The Philly Psyche

Well, that was wild. With all the news coming out of the Keystone state that Fat Andy would be gone, Donovan McNabb had choked in a big spot again and the world was coming to an end after that travesty in D.C. last week, the Eagles got every bounce yesterday and have made it into the NFL's year-end tournament. They will play Minnesota, coached by Reid's protégé, in a battle of the minds next week (seriously, where are the jokes here from the Philly papers? I thought Minnesota was going to blow it yesterday at the end of the game when they let a good 20 seconds run off the clock before calling a timeout, then called a play with nine seconds left, which was incomplete, before kicking the game winning field goal. How many terrible challenges and wasted timeouts will we see next week in the Dome with these two guys sitting down at the chess board?).

But, as I have learned so many times before, rooting for those infuriating teams from the seat of Democracy does a good deal of damage to the brain, as evidenced by the truly horrid night of sleep I just had. I was awoken in a fit of panic by Teddie's cries at 6 a.m. after dreaming that the Eagles had beaten Dallas in a blowout, only to be forced to play Pittsburgh for the right to go to the playoffs. In that game, the Eagles led 33-3 entering the fourth quarter before blowing it and missing out on the playoffs (333=(1/2)666?). I woke up and had to smack myself to remember that that did not actually happen and the Eagles had in fact secured their playoff ticket.

Then, with only about 40 more minutes of sleep to enjoy before my alarm went off at 7:10, I entered another horrifying dream. I was back in my high school's neighborhood in Metropolis after hours, which isn't the safest part of the city. In the dream, I lived about 15 blocks away and I was walking to my apartment, but I was not using the sidewalk, I was wandering down the deserted street. I saw four men coming toward me, all wielding baseball bats. Inexplicably, after three of the four had passed me without even a wary glance, I dove at the last's knees, taking him out like a cornerback fells a running back. I trembled in fear as the other three came to his defense and threatened to beat the life out of me. They wanted all the money I had on me, which I was reluctant to give because I needed all of it to pay down my mounting credit card bills, all of which I had just secured by gifts for Christmas and deftly was carrying on my person. I remember mustering an excuse of a car accident that left me woozy, and that's why I had fallen and taken out the last man, but they advanced anyway...

RING...RING...RING

My alarm clock saved me from the beating and the ensuing robbery that would have left me in credit card hell. So, the next time you call out your whiny Philadelphia fan for complaining about a skewed run-pass ratio, remember what we suffer in the dead of night, even after stunning fortune and a dominating victory over a hated rival.

Giving Thanks: Pop

The Christmas Eve’s of my childhood were always spent with Pop at his office in Metropolis. It was a great treat for a young boy, riding the train in from the suburbs, staring up at the huge buildings as we walked to his office, and of course, a trip to a fancy, sit-down restaurant for lunch (which probably wasn’t all that fancy thinking back on it.) Today, the tradition has not changed much, but I was not nearly as excited to wake up before noon, stand on a windy platform waiting for the train, and instead of zooming around his office waiting for lunch, I’m instead at my desk waiting for 1 p.m. so I can go back home.

Writing about your dad is an impossibly difficult thing to do. You love your father, but you never say it, and you often don’t feel it if he’s doing his job right. He has a constant watch on you to ensure you don’t fall into the traps that fell many young men without fathers, and you can never quite understand why he’s always on your ass, always scrutinizing. His criticism is “constructive,” but is rarely partnered with praise, building a vicious circle where you chase your father’s approval but can never quite catch it.

He was the disciplinarian, the one I feared. I ran to my mother to shield me from his anger and disappointment over my mistakes, and she called for him when I refused to budge for her. His heavy feet on the stairs caused me to tremble, fearing he was coming to admonish me for another mistake, be it an unclean dish, a stray shoe or a call from school complaining of my talkative and disruptive day in class. We were not buddies; he was the master, I the apprentice, and I was to learn his trade the way he saw fit.

I never wanted to take his advice, I always wanted to complete a task my way, even if it wasn’t as good or took me a great deal longer. I wanted to prove to him that I could succeed without his aid, but for all my efforts, I was rarely rewarded. I couldn’t understand why he nit-picked, even at things I considered accomplishments, when all I ever wanted to hear was, “Good job, bud.”

As we parted ways this morning, I mentioned the memory of Christmas Eve’s past and how we’ve come full circle, and he gave me a wink and a smirk, and I know I’ve finally caught the carrot. He and I are so different from one another; he has a logical, math-oriented brain that served him well through his doctoral work in economics, whereas I am more creative, toiling instead with words and aphorisms. He can build a car engine, I can only build a casserole. I am emotional, talkative and loud, whereas he is pensive, quiet and stoic.

But, our differences aside, never have I revered anyone the way I do my father. His accomplishments are staggering in my eyes, and for the majority of my childhood, I was crippled in an attempt to earn his praise. I often acted not for myself, but for what I believed my father wanted. I cannot recall all the times he would turn to me in frustration and say, “You know Bud, I don’t know everything.” But he did to me; anything I ever wondered, I asked him. Looking back, it was absurd to think he’d have an answer, but he was my Dad, he had to know.

I remember seeing my parents at the dinner table, tired, frustrated and weak from their days at the office, and I often thought, “Why do they do this?” I always knew they worked as hard as they did because of us; neither of my parents has terribly stimulating jobs. They traded that perk in for more pesos. They always drove crappy cars and wore cheap clothes, and I always got the new basketball shoes. Growing up, I promised myself I’d never have kids, because the way I saw it, I ruined their lives, because they were all about me and Lil’ Sis. They never took time for themselves, never went out because they were too tired from work and running us to and fro, and they never seemed to have money left over to spend on extravagant gifts for one another. I was as appreciative as a 15-year old could be expected to be, but my response was a selfish one, a promise I would never turn into my parents.

My parents taught me a powerful lesson, though. They work hard for their money, and a lot of it still is spent on my sister and I, but I know they are happy. Pops lost his mother when he was three, and spent his childhood in and out of orphanages and group homes as his father struggled to hold a job in the 1970s. He would eventually drop out of high school, something he is still embarrassed of today, but secured his GED, worked his way through college and on to graduate school, where he earned his doctorate in economics. I have always been so proud of that, the true rags-to-riches story that causes millions to flock to the U.S.’s shores. I am most proud of his outlook on life, that his wife and children are what he cares about and works for, even more so because he had a father that did not do that for him, who often was not there for him. He has built a family, and given me every advantage that I could ever hope for or need; he fulfills that great Jackie Robinson line, “A life is only worth the impact it has on others.” I’ve always loved that quote, but I never appreciated it until associating it with my father.

My life will not be guided by money or fame. I hope to teach people the lesson of my father, that your unique gifts and talents are not for you alone to profit from, but to be shared to build up all those you come in contact with. He has spent 21 years teaching me how to be a man, a man that gives to the world, a man that takes responsibility when no one else wants to (“If not you, then who?”) and to leave your mark with all who will listen. I do not know what lies ahead of me after leaving school, but my Pop has given me a solid base to face the world with. I hope everyone has a Blessed holiday, and that you are as lucky as I am in friends and family.

Where ya been at?

Finals, Christmas shopping, Northeast power outages and general fatigue have slowed my publishing numbers, but fear not, I am hard at work and will have posts up throughout the Christmas holiday for all my loyal readers. In the mean time, read someone else's hard work about the continued redevelopment of New Orleans. The city continues to struggle two and half years after Katrina, and I have a soft spot for any good news coming out of the city.

I'd like to wish all of Press On's readers a happy, blessed Christmas, and to thank all of you who log on and keep up with my life. It has been a great experience these first five months, and I look forward to what 2009 will bring. Please find me on facebook, and if you like what you are reading, let me and your friends know!

Clean the Halls

I was short an apron and a hairnet, but after handing in the extensive term paper than has kept me from blogging the past week, I decided the old creaky apartment I call home needed my best Martha Stewart this afternoon.

After cleaning the shower stall, wiping the toilet and scrubbing the bathroom floor, I turned my attention to the dishes in the sink before finishing with clean sheets on my bed. I did all this why Audrey was off at work, and I jokingly passed along an acknowledgement of our role reversal.

I finished my audition for June Cleaver by putting together a casserole of stir fried potatoes, sauteed ground beef and vegetables, macaroni and cheese which I topped off with mashed potatoes and gravy. Audrey came in the door from work, and her dinner came out of the oven. I had misplaced the pearls and high heels, but I still had a hug and a kiss for her before she slumped into a chair with a deep sigh. We ate dinner on the freshly laundered table cloth and chatted about the day, but I couldn’t help but chuckle about mine.

I lack the male gene that carries the “I can tolerate my own filth” trait, or maybe my mother just taught me well. I also love to cook and hope to teach middle school next year. And I recently read during my daily blog roll that MacBooks are preferred by guys that are a little light in the loafers, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m not worried about my sexual preference, but Audrey is in a high paying field, and my career track does not appear to be taking me in that direction. She has asked me before if it’ll bother me if she brings home the bacon while I collect the feet, and I have always responded that my ego is secure.

Today got me thinking more about it, though. Stay-at-home moms are a thing of the past, ever more so in this time of economic turmoil. Audrey has a co-worker who is on the verge of divorce, with the problem being that she has recently gone back to work and is “never home,” a new problem in the relationship that has been sputtering for years. Apparently, the guy can’t make up his mind, and used to groan when she spent her days with the kids while he sweated out for all the income. So, what’s the problem with having the dual income? And I hate scrubbing the toilets, but isn’t it nice to have a happy wife and a fat bank account?

A serious relationship teaches the valuable lesson of humility, a quality not often found on college campuses. Humility is more than breaking a stereotype and wringing a mop, though. It is understanding the needs of others and putting them before your own without expecting it in return. I am given the opportunity to reach out and help people countless times a day, and I often fail, due to my first ever economic lesson: “People respond to incentives.” If you cannot expect anything in return for your action, what is your incentive for doing it? But that is the beauty of a humble act; it is for the other person, and hopefully, your incentive is the happiness derived from doing the good deed.
So, gentleman, if your wife one day gets a raise that puts her in a higher tax bracket than you, think not of the shame you will endure from your beer buddies, but rather the excitement and joy she must feel. No man is an island, to borrow and old cliche, so work to find joy in others, so that they might find joy in you.

True Life: I'm a College Graduate

Mondays are a dreaded day for all, and I am no exception. It is one of two days that I work, Friday being the other, and often I don’t return home till past 9 p.m. after the Fraternity’s meeting. Today, I trudged through the door as the night creeped past 10, but was cheerily greeted by my roommate, Muffin, who you may remember from my first Spring Break story.

Muffin graduated last spring with a business degree, and after traveling in Europe for the summer, he returned home without a job or a place to rest his head. He secured a position at a software company he interned at while in school, but only through December, and because one of my roommates is abroad for the semester, we invited him to live with us.

Fresh out of meeting, I regaled a tale to Muffin from another epic Away Weekend (stories forthcoming) in which one of our younger brothers sustained a hand injury that required medical attention. Baby D was coaxed to jump into the rapidly accumulating pile of trash that had amassed over three days worth of partying, and after emerging from his booze-induced dive, he noticed he had sliced his hand open. This set the decision makers into a fit of panic as they quickly tried to think up a cover story and another tried to find a vet to stitch up his hand. Undaunted, Baby D sauntered into the emergency room, and offered this beauty for how his hand became mangled.

“Well, I was busy raging on top of the counter, and I remember crashing into a pile of trash, and when I got up, my hand looked like this,” he stated to the attendant. Honesty is the best policy.

After a hearty chuckle, Muffin and I began to speculate how Baby D’s parents took the news of an emergency room trip. My parents recently received a bill for $452 for my trip a few weeks back, all but $75 of which was covered by our insurance. Our conversation then turned to our president-elect, and his plans for universal health care. Muffin let on that he was paying his own medical insurance because he is hired through a temp agency, and not the company he works for. He pays $20 a week for it, and the maximum the company will pay out for medical attention he receives is $2000 a year. He then launched into a story highlighting the difficulties he has had with the company just to receive payment for medical attention.

A few weeks back, he decided to make a doctor’s appointment because he has had trouble sleeping and has noticed that since returning from Europe, his memory has been in decline. It took him two hours in the doctor’s waiting room merely to ensure his insurance would cover the visit. After securing that, along with a $15 copay, the doctor prescribed an anxiety medication, blood work and an MRI. But his headache did not end there. He learned the blood work would cost $800, nearly half of his yearly allowance, and an MRI would use up all $2000 plus an extra $450 out of pocket. He declined the MRI, but through one of his brother’s clients, he secured an appointment for blood work under the table at a lab an hour’s drive away, which still cost him $250 out of pocket. To fill the prescription, he went to the pharmacist, but was told there was a problem and was forced to call the insurance company. He was then given a list of 20 numbers, which he jotted down on a napkin in the middle of CVS in order to receive the discount, but after the pharmacist entered them into the computer, it still didn’t work. He tried again, another 20 numbers, and still no luck. He finally gave up only to be told the prescription was a mere $8, and which has proved to be worthless, because they merely put him to sleep.

My father’s a federal employee, so I’ve never worried a day in my life about medical insurance, nor did I have any idea how unbelievably complicated and unhelpful it can be. Muffin had to take off work, costing him money, drive all around the state in order to receive affordable help and still didn’t get all the services the doctor prescribed for him. And the kicker is that the insurance company does not pay for the services; instead, he pays out of pocket, sends the company a receipt, and they then decide how much to reimburse him. Health insurance is an unbelievable safety net; without it, that beer can I tossed would have cost me 500 bucks, but not one that everyone enjoys. And that may be the worst part; my roommate is not alone, he is just another sad story in a sea of economic turmoil.

Get Out of Jail Free

Many months ago, I received my very first moving violation, tarnishing a sterling record I proudly boasted to all who would hear. I was driving around State College Town in Audrey's car, and made a U-turn I make at least once a week, but unbeknowest to me, it was illegal, and there was a county officer in an unmarked car waiting idly for ne'er-do-wells like myself to slip up. The ticket was exorbitant: $90 for an illegal U-turn, but I was told I'd have the opportunity to fight it in court.

I had forgotten all about it until a few months ago when the subpoena came in. Being even more broke than I was back in the summer, when I was at least working full time, I searched for some way to get out of the fine. After polling the mass grouping of idiot drivers that make up any college fraternity, I learned my best bet was to attempt to reschedule the court date so the officer who pulled me over would fail to show up, and the fine would be waived. Below is the excuse I just finished penning.

"The Honorable (name redacted),

I am requesting a new trial date with respect to the citation noted above, currently scheduled for December 9 at 10:30 a.m. Upon returning home for Thanksgiving Break from my studies at the University of (name redacted), I learned I had been summoned to court for an infraction that occurred many months ago, and as 21-year olds are wont to do, had been forgotten about by me. The current trial date is of inconvenience to me because I work Tuesday mornings and have class in the afternoon. Due to my late realization of the trial date, I do not have sufficient time to call out of work, and with finals fast approaching, it would be damaging to miss class this late in the semester. I am on a very fixed budget, as most college students are, and it would be difficult to overcome the lost wages to appear in court. I apologize 1000 times over for the late notice, but I would greatly appreciate a rescheduling of my court appearance. Thank you in advance for your consideration of my request.

Sincerely yours,

Carter Wayne Jones"

Feel free to use this as a template should your county grab you by the ankles and try to shake your milk money loose.