An Open Letter To Pretty Much Everyone I’ve Ever Known In My Life

Look . . . we need to talk.  Maybe we’ve talked recently, or maybe it’s been years, but there’s something I need to say.  If we spent any significant time together at all, it’s something I would have tried to say before at least once, but I may not have said it well,  so I’m going to try again.

If I ever told you that you were smart, it’s because you are smart.  The same applies if I ever told you that you were pretty/handsome, talented, funny, or any other positive trait I might have commented on.  I get that everyone has moments of self-doubt sometimes, but it bothers me if you start to wallow in them.  When you doubt yourself like that it bothers me a larger scale because I can clearly see that your doubts aren’t based in fact, and it bothers me on a more personal level because (and I say this somewhat tongue-in-cheek, of course) it feels like you’re calling me a liar.

Stop calling me a liar, damn it!

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A Super Grover Quote

I would rather the man who presents something for my consideration subject me to a zephyr of truth and a gentle breeze of responsibility rather than blow me down with a curtain of hot wind.

– Grover Cleveland

If They Were True, They Were Just Statements Of Fact

The worst insults I’ve ever taken to heart were never the ones that were true, but the ones in my heart of hearts I was afraid were true.

That’s Unfair Though. I Remember Those “Rules” Too

A friend of mine used to bemoan the loss of the “playground rules” he grew up with, most notably the rule that if you were fairly caught cheating or lying, you owned up to it and didn’t waste everybody’s time with flimsy denials.

The older I get, the more I suspect those rules might have been unique to his playground alone.

Sometimes You Just Can’t Catch A Break

When I was a kid, my dad used to gripe constantly when we went to someplace like a theme park, so I promised myself I wouldn’t do that when I became a father.  And I’ve kept that promise.

Now when I go to a theme park, I get to listen my son’s constant griping . . .

The “Olfactory” Of The Matter, You Might Say

Today I find myself vaguely amused at the disparity in how my Tuesday entry (which I got a variety of positive feedback regarding) was received when compared to my Wednesday entry (which went without any responses whatsoever).  I wasn’t surprised by this though.  Tuesday’s entry was deliberately positive and pithy, but I knew there was a point that could be easily overlooked, hence Wednesday’s entry.

To spell it out, to me the important part of Tuesday’s entry was “what you believe about yourself, true or not, will have the greatest effect on you.”  I’ve known wonderful people who had been convinced they were terrible people, and I’ve also known people who, if they had even an ounce of talent, they kept it hidden extremely well, but their belief in their own non-evident greatness could sustain them through anything.  It’s just . . . impressive how much belief can affect a person.

But knowing the truth about yourself will serve you better in the long run, and the fact of the matter is that sometimes the truth stinks, but it’s better to be able to smell it because otherwise you won’t know you need to change.

Truth Often Lies Hidden, Lies Often Hide The Truth

When seeking truth, it’s vital to keep in mind that truth oftentimes sounds ridiculous until examined more closely, but all but the most blatant of falsehoods tend to be carefully crafted to sound ever so plausible . . .

Sometimes The Truth Is Just Disappointing

It’s been an unusually quiet day around here today (I’m writing this early Sunday evening to free up my schedule for tomorrow), and I find myself feeling pensive over how often we tend to lie, particularly when we’re younger, and even more particularly about sex.  Everybody seems to have a “first time” story, and if there’s one common thread, especially among males in this culture, it’s that it was always “Great!” . . . provided, of course, that the audience is large enough to require such a sentiment.

Not to imply that many people’s first times aren’t, in fact, great, but over the years I started to notice just how differently the story could be told if the telling was private enough.  For the record, my own first time was significantly less than great.  She was more “experienced” than I was, but those experiences hadn’t been very positive ones, so we both ended up muddling through things more out of some mutual sense of obligation than any actual desire.  Yes, things got better with practice . . . a lot better, but that first time?

Meh.

Well . . . They’re NOT!

Last night I was sent out for a quick provisions run, and L’s Mother once again found an empty dessert pie box in among the grocery bags.  And once again, I expressed my “mystification” about how I keep ending up with those empty boxes whenever I end up going out for a grocery run that I don’t particularly feel like doing.

“Well,” she said after a moment.  “I hope nobody’s charging you for any empty boxes.”

I assured her that nobody was.

If She Needed To Learn That, I’m Glad It Was Him Who Taught Her

Today I’ve found myself thinking about Tim again. Specifically, I’ve found myself thinking about how much I owe him.

Even more specifically, I’ve found myself thinking about how much I owe him for teaching L’s mother the important lesson that she should not accidentally kick people in the knee . . .