted her to be.

Still terrified at the thought of enduring a hurricane alone with the Peanut, I thought about driving her west to my in-laws, dropping her off, then turning around to stay with the house. I thought they might not get it as bad. (Turns out they lost power and we didn't).

I imagined hugging her goodbye, knowing what was ahead of us, and I nearly broke down. The thought of abandoning her like that just broke my heart. Even though she would not have seen it that way. She would have loved staying at her grandparents' house.

No... we'd ride it out together. I'd put on my brave face. I'd pray. A lot. I'd think about my parents. How the hell did they seem so calm during Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Or were they filled with the same anxiety I was feeling now? Did I just not know it because they had put on a brave face?

Peanut hungry for pasta & chicken cutlets

Luckily, some friends were coming over to wait out the storm with us. So I told the Peanut it was going to be a party. We kept busy. We played games. We watched movies. I cooked two meals because apparently I cook when I'm nervous. We drank beer. (Not the Peanut.) Lots of beer.

As the storm picked up, whipping rain and wind against the house, we went through our normal bedtime routine. Potty. Brush teeth. Wash hands and face. Book. Silly shadows. Race down the hall. Kiss and hug goodnight. Brave face.

My biggest fear was something happening to the house, and Peanut freaking out. A power outage. Or worse... One of the many trees around our property crashing down. I woke up a few times during the night to check on everything. I looked out the windows, scanned the trees in the yard, checked on the Peanut, and inspected for possible Luna bombs on the living room carpet downstairs.

The little pump that could

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Turn Out the Lights

"Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can't lose." -Coach Taylor, Friday Night Lights


At the risk of turning this blog into a full-blown television and movie review site (I recently added this page, to share our thoughts on what the peanut is watching), I still feel compelled to share with you my reaction to the ending of the series "Friday Night Lights."

This is a show my wife and I watched from the beginning. She was skeptical at first, since it was about a high school football team in Texas. But she soon realized it was about a whole lot more than just football: community, relationships, parenting, family, marriage.

And that's why I want to share with you my thoughts.

Coach and Tammi Taylor

In the finale, the Taylors (played by Kyle Chandler and Connie Britton), face some tough decisions that will affect the future of their family. Mrs. Taylor receives the job offer of a lifetime, to be the dean of admissions at a college in Philadelphia (they live in Texas). For their entire 18-year marriage, the Taylors' every move has been to accommodate Coach Taylor's job. He is a high school football coach in high school football-crazy Texas. And is about to reach the pinnacle of his career. He's on the verge of winning a second state championship. And next season, due to budget cuts, the two schools in their fictional town are merging to form one "super team." He is in line to coach this team.

So they are faced with the decision: continue on the same path, where his job and his dream takes precedence, like it has over the past 18 years. Or, change course, and give priority to her dream for once. The tension built throughout the last few episodes as they danced around this touchy subject.

Who should make the sacrifice?

The person who does just may resent the one who gets their way for the rest of their lives.

I will spoil the ending for the sake of this post, but if you haven't seen it yet, then I suggest you stop reading right now. From here on out is the spoiler:

Halfway through the finale, when it looks like Coach Taylor won't budge, his wife gives up. With tears in her eyes, she simply says, "I'm going to turn down that job. I'm not going to win this fight."

And he just says, "Alright." That's it... and that's that.

You're shocked that this could be the ending when the whole show had revolved around this couple that faced adversity together and did so with such love and grace. How could this guy whose gruff exterior was simply an occupational necessity, who really loved and adored his wife and his two daughters and wore his heart on his sleeve throughout the entire series when it came to them, just dismiss his wife like that?

Later in the episode, he has an epiphany.

A female student who loves football and aspires to be a coach someday, a girl he has taken under his wing, comes into his office. She says, "Being a part of (this team) has been the greatest experience of my life."

And he looks at her and says, "Mine too."

At that moment he realizes he has reached the pinnacle of his career. He's turned around the lives of the kids on his team and turned around the program at a school from 'the other side of the tracks.' He's brought these misfits to the brink of an unprecedented state championship.

He rushes to see his wife and tell her they should move to Philadelphia.

And that's what we were hoping he would say all along.

This is something my wife and I work on daily as a couple. Sacrificing for each other. Compromising for each other. Being able to say "ok" when the other person even needs something that might seem trivial (to go for a run, to go get a pedicure). Not only letting them, but wanting to let them.

Because if you make the other person's happiness just as important if not more important than your own, you're both going to be happy a lot more often than you're not.

This is why Friday Night Lights was about much more than football. This is why we're going to miss it.

Another show we identify with and watch and enjoy regularly is "Parenthood." Click here to read why.

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Freaky Friday

"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." -Theodore Hesburgh

The alarm sounds. The bright green numbers read an ungodly hour. Ungodly even though it's an hour and a half later than I normally wake up: 6:00. Did I oversleep? Wait... that's not my alarm clock. And what am I doing on this side of the bed?

I rub my eyes, thinking I must still be dreaming. I'm not. Something feels different. My hands feel smaller, smoother. The knuckles are less hairy and clunky. I think I'm just overtired. Imagining things because I would swear I feel different.


Smaller. Prettier?

I go to scratch myself, as I would any morning. Left hand to right 'groin' is always the opening move of my personal game of scratch-and-wake Twister. And... it's different. It's not there.

This is every man's worst nightmare. Worse than the naked-in-front-of-an-audience one. Worse than the haven't-been-to-class-in-weeks-and-finals-are-coming one.

My man parts are gone. Not only are they gone... they've been replaced. By lady parts. Holy good God, what have I done? What did I say? Did I touch a cursed idol and recite the wrong thing at the wrong time? Did I switch bodies with someone? Who?

I jump out of bed, panicked. I throw on the switch, and look in the large picture mirror that hangs over our dresser.

In it, a familiar face is staring back at me. Oh. My. God.

The face in the mirror

I'm gorgeous. I love this person so much.

I pinch myself. I'm definitely awake. This is no dream. Ok... where is she? For a brief fleeting moment, I think of the ridiculous statement I've made the few times my wife and I have joked about 'being each other for a day.'

"I wouldn't leave the bedroom," I've said. "And I'd have a lot of fun."

I now know how ridiculous that statement is. I've got so much to do, so much to figure out, and the last thing on my mind is sex... let alone with myself.

At that moment of clarity, the phone rings.

"We got our wish," she says. I hear her grinning as if she were planning this all along. "What? Where are you? Are you me?

"Yes. I'm in the city, on my way to work. Your work."

Once again...Oh. My. God.

"How the hell are you going to do it?"

"Like you always say," she answered. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she says. "Immensely."

We hang up. OK... focus. I can do this. Can I? I have no choice.

Shower. Do I need to shower? She doesn't shower every day. She's that clean and pretty. I shower twice a day. I'm that dirty and disgusting. I decide to shower, just in case.

This exercise is a maze of confusion and tribulation. I wish I had the time to enjoy myself loofa-ing my wife's body. But I need to get myself to work and my daughter to daycare.

Holy crap... the peanut. How am I going to trick her? Nothing gets by her.

I decide not to wash my hair to save time (knowing that my wife does this is very helpful). I throw my hair in a shoddy ponytail. I get dressed. I choose an outfit from the year I was adventurous enough to go into Anthropologie and buy her some clothing for her birthday. She loved all of it. Still does.

I put on a white skirt with green floral designs on it. A matching blouse. A pair of blown glass earrings that we bought on our honeymoon in Venice. A necklace that matches that. Shoes? Definitely not heels. Sandals.

Makeup. Makeup? My wife is pretty enough without it. I skip the makeup.

Do I look fat? That's something I ask myself every day. She has no such issues.

Of course not. I think I look amazing. (I think she looks amazing.)

The peanut stirs. Luckily, I know enough about their morning routine to get through without incident. I get her into the car. I've offered her a cookie to distract her from my awkward and petrified state. Drop off goes smoothly.

Now off to work. On the bus ride to the city, I look at my hands. Still perfect, but I wish I had time for a manicure. Same with my feet. A pedicure would be nice.

I think about my rushed time with the peanut. And the doubt starts to creep in. Do I pay enough attention to her? Am I working too much? Do I spend enough time with her?

Am I doing the right thing?

These are the things a working mother must think of before she tucks away the family obligations and starts focusing on the career ones.

The work day is, luckily, uneventful. It's summer and my wife works at a college. While there are a few issues to deal with, they are all by phone and email. There are a few strange interactions with her assistant. I actually snap at her with some of my trademark sarcasm at one point. Then quickly cover it up with an apology. "Don't mind me," I say. "I'm not myself today."

Literally.

It's still a full work day. Midway through the afternoon, I realize I hadn't even peed yet. Another mini adventure since even when my daughter goes, I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to wipe. And if I am causing irreparable emotional damage as a result.

On the bus ride home, all I think about is how badly I want see my family. I enter the house around 6:00 pm, exactly twelve hours after I boarded this roller coaster.

She's a momma's girl

My daughter excitedly yells "mommy!" as I come through the door. And despite the unfamiliarity of this affectionate greeting, it still feels good.

We hug. We kiss. We snuggle.

Then, the moment I've been waiting for. I go out the back door to find my wife, grilling hamburgers. But I'm staring at my own face. I look a lot more put together than I normally feel I am.

We smile. Hug. And I say, "You're pretty impressive."

"So are you."

Somehow we manage to endure the motions of the rest of the evening. Dinner, bath, walk the dog, bedtime.

We close the door to our daughter's room after 'one last hug and kiss.' My wife turns to me and asks, "Shall we turn in too and end this craziness early?"

"Actually, why don't we watch last night's Grey's Anatomy on DVR and then go to bed?

A lot in common, a lot in love

An hour or so later, as my head hits the pillow after an exhausting day on so many levels, I reflected on my day in her shoes.

She works hard. She worries sometimes she works too much. She loves her family more than anything.

She would like a manicure and pedicure.

She looks forward to new episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

Turns out, we're not that different after all.

I originally wrote this post for my Week 2 assignment of Blogger Idol 2011: "If I were the opposite sex for a day."

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