She Left Me

She left me. It's over. She said that I don't listen. That talking to me is like taking to a blank screen and there's no user interface between us. She said that I'm a grown man and I can do what I want, but she's not going to sit back and watch while I make self destructive choices.

One little slip. That's all. And I couldn't even enjoy it because I was thinking of her the entire time. But did that matter to her?

All it was, was one little trip to McDonald's. Ok, sure, I had a large Coke. But I only got one refill. I had small fries instead of large and a McDouble. That's like 23 grams of protein!

And did that matter to her? No! Does she listen to me? Never. My Fitness Pal thinks she knows everything, but does she ever consider what I'm going through? Or what it is like living my life?

She can't or won't. But what does it matter now? She packed up her nutritional charts, uninstalled herself and just left.

So, here I am on the couch with a bag of Cheetos thinking of better days. How we used to do food and exercise logs together. How she'd leave inspirational notes on my timeline. I think I want her back, but maybe this is for the best. Because I sit here and my mind wanders to her beautiful pie charts and I just know this thing between us was destined to fail.

The Troll & the Icelandic Duke Brothers

Keflavik International is the airport that serves Iceland. Lying about 30 minutes from the Icelandic capital of Reykavijk, we were first warned about it by the father of an Icelandic friend. He said, "Don't let Keflavik scare you." Not that it is a dangerous place. Keflavik is just...barren. It doesn't have the esthetic charm of Reyjkavik. Nor does it have anything like the waterfalls, geysers, oceanside cliffs, or any natural grandeur with which the rest of Iceland is blessed. But this is where our journey started and a little marina in Keflavik is the source of our best stories on the island.

Keflavik is a familiar name to Jen & I. There was an Air Force base here and this was a possibility when we were active duty. That base has since closed, but its structures are still in use. Pulling up to our hotel, everything looked oh so familiar. This was an Air Force building for sure. We were told that back in the day this building served as billeting, which is where incoming and outgoing military members stayed until they found new quarters.  The Icelanders have even kept the standard colors. Faded tan and brown. Sweet. The interior was better than I'd ever seen in my Air Force days, but there were some chairs and couches in the common areas that I know I sat in back in Germany. Holy Flashback.

Our flight left New York at 8pm, so we arrived in Iceland at 6:30am. We pulled up to our hotel too early to check in, so we set out to find breakfast. This is not a largely populated island and Keflavik is not a big town. The search for food at this time of day had the same feel as a small town Sunday morning...in the '70s. There wasn't nobody nowhere.  The GPS led us to three places. Two wouldn't open for another couple hours and the third hadn't been open in a couple years. Finally, we spotted a place with a tour bus out front and a crowd of Asian tourists milling about taking pictures. Walking in we were told that they were only open for the tour bus, but they'd put some food out for us.

Cafe Duus was a nice looking place. We were seated at a large round table near windows that gave us a full unobstructed view of a small marina. A waist high stone wall lined the marina and blended into the jetty that held back what was currently a calm Atlantic Ocean. On the other side was a large hill with an odd outcrop on the end. Breakfast was standard European fare. Meats, cheeses, fruit, and rolls. We were charmed by the friendly owner, the view, and the 10,000 year old walrus tusks mounted on the wall. So, we decided to return for dinner.

View across the marina from Cafe Duus.

On the way to the lair of the Giantess.

Following breakfast we went for a walk and took some pictures when my eyes were drawn to an odd looking structure across the marina. It looked like a house built into a cave. Time to explore!  It was 48 degrees, which is about as good as it gets on a July morning in Iceland. So, dressed in shorts but snuggled in our fleeces, we set out on our first adventure. Our little family of five followed the sidewalk to the other side of the marina until we came to a sign over the path where in a runic script was written, "SKESSUHELLIR" and large footprints were painted on the sidewalk. Curious, we moved forward, but among the kids, apprehension was setting in.

The path curved slightly and as we moved nearer there was a nervous excitement. Getting close we could see the opening to the cave with a crude shack like widow and door built into it. There was growling. This is where the kids stood back and let dad go alone.  I thought that maybe they believed that I was the strong, clever protector and could slay or defeat whatever beast lie in wait. Or I was the most expendable. Either way, I was going in.

She's watching...

Peeking inside the cave the first things I saw were a bed and a chair. They were huge. I felt like a character in Honey I Shrunk the Kids.  Next to the chair was a kind of Christmas tree decorated with pacifiers and children's toys. Behind a half door was a head. A big paper mache head of a giant troll. And it wasn't growling. It was snoring. So, it was asleep. A reading corner was off to the side. Clearly this was for kids, so I waved everyone else to join me. They did. Except Thomas. He wasn't buying that it was safe. So, while Jennie, Zach, & Maddie checked it out, I went to reassure our youngest son that the cave was ok. And I almost had him convinced. He was on his way in when Maddie ran out and pronounced that, "I think it's waking up!" That was enough for Thomas.

So, what was it? After returning home I found a web site that said this is a friendly giantess who lived in the cave. But in Keflavik, we asked around. The locals had a completely different take on this troll. An old man at the tourist bureau gave us his version. This giant troll, Gryla, looks for naughty children. She can only come out after dark. So, at bed time is when children cry, ask to stay up to watch tv, refuse to go to sleep, and argue about brushing their teeth. Gryla goes out and collects the bad children and takes them back to her cave. The man told us that she would keep them in the cave for a few days, until they were naughty no more, then return them home.

Elisabet, who worked the front desk at our hotel had a slightly different take. She agreed with the old man's version, but in her home, and many others, Gryla was used to make children behave. Especially around Christmas. Elisabet was told that Gryla would seek out naughty children alright. But it was because she was hungry. Elisabet's parents would tell her that if she wasn't good, Gryla would steal her and eat her for dinner and leave her jammies and toys hanging on the tree. Sometimes they'd tell their daughter that Gryla would boil children in a pot so they were cooked just right. That girl was scared to death. Not exactly Dr. Spock, but Elisabet seems to have survived.

We would return to Cafe Duus that evening and were seated at the exact same round table near the windows. Unlike the morning, the restaurant was teeming with customers and waitresses were scurrying from table to table. After a few minutes, we had ours. We just began to order our appetizers when we heard screams and gasps and everyone was looking our way. I turned as I heard the crash and saw a blue car, airborne, over that stone wall, and heading for the water.

It had raced through the parking lot and slammed on the breaks leaving skid marks for some 30 feet before smashing into the stone wall and being catapulted up and over, nose first into the marina. There were people outside trying to help while everyone in the restaurant was standing up against the windows.

The car was going down and we could see the air blowing and bubbling out from underneath and out of the car windows. A young man crawled out the passenger window, but as the car sunk beneath the water, the driver was still inside. Not until it was completely submerged, did a teenage boy swim to the surface from the driver's side, pushing his wet curly blonde hair back from his face. In minutes the parking lot had an ambulance, several police cars, and swarms of people.

And to our surprise, by the time we finished dinner, they were gone. The lot was empty as if nothing had happened. We wandered out for a look at the scene and that is when the teenagers started congregating. Kids on foot and on bikes. One in particular, we recognized. Blonde hair still damp, it was the driver. We didn't speak his language, but we could tell what he was saying. Recounting the adventure to his friends, he pointed at the water, complete with gestures, sound effects, and waving his keys about,  he spoke of his experience with gusto. We couldn't help but wonder, why was he there? Where were his parents? Did they even know? Wasn't he in trouble? I guessed not.

But I'll bet I know who noticed. Right across the marina, in the cave, watching it all, was Gryla. This was a naughty boy. And I wondered if some morning we might go to that cave and find those car keys hanging off that little tree and see that giantess picking some blonde hair out of her teeth.

They don't all survive.

The Cravin'

When I moved to Syracuse, my first job was in a law firm copy center. Most of my time was spent as a messenger, walking around the city delivering and picking up papers, checks, etc. What does one's brain do with all that alone walking time? Apparently, one perverts the work of Edgar Allen Poe with tales of stolen snacks at work. 

The Cravin'

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By: Edgar Allen Poe and Thom Higgins

Once upon a midnight dreary
While he pondered weak and weary
Over a faint and furious fax for Peter Swartz
As Dave Clark nodded nearly napping,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on the fax room door.
“ ‘Tis just Chris, “ he muttered, “tapping at the fax room door, Chris or Thom and nothing more”.

Ah, distinctly I remember
It as a warm September
The Xerox’s greenish lantern left its light glowing o’er.
Eagerly he wished the mallow
Chocolate graham to swallow,
His craving he did follow to the break room’s modern Norge.
For the soft and sweet sensation that Pop-Tart named s’more.
Then he saw, there were no more.

As Dave went back to working
The flavor he was thirsting
It thrilled him—filled him with fantastic hunger never felt before.
But now Dave stood repeating
As the tapping became beating,
“’Tis just Chris entreating entrance at the fax room door.
Chris or Thom and nothing more.”

As the copier’s beat grew stronger
He hesitated then no longer,
“Sir,” he said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the fax room door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here he opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep in to that darkness peering
He stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no messenger dared dream before.
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “s’more?”
This was whispered and an echo murmured back the word “s’more!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Then in from the darkness strutting
As the door Clark was shutting
Stepped the tall Dave Nason, with hair of sixties lore.
Not the least obeisance made he.
Not a minute stopped or stayed he.
But with mein of Lord or Lady, perched beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat upon a pack of post-its beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat and nothing more.

But that Nason sitting lonely,
On the Post-it box spoke only
Just in one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
The silence had been broken,
As these words he had spoken,
The shocking words came forth from this computer commodore:
There he said, “Tasty s’more.”

Then the air grew denser,
Perfumed as if some censor.
All around him was the scent of what was once a s’more.
Nason sat there smiling,
A smile that was beguiling
And on his jacket lining, the evidence he wore.
On his jacket lining was the smudges from a s’more.
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Prophet!” said Clark, “thing of evil
Prophet still as from the devil,
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore!
Tell this soul with sorrow laden,
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall fill a savored craving for a sweet and tasty s’more!
Clasp a rare and sticky pastry that Pop-Tarts named s’more!
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting,
I.S. fiend, “ he shrieked, up starting –
“Get thee back into the basement you pastry omnivore!
Leave no frosting as a token
Of the lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken,
Quit this box beside my door!
Take thy scent of thy Pop-Tart and thy form from off my door!”
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”


And this Nason, never flitting
Still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the flaxen pack of post-its just beside the fax room door.
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And Clark’s hunger from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be satisfied, never more.

Post with Care

Social media has become one of my most important past times. I know it sounds cheesy, since most people use Facebook for gossip, games, or the completely inane. But for me, I found a creative outlet for writing which I didn't know I was craving. From Facebook, I moved up to a blog. I have found writing to be a way to exercise my brain and vent some happy out into the world.

When I do put words down, I try to be funny, clever, and entertaining. To take a moment and successfully put it into words that people enjoy is a challenge and one that I put a fair amount of effort into. Few things make me happier than hearing back how a reader enjoyed my words. Even better is hearing that from people I've never met and for whom what I wrote wasn't even intended. To think that you made the day of someone you don't even know is such a rewarding experience.

But it can go another way. I'm a passionate person. There are issues about which I care deeply and of which I have strong convictions. And I know the feeling I get when I see something on the screen that I find personally insulting or pointed directly at me or people like me. I'm telling you, it pisses me off.  Just thinking about it now, I can feel anger & irritation coming up from my stomach and out every one of the pores in my head and out my fingers. Hell, I'm even typing faster. And typing faster means I'm pumping out emotions and not really thinking.

Americans are so adamant about their rights to do what they want, that they don't think about their responsibilities as people. It is a twisted brand of selfishness that completely over rules any sense of compassion for others. People have Facebook and Twitter and every message board out there to voice their opinions and scream their complaints that they don't think about what it means.

I have been as guilty of this as anyone. I can debate and discuss and be very reasonable about it. But when discussions escalate, as they sometimes do, I have not been afraid to resort to some hyperbole to illustrate the misguided opinions of others and been out to dispense my own brand of common sense pellets with little thought of the people in my wake.

Which brings me to an off hand post I threw out on Facebook about the Super Bowl commercial from Nationwide Insurance that upset so many people. The commercial is narrated by a boy that is listing all the amazing things he will never do only to reveal that he can't because he is already dead. The commercial talks about child safety.

My first impression of the uproar over this ad was that it was ridiculous. Why would people complain about child safety? Why would they grouse that a downer of a commercial was run during their Super Bowl parties? It seemed so petty, so I responded in my post with ridicule. Maybe not ridicule, but it was definitely dripping with sarcasm because, of course, I know everything.

And then I came across a "Boycott Nationwide" page. I commented there, too. I don't know what I wrote, as I went back and deleted it. Because afterward I saw that a Facebook friend of mine had shared it. That page was full of parents who had lost children and were unhappy with the twist in this ad. I knew that my friend, who I have not known a long time, had lost a child under circumstances with which I am unfamiliar. I like this woman and I'd hate to think she saw what I wrote. Realizing this, I became a bit embarrassed and felt about 2 inches tall. 

And I thought, "Is this really the person I want to be?"

As rewarding and euphoric as it felt to make people feel good with my words, thinking that I used the same heart and the same brain to put together words that did just the opposite makes me ill. And I try to remember that when I feel something seething coming up from my belly. I try to take time to think in that space of time between the rolling of my eyes and my fingers tapping about the keyboard. 

This isn't about toning down beliefs or being politically correct. No one has to shed their opinions when they go online, because at least for me, debate and the volley of opinions and ideas is one of the things that makes social media social. That's what I like to do.

But prior to dispensing of our snark and before we lay down the law of our own self proclaimed wisdom like the Wizard of Oz hiding behind the curtain of the internet, we need to take a moment to consider who is on the other end of the line. Just for a second, stop thinking about what you need to say and consider what those words mean. Take the time to help bring back a more civil and compassionate society.