Decision

There’s no one awake right now (incredibly), and I need to work out some things which have been rolling around in my head.  They’re making too much noise for me to fall asleep right away.

My interview is tomorrow morning, and I don’t know what to expect.  It’s something that will cause me to grow, and it’s in a place I have wanted to return to for many years now.

The last program I had open tonight was iPhoto, and the pictures of last Christmas at my in-law’s house.   My nieces and nephews filled the screen, rolling around on the floor with Frank just before New Year’s.  Maternity clothes. A new property. A place we both love, but feel estranged from.

Time has not flown by, it’s gone by a day at a time, in neat 24 hour intervals.  God has used it to bring us my health, and our kids, our home, and our neighborhood.  I’m using the possessive pronoun intentionally to describe our lives, because they are our lives.  We’re responsible to them, thankful for them, blessed by them, in love with them.  And we may be leaving them.

One way or another, I’m going to read this later and cry.  Not just because I’m getting more emotional, but I’ll either be laughing so hard at the things I held up as barriers to our move, or I will be laughing at myself for getting my hopes up.  The last time was so emotionally draining, and I told myself I didn’t want to go through that again.  

I laughed so hard the night I was asked, because of God’s sense of humor: a guy with a “perfect life” gets offered the one thing he’s wanted for a long, long time, but has to leave a big part of that life to get it.  

So I don’t really have a decision to make yet, because it’s only Thursday night.  A few more days and maybe I’ll have a decision to make, but probably I’ll just have more things rolling around in my head, stealing sleep from me, making me visibly preoccupied. I’d like to share this letter with a few friends, but there’s too much I don’t know yet.

There’s one thing I’d like to avoid:  hurting the friends I love by moving away.  Years ago I prayed that God would provide these friends, and he answered plentifully.  I’d like to not damage those friendships, but that’s outside of my control, too.

Pennsylvania.  It’s the statehood equivalent of Shel Silverstein’s “the Giving Tree,” having given so freely of its natural resources for generations.  Its ridge and valleys are a sign that I’m where I belong.  Its purple hued evenings reveal that I am halfway between Center County and the Water Gap.  The glens of rhododendrons on the north facing slopes tell me it’s so cold my nose is going to hurt.  

I miss it every time I return to see...family.  A slew of nieces, nephews, and new land to either make memories or miss out on entirely.  All the things I saw when iPhoto launched 45 minutes ago.

If you’ve seen me over the last decade, you’ve seen me miss being “back east.”  So maybe I’ll just keep missing it, or maybe not.  Maybe I’ll find out tomorrow.  

-sw

The Game of Life, Modern Edition

It was so hot today, my inlaws and I sat in their air conditioned, recently remodeled kitchen with an old school Milton Bradley classic, The Game of Life.

After a few beers, my father-in-law Frank landed on a Payday space, then told me (I was the official banker) to only give him half his paycheck, since the other half was already tied up in gas, groceries, and “friggin’ taxes.”  

“...And while you’re at it, banker boy, maybe we should count what’s left in yer bank and make sure you’re not skimming any off the top.”  Frank is frank.

As I counted out the musty Life-money from the till (he wasn’t kidding about my bank audit), I began to wonder--what would The Game of Life look like if it were played by modern rules?  Here’s a few ideas:

The college career path:
Automatically pay to get an advanced degree, but since there are no jobs in the field in which you majored, you end up with a lower salary working as either a barrista, seasonal employee at UPS, or interning at the company that could have afforded to hire you 10 years ago.  Student loans eat away at Paydays for the 15 turns.

The career path (no college)
Land a fat union or government sector job, put in a short work week with awesome benefits, and make a higher salary.  However, toward the end of the game, your retirement pension is unexpectedly taken away and you have to play for an additional 25 turns.

All the game pieces are SUV’s, and they’re too big to fit on the board.

The first 7.5 Paydays of the game go directly to federal taxes.

Instead of “Get Engaged,” there are spaces for “Get a Roommate” and for “Live Together.”

“Buy a House” is replaced by “Live at Home even though you’re 35”

If you decide to get married, you can place either a pink or a blue game piece in the passenger seat.

“Share the Wealth” cards are replaced by “Mooch” cards.

There are 12 “Lose your Job” spaces on the board.

Just as in the regular Game of Life, the Modern Edition would have “Life” tiles.  These include:

Stimulus Package!  Collect 1000

Your Child “Needs” Lollapalooza Tickets!  Pay 500

Get Visible Tattoo!  Pay 500

Remove Visible Tattoo!  Pay 1500

Enroll in Therapy!  Pay 5000

Caught Illegally Downloading Music and Made an Example of!  Pay 250,000 and lose a turn

Supreme Court Makes Your Livelihood Obsolete!  Change Careers

Inheritance!  Collect 100,000.  Pay half in taxes

Adopt a Rescue Animal

Get Divorced.  Pay 10,000

Remarry your “Soul Mate.”  Collect 1000 from each player

Taxes Due!  Pay 4x the amount of the depreciated value of your home

Car Accident!  Pay 40,000 to replace your car because the other driver wasn’t insured


I ran a few of these ideas past Frank, who grunted something about being pretty clever and then cracked another PBR and told me he was “keeping an eye on the bank, unlike those SOB’s on Wall Street.”  

Oh, one more thing.  There’s no physical game board, spinner, or game pieces--just a download from the iTunes store, and you’re alerted via SMS that it’s your turn to move.

I guess it’s my turn.  Happy Fourth of July.

Betty Crocker hates me

When I work on construction projects around the house, I always take off my wedding ring.  My hands usually swell up, and taking it off early beats watching my ring finger turn purple.  Sometimes I don’t put it back on right away, because it takes a day or so for my hands to get back to their normal shape.  And it was sunny out, so my tan line went away.  

That’s the reason Betty Crocker hates me.

It was one of those Sunday afternoons when time doesn’t matter.  My wife and I (did I mention I got married?) stopped at a little country store on the way back to her sister’s place, hoping to find a housewarming gift for her.  We’d just pulled into the gravel parking lot when she got a call from her mom, so I made the whole silent “I’ll-go-in-and-meet-you-in-a-second” gesture while she took the call.  

I’ve been going to Wilbur’s Country Store since I was a kid, but hadn’t been back in over a year.  The creaking wood floor, the penny candy, the housecat in the window next to the space heater with a wire pet fence around it hadn’t changed, but there was one notable difference--Wilbur had been replaced by a woman.  

She was about my age, with long dark hair and an accent that definitely was more “old Jersey” than “New Jersey.”  In the few minutes of small talk as I browsed the well-dusted shelves, we established that she was Wilbur’s daughter, had just moved here, and that she’d been willed the store after his passing.  I offered condolences, she said thank you for my kindness, and told me she was considering staying stateside once her father’s affairs were settled.

It was about this time that I settled on a Betty Crocker cookbook for my sister in law and was walking it to the register.  To be polite, I introduced myself, extending my right hand, while placing the cookbook with my well tanned, non-ring bearing, still slightly swollen left hand on the counter.  

“Hi, I’m Scott.”

“Betty,” she replied.

“Like Betty Crocker?”  I joked, glancing at the cookbook.

“Yes, like Betty Crocker,” she laughed.

“Well then, I should have you autograph this!”

In all fairness, I really was just being polite, so I was surprised to see her open the cookbook and begin to write down her phone number and the words “I hope you...” on the dust jacket.

Just then, the little silver bell above the screen door chimed and my beautiful wife walked in, placing her hand on my shoulder on a familiar gesture while Betty’s face clouded over.  Betty quickly completed the note, closed the book, rang up my purchase, and gave my wife a cold glance as she wished us a “good afternoon.”

It turned out to be a strange housewarming gift.  Imagine my sister-in-law’s face when she opened the cookbook, only to read the inscription:

“I hope you... burn down your kitchen!” --Betty Crocker
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