I Was In a Funk.. But Sly and the Family Stone Never Showed!

It's been a few days since my last blog. Facebook didn't let me post it for some reason. It was probably the fact that I mentioned China and Turkey and love in the same blog. It obviously got picked up by Big Brother and checked out. Sorry but I'm a child of the Sixties. I was in fact a child in the 60's and some of my views mirror those times. I think the 70's get a bad rap too. At least until 1975. We had some great music in the 70's that gets overlooked by disco and bad clothes.

I have been going through a down time the last few days. No work. Family pressure abounds. I also suffer from depression but those days come and I know they'll pass. The worst thing I do when I'm in a funk is to isolate. Being alone can be a pretty scary place for me. When I am stuck listening to me all day it's like I'm stuck with a comedian and drama queen. Oh wait! I am a comedian and drama queen. Depression is not a dessert best served alone. It can be very cold.

 I know all the punchlines to my jokes so hearing them over-and-over in my head is not good. I always know what's coming. Of course I need to bring in the drama by posting heavy, brooding troubadours like John Prine, Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, The Cure and Kris Kristofferson. I love to share my pain. Ever since I was a little boy I always felt that songs could capture my emotions and express them better than my own yapping. I still feel that way. When I found myself listening to John Coltrane all day I knew there was a problem. Note to readers: Coltrane is great to chill out to but not recommended if your hamster just died.

I have learned from my depression and recovery that the best solution for keeping a healthy attitude is by getting out of myself. I picked up the phone and called some people in recovery. Unfortunately when two people in recovery try to make a plan of action you end up with 5 opinions. I went outside. I talked to a couple friends and I checked my Facebook.

Facebook takes a bad rap. I think it is ingenius. While I was feeling low I had words of encouragement from old friends, new friends, strangers, my grade school science teacher and folks who suffer from the same maladies I do. That is far out! That is technology at it's finest. When I get a friend request from "Hot Mama Waitin" things get a little dicey. I thank you all for being my friends.

The problem for me is when I get the strange notion that I can control people, places and things. Worry is not innate. We picked it up along the way along with anxiety. I can say that I have never worried my way into pleasant conclusions consistently. It's a wasted energy. I think the Buddhists got something there. Did you ever see a pissed off Tibetan monk? I didn't think so. I have yet to see the Dalai Lama punch a photographer on CNN. I have learned that I can't sit on the problem or I will slowly rot. If I take hold of the solution I grow and thrive.

Last night, Squeaky and I went to our first recovery group for people who have addicts in their lives. It was unusual for me to be on the other side of the table and hear what it's like to live with addiction, or more accurately, how it effects everyone. Addiction is like a bad potato. When one starts to rot it makes everyone around them rot to. It enlightened me and stung a little. There was a young girl who reflected on late night fights and broken dishes. Childhood incidents that I lived and can recall like yesterday were suddenly brought back to the forefront. My anger at my stepfather grew steadily. That was until I remembered he is dead now. You win some, you lose some! I have forgiven him.

The main thing to remember is every day is a gift. Sometimes the gift is G.I. Joe with kung fu grip, other days it's a turtleneck. Thats the way it goes. When I think I'm in the dumps I have to remember there are people all over the world living in dumps. I can only do my best. When I don't try to make someone smile or reach out a hand of encouragement I'm not showing God my appreciation for pulling me from the horrible pit, the miry clay that was my life for 20 plus years.

If you're not comfortable in your skin, if you're miserable or if you're at the end of your rope, then call a friend. If you don't you might throw that rope over the limb of an old oak tree. I have been to those depths. It wasn't until I reached out my hand for help that I was saved from myself. Sometimes you have to surrender the battle to win the war. Sometimes life is going to give you a turtleneck or worse yet, tube socks. I will always reach out for help because I know in my soul I can't handle this on my own or I will self-destruct and waste away.

Thank you again for being there for me. Sunny is getting stronger by the day. We are optimistic but realistic. I have to turn things over to God and the people around me. I can do many things by myself but I am never alone. There is strength in numbers. Sometimes you're the dog, sometimes you're the hydrant. That's the way it goes. Thanks for helping me back out of the pit. The air is much fresher up here. I have put away the Coltrane and have turned up the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Van Morrison. Like Sly said in the Summer of Love, "I'm just here to celebrate!" God Bless!

Squeaky Speaks! Life with an Alcoholic....a Wife's Point of View!

Hey gang long time no blog. Well, this is it. My wife speaks! These are her words. I put her through hell and back. Let her tell you about it.

Hi, I'm Kris Connolly, also known as Squeaky. I’m not the writer in the family, that would be my husband and our oldest daughter. They’re writers.  I’m just a mom, a wife and a friend who’s been through some life.

I grew up with 2 parents (still married to this day!), 1 sister & 3 brothers. I guess you could say we had a kind of “Cleaver” life.  I grew up in Berwyn when everyone knew who everyone was and where your parents knew what you did before you even got home to deny it. Life was simple and easy. My dad has his own company so we were pretty spoiled. Mom didn’t like for us to stay out late so we were pretty naive. That was until we broke loose and discovered life; drinking, smoking & breaking curfew. I drank in high school, doesn’t everybody?  It’s a phase, right?  We didn’t have any alcoholics in the family.

Of course we pretty much had our share of strange relatives, as does every other family. We were able to drink wine on holidays, it was no big deal. We had a “friend” of the family who got blasted at every family function. He was a sloppy drunk and quite embarrassing. I later heard he had a drinking problem and started a recovery process. That was the first time I’d ever heard of people that could not stop drinking. Personally, drinking made me tired and slow. I had no use for it - and then there was prom night 1984. I had a few too many, got a little crazy with my boyfriend and 9 months later there was beautiful baby girl. Talk about growing up fast! 

 As a single teenage mother I didn’t have my "crazy" time until about 21. I had a good job working for Dad’s company. Every Friday night we would all go out to the local bar after work and there I met HIM, the “bad boy”. He was married, good looking, tattooed, rude and drunk. There was my chance to not be “Mom” and get crazy. I got loaded that night and did some things out of character. A year later I ended up marrying him. 

He had a drinking problem and I knew it from the start. I was just having fun until he told me he was getting divorced, because of me. Oh, great! I knew what he was, I heard about these “types” that drink all the time. One of my co-workers even went so far as to say he was an alcoholic. I was sure he drank because he was in a "bad marriage". Ok, I’ll marry him and he’ll be happy and not drink. I soon learned that anytime was “beer:30” in his world and it was always 5 o’clock somewhere. The drinking was insane and soon so was I.

On to plan B. Let’s have a baby! That will certainly make him stop! Shortly thereafter a beautiful baby girl was born, then a baby boy. I found myself alone, now raising 3 kids. He went out every night after work, came home so drunk he could barely crawl up the stairs. On to plan C. Let’s move and buy a house. Once he has an established home and family he will surely stop drinking. Well, that didn’t work either. His drinking escalated to the point of no return. We had knock down, full on fights. He could certainly throw a punch but my sober stamina and crazy Italian blood wouldn’t allow it. I knew he would eventually wear out and I would win. I only looked like I lost according to the police and E.R. doctors. Needless to say the marriage was over. I gave him one last chance, the booze or your family, and his exact quote to me was “You don’t want to hear my answer."

Fast forward about 5 years. I was working for a small export company that rented space from my sister's company. It was great to be in the same building with my family. I remember one day I was feeling very depressed and lonely.  I walked out into the main office and saw this strange fellow standing there.  He was dressed kind of messy and looked dirty. I figured he was one of the dock guys. He was wearing a stocking cap pulled down and the one thing I remember most were his awful looking sneakers! For some reason I found myself staring at him as he stood talking to someone. I saw a light around him, I guess you would call that his aura. I don’t even think he noticed me. I was frozen. I’ve never had anything like that ever happen to me. I remember asking his boss who he was. The boss told me “That’s Tom, the new guy.  Stay away from him, he’s trouble. He’s a recovering alcoholic." A WHAT? Recovering alcoholic? I’ve never heard of such a thing. I had no idea those even existed. That means they stopped drinking. How interesting.

I had to know this man. I would occasionally run into him outside for smoke breaks. We would sit on the stairs and talk about everything. I couldn’t let him know a part of me was fascinated with his “recovery." After all he didn’t know that I knew. I left to work for another company but we kept in touch. I remember the day he showed up at my new office and showed me his 6 month coin. He then shared his story with me about his past, his life and his future. I found myself falling in love with this man deep in my heart. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that this was God's way of putting him in my life. 

 We started having lunch dates, then after-work dates, then he moved in with us. At the time he was living at the YMCA. I couldn’t bear the thought and had to "save" him. I gave him an instant family and home. After two years we were married and sure to be the new “Cleavers”.

Over time I would notice him getting short tempered. I chalked it up to his Irish blood and went on with life. Eventually he met some of my co-workers. They were a younger bunch that liked to party and smoke the maryjane - everyday. Well, Tom thought that would help calm him down. I was all for it.  After all, he wasn’t drinking, right?  

I saw a new, calm man and was very happy with the results. I had no problem getting it for him since I had the hook ups. Then he started doing it every day. He was putting me in very uncomfortable situations. If my connections were dry, he would get very upset with me. I felt like I failed him. There were times we would drive 40 miles to a friends house to "score." Looking back, what was I thinking? I guess I’m what you call a "people pleaser."  I wanted my man to be happy, while making myself miserable. I found him taking other drugs. In my mind that was okay, he wasn’t drinking and booze was the monster I was most afraid of.

Eventually we had a house built and were the perfect couple living the American dream. I will never forget the day I came home from work and we were running out for a few grocery items. We were driving in the car and I thought I smelled booze. That’s one of those nasty things you don’t forget. I tried to make conversation with him but he would only nod and face the window when speaking to me. I must be crazy, there’s no way he would drink! He was a recovering alcoholic. They can’t drink, right? I dismissed it and didn’t say a word to him. The following day I came home from work and there was a six pack of beer on the table. I couldn’t understand. He said it wasn’t a problem to drink a few, that he would stop when he was done. I thought it was no big deal. Well, six turned into twelve, twelve turned into twenty-four. When that stopped working the hard liquor was next. When that wasn’t enough the pills and who knows what else was required. I found myself right back in the nightmare I was in from the beginning.

What the heck is wrong with me that I’m driving these men to drink? Maybe I work too much. Maybe my kids are driving him crazy. Soon I found myself watching him drink himself into oblivion every night. I would get up to check on him and usually find him laying on the floor somewhere (bathroom, dining room, kitchen). I would always make sure he was still breathing, mumble a few choice words under my breath and return to bed, angry. Very angry. On the few nights he would make it up to bed, I usually didn’t know until  morning when I would wake up soaking wet in his piss. Yeah, I’d say that’s a bad start to anyone's day.

I lived like that for a long time. Every night he was the meanest person on earth ridiculing me and the kids. He would throw my innermost secrets in my face. He would remind me on a daily basis that I was a complete failure as a wife and mother. I would wake up every morning very hurt. I started blaming myself until I started blaming him. Then it was all out warfare. I tried escaping and moving back to Mom’s. That was the day he tried to kill himself. I remember sitting in my mother's kitchen and talking to him on the phone thinking he’ll never go through with it. I was trying to be compassionate but all of my feelings were turning black. I was pissed that he would mess up the house. I was even more pissed that he didn’t have any life insurance, leaving me with nothing. In the back of my mind I thought that it would probably be the best thing for both of us.

Well, he called me the next morning. It wasn’t successful as I had planned.  He promised me the drinking was over. You see, if I had a dime for every time he said that to me, I wouldn’t have needed to think about life insurance because I would have been a millionaire. I ended up going back to him. It was like that move Groundhog Day where nothing changed. I was determined to find a reason to end this marriage. So I did what every good wife does and checked the Internet history. Bingo! I got you this time! Porn, really? Singles and dating sites, are you kidding me? Sending nasty messages to other women when you won’t even look at the one you’re sleeping next to? O.K, I’m done now! I can handle everything but cheating. He thought it was harmless. I saw the Internet trash as cheating. I was mentally exhausted and empty. I had to get out of there or go crazy with him. 

I started house hunting. I’m not sure how my husband found out (perhaps the Internet history) but he confronted me on it. We actually sat down and talked, like "big people" about what was going on. I told him I would no longer live like this and something to the effect that he was pathetic! Seems that out of all the things I had called him “pathetic” struck a nerve.

He started going back to recovery meetings and introduced me to some other spouses of alcoholics. Not only were the wives there, but there was a man too. I didn’t get it. Aren’t alcoholics only men? I was thrown into a world of people that had actually lived like me and thought like me. You mean this wasn’t a big secret we just lived with? I made a comment in a meeting about growing up in an Italian family. We’re born, baptized and immediately fitted with a set of blinders. We don’t talk about what goes on in our family with other people. After all, what will the neighbors think?

    

I can honestly tell you that this meeting was one of the best things that ever happened to me. These people loved their spouses so much that they were going to get “treated” for a problem that wasn’t even theirs? I don’t have a drinking problem. I don’t belong here and I certainly can’t talk about what goes on in my house. It only took a few turns around the table before I lost it.  They really did live and think like me. I’m not weak because I love this man and want him back. I’m human and I feel and I love. I can be weak. It’s okay to cry and share with other people. I’m not the only one in this situation. My problem was, I just didn’t know. I learned that alcoholism is a disease that cannot just be turned off because I want it to. I learned that my husband has to “want” to stop. It’s all up to him, NOT ME. 

 I learned that I need to pray. I need to thank God everyday for putting our family back together, for giving us strength to get through it together and for giving my husband the desire to quit drinking. I pray that we will never have to go through the misery and pain that alcohol has caused in our lives. I pray that my children saw and learned what addiction does to a family. I sometimes wonder why we had to go through that horrible chapter in our lives but then I would be questioning God. Our pastor once said "God never gives us more than we can handle."  Well, HE must think very highly of us. After all, God is the one that chose for me to see Tom's aura that day. I suppose we did it just the way HE planned. I hope HE’s pleased.

Today I look at my husband as a man. He's a man that I’m proud of and that I love being married to. I can’t imagine my life without him. I don’t want to give the impression that every day is roses and daisies but at least we can get through them together. To quote my husband “Every day is a gift." Thanks for letting me share.

Love

Squeaky

Husbands and The Hardware Store Fantasy Girl!

In my other chapters I have recounted the previous 3 marriages I had prior to Squeaky. In those three failed marriages, I was lost in alcoholism, addiction and undiagnosed depression. They were doomed to fail. I give God most of the credit for my successful marriage to Kris (Squeaky). The rest of the credit goes to her. She dealt with my insanity, mood swings, unreachability, selfishness and indifference. I would have left me a long time ago. She saw through the madness, into my soul and saw there was an actual decent human being in there. I am eternally grateful to God for putting us together and to her for not letting us fall apart.

I love my wife and am as happily married as is humanly possible. I will be with her for the rest of whatever life God gives us. I can honestly say that my wife is my friend. I never feel the need to get away from her. There is nothing another woman could give me that Squeaky doesn't give me already. Our kids see our friendship and love and I am glad they understand the difference. It is easy to fall in love with someone you can't stand. Love is perfect when it is matched with soul connection and a friendship that is man and wife and much more.

That being said we are both still human. The song "I only have eyes for you" is absolute crap unless you are blind. As a man I see women who are attractive. As a woman my wife sees men who are attractive. It is how we react to these "visual distractions" that make for harmony or hell raising. I remember in the crazy days when a pretty woman walked across the room my eyes would follow her all the way along her trip. I had no respect for my wife's feelings. I thought it was harmless but that is from a Neanderthal Man point of view. Women seem to take a quick look at a handsome man and instantly return to whatever they were doing.

My wife and I have 2 ways of dealing with opposite sex attraction. The first is the "3 second rule." Each of us is allowed to take note of the pleasant looking subject for 3 seconds and then reconnect to each other. The second is "compliment code." My wife thinks Andy Garcia is a dream. When he comes on screen she'll say, "He is a very good actor." That's my cue. She thinks he's handsome without her gawking at the screen and shouting, "huma-huma-huma!" When I see Neve Campbell I comment that, "She is a very good actress." Message sent we move on.

My wife is actually a master of cooling my visual libido the older I get. Women are cunning like that. If I see an actress like Megan Fox on the screen and comment on her acting ability, my wife is quick to point out that she is the same age as our oldest daughter. This response sends me from intrigued to disgusted with myself when I realize the actress is practically a kid. Having a daughter that is 25 and 18 wipes out alot of the talent pool. My comments on the attractiveness of Diane Keaton is welcomed by my wife and a cute agreement with my assessment.

Men also secretly want to have women find them attractive. Although happily married, it is an ego feeding proposition to consider that a Barbie-like woman finds us middle aged dads attractive. It is not something you dwell on but it sits in the back of our thick male skulls. The funny part is how we react as men when one of these Barbie-like youngsters seem to take an interest in us.

Last summer I was doing some work around the house. I needed some WD40 and some other miscellaneous hardware items. Dressed in my Van Morrison tee shirt and some dirty cargo shorts, I made my way to the local box hardware emporium. I went from aisle to aisle hunting and gathering the items I needed to complete my "Honey Do List." I moved quickly like I was on a recon mission. I like to get in and get out. I'm not the type of guy to browse around the store.

At the back of the sore, as I picked up my last item, I turned from the shelf and found myself face-to-face with a 20-something Barbie. I was not in the 3 second check mode. I wanted to get home and complete my projects. As I started toward the middle aisle she stepped in front of me and said "You have a Van Morrison shirt on." I looked down and saw she was correct and commented that my wife and I had just seen him on his last tour. I am a music audiophile. I can talk music all day, no ulterior motive needed.

She took another step toward me and said "I really like Van Morrison," twisting back and forth like the bad girl from Catholic school. I was taken off guard a bit and politely mumbled "Yeah, he's the Belfast Cowboy. Ireland's Bob Dylan." I was turning away and it happened. Her next comment was not what one would call Christianly. Looking me right in the eye she cooed "The only thing I like more than Van Morrison is YOU!"

My hands trembled as I unlocked my car and dove into the drivers seat. I hunched down thinking she might have followed me out the door. What a goof! Like she knew what car I was driving! I snapped up my cellphone and called my wife. Her voice was like "glue" in the game of tag I found myself in the middle of. I explained the whole thing to her and she LAUGHED. I was shaken silly by the experience and she thought it was a riot. Now I felt emasculated by not only the terror I faced with Barbie, but how my wife took the final slice at me with her amusement at the whole episode.

To this day we laugh at the story. I do not go back to that box store. I have found another one. I have radar to make sure only hardware store stereotypes help me. I had been faced with the ultimate middle aged fantasy. Of course some flirting or chest puffing conversation would have been harmless. NOPE! I ran to the car and hid, afraid that Barbie was gonna catch me, trembling like a child. The fantasy was over.

My Wife and "The Change!" A Husband's Survival Guide!

I have grown up around women my whole life. When I was young it was my mom, sister and me. I have 3 sisters from my dad's second marriage for a total of four. I am the only son in the family. As a father I have 3 daughters and 1 son. So as I delve into the mysteries of the female "monthly curse" I feel I have a pretty good grip on the subject.

Between my wife's few days of pre-menstrual hormonal mood shifting, the actual cycle, and the post cycle mood swings, I have approximately 2 days a month that her mood is not affected by these evil hormones. I have learned to live with it to some degree. In fact we are so connected she says I have a "man period" along with her. I do not disagree.

One day last week I was eating everything in the house. I had 2 sweet-n-salty granola bars, 2 bowls of cereal, ice cream and leftover cold fettuccine. I was so ravenous that I called my wife. She assured me that there was nothing to worry about. We were due in 2 days. I have learned to roll with it and not overreact when she is acting like Sybil on a coffee drinking binge. Her instant emotional shifts, that change like someone is switching them on or off, I can handle. When she makes it to the happy personality, that is when I talk to her about the important stuff.

The worst is when my daughters and wife are all together for any length of time. It becomes the "Sistahood of the travelling menstrual pants." Any man worth his salt knows that a woman has regular clothes and "period clothes". These special garments are usually more comfortable, have more ventilation and are just a bit bigger than the regular sized clothing to account for the wretched bloating. Men: feel free to take notes on this chapter. It may save your marriage or your life.

When the three of them have merged their cycles into one evil menstrual demon, I get out the holy water and fill my schedule with a lot of "out of the house business." I have made it through the years with the help of God and up until the last few years booze. They are now split up around the world so the powers they held as a menstrual trinity has been broken. It amazes me how much power a tiny little egg, working it's way to evacuation, can hold so much control over the egg keeper.

All of these incidents and cycles have made me a stronger man, husband and father. I have learned to read the signs like a Cherokee scout examining hoof tracks in the great forest. I know when to approach the Squaws' and respect the spirits that bind them. However, nothing could prepare me for the chaos and emotional confusion that my wife has introduced to me by way of "THE CHANGE." The doctor who coined this term was obviously sharing a home with a woman in the midst of this phenomena when he came up with it. He made it sound so innocuous for fear of losing his life or worse, facing his wife's wrath.

Squeaky has a thyroid malfunction and her family has a history of entering this dark phase of existence early in the mid-40's. She is 44 and we are smack dab in the middle of an emotional tempest! The wild card is how long and how severe "The Change" will last. This is true for the long and the short term. I felt it my duty to enlighten men who may be experiencing this with a loved one now or in the near future. Please be comforted in knowing your wife is not Satan's spawn. There will be brief periods of calm and brief periods of storms. When your wife is going through it, the man must have a bronc riding mentality. Just hold on to the reigns and hope the ride only lasts a few seconds and pray you don't get permanently injured from the ride.

The two most important rules for men dealing with the afflicted woman is that whatever she says, do it. The second thing is whatever she says do it! You must be comfortable with wearing sweatshirts in the summer and having a high electric bill in the summer time. The "Hot Flash" is a mighty foe and will present itself at any time, in any place. If you are driving in the dead of winter and she turns to you with madness in her eyes claiming it is 8,000 degrees in the car. It is! Roll down a window or turn on the air. "The Change" comes complete with it's own weather patterns that usually conflict with physical reality. If you wish to survive, follow every instruction to the letter. Up is down, cold is hot, yes means no and so on.

When you have fallen into a deep, restful sleep be wary. "The Change" loves to come out in the dead of night and with a fury. If you feel the sheet is slightly wet, not to worry. It is not incontinence. It is the sweat dripping off your precious wife. During these late night flare ups do not be surprised if your wife turns to you and says "I love you, I need you and screw you!" in the span of about 20 seconds. Accept all three responses as being of equal weight. She means all three. If you find yourself dealing with her in a particularly foul mood, hang in there, she will be morphing into a different person in just a few moments.

The other two important keys to survival are responses to food and fashion. During this transition of life there are times when you will think your wife is pregnant or has a binging disorder. Strange combinations of sweet and salty, burgers to beef jerky, ice cream to ice cubes are not to be questioned. Let them feed. Any comment you make in regards to what or how much she is eating will be met with rabid lashings. Just shut up and get her what she wants.

When it comes to fashion men have one set. Women have multiple lines of clothing for whatever stage of the month they are in and choices should never be questioned. If your wife comes down the stairs in a mumu and a cowboy hat compliment her on how beautiful she looks. If you question her outfit selection you are in for a sobbing breakdown or verbal undressing. Remember this too shall pass. If your wife feels the need to go shopping for different clothes, let her. You may think she has plenty of sweaters and pants. She needs different ensembles to make her transition as comfortable as possible.

Above all, always keep your cool. Over the centuries countless men have tried to figure out "The Change" and alter its course in their loved one. Few have made it. This rite of passage is not meant to be interpreted by man, only accepted and adhered to. Period! By my estimations I have approximately 10 more years of enduring the fury of my wife's midlife change. I pray a lot. I drive to the store at strange hours returning with exotic foods. I bite my tongue a lot and have decided to live with the beast instead of trying to tame it. To my fellow man I wish you good luck on this journey.

Dog Puke and Garbage Diggin... That's A Husband Job!

How I interpret the first few minutes of my day are very important. Those first few minutes used to be the determining factor on how the rest of the day went. Today I woke up at 5:30am and checked my audition and casting status. Nothing was sent or posted for work. My wife came down and promptly dropped her lighter into the garbage can. It, of course, fell to the bottom. We recycle as much as possible so the contents of our garbage consists of cigarette butts, coffee grounds, food remains and general goo.

I don't know who made the rule but there is an unwritten code for retrieving things from the garbage after your wife has dropped something into it. It's "the husband's job." She conveyed reams of information in her simple remark of "I dropped my lighter in the garbage." I speak Squeakenese and heard her loud and clear. I put on my "Husband Cape" and dug into the slop to retrieve her lost lighter. Of course, it had snaked its way down to the very bottom of the can and I felt like I was rummaging through the waste bucket at a butcher shop.

I completed the mission with dignity and my husbandry value went up a point or two. As I was washing my hands free of the gunk I had just handled, I turned to hear the familiar sound of a dog throwing up. It was Fabian. My best, non-human, friend. He had deposited two heaping piles of warm dinner leftovers all over our kitchen. From the looks of things, I think I'm feeding him too much because one pile looked like Lake Michigan. The other pile was Lake Superior, only lumpy, like old Lake Erie.

Again my wife shot me the "puke clean-up is the husband's job" look but also added the "It's your dog," rolling of the eyes, to accentuate her point. Who defined the "husband" and "wife" job description? Obviously it was the wives of our Neanderthal ancestors! I say that as an observation of fact, not with disdain. It is just a simple fact. Why are women able to bend and reshape these rules as needed? Her duties are a loose outline. Mine are orders to be executed with precision.

Let me illustrate my point. Squeaky has no problem asking me to "run the vacuum" or "do a load of laundry." That would never happen in the "Beaver's house." Ricky never scrubbed the floor while Lucy went to the "Babaloo" club. These jobs are defined in the handbook as "wife jobs." Why can the woman switch these ancient norms at will? Her telling me to "go grocery shopping" or "make dinner" rolls off her tongue like ordering a latte from Starbucks. The "wife jobs" are open for female interpretation and can be altered or eliminated at the behest of the rule maker.

"Husband jobs" are written in stone. They are carved into granite like the 10 Commandments. She will not kill a spider or take the garbage out! There will be no cleaning of dog deposits of any kind, ever! When we prepare to go somewhere she casually strolls to the passenger side of the car. It is a "husband job" to "drive Miss Daisy." I feel like Morgan Freeman confessing that he took the can of tomatoes when I eat one of "her" Lean Cuisines. It is as if I have taken the forbidden fruit and I am cast out of Eden for an hour or so after a tiny, unsatisfying meal.

She will not take her car through the car wash. She will not answer the door if a stranger knocks. She will not clean the dog hair from our stairs, nor brush them when they are shedding! I am directed to clean the dining room or dust. If she wants a late night snack to satisfy her menstrual cravings, I jump up and run to the store to satisfy her hormonal distress. Where is the justice?

Being on my fourth marriage, advice from me could be considered suspect. I do know this. When I was a younger man, I challenged her on her rule interpretations and quirky pet peeves like leaving time blinking on the microwave or not putting the mail in her "mail reading spot." In time when I would get irritated at one of her seemingly ridiculous requests or quirks, I would ask myself a simple question, "Is it really that big of a deal to do it her way?" "Do I want to ruin my evening because I think it's stupid to hit clear when I am done nuking a sandwich?" The answer is NO!

I am glad my wife depends on me and I don't have to have everything my way. What makes me right and her wrong? I am a firm believer in the old adage that,"When the Queen is happy everyone is happy. When the Queen ain't happy ain't nobody happy!" I love my wife and accept her goofy nuances and eccentricities, as she does mine. She has put up with a lot of crap with me and never once hit me with a frying pan. That's why the fourth time has been a charm for me. I'll have to say goodbye for now. Miss Daisy wants to go to Walmart. "Be there in a minute Miss Daisy...uh...I mean honey!"

Wedding Plans, Walter Payton and Vegas! (A LOOK BACK)

We had 2 more nights left in Ireland before we would have to return to the frenetically paced, "gimme gimme," reality that is America. My racing mind allows for about 5 days of enjoyment in a distant land, and then I want to go home. I sat on the patio of the B&B outside Sneem and was on top of the world. My proposal was unexpected. The words seemed to fly out of me. As I marveled at the placid lake bogs and ocean beyond, I gave a thumbs up to the big guy upstairs and headed in to attempt some sleep.

At a B&B there is one queen bed, and I guess Irish guys are short over there, because my feet dangled over the end and I am only 6'0" tall. My elation at the thought of marrying Squeaky, combined with my father's operatic snoring, made for a long night in Sneem. Flip, flop, turn to the cold side of the pillow. Slip to the edge of unconsciousness and........"Oooahrrr!" another bellowing snore from my dad started the whole process over again.

The next morning we prepared for our return to Dublin. We were shooting straight across the center of the wee island back to the point of our original departure. That is an over simplified explanation of our return trip. There are very few straight roads and lines in Ireland, beyond the painstakingly built rock fences and hedge rows that divide the farmers' plots. From coast to coast it is only about 240 miles wide, but don't quote me on that. We drove that whole last day but made some stops in a few of the villages that dotted our course. We stopped at a hotel just outside of Dublin and rested up for the long flight back home. It was Andrea's birthday and Daddy had some cool swag to bring back for her special day.

Arriving back home was both welcoming and saddening. I didn't know when I would return to Eire but I was certain another trip was in order at a future date. Squeaky had a new look in her eye as I hugged her like my fiancee, not just a girlfriend anymore. The kids loved their souvenirs, especially Andrea. I went all out for her and she beamed at the treasures I presented to her from the Isle of Green. Next step - wedding plans.

Since we had both been married before and were on a limited budget we had to plan a wedding that was economical but special. Travel was still cheap and hotels were discounting deeply to attract visitors still hurting from the events of September. Squeaky is the most amazing trip planner when it comes to vacations. This trip would be no exception. We had settled on Las Vegas, not exactly a wedding original, but I knew we would make the trip to Sin City exciting and memorable.

We booked our flight and hotel at the Stratosphere at the end of the Vegas strip. It was brand new and central to the sites we wanted to see on our honeymoon. We went dress shopping for her and a new suit for me. The colors were complimentary and the shopping day long. I was a good soldier and kept my whining internalized as I knew every detail was important to her. We picked out our first wedding bands from Sam's Club and we both adored them. Holding our hands out in front of each other we gushed at how absolutely brilliant each band looked on the others hand.

We booked a chapel, ordered flowers, prearranged a photographer and videographer. All of this could be done with a point and a click on the computer. One stop wedding shopping, brilliant! We decided that Van Morrison's "Have I Told You Lately," would be OUR song and I was thrilled. I am a huge Van Morrison fan. He is the Belfast Cowboy and Bobby Dylan of Ireland, as far as I'm concerned. Squeaky had every detail covered. We packed and were set to leave for our dream trip and begin our life officially as Mr. and Mrs. Connolly.

As we sat in the airport waiting for our flight we met a lovely choir group on their way to Vegas for a performance. They serenaded us with their version of The Dixie Cups, "Going To The Chapel," a wedding classic. We gave them the ceremony details and they promised to make it a part of their day. They continued to sing in full spirit and the terminal visitors all stared our way. It was magical. The flight was smooth and we landed at 10:00 pm Vegas time.

It was May 24, 2002. We deplaned and shuttled to our honeymoon nest to drop off our bags. Then we hopped a cab for the Clark County courthouse for a wedding certificate. We giggled and cooed as we filled out the paper, exhausted and giddy, with anticipation. It was now 1:00 am. In those days the courthouse stayed open all night to service those needing nuptial documentation. The certificate was the last item needed for our grand ceremony set for 2:00 pm that same day. We would head back to the hotel, get some rest abd then don our wedding duds and fly to the chapel. It was so simple until we walked out of the courthouse.

As we waited to hail a cab clutching our marital contract, a man approached us. He was disheveled but not threatening. He introduced himself and said he was from the House of Hope chapel just around the corner. All wedding donations went to shelter the homeless, treat the addicted and protect women in abusive relationships. I was not drinking but was smoking pot. The stranger seemed to us to be a messenger from God. We thought about the new dress and suit, the money spent for the chapel that afternoon and came to the same conclusion. Let's do this!

Our less fortunate guide led us to a store front chapel with a "House of Hope" sign hanging above the door. We were both worn out and felt dirty from the flight and endless running around. A tiny Filipino man came from behind a wall and we were awe struck. He had the most amazing blue eyes either of us had ever seen. It was like he could see right into your soul and his gentle voice was hypnotic in its' delivery. He explained the church's mission and we needed no more convincing.

We picked out a version of the "Wedding March" and Squeaky grabbed a tattered bouquet from a pile on a shelf in the corner. I was dressed in jean shorts and a tattered Walter Payton jersey, she in a jean skirt and a plain blouse. We were dressed for traveling, not marrying. We had each other. Fashion and glamour were tossed out the window with all the money we spent on the formal service set for later that day.

The little man with the radiant eyes cued a helper and we began down the aisle. We gazed at each other adoringly and laughed at our spontaneous decision. We stopped at the alter and the preacher began to read. We repeated our vows and was prayed over by the little man of God. We cried the whole time as we stood there. We reviewed our past in each others stares and clung tightly to each others hands in anticipation of a happy future. I can honestly say that I remember very little of what was said but I will never forget the grace of our tiny chaplain and the smile on my new wife's face.

By the time the ceremony was finished and we made it back to our hotel it was 4:00am. We were down for the count physically, emotionally and spiritually. We held hands and admired our Sam's Club rings. Starving, we stopped into a 50's style diner and ate cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes for our wedding feast. The burgers were our prime rib. The fries were our double baked potatoes. The milkshakes were our baked Alaska. Our fancy clothes would remain unpacked. Our prepaid monies were lost. It was perfect and really quite special. I love taking the road less traveled, especially with my best friend Squeaky.