“Smile Like You Mean It” by the Killers was released in 2005. I always took it as a song about putting on a brave face when you run into the ex or something goes wrong. We have so many other expressions to cover it, like don’t let them see you cry, never show weakness, and never let them see that you’re hurt. That’s pretty much how I was raised, to keep pain private, to always be tough and strong. Part of that seemed to be all about being manly, but it was also about not letting others take advantage of you through a perceived weakness.
In Fits.
The start
seeing
noticing
talking
flirting
friendship
lust
sex
love
trust
The relationship
trust
sex
love
support
compatibility
complacency
ennui
questions
regrets
The decisions
disagreements
betrayal
anger
arguments
fights
threats
tears
compromise
counseling
separating
praying
choices
The end
together
apart
resigned
accepting
hopeful
dismissive
optimistic
pessimistic
loving
trusting
hoping
Death.
A Dad Dream
I dreamed my Dad and I were in a store, but a few caveats are needed to qualify this. Much younger, I was taller than I’ve ever been. Dad wasn’t my true father but a colonel I’d worked for in the Air Force. This colonel and I didn’t get along well. Fortunately, he wasn’t in my chain of command. He was the Deputy Base Commander, though, so I had encounters with him almost every day. Another colonel that I was buddies with told me that the other colonel had changed through the years. He said, “He used to seem so happy and had so much fun. Now he barely wants to smile.”
That was my Dad in this dream, not at all like my real Dad. Dream Dad was retired, and I was still active, and outranked him. Neither of us were in uniforms, though. These were matters that I knew.
We were at a Home Depot shopping for plants. Dad wanted to plant flowers at his house. I was there, assisting, following him around. Dad had become forgetful and clutzy. He kept knocking things over. I was concerned, amused, and exasperated as I followed him around and watched the Home Depot personnel cleaning up after his messes.
Dad and I were chatting through all of this, mostly about what he was doing, from what I remember. I began suggesting that we leave but Dad wasn’t ready. It went like this, me following him around as he carried a basket, looking for plants and knocking things over, until I quit following him and drifted away. After I did that, I heard a loud crash. Knowing that he was behind it, I trotted into another area.
A clerk stopped me. “Some hazardous stuff has been spilled,” he said. “We need to clean it up before anyone can go in.”
I looked into the room and saw my dream father standing to one side not far away. Clerks and customers were standing around the perimeter, arms folded, leaning against shelves, as two others cleaned up a mess in the middle.
“Just tell me this,” I said to the clerk. I pointed at Dad. “Did he cause this?” As the clerk nodded, I smiled and said, “That’s what I thought.”
The dream ended.
Lost in the Words
I pray for hope
I haven’t kept you too
long as I know that you’ll
always be the drink for
me and you, it always
seems like we’re getting lost in the
words can make a difference, especially how
they come and go through the spirals of
our changing lives and times because
what was once familiar has become
strange that I think of this now in
conjunction with where we’ve been and
where things have
gone are the expectations and
dreams are what keeps me
going for the goal that
I pray for hope.
Floof-luscious
Floof-luscious (floofinition) – housepets with a sweet, or pleasing attractiveness.
In use: “He’d never owned a pet. Neither had his parents, so he thought it must be a genetic disposition. Whatever it was, when he met the young miniature poodle, everything changed. Her face, he decided, rich with hopeful curiosity, was the floof-luscious component, especially her shiny dark eyes. It hinted of intelligence, mischief, and weirdly, he believed, love.
“Could there be love at first sight between a human and an animal?”
@70
He was comfortable, and she wanted to turn the heat up.
She was going to dance-exercise classes, and he was counting pills.
He was impatient to drive faster, and she thought he should slow down.
She was remarking about the pleasant evening they’d had, and he was complaining about the price of a dinner for two.
Spite
After soldiering through the funeral arrangements, he arrived home to the empty house. “Alone at last,” he shouted, throwing his coat down on a chair. Now he would see, now he would learn the truth about all the little things that had became maddening. He would see who it was who always left the lights on, if it was her who didn’t pick up, didn’t clean after herself when she cooked or baked, her who left doors unlocked and wasted heat and energy. Now he would see. He’d always believed it was her and now he would prove it, because now it was only him. And then —
Stopping, he looked around the silent house. Moving slowly, he picked up his coat and hung it up. Then, just for spite, he turned on a light, and left it on.
The Truth
He repeated something that his wife had told him. “I never said that,” she said before anyone else could speak.
Indignation rose. Yes, you did, he began to say, but considered, maybe he’d heard it wrong. Maybe he was mis-remembering. Or maybe she’d said it wrong. Perhaps she didn’t remember saying it, or the people that told her had told her wrong. Or maybe she’d incorrectly remembered what she’d been told and then told him wrong, but didn’t remember it.
The only way to resolve this would be record and index everything so that he could go back and know exactly what was said.
Yeah, right. Who had time for that?
He smiled. “Sorry. I guess I got it wrong.”
Mr Gander
Mr Gander rolled into the noisy sports bar, grunting and waving at others while signalling for a PBR. As Gander’s ample weight found a stool, Tilly observed that Gander seemed down.
“The wife.” Gander pointed his eyes at the TV and sampled his beer’s head.
“What ’bout ‘er?”
“Nothin’. I have little complaints ’bout ‘er. They’re so small, you could say they’re shards of complaints.”
“You ever tell ‘er ’bout ’em? Maybe that’d help.”
“Naw, man. If I tell ‘er my complaints ’bout ‘er, she’ll tell me her complaints ’bout me.” Gander sipped his beer. “Who wants to hear that crap?”
You Don’t Say
My wife made something really delicious for dinner this evening. Actually, we had it for lunch. We ate loads of it, along with bread, and then had big salads for dinner.
It’s the third time that she made it. I really can’t say more about it than that, except also that it smells fantastic. You can smell all the ____ and ____ ____. It’s incredible.
That’s really all I can say. She has this thing about me not bragging to other people about the food that she makes. She says that it builds up too much anticipation for it and then she worries that it won’t be good as people expect it to be because I bragged about it so much.
Like, for instance, take her __________ as an example. I loved it, and begged her to make it all the time. And she did. I had her make it for an office pot luck because I thought it was sooo goood. The people there agreed, so much so that they asked me to ask her to make it for several subsequent pot luck lunches. When we had guests, I always suggested that she make her__________. She often did, but then got angry because I’d ask the others, “Isn’t this great?”
That was just the one. There was also her ______, _______ ______, and her ____ _______ with ____. They’re all tasty AND healthy. ____, too. She doesn’t make those things any more, either, because I bragged about them too much. At least, it’s been a long time since she’s made them.
So, I don’t want to jinx this by telling everything how great this thing is that she made, because I really like it, and I want to have it again in the future. But if you ever visit my house, maybe she’ll make it for dinner for you. Then you can see how good it is. Maybe she’ll make her ______ for dessert, too.
I’m sure you’d love them both. Just don’t tell her that I told you about them.
Michael Seidel, writer 