Hi I'm Alex and I CHEATED on my WIFE

     Not once, not twice. I don't know how many times.  I can't remember. I can remember all of the women I slept with, each and every one of them, but I can't count them and I can't count all of the times I slept with them. Something about numbers, so final and absolute. I was never good with numbers, unless  they had a practical application, like chemistry.

     Does it matter if it was just once, or only five times?  Would it matter if it was once with one person, or if I had orchestrated a full on affair that went on for years?  YEARS of lying and duplicity.  YEARS of looking at two women, whom I loved and gave my body.  Wandering into their eyes, and LYING.  Would it be different if I had just had a few flings here and there, if I hadn't ever slept with anyone, but only kissed and touched, stroked and petted.  And then left while she wondered, will I ever see him again?  No, you won't see me again.  I'm married and I'm a Douche Bag.

     I'm a successful Douche Bag.  I lived the American Dream, raised a family and had a successful career.  I still have a successful career.  Some of my patients are even what you might call famous.  And they would be so very disappointed in me.  Their Doctor, their light in darkness and grey.  Their Shaman, their projected perfect father, grandfather, boyfriend, brother, little brother, a pervert.  Well, I'm not a pervert. I'm a man. I'm an imperfect human.

     Still, they have trusted me with all of their secrets and I told them it was going to be O.K.  They have brought me their lovers, their wives, their husbands, and I have helped them to remain together faithfully and to appreciate each other and the beauty of monogamy, opened their eyes to the joy of spiritual connection and relationships, tried to help them admit to themselves how much they wanted to be loved and to give love.  Most of them, or not most, I should say many of them considered their desire for a love a weakness.

     Or, I helped them to split apart with as little damage as possible, to stop hurting, tormenting and playing power games with each other. I helped to untangle their fears, their unmet childhood needs, their defense mechanisms.  I helped to disarm them, to put down their emotional and verbal weapons (in some cases physical weapons) and to walk peacefully into a new chapter.  And I did it all with my voice, my physical presence, my office, my intellect, my energy, my being, my ego, my very own defense mechanisms, psyche, and neurosis . . .  Or, at least that's what I would like to think I did, or that I still do.

     Who knows?  I've had patients come back and say that I saved their lives. I'm sure I have patients out there that hate me.  They despise me.  Some of them probably keep coming back and I don't even know they hate me.  They tell their friends, their mothers, but they would never tell me to my face.  And maybe I have failed them.  I didn't listen, said the wrong thing, prescribed the wrong medication, didn't follow up enough.  I was not always the best Doctor that I could have been.  I was not always the best man I could have been. I was not always the best husband, or the best father, the best son, or the best brother that I could have been.  I was only ever a human being. And I'm not sure if that's an excuse, or the truth.


How disappointed my patients would be that I don't have all of the answers.

Retirement

     I've been trying to retire, but my needy patients won't let me.  I've passed them on to other doctors, told them I can't see them anymore, that I was going away to a far off island.  And they just keep calling.  "Call the doctor who is treating you."  I can't count how many times I have said that.  And then the patient says, "But they don't understand me the way that you do, please, please, please."  PLEASE Dr. Alex. PLEASE Dr. Doberman (it feels funny to me to write that, because obviously, that's not my real name.  I have no interest in revenge lawsuits)
  
     "PLEASE! DR. Alex!"  I have to admit, it's nice to be loved, to be wanted.  The truth is they don't really want me and they don't love me. The truth is that the patients who won't let me go, the ones who hunt me down in the early morning and occasionally drive by my house are the famous ones, the ones who have been creatively successful, or otherwise just lucky, or who are just about to get there. Kind of like an orgasm that never happens.  They just can't reach climax.  They just can't self-actualize.  The ones who are just wealthy by default with too much time on their hands, may do a drive-by here and there, but they aren't as demanding. They have issues, but they don't make demands like this woman.  It's  an altogether different MO.
  
     So they call and they keep calling, until I finally say O.K. when would you like to meet? Just like a crack fix.  O.K., you've won, when would you like your crack fix?  What's funny is that they can find anything I prescribe them by themselves.  They don't need prescriptions and many of them use drugs far more powerful than anything I could or would prescribe them.  So, that's not the "fix" their coming for. I will write the usual Los Angeles script for them. An anti-anxiety, erection difficulties (or rather perceived erection difficulties) sleeping pills (Why don't they just use their Medical Marijuana pharmacy card?), a pain killer here and there.  None of it matters because they don't take the pills as prescribed, which is why in my later years, I slowed down the anti-depressant scripts.  They are only effective when taken as prescribed and why that's impossible for someone who is in the top of their field, a master of their craft, I'll never know.

     What I don't want are the on again off again anti-depressant streakers through my office constantly getting put on a different anti-depressant, but never taking it consistently enough to notice results.  Also, the hysterical phone calls get a bit annoying.  Oh, you're hyperventilating, that's because the dosage is too high.  Oh, you really love the dreams where you are weightless and can fly.  I know, amazing.  No, I can't give you a higher dose that won't increase the efficacy of the dream.  Perhaps, I should be more sensitive.  But, it can be difficult to deal with people who are truly not sure, or who have an inability to be honest about what drugs they are taking and where they got them from.
  
     I had a patient tell me once that she felt like she was cheating on me because she went to another DR.   And then, when I asked here who it was, she refused to tell me their name.   I have no grudges against my peers or my colleagues. I think good, do whatever is most helpful for you.  If they want my honest opinion, I will surely give it.  Yet, that didn't seem like it was this patients goal.  It seemed like she wanted to stir up drama.  I can't keep track of all the meds I prescribe and the meds other Dr.'s might prescribe and recreational drug usage.  So how am I supposed to know what drugs she's taking?  She might know what drugs she has in her stash draw, but she doesn't know which pills she's been taking and when.  It's just all in one drawer that's a big mess.

     And then my head starts to nod. I nod yes because that must be really confusing. "How is your cocaine usage?" I ask. She says she hasn't been doing any.  She's been clean for three months now and hasn't craved it at all. The chantix must have helped with that, although it didn't help her quit smoking.  I keep nodding. Yes.  And this is where my compassion kicks in.  This woman has done so much cocaine that I can see the damage to her nose cartilage from where I'm sitting and I'm an old man.  A part of me wants to ask her, are you aware that your nose is about to collapse?

     "Lean in towards me," I say as I take my finger and press her nose flat against her face.  Powder leaks out.  I can see the post nasal drip every time she opens her mouth. Of course, it was only in my imagination that I pressed her nose against her face while glancing at her rack.  But, it has occurred to me during the past forty-minutes that this patient has been on a cocaine bender, which would explain all of the obsessively rude phone calls. This is why, SHE JUST HAD TO SEE ME. NOW. TODAY.

     "So you feel like the sky is falling?" I ask. Yes. She does feel that way.  I nod my head again.  "No other drugs?" "No," she says. "None but the ones in the drawer."  She's calmer now, which is good.  I feel like I'm staring through her, into that drawer.  She must have some Valium in there already. Something, or maybe not. God this is my moment, isn't it?  This is it.  This is when I fix her and it's time to shine.  This is why they pay me the big bucks, right?  THIS IS WHY SHE JUST HAD TO SEE ME AND NOT ANOTHER DR.

     She's not ready to be honest with herself about the cocaine and she's not ready to be honest about it with me.  I'm at a loss, what can I do?  Have you tried breathing exercises, re framing exercises, yoga.  Would you like some Valium?

     You know, sometimes I would really like it if patients would just walk into my office and say, I found out that my emotionally abusive ex-boyfriend is getting married and that sent me on a huge bender and I didn't know what to do, so I called you because I haven't filled in the new DR. about all of the important details of my life and I don't feel like repeating myself.  Why can't she just say that?

     "So, why do you feel like the sky is falling?" I ask.  "I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin," she says.  "I feel like I'm going to kill someone."  "Well, since you didn't seem excited about the Valium, if you were going to kill someone who would it be?"  Now, shame floods her face.  It's Ronald, she's been talking to Ronald.  Ron, the bane of her existence, the demise of her life. If only she hadn't met him, everything would be different for the better.  They were one of those couples I helped to pry apart with a wrench and tweezers.  They enjoyed hurting each other.  Neither of them are bad people, but together  they were like styrofoam and gasoline. I knew this had to have something to do with Ron.

"Have you been dating?'  "No," she says.  "Ronald's getting married to some helpless wealthy hoe that he'll for sure cheat on.  He proposed to her.  But six years and not me. No, he didn't want to get married to me."

     "Well, I think he did want to marry you.  I don't remember that being the issue.  I think the issue was that you felt like he would never be able to be faithful and as you've said he's probably not going to remain faithful to this woman he's marrying."

"I know he's not."  She says.  "He can't.  He's not programmed like that.  It's not in his DNA."

"Well, thank goodness you won't have to worry about him tormenting you anymore. Now, he's her problem."

"But I wanted to be that someone else, " she says.

     There is so much I could write about how people with her personality type are unable to deal with not getting exactly what they want, from a restaurant table, to a car, to a man. To her, she sincerely feels like she will die if she does not get exactly what she wants, and maybe that has contributed to her success.  Also, it's probably what drove her to drugs.  I wanted to be a rocket scientist.  Nobody cares about me and my "lost" dreams.

"It hurts," she says.  And this is the most honest statement she has made in the past hour.

"I know.  It hurts me too. It hurts me to see you like this.  And if I were you, I would feel hurt also.  It would feel like a final rejection."

"There's no hope."

"For you and Ronald you mean?"

"There's no hope left."

"Well, certainly not for that relationship.  But, he'll probably come back."

"No. he won't ever come back."

"Oh, I think he will," I say.  "And then you will have to be strong and say NO WAY.  I'm not going to be the other woman."  And finally, a smile comes across her face.

"I don't think so," she says.

"Oh, I think you could have him back." I say.

"Yeah, I probably could have him back as he is now, which is as an infidel asshole.  I'm definitely going to say NO when he comes back.  I've been saying no this whole time.  That's why I brought him here to begin with way back when."

I nod.

"It's just so hurtful and devastating.  I'm just in so much pain.  Why her and not me?"

"Yes.  It hurts when someone is incapable of loving you how you need to be loved, whether that's healthy or not. I don't know."

And now I know that I'm never going to get her out of my office because she has finally started crying. She cries how all of us cry like boys and girls who have just gotten our feelings hurt for the first time, the kind of cry that doesn't understand explanations, not because it doesn't want to, but because it doesn't have the capacity.  I let her cry.  I guess all I've got is time, right?  I'm retired.

After she leaves, I remember.  The funny thing about Ronald was that he was very honest about not being able to be faithful, not to this patient, or any woman.  In fact, I think that was the only part of himself he was ever honest about.

MY WIFE

     I met my wife in college.  I was studying music and she was studying to be a teacher.  I always wanted to become a Dr., but I took a detour at a local college because they gave me a scholarship. And I think I was too scared not to live within driving distance to my parents.

     

Nothing was coed back then, so it was hard to meet girls and even more difficult to have sex.  Typically, men and women were not friends.  You couldn't just hang out with girls.  It was automatically  a date and that meant you had to follow curfews and rules.  Lucky for me, Stephanie was older and the enforcer of many of those rules on campus.

     I met her in the study hall.  I walked in and it actually was love at first sight.  Her hair, her smell, her voice and I was tingling.  Keep in mind, I was still standing 25 feet away from her.  She hadn't even looked up at me.  She was an upperclassman, probably going to graduate that year and I was a sophomore. 

     

     I walked up to her desk.  I dropped to my knees and pleaded.  Please, please, please go out with me on Friday night?  I grabbed both of her hands as she stared.  The relaxed and calming look in her eyes, I would come to know later as home and comfort.  Yet, she seemed amused.  A smile.   And then I felt it.  THE RING.  She was engaged.  To whom?  How could I have let someone else get her first?  I still begged.  I still pleaded.  And she laughed.

     She was going to marry Hank.  They had been going steady for practically their whole lives.  He graduated the year before and was waiting for Stephy to finish school.  I still begged.  I still pleaded and this was a big no no back in those days.  Everyone in the study hall looked at me like I was a nutcase.  And I was a nutcase, or I guess I am still a nutcase.  

     It was going to be summer soon, so I didn't have a lot of time. I did manage after everyone left the study hall to convince her to come to a picnic with me the following Saturday.  Of course, she didn't know it would only be the two of us, but that didn't matter.  We had a date!

     I took the four hour bus ride home immediately.  Upon arrival, I ignored my mother and cornered my father in the garage. I explained to him that I had just met the girl of my dreams and could I please bring the car back to school.  I had to have a car.  She was an upperclassman. I would bring it back in perfect condition after the summer, or before that, whenever he wanted. But I had to have it, at least for this upcoming Saturday and maybe a little longer.  Please, please, please. I have to.  I'm in love.  He must have understood how serious I was about Stephanie because he let me take the car back to campus and gave me money for petro.  Then, I harassed my mom for anything picnic like, any food item, basket, flower, blanket. My poor mother, here comes her tornado son demanding not only food, but random picnic items?  She was always so helpful and I guess she knew what I was doing.  Either because it was so plainly obvious, or my because my father told her.  I don't know.  I don't even think I saw my brother during that visit, it was so quick and busy.  I do remember hearing him playing the guitar upstairs, but I'm not even sure I stopped in to say hello.  All I could think was Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie. STEPHANIE.

Shawnie Lake

     I took Stephanie to Shawnie Lake.  It was really the only place within driving distance from campus that was any fun.  And it was only fun because it was off campus and we could drink and swim there.  She didn't mention anything about us still being alone, so I didn't either.  After all, it was possible we might run into friends.  I just hadn't planned it.
 
 I looked down at her hand and noticed she wasn't wearing the ring.  I wanted to ask, but I didn't.  And she didn't say anything about it, so I didn't either.  I had heard from some friends that she had known Hank since grammar school and they were voted prom king and queen.  He had graduated last year and was working on his family's farm while waiting for Stephanie to finish school.
  
      I opened the trunk of my car and felt like a Boy Scout. It would have taken Hank years to prepare a picnic like this and it probably wouldn't have been as well thought out or planned. My date would not be cold or hungry.  And I had all of the tools to survive both a bear attack and a national disaster.  O.K., it was weird, but I wanted to be prepared.  I mean, you never know when you might need a gas lantern or some decent china. Bye, bye farm boy Hank!  I have to admit I was a little embarrassed when Stephy saw all of the supplies in the trunk.  She didn't say anything about it, so I didn't either.  Actually, I made some stupid comment like, oh that stuff is always in there in case the car doesn't start.

Anyhow, I'm still better than Hank I thought.  He probably drives some huge farm like truck that smells of manuer. Ha!
  
     She picked a spot off of the usual path and I went along with her lugging a tent, blankets, matches, cheap red wine, and my mothers pecan pie.  Good thing it wasn't going to rain and good thing I had all of those blankets, because although I wished it was Spring, it wasn't quite yet.  I made a fire and you know, that was just something you could do back then.  Make a fire where you wanted, not in a pit, or in a made-up designated spot. I  miss that feeling of easiness and romance.
  
     She curled up in the blanket and I sat next to her.  I told her all of my plans.  That I would become a  doctor.  I just wasn't sure which kind, but I would apply to med school in a city.  Then, I would travel the world maybe giving lectures, working with veterans, maybe doing volunteer work.  "I'll even take you with me," I said. "To New York or anywhere you want to go."  "New York.  Wow," and she smiled.
   
     Certainly I knew that my plans had to be better than Hank's.  Hank worked on his family farm and would probably take over the family business, whatever that was.  I'm sure it was stupid.

"What are you going to do?"  I asked.

"I'm going to be a teacher."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?  I guess I haven't thought about it," she said.

"Oh."

"You know what Hank told me before I came out here today?"
Did she really just mention his name?  Hank, my evil nemesis standing in the way of the world as I wanted it. I had to be brave. "What?" I asked.

"He said that if I came out here with you, or anybody like that, you know, that he would join the army."

"What?"

"Yeah, that he would join the army.  And I told him that I am sick of him being so controlling, so he should just go ahead and do that then.  Almost everyone in his family has served.  What would be the difference?  He probably planned on doing it anyway and not telling me."

"Not telling you?  Well, I would never do something like that.  Cheers to that!"

     We clanked our glasses together.  She took a sip of her wine.  I took a big gulp of mine, mostly  because our eyes were locked and I didn't know what to do with myself.

"So, you're not going to wear the ring anymore?"

"That cracker jack ring.  I didn't even bother to give it back."

"Well, you could have this one." And I pulled out a ring I had stolen from my mother's jewelry box.  It was on the bottom and I hoped to god she wouldn't miss it.  I prayed she wouldn't notice.

"What?"

"Um yeah. I just had it.  It doesn't mean anything. Not too much."

"No, I'll wear it."  she said.  "Is it real?  Looks like my birthstone."

"Ummm, I think it's real."  I wanted to kiss her. Actually, I wanted to marry her, but I still felt like I had a bit of convincing to do, so I offered her some pecan pie.  I needed to eat something.  My head was spinning.  I felt like I had given her my heart in a snow globe and she was shaking it up and down. I'm sure the wine didn't help.

And then she kissed me . . .

We would go back to Shawnee Lake many times before summer.  She never mentioned Hank again, so I  didn't either.

The Patients

     I've lost patience with most of them.  I've lost patience with women.  They come to me over-competent, sexy, and broken.  They are ready to kill and to cry.  They come to me cringing to keep themselves together, all bottled up and shaken.  They are stuck, confused, overwhelmed, and used.  I can tell by how they sit down.  If I could, I would cuddle them, stroke their hair, hug them, and say-tell me everything and I will still love you.

     It is always a man.  Maybe their first love, maybe not. But, it's the man they've decided to keep.  There were early warning signs. She ignored them. She knew it all along. He was a bastard, a dueschbag.  The warning signs were like red lights flashing on and off, bouncing off the bedroom walls, yet she made love to him anyway. When times were good, they were, oh so good.  And then, a small crack begins . . . Tiny inconsistencies build up.  She comes to find me.  Should she trust him or not?

     They come in all colors, shapes, and sizes, with grand breasts, or dimpled nipples peering at me through their shirt. They all have jobs and are very intelligent, both emotionally and intellectually.  Some have been in therapy before, others have not. But, it's all the same.  A man is destroying them.  Intentionally, or unintentionally, I do not know.  And he doesn't either.  It hurts.

     "Oh, the pain in my soul.  I don't know who I've become.  I don't like myself, but I can't stop.  I love him." And all they want is his love.  The love of an incapable asshole.  No, I should be more compassionate.  The love of a man who can't love because of childhood rejection and unmet childhood needs.  Wait. He's not my patient.  I'm not treating him.  I don't care about him.  I care about her. Too much.  I take her home with me to my wife.  In the shower, I wrap my hands around her waist, her thighs.  I lick her.  I protect her from harm and erase the wrongdoing.  I honor her trust.  I am the man she dreams of, considerate, lustful, playful, honest, communicative, devoted.  No other woman exists, only her.  There couldn't have been another possibility because since the first light, the beginning of love itself, we were soul-mates.  All we had to do was find each other.  She loves me completely with no necessity for the unconditional.  I am her man and she only desires me.  There are no other men. In fact, they are all boys by comparison.

     That night, my wife and I make love.  I bring her to our bed.  I feel guilty afterwards.  Obsession only exists through the objectification and rejection of reality. But I love my wife.  I do.  Duality is uncomfortable.

     I dart my eyes around the office because she is rambling, repeating herself, has been rambling for the past twenty minutes, not making eye contact.  I'm worried. We are standing on the edge, peering over.  Nervous breakdown.

     "What are you looking at?"

     " What?"

     "Is there something behind me?"

     "No?"

     "Are we out of time?"

     "No.  Why?"

     "Is there something behind me you haven't seen before?  I mean this is your office, right?"

     "Adrianna,  I was listening. I am listening. Please continue."

     "GOOD.  Because he never listens. All I do is repeat myself.  It's like having a child.  But I must like  
      something about it, right, because I'm still there, right?  I've given him ultimatums and all we do is  
      fight.  Even now, all I'm doing is sitting here talking trash about him and we'll probably fuck tonight.
      In five minutes, I could be telling you again how wonderful he is and how I want to marry him.  I
      want to kill myself."

     "More about how you don't like yourself anymore."

     "Before?"

     "Before you met him."

     "I was different before, and now I don't know.  It's like I don't care about myself."

     "Yes."

     "I just keep giving him ME.  And he just keeps crumpling me up, like he doesn't give a shit."

     "Yet. You just can't pull yourself away and you keep going back."

     "I know.  It's fucked up, right?"

     "The fact that you know it's fucked up doesn't seem to be enough.  It doesn't seem to be helping
       you.  Do you feel guilty about anything having to do with him?  Do you feel sorry for him in any
       way?"

     "Yeah.  I feel sorry he's such a fucking asshole and can't get his head out of his ass to realize how
       great I am. Me.  Standing right in front of him."

     "Have you told him that?"

     "Yeah.  But, I do feel bad because one time I scratched him."

     "You scratched him?"

     "Yeah.  Right across his face when I found out he lied about cheating on me. I had asked him about
      it, you know, and all he had to do was tell the truth.  I knew he was lying, right to my face, and then
     of course it came out later.  I mean, a lot more came out later."

     Always, always, always when a woman acts out to the point where others might call her crazy and they may be right, it is undoubtedly because a man has pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her, and she just can't take it anymore.  She has given him only love and kindness, compassion, understanding, a willingness to forgive in exchange for the dream of the future and he has chronically returned this gift dirtied and bruised, sullied, damaged, dejected and rejected.  And she has taken this gift, cleaned it, washed it, nurtured it, hoped for it, waited peacefully for it to regain it's perfection, only to give it again.  Only, for it to be returned.

     Men are never pushed to this point of emotional abuse and torture, or I've rarely seen it.  I think it's because we simply do not possess the magic of creation and recreation. Like Shiva, both the creator and the destroyer. We exist somewhere in between, emotionless, without any power, pushing buttons, hoping to make a connection, I guess?

     There is silence now and silence for me are tears in Kleenex, runny noses, puffy eyes, and apologies for dirtying my floor and the armchair.  I consider silence a blessing.

     Right now,  if I could be anyone, or anything, go anywhere, or wish and pray and have it come true, I would be transformed into a big, fat, black women with huge bosoms and a booming voice.  Aretha Franklin, Oprah, possibly Nina Simone.  I would have a soul. Soul would be oozing out of my breath and then I could look at her, simply.  With one look, I could return her self-esteem.  Give it right back, along with her pride.  Return her to how she was before him, untarnished. And then I would say with a smile burning up onto my lips,

     "Girl, you know you're just too good for that fool.  You're too good for that. You have to learn to      
     love yourself, accept yourself as beautiful and let him go.  Move on.  It gets better.  There'll be
     another one around the corner, and if it's not him, move on.  Move on girl.  Ya gotta move on!.  Kick
     him to the curb cause he don't pay your bills.  And there are a million men who would love to do that  
     for you. Have you in their bed, take you out to eat nice places, take you shopping, and love you.
     Show him the door. I know the loneliness.  Stop whining.  It's better to be alone, than with someone
     who's holding you back.  Mmmmmmmmmm.  Hmmmmmmmmmmm.  It took me a long time to
     learn, but once I did-there wasn't any more suffering for me. And there won't be for you either. You
     got one life and you gotta live it!  I'm on call. Call me anytime, anywhere you gotta problem, and I'll
     show him."

     How true, how simple. But I am not a big black woman.  And I couldn't get away with saying anything like that.  I prescribe her some Klonopin, tell her I love her, and kiss her goodbye.  No, only the Klonopin part is true.

     "I would like it if you thought about self-worth," I say.

     She nods.

     "We have to stop there, but I would like if you came back soon."
    

    

The First Time

      The First Time I cheated on my wife, I was in Spain.  I took my son to Barcelona after he graduated from high school.  I wanted it to be a bonding experience and he agreed because he would only have to put up with me for five days. Then, he was going to go off and do the Euro-rail adventure with his friends.  O.K., it was also the dad in me.  I wanted to help him get acclimated to Europe.  The pick pockets, how to make sure not to lose your passport and have your things stolen while in a hostel, what to do if everything gets stolen, the women, the respect for food, the cafe, and don't start smoking.

  I don't know when as a father I became useless to him, but within in the first day it was clear he didn't need me. He graced me with his presence.  I asked him if he wanted to go around and practice finding a hostel.  He laughed, "Well, I don't know.  There are only eighty-five hostels in the guidebook and I speak Spanish and you don't.""Well, it also says in the guidebook that they speak Catalan and are very nationalistic."  "Thanks for the history lesson Dad." That was Barcelona.  Gaudi, Las Ramblas, Catalan, the hotel pool, Barcelonetta, Sitges, and more Gaudi.  He wanted to go to Mallorca or Ibiza and since it was only a ferry ride, I agreed. After breakfast, he said he was going to go check on tickets, which meant that he was finished with me for the day.
  
      I was in my forties.  I had a successful practice, a healthy marriage, an overvalued house, and a beautiful son.  My wife and I took planned yet romantic vacations.  We were members of MOCA, LACMA, The Hammer Museum, and every other cultural organization in Los Angeles.  I was on several boards of miscellaneous community projects.  We gave money to charity and had sent our son to an excellent private school. I sat by the pool with my Cuba Libre and thought about my patients.  If they could see me now, lying here, lost all by myself, alone, unneeded, not wanted, rejected, abandoned by my son.
  
     There were many lessons my patients taught me throughout the years that I did not heed. I would have liked to have thought of myself as a person who learned from the mistakes of others, but I failed. It's like the gun scenario.  I could tell you if someone put a gun to my head, I would secure their weapon and blind them with a quick poke to the eyes, but in that moment, who really knows if I would be capable? Would I remember how much I prepared and practiced for that single scenario?
  
     Men in their forties came into my office in one of three states.  Either, they had never been married or they were cheating or had cheated on their wives.  Keep in mind that I am sure there are plenty of men who do not fit into any of these categories, but these were not the ones marching into my office.                      

     The men who never married always had a slue of reasons from an overbearing mother, an emotionally absent father, to fear of commitment, fear of rejection, fear in itself and very well thought out sociopolitical arguments against oppressive institutions.  Many of them had been in long term relationships managing to remain on the skirts of intimacy, never giving too much of themselves, and therefore never receiving true love. Yet, they wanted prescriptions for Viagra and confessed that they drank alone and smoked too much pot.  Some were pornography addicts.  They all objectified women in bars, on the street, women friends, and any female that entered into their field of vision, including the ones they said they "loved."



     After all of their friends got married, moved to the valley and started families, it dawned on them that something might be wrong.  They had become that guy, the husband thief.  He comes around on Sundays, steals your husband for a few hours, erases his mind with video games, and drops him off all stoned and horny. While the husbands go back to their real lives, the thieves go home to more of the same.

     After a few drinks the panic sets in and the next day they're in the GP's office or my office with an ongoing, ever changing undefinable ailment.  They were all hypochondriacs.  This bump on my lip, my sore elbow, thigh cramps, knee problems from that time I got tackled in high school, back problems from touch football, must be a low grade flu, foot problems, which in Chinese medicine can affect every part of the body, including the blood and digestive tract.  Every time a patient said they thought it was time to get a colonoscopy, I would try to talk them out of it. "It's too early for that."  "It's never too early to check for polyps." "It's an invasive procedure and you have no history of cancer in your family."  "I could be the first."  I nod my head and think, I have a better chance of arguing with a crazy person, than I do a hypochondriac.  Some of these men got so many colonoscopies, I started to think they enjoyed the bend over, bear down, and cough.  To put them at ease about their repeated visits to the Dr. I would say, do you know why you have to turn your head to the side?  Why?  So, you don't cough on the doctor.  Some days, that was all I said from nine to five.  It did cross my mind that perhaps some of these men might be gay.  Maybe I misdiagnosed them. Maybe they weren't hypochondriacs. Maybe they were sublimating homosexual desires via colonoscopy. Nahhhh, too Freudian. And asking would certainly lead to the destruction of their libidos.  Also, I had gay patients and none of them were obsessed with Dr.'s before they came out.  So, what was it?  Depression. Some asked me for antidepressants and I would prescribe knowing inevitably that it would lead to more libido problems.  The more the anti-depressants set in, the less sexual desire, which leads to even more panic, video game playing, pot smoking, and drinking.  But just like the colonoscopy, I didn't want to argue.  I wanted to help them and there is only so much you can do in an hour.  Argue or agree and try to get more information.  Which would would you choose?

     The married men were different, very different.  They were just like me, considered to be successful.  They loved their wives and were "good guys."  These were the kind of men who were just as disappointed with David Letterman's behavior as were my women patients.  Then, they entered into their forties.  They spoke about how hard they had worked, their houses, their wives, the expensive schools their kids attended, their careers.  It was all planned.  They had planned out their lives early, picking a lucrative career path and started saving to have a family from the beginning.  Their wildest times happened in college, but even then they were concerned about grades and graduate school.  Thoughts of the future led these men through life, and eventually to my office.  It had all worked out as planned.  What was the problem?
  
     The problem was that as they made their way through their forties they started to feel entitled. After all, they had been so good all of those years, so faithful and hard working.  They wanted a taste of Mr. Hyde.  Who was this Mr. Hyde and what did he desire?  Was it anal sex?  A prostitute?  A drunken night out giving the finger to future repercussions?  A cessation of their responsibilities?  A shift from Clark Kent to Superman?
  
     Most of their identities were based around their roles, professional, husband, father, and this was healthy, but it wasn't enough.  They wanted a prize, a reward for all of their hard work, kindness and goodness, but the kind of prize they wanted wasn't being known as the "good" guy, a good man, good old Mr. so and so.  Feeling good about themselves, having a clear conscience and knowing they were good people in their heart was for pussies.  The prize they wanted could only be attained if they stopped thinking of the future.  The thrill of the gamble, the rush of uncertainty.  The if I died tomorrow would anyone ever find out what I did and would I regret it?  They felt gypped.  The straight and narrow only led to more straight and narrow.  What do you get for being a good boy?  More of the same doldrums of comfort. These men were not depressed, quite the opposite.  These men were awakening to mortality and just like in Steel Magnolia's, they didn't want to die.
  
     Unfortunately, these repressed desires came at the expense of their wives and their families.  I would try to suggest simple getaways like a weekend away with the fellas. The patient laughed in my face. "Why would I want to do that, so I can sit around with a bunch of guys and talk about my mortgage and my kids poop?"  "What about a solo vacation, an African Safari?"  "Right, not only would I feel guilty about not taking the kids, but I don't think I would survive being surrounded by other families.  How would I convince my wife that I should go on a singles African Safari?"  I felt stupid.  I didn't have any good ideas.  Also, I was only in the beginning of my forties and many of these men were a bit older.  The best suggestion I could think of was, "take your wife on a vacation and rekindle the romance?" "Right you know how that ends, she gets a five-hundred dollar purse and maybe I get a blow-job."
  
 And then I started listening.  They didn't want their wives.  They didn't want their kids.  They didn't want their houses.  They didn't want their status cars.  They wanted to feel alive.  And what makes a man feel most alive is lust!  Heart pumping, fidgety, fantastical fantasy filled lust!  To lust and to conquer is the birthright of all men.  They deserved to live and who were they to laugh in the face of genetics?  They were finally ready to admit that they had a desire to impregnate as many women as possible.  No, they didn't want to have children with random women, but they did want to have sex with all of them.  Sex they fantasized about in the shower, but never mentioned or were too scared to talk about with their wives.  Wild, animalistic, superman sex.  Goodbye Clark Kent and Dr. Jekyl!  This wasn't about love.  This was a primal need.  And what made my job difficult was to keep my opinions to myself.  It was not my job to tell them what was right or wrong, to remind them of their responsibilities, to make decisions for them. I nodded my head and listened. Their arguments were very convincing.  They earned this right to women and to life.  I thought of  puberty and the cliche of the mid-life crisis.  Mid life crisis is an older form of puberty.  What makes it so difficult is that it's like living through puberty again, but with status and money and the possibility of causing serious damage to the lives of others.  Well, I guess wherever you do end up, that's between you and god, or you and yourself, or you and whatever you believe in. Actually right now, these feelings are between you and your shrink.  That's me and I don't have the answers.

     As the session continued, we entered into the danger zone.  There was this office assistant, or that cafe girl, or the unforgettable airline stewardess tits that popped out of her blouse when she leaned over to pour drinks.  Images of women burned into the minds of these men, fodder for showers, taken to bed with their wives.  It was both an awakening and a regression.  I couldn't help but feel sad.  I wouldn't want my wife to talk about other men using those words. Also, I felt disgusted when older men objectified women in my office.  It didn't matter if they were married or single.  I felt like, you know, after the age of thirty-five that's not cool anymore and you're beginning to sound like an old pervert. Women are people.  I would expect or tolerate that kind of language from a twenty-five year old or maybe even a thirty year old, but you're forty something and in my office talking about tits and asses.  Would you like it if someone talked about your daughter, your wife, or sister using that language?  But I never said anything.  In my professional opinion, this was how men bond. In those moments, they didn't want me to be their Dr.  They wanted me to be one of the guys, and so I obliged.  "You remember when you discovered pussy, right?"  Oh, how could I forget?  It was one of the most beautiful, lovely, experiences of my life.  It was a metamorphosis. I changed from a caterpillar to a Monarch butterfly. "Yeah, pussy right. Can't live without it."

MISCARRIAGE

     A few months earlier when we were planning what was supposed to be our family vacation to Barcelona, Stephanie came into the kitchen and said she may not be able to go on the trip.  I looked at her, perplexed.  She had been talking about this trip all year long.  "I'm pregnant."  She announced.
  "What?"  My face turned ghostly pale as it had with our other two boys.  Fear, terror, and excitement, stunned, a lack of words, a lack of the right words. We had never tried to get pregnant.  It had always just happened within in the circadian rhythm of our life together.  We were lucky.  I'm not even sure that Stephanie and I had wanted a family. We never thought about it, or spoke about it in depth.

     Usually, we started planning after hearing the good news and the feeling was, well that's just what people do.  People have families. There was no instruction manual or quota.  We rolled with the punches.  It was the ebb and flow of our lives. But, this was different.  This was a BIG surprise. I certainly never would have guessed it and I didn't expect it. Rather, after all of these years of parenting you would think that I wouldn't refer to a pregnancy or a baby as an "it."  Hadn't I learned anything? A life, this new life,  he or she, living and breathing, cells beating, a heart.

"Are you sure?"  I said.

"Yeah I'm sure."

 "Wow."  That was all I could say was wow.  "I'm so happy.  This is so exciting.  I love you."  And I hugged her.  She put her face into the crook of my neck, the resting spot for her worries.

"So, what do you think?"

"What do you mean what do I think?  I think it's wonderful.  We're going to breath new life into the Doberman family.  I'm shocked that we could accomplish such a task, but I guess, you never know, right?  Maybe we'll have a girl?"

"Ha, I know Alex, but we're not young anymore."

"I know.  But we're not old either.  Plenty of people are having babies now.  It could be fun.  We'll actually know what we are doing."

"I know. I'm just worried."

"About what?"

"I don't know."

"Well, do you want to have another one?"

"Yeah, of course I do. Another one?  Another baby, you mean?"

"It's a little miracle."  My eyes began to tear up.

"I just, you know. I have a lot going on now and that will have to stop and I'm feeling annoyed by it.  My whole life is going to change and yours really isn't."

"What are you saying Stephanie?  I've been here.  Right here with you.  For everything for Brendan and Harris."

"Yeah.  Yes. You have.  But, a newborn."

"O.K, you're right.  I'm useless in the face of a newborn and we've had talks about how you've alienated me before because I didn't know how to help you.  And I've listened to you.  Yes, I was inept when both Brendan and Harris were born.  Blame it on my testosterone.  I tried.  But I was always there, maybe not intuitively.  Maybe you had to ask me, but I was ALWAYS there.  And it was a joy."

"I don't know. I felt like I was almost done, like we were going to get our lives back.  And now I'm not done.  I'm starting over."

"You and I both know that we're not done. As parents, we are never done.  You called your mom up crying several times way into your thirties."

" I called her for support and we don't have to go over that again."

"I know, but we're older.  We're experienced parents and you have Gisela to help you.  There were other things too that were stressful, my practice. I know.  But this time around.  It's different.  Have you told Gisela?"

"Yeah, but only her.  I don't want to tell anyone else until, you know after three or four months."

"Of course."

     Gisela was the nanny/cleaning lady that we didn't really need anymore.  She was the sister of our old nanny who had gone back to retire in Ecuador.  When she came to us, we felt like we couldn't say no. After all, we had supported her sister and her kids for most of their lives.  Gisela was an attractive older  woman, a few years younger than my wife. I had never had any positive or negative feelings towards her.  She was an overpriced fixture. She cooked, she cleaned, she food-shopped, she gossiped, and most importantly she comforted and counseled my wife. I hate to say it, but sometimes my wife would just go crazy and I wouldn't know why.  I wouldn't know what to do. I listened, but even then I could never figure out what was upsetting her.  She was just emotional.  But Gisela, she knew.  And she did for my wife what I could not.  I  think Stephanie also liked her because she was ours.  She didn't have any association to other wives or families, to the school system, etc.  Gisela did for my wife, what I did for many of my patients.  Although she was expensive, I didn't mind.  And now with the new baby . . . Thank god for Gisela!

"So, we'll be O.K.  I'm happy.  This is exciting.  You and me.  This is our life together.  I love you."

"I love you."

We stood in the kitchen, her face still buried in my neck.  God how I love her.
     

That Time Was The First Time

     The day after I cheated on my wife for the first time, I sat alone in my Barcelona hotel room feeling like a piece of shit, hoping the phone wouldn't ring.  The room felt smaller than it had before.  The premium liquor, the over sized TV, the supreme sound system, and the high quality Egyptian towels and linens made me feel like a Vegas Gambler.  I just didn't have the swagger of Tony Soprano walking around in a hotel bathrobe after having just fucked a new gumar. I felt cold, limp, and hung over and I feared the passing of the maid service. I was a strange man and had been abandoned by my seventeen year-old son the day before.  I hadn't spoken to my wife for a couple days on purpose because I didn't want her to know that Harris and I weren't having a bonding experience.
  
     Maybe we could have bonded, but I wanted him to like me so much that when he announced that his girlfriend from home and a friend had just arrived in Barcelona and were staying at a hostel, I realized I was never part of the plan. Harris was always smart, that's for sure and he knew that no parent would agree to having their kids go on a high school sweetheart honeymoon.  Yes, he was going to meet-up with his friends, but that was after a vacation to Ibiza, or Mallorca, wherever he said he was going with his girlfriend.  She must have told her parents the same lie and not mentioned that Harris would be in Europe at all, or at least not that fact that a seventeen year-old and a sixteen year old would be galavanting around Europe with Amex cards.  It wasn't really a lie and that's what made Harris so smart. He knew how to present the situation.  He presented it as the classic tale of a backpacker going off to find himself before college.  It was the rich kids version of the army.  Send your son off to Europe and he will come back a man.  Boy, riding all of those trains will surely toughen him up. What were we thinking and what was the alternative?  I guess we could have chained him to a fence in the backyard and made him dig ditches only to fill them back up again. It was clear that I didn't raise a Nelson Mandela or an Abe Lincoln, or even a Bill Clinton.

     He had already found himself a long time ago, and was walking around in the shoes of a yuppie.  The shoes that I gave him. I could only blame myself.  It's never the kids fault, it's always the parent's, right?  I wanted to be the cool Dad and the most uncool thing I could have done was to tag along with him and his girlfriend on their honeymoon. Maybe it was the thought of being ostracized by a seventeen year-old and a sixteen year-old for a weekend that scared me into submission. Clearly, I didn't want to relive being made fun of as a child. To put it simply, I didn't have the guts to say, No Harris, I would like to come because I love you and you are my son.  I would like to come because I would like to be a part of your life and truly share and experience this brief time we have together.  I want you to love me Harris because I am your father and even though you might not know it now, it will be very important for both of us later to be able to reminiscence about how pivotal this trip was for both of us as people and as a father and a son (without your mother).  Jesus Harris! When I'm dead, you're going to wish that you had just fucking sat by the pool with me while we both secretly ogled the waitresses and you snuck alcoholic drinks.  And if you didn't want to hang out at the pool of the Ritz in Barcelona with cocktail service and human umbrella adjusters, then we could have hung out on the beach God Dammit!  Fuck you Harris!  Fuck you!

FUCK ME!  I'm a fucking asshole!

     The solution was to take a hot bath with a nice Scotch.  After that, I would decide what to do.  I didn't know what time it was and I kind of liked it.  This brief encounter with living on the edge was thrilling, but I felt emotionally and physically exhausted.  A lot had been going on in the bathroom the night before, I couldn't exactly remember.  Did we have sex in the shower?  For how long?  I didn't even think about protection.  I didn't have any condoms.  Where would I have gotten them from?  And condoms don't work in the shower.
     The  bathroom smelled . . .   The last time I smelled a bathroom like that was with my brother at CBGB's in the eighties?  The seventies?  It was still a really nice bathroom, but it was gross.  I finished my drink and got another one while the shower ran.  Her hair was everywhere, long, dark hair. And there was cocaine all over the counter.  Had I been doing cocaine?  I dabbled in it before my kids were born, during my med school and maybe residency.  We all did.  What was I feeling?
     Proud and horrified at the same time.  It was like chewing sour gum.  I needed to calm down.   More Scotch please. I cleaned the bathtub as much as I could, or as much as I saw fit, so that I could sit in it.  It was relaxing.  I felt relaxed.  And then I remembered her.  She was Brazilian.  Marcia? MMMmmmm. An M, something with an M.  Marcia I said aloud and rolled the R like I knew what I was doing.  Why did she want to have anything to do with me?  I'm.  Well, I'm obviously very attractive to a hot sweet Brazilian for a one night fling.  She knew I was married because my wedding ring was still on. She worked at the pool.  Ahhhhhh yes!  We started talking because I said, "Let me help you with that," when she came to adjust my umbrella.  She said she felt sorry for me that I was alone.  Where was my wife?  Where was the boy I was with the day before?  I really was being a gentleman.  I didn't think.  Well, I did leave an inappropriately large tip.  I remember that.  It was double the bill.  Hmmmmmm.  Not so bad for an old man.  Then I thought, I'm not that old, not with respect to how long people live these days.
     "I can take you to one bar," she said.  "After we close the pool area, when the sun goes down.  I can meet you at that cafe over there because I work here, I can't.  They can't see me leave with you, O.K.?  I don't want you to be lonely."  Then, I came up to my room, changed and went to that Cafe for a cafe con leche.  I brought my book and was sure to sit outside, people watching, because I didn't know what cafe she meant. I figured she would just see me and it was something to do.  I didn't think she would actually show up. I thought she was just being nice, so as I sat there waiting.  I didn't feel like I was doing anything wrong because what else would I be doing?  I was having a coffee, people watching.  I was reading my book.  The sun was setting.  It was nice.  I wasn't waiting and then she showed.
     She sat down confidently, like an old friend, like she knew me.  "So Alex, is that you're name?  Alex."  "Uhhhh yes and you are?  I'm sorry I don't remember."  I know she had had a name tag on.  "Marsia."  "Marsia, well it's very nice to to meet you and we shook hands."  Harmless right?  I remember it felt harmless.  The conversation was polite and casual.  Her English was good enough.  Where are you from?  Are you from here?  No, where are you from?  Los Angeles.  Brazil, but I live here now.  Do you like Barcelona?  Do you like it?  Cummon, I can take you to meet some friends.  Let's get something to eat.  And she giggled.  Her nose crinkled.  I thought O.K.  That's all I thought was O.K.  I remember eating shrimp and that I was inept with the de-shelling tool.  I couldn't remember the name of it and she showed me how to use it.  I wasn't used to shrimp still in the casing, the shell.  The walk through the city twilight everything was lit up in shades of pink and grey, I felt free.  I was free!
     There was a knock on the door.  Was it my door?  More knocking?  Don't they see the sign?  Do not disturb.  Session in Progress.  Leave me alone.  I'm in the bath with a Scotch.  More knocking.  I re-robed and opened the door, a gust of steam out, cool fresh air in.  "Ummmmmmm Marsia.  Hi.  Please come in."  "Alex. no, I can't because I am working."  Her long dark hair and the fact that I had ran my fingers through it, maybe even gently pulled it.  Wow.  "I just wanted to see you and to know that you are O.K."  "I'm O.K.  How are you?"  She was wearing her name tag and the hotel's clean white shirt and shorts.  She didn't look tired.

"You got back to the hotel, O.K.?  To here."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to clear the window.  It's that button over there."  The windows were tint controlled from a panel by the door, like those glasses that change shades when you go from outside to inside.  "No, that's O.K.?"

"Did you see your son?"

"No?"

"Earlier this morning, very early he was in the lobby.  He was with a girl and maybe some friends.  I don't know."

"Did he come up here?"

"I don't know.  They left anyways. I have to go back, O.K."

"Well, I'll see you by the pool."

"The pool is closed now."

"What time is it?"

"Seven.  Seven-thirty.  Maybe eight.  I don't know.  We are closing up."

"Ummmmm Marsia? Thanks.  Thanks for taking me out and bringing me home.  Here"  And I reached into the pocket of my robe like it was a slacks pocket, like there would be money in there."

"I didn't take you home."

"What?"

"No, you left me in the club after you met that Russian girl."

"Pardon?"

"You left me to go dance with her.  I don't know."

"O.K."

"After the camerones, do you remember the camerones?"  She put her manicured hand to her mouth, petite and luscious.  A giggle.  My African friends came by and asked if you wanted to dance.  I took one ecstasy pill and you took two."

"Two?"  That didn't sound like me.

"One half before we left dinner and I guess the rest in the club.  I don't know what you were doing.  We went together and then you went with those Russian people."

"Well, where did the pills come from?"

"Oh, my friends.  Joal and maybe some of his friends.  I don't know.  It's their little business because they have families to support and the Russians help them and without papers in Barcelona it's the best job for them.  So, you came back here in a taxi with another girl, not me.  I don't know."

"Right."

"Did she leave?"

I opened the door more.  We swept the room looking for a Russian girl.  Marsia peered.  "Yeah, she's gone.  So, see you tomorrow."

"O.K."

"Hasta luegito!"  And she romped down the hall.

     I poured myself another Scotch and returned to the bathroom.  Ahhhh respite. Condoms in the trash-can.

Stephanie The Mother Goddess

     Stephy, her body, the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips. The lips only I was lucky enough to kiss. The sensation of her lips on mine, her eyes, my home.
     Motherhood was physically kind to her. Her breasts exploded. Although she complained of not being able to jog properly anymore, I was in heaven. Throughout our marriage, I had gotten the best of all worlds, nipples, plump, pink and firm that grew with my touch and then voluptuous curvy face bouncers and hips to grab. 
     Of course she had her insecurities. Gravity is a woman's worst enemy because it ensures cellulite and sagging. Every time she complained, poked and prodded I would ask, "but what sculpture wants to cast a sinewy body?"

"You forget I used to be all sinew."

"Even then," I said. "Your ass was perfect and your nipples have always been my pleasure."

     I loved the sexy conversations we used to have in the morning. I can't tell you how many times I nicked myself while shaving. Glancing over as she put her leg on the toilet seat to dry off and her delicious ass cheek peeking at me. Just the slight turn of my eyes, so I could see better and I would cut myself. She handed me a square of toilet paper. "Can we please open the bathroom door because it's too steamy in here? I can't see to shave."

     And our sons. I would have been so lost without her omniscient sensitivity. I remember once I was standing by the dresser drawers in my socks, boxers and suit shirt. Stephy was still in her robe about to go downstairs and check on the boys when Brendan swung our bedroom door wide open. I don't remember how old he was, but it was still in the days of cartoon underwear, so he must have been pretty young.

"Dad, how much money do you make?"

"Well," I said putting on my glasses, thinking about it. "It depends. It varies."

"Harris," Stephy chimed in. "Why are you asking this?"

"Yeah, Do you need something?"

"No, I just want to know." And he put his hands in the air like he did when he was either asking an existential question about the universe or a silly question to prolong the pain of a doing a chore or a nonsensical question that he knew we couldn't answer, but he didn't care.

"So, how much?" he pressed.

"Listen, Mr. Spiderman," I said.

"Dad, it's Superman. I'm Suuuupermaaaaaaaan!"

"O.K. Mr. Superman. Go and find a calculator." I mentally started calculating the ups and downs of the year as if I could give him a figure. I started thinking about taxes.

"Where's a calculator?"

"Well," Stephanie said scooping him up into her arms. "I don't think you will be needing a calculator until you tell us why you want to know such a thing."

"Because, I just do. I just do." He insisted.

"Are any of your toys being held hostage?"

"No."

"Harris doesn't happen to be making you breakfast, is he?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you. There is a surprise," he said as he jumped off of Stephy and barelled back down the stairs into the kitchen only to report back minutes later.

"So, what's he making?"

"Toaster waffles. You just put them in the toaster."

"Ahhhhhhhh with lots of powdered sugar I bet."

"I don't know mom." Brendan was never a good liar.

"Don't you see what's going on here?" Stephanie looked at me like I should've known exactly what was going on, but I had no clue.

"Brendan go back downstairs and tell Harris only one of the small spoons of powdered sugar on every waffle or I am going to wash them off." And Brendan dutifully ran off back downstairs.

"He's not a dog, you know?"

"Of course, he's not a dog. He's just the plot master for our other son."

"O.K. mom."

"O.K.?"

"He says O.K."

"Now, you tell Harris if the reason he wants to know how much money daddy makes is so that he can divide that by four, so that he can decide what portion of daddy's money is his, which I'm sure is enough to buy whatever new video game he thinks he needs, you tell him that is not how this family operates. Honey, you know what I think?"

     Now, that I was dressed it all made sense. We heard Brendan downstairs trying to repeat some of what Stephanie said, but he must have forgotten it all because all we heard was. "SUGAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Boys not too much!" Stephanie yelled. "Honey, you know how handsome I think you are in a suit, but the mouth wide open thing isn't very becoming." God, how did she know that? What an amazing creature! How vivacious and smart! "If I promise to keep my mouth closed, will you still love me?"

She laughed. And we kissed. And we laughed.

Raising Kids

     The thing about buying a house and living on a hill with a semi-stunning view of Los Angeles (the truly majestic views are for the uber wealthy) is that inevitably you are always sliding down the hill. You may not feel it or see it, but nature knows. The trees know, the grass knows (which is a huge waste of money and water), the birds know, every insect and tiny animal knows and so does the MANDATORY retaining wall behind the house. Not only does the retaining wall know, but it also shows signs of stress. These signs of stress are monitored daily by our above neighbor, Pete. Pete, the gay "industry executive" with the most annoying and yappy dogs to have ever lived. I had dreams of shooting those dogs with a bi bi gun (not that I would know where to get one in L.A.) and blaming it on the boys. But, it wasn't just Pete. It was all of the neighbors.
     The retaining wall business is a very lucrative business. First, it is purposefully difficult to tell whose property the retaining wall is on. Every year complaint letters are sent by the surrounding houses to each other about drainage and THE WALL. Every house on a hill has one. Why is it my wall that isn't doing enough retaining? Maybe it's Pete's wall that is putting extra pressure on mine. This results in yearly neighborhood meetings attended mostly by men, except for my next door neighbor Boris. Boris always had more exciting topics of conversation. Luckily, he liked me and was always on my side probably because I never complained about the women, the fighting and the loud sex coming from his house. Stephanie wanted to complain for the sake of the boys, but I never did.

Brothers

      If you ever get the chance to be an older brother or I guess an older sister make sure to appreciate the blessing of having someone look up to you and forcing you to be a better person. I wasn't the kind of older brother that used my little brother as fodder for games and experiments. I never used him as a litmus test for my parents, nor did I physically abuse him because I was stronger. In fact, I always volunteered to the the first victim of all of our daily schemes.
     Yes, I was the guniea pig tester for Shawnie Lake. One year during Boy Scouts we were forbidden to walk on the lake, but the older boys and I decided that if I could walk across, then I would be safe for ice hockey. I just couldn't make Charlie go across which would have been a better idea because he was lighter. I was scared he would start crying and the rest of the trip would have been ruined for him and the thought of him falling through and dying gave me the courage to tell the other boys to pick on someone their own size. One of us should be the tester. Of course during my speech,  I had unknowingly volunteered myself. They sent me out with a rope tied to a tree and reenforced by the grip of their winter gloves.
     I wasn't afraid of dying or even falling through the ice. That would have been heroic. I was afraid of  slipping and falling awkwardly and cracking my head because that would never be forgotten and I would have been called a pussy. I took the rope carefuly putting one foot in front of the other and the more solid it seemed, the more daredevilish I became, sliding further and further out. Cheering and more cheering, I began to strut with condence. See there is no bogeyman, it's safe to play.
     Uh oh! The ominous sound of a crack echoed thorugh the woods and back again. My knees buckled. I paused long enough to tie the rope around my waist in a special knot the boy scouts taught us. When I looked back, almost all of my friends were gone except for Charlie and my best friend Tim-o. The cracks in the ice continued to spread slowly and I'm sure now that the other boys took off because the cracks were so loud, the counselors could hear. None of us wanted to get in trouble, but this though was a relief. I wanted to piss in my pants. The counselors would be coming any minute now, I repeated to myself. I walked back towards the woods slowly trying not to look at the ice. One breath that was too large and I might fall through.
     Charlie and Tim-o held the rope tightly urging me to lie down on the ice. Tim-o knew this would help to spread out my weight. I could barely move, but I managed to crouch down, slide and spread. Immediately, they pulled hard and fast. They pulled so hard that my jacket rode up giving my ice burn on my lower back and bruised in my arm pits.
      Finally, an eagle scout arrived to see me sliding on my ass two feet from the edge getting tangles it tree branches and sink through. The lower half of me was submerged. I peddled and peddled my legs and with a pull from all three of them found myself safe on the shore.
     The humiliating part came later when the troop leaders were nervous that I was hypothermic. I don't know about now, but back in those days that meant stripping down naked and being sanwhiched in between two other naked men by a fire under an army blanket. Yes, that story haunted me until I left the town where I grew up.
     Suprisingly, mom and pop didn't have much to say when they heard about the incident. They told Charlie to learn from my mistakes and never to succumb to peer pressure. My father considered it a boyish prank and referred to the hazing he had gone through in the army. Nothing ever phased my mother, except for the threat of death. She was thankful we were both O.K. "Thank god, thank god," she repeated. She was also proud that Charlie and I stick together and thank god for Tim-o because "Tim Odesco, the don't make men like that anymore." Nevermind that Tim was my age. He was much, much bigger, but still we were the same age. A huge pot roast and pecan pie would be the only proper way to thank him. "Why don't you invite Tim over for supper?" And the last words my father spoke about the incident were, "Don't worry. It says nothing about your manhood that you had to lie with two naked men under a blanket. They were giving you heat and saving your life. hat's what soldiers, brothers and scouts do for eachother.
     Nevermind all of the times I saved Tim-o from embarassment or helped him pass a math or a science quiz. Nevermind all of the times he cried behind the school in the schoolyard because he though he was too senstive, his mom called him an oaf and he thought he was dumb. Nevermind that I carried him through the rest of school. Nevermind that I never exposed his weaknesses, but could have an then I would have been Mr. Cool. And I didn't. I didn't do that because what would I have taught Charlie? Tim-o's mom never invited me for pot roast.  
     After I went to college, I don't know what happened to Tim-o and I wasn't really around for Charlie. Oh how I would have liked to teach him how to play guitar or give him all of the answers to my old high school tests or give him money to go out on a date. Something good that he would have never forgotten. But, after awhile I just couldn't go back there. I couldn't.