Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

                The operative word here is had.  I’ve had my regrets.  Seriously, I used to be one of those guys who would beat myself up for everything I did that wasn’t done perfectly.   I may not come across to people like a perfectionist—I may even across as though I simply do not give a shit—but there was a time when I REALLY cared.  That time was, more or less, 95 percent of my life. 

                Now, though, I like to think that I’m a man of few regrets.  Sure, there are things I wish I hadn’t done, but I can’t undo them.  But all the things I’ve done, good and bad, have influenced the man I’ve become, and I kind of like that guy today.  Well, I guess I should say that I’m a man of few regrets now because for many years, I regretted just about everything.  It took a long time to let go of all those things and to accept them as lessons learned on the road to becoming the Ted I am today.

                Really, though, when I give it some thought, there’s probably only one thing that I truly regret.  Well, one thing that I can think of.  One thing I think of all the time.

                But first, let me tell you about old Ted, full of regret.  RegretTed.  I guess somewhere along the way—very possibly birth—my self-esteem took a nose dive.  Bottomed-out.  Nothing there.  I wished at times that everything about me was different.  Well, I didn’t want a vagina er nuthin’ like that, and I always wanted to be, you know, Ted.  I just wanted to be a smarter, taller, cooler, funnier, sexier, wittier, more punctual, sideburn-growing, more responsible, better looking, not balding, zitless, full-beard-growing, more muscular, more toned, darker-haired, lighter-haired, emotionally-present-and-aware, color-visioned, better-word-knowing, more stylish, ballsier, more self-confident.  .  .  You see where I’m going with this?

                Although, there is one thing that I’ve for the most part been confident about in my life:  my behind, my glory, if you will.  I’ve got an ass that just won’t quit.  Sometimes, I’m all like, “Cut it out already!”  But it doesn’t because, as I’ve said, that thing simply will not fucking quit.  Oh well, my cross to bear.

                But anyway, with various therapists over the years, I grew to call this alternate, daydream persona, “SuperTed.”  And as I’ve grown more confident in regular ol’ sweet-assed Ted, the daydreams of SuperTedness have dwindled away.  I’ve come to accept that all those things I did and said that I thought were dumb or foolish or whatever, all those things made me the Ted I am today.  Today’s Ted is the man.

                Sure, there are times when I question myself in my thoughts.  “Ted, why did you do that?  That was so dumb!”  Or, “Ted, why did you say that?  You’re a moron!”  Or, “Ted, why did you leave the scene of that accident?  You should have checked for survivors.”  At times like these, I remind myself that I can’t change what I’ve done.  I can only do things differently in the future.  Some days, I have to remind myself of this quite a bit.

                But what about this one regret?  Well, this one thing probably would not have made Earl’s list of things to do to mend his Karma on the sitcom, My Name is Earl.  I didn’t hurt anyone or ruin anyone’s life, but in my book, I simply did the wrong thing.

                Oh great, now you want the details.  Whatever.

                So, a friend of mine when I was stationed in Germany, Dave, had a brief fling with a woman who was, at least in the eyes of us early twenty-somethings, an old lady.  We nicknamed her Oma, German for grandmother.   Now, I’m not going to sit here and tell you that two people with a strong-enough bond of love can’t overcome any difference or obstacle.  Love conquers all.  Dave, however, did not love Oma.

                We were young men, and Dave was dating a single German woman who, not uncommon to women in the area, would come to the club on post to drink, to dance, and perhaps, to meet that special someone.  Oma was, or at least appeared, about forty-or-so years older than most of the others.   Not a German girl, as many of us were so interested in, but you know, Oma, old enough to be our grandmother. 

                We gave Dave a serious ration of shit.

                He, however, tried to mitigate his situation in our eyes with the simple explanation that she had “big boobs.”  Not being a card-carrying boob-man, I would not relent.  Indeed, his only ally in this was another guy in our battalion who had himself previously fallen under the spell of Oma’s womanly wiles.  Their united front couldn’t even take some of the pressure of Dave.  We merely dealt them both their fair measure of razzing, Oma’s big boobs notwithstanding.  It was great fun, well, maybe not for Dave.  On the other hand, he could, presumably, still have fun with Oma and her big boobs.

                What, you wonder, is my regret?  Do I toss and turn through the night, ceaselessly berating myself for giving my good friend Dave such a hard time?  No.  I was a young guy, and that’s what young guys do to their friends.  We give each other shit.  You see, there was a moment when I could have, indeed, should have done something different.

                Late in the Dave and Oma affair, he was trying to dodge her.   I know, spineless, but that would be Dave’s regret, not mine.  Anyway, a few of us were having some beers in Dave’s room, as we often did, when there was a knock.  Dave, a little flustered and for some reason willing to forgo some big boob time with Oma, said to me, “If that’s Oma, tell her I went to San Remo’s.”  Which is—or was—a lovely little Italian restaurant in Crailsheim, the town where we were stationed.   Then, he shut himself in his bathroom.  And yes, he did refer to her as “Oma.”  I’m not 100% sure he called her that during big boob time, though. 

                I answered the door.

                “Is The Dave here,” Oma asked in her thick German accent.  Yes, she referred to him as “The Dave.”  I could not make that up.  Well, it’s well within my creative powers, but I didn’t.

                Anyway, this is it.  This is the moment I think about.  This is the moment that haunts me.  This is the shoulda-coulda-woulda moment of my life. 

                “No, Dave’s at San Remo’s.”

                “San Remo’s in Crailsheim?”

                “Yes, San Remo’s in Crailsheim.”  I knew of no others.  I hope that’s the one Dave meant.

                She asked if I would tell him that she stopped by, and I agreed.  She left, and I bid her a pleasant evening.  Dave came out of the bathroom, and I told him that Oma (and her big boobs) had stopped by.

                Wow, can you believe that shit?  What kind of person was I? 

Now, I’m not going to make an argument on the side of being honest with Oma, nor will I try to justify supporting my friend’s deception.  Nothing comes from that.  There’s right and wrong in both, so right and wrong doesn’t really come into play with second-guessing my decision.

But this, this is what I should have done. . .

“Is The Dave here,” Oma asked in my alternate reality. 

“The Dave?  He’s takin’ a shit,” I should have said as I pounded on his bathroom door and yelled, “DAVE, pinch it off.  You’ve got company!”

We would have all had a good laugh about that, let me tell you, with the possible exception of Oma, and maybe Dave.  But oh, the rest of us would have been in tears.  I might have even urinated from the sheer hilarity.

So, why would betraying and humiliating my friend in front of his dear, big-boobed Oma be so much better than lying for him?  Easy.  It would have been funnier.  If there’s a grey area muddying up the right and wrong of a situation, it’s hard to go wrong with funny.  It would have been a great tale to tell everyone in the unit, and we would have extended the mileage on Dave’s allotment of shit.

We were young guys.  Giving each other shit is what we did, and I let the big one get away.

Dear Scott,

    I’m Ted, and as you can see, this is TedBlog.   I’m sure you don’t care about it.  You don’t seem to be type of person who’s interested in, you know, people.  Perhaps, though, that’s too broad a judgment for me to make.  I don’t really know you, what you look like, where you live, or anything about you at all.  Well, I do know your old cell phone number—it’s mine now—and I know that you apparently don’t know how to give out your new one.

                It’s been almost five years now—five years—and still it seems at times like I answer more calls for you than I do for myself.   Rather annoying for someone who’s recently come through a period of my life when I’ve struggled with loneliness.  I’ve felt that familiar vibration and answered.   Of course, I didn’t recognize the number, but isn’t there always hope?  Maybe it’s a friend who has a new cell phone number and the call is to let me know about the new number—hint, hint—and maybe we can do something later.   Let’s stop Ted from staring at his four blank walls and get him out of his little apartment. . .

                “Hello.”

                “Is this Scott?”

                Sadly, “No, he doesn’t have this number anymore.”

                Fer cryin’ out loud, Scott, it’s been nearly five years.  Oh, at first it was kind of funny.  My kids and my ex-wife would laugh, “Is it another call for Scott?”  It seems like you must have missed out on a lot over the years.  Dinners, time with friends, dates. . .

                Even holiday greetings.

                One Christmas—yes, this has gone on so long that I can say, “One Christmas.”  Anyway, One Christmas I got a text, “Merry Christmas!” from an unrecognized number.   “Must be for Scott,” I said, laughing.

                My ex, though, was not so sure, “Can I see that?” she said.

                I handed her the phone and went back to whatever I was doing, putting laundry away or formulating a plan to balance the glory of the college football bowl system with the need to crown a champion people can believe in or I don’t know.  Whatever.  It’s been a while.  Leave me alone.  Anyway, as I contemplated the merits of the National League adopting a designated hitter or something like that, my ex was engaged in getting to the bottom of this text.  “Who is this?” she narrated as she sent a message.  Me, I was sorting socks or mulling ideas that could bring both the Sunni and the Shia to a negotiating table in Iraq.   Look, I don’t remember what I was doing, okay.   I do remember what happened next.

                “Jen is it?” she said in a tone that really took the humor out of the situation.

                You see, Scott, I had dated someone named Jen before her.  And knowing what an emotionally disconnected guy I was throughout most of the marriage, I’m going to bet my ex was already mad at me—or disappointed in that emotional disconnection—and this “Jen” business just made her wonder.  No, I’m not going to go into exhaustive detail about how she and Jen texted back and forth to figure out Jen was texting you and not me.   This TedBlog post is, after all, about you and how you’ve screwed things up by not giving out your new number.  You’re the one that let all those people call me and send me texts.  It’s your fault that Jen wished me a Merry Christmas and not you.   It’s your fault my ex had a seed of doubt about marital wrong-doing.  It’s your fault my marriage ended so painfully.

                Well, perhaps that’s going a bit far.  I’m just having fun here, Scott.  I’m just bullshitting with you.  I do that.

                Honestly, though, at first I pretty much blamed my ex, but after some hard, emotionally searing work, I came to terms with the fact that blame—oh, I don’t like that word, “blame,” so let’s not.  There’s responsibility that should be shared equally for the downfall of my marriage. One part my ex, one part Ted, and one part you, Scott, you fucking home-wrecker.

                Again, I’m just bullshitting you. 

                And I’m not bitter about the break-up.  I’ve seriously done that hard work and accepted responsibility for my part.  (Have you, Scott?)  I’m okay with who Ted is and with where my life can go.  I took a little break in my life for some Teddy Time, and now I have the most amazing special lady woman friend in the world.   I’m a lucky man, Scott.

                No thanks to you.

                You know what, though, Scott?  You didn’t just play a role in the conflict that was no small piece of the puzzle that ended my marriage, albeit the teeny-tiniest role.  Your telephone number irresponsibility may well have cost you the love of YOUR life.  Are you so comfortable with who Scott is now?  You see, one night last summer, I received another text message.  I’m not sure if it was Jen because I never gave enough of a crap to save phone numbers for you.  I don’t have that serious of a pathological need to please people.  But anyway, I got a text message from someone.

                A very forward text message.

                Now, this is a family blog, Scott, so I’m not going to reveal it verbatim.  I’ll paraphrase it delicately.  A lady sent a text that read, to use the language of Cliff Clavin’s mother when she related life’s truth á la the birds and bees to Cliff, “Will you share a special kind of hug with me tonight?”  You following me, Scott?  She wanted to share a fucking special kind of hug with you!

                And I must admit, or at least clarify, just in case you’re dense, that the language she used—while not overly “lady-like”—is, many would agree, rather sexy.  It also carries with it a certain weight, a certain import, a certain degree of “she-wanted-you-over-there-forthwith-to-jump-on-them-bones,” capiche?

                Admittedly, many may be taken aback at the idea of a lady using such language or even at my applying the term “lady” to your would-be paramour.  But as well, many, mostly men—perhaps—who are more comfortable with the recreational rather than procreational act of  love,  are also rather fond of the use of—again, borrowing from Mrs. Clavin—sharing a special kind of hug and having a lady make such a request.

                By the way, do you know how hard it is to find a picture of Cliff Clavin and his mother?  Very.

                Am I digressing from my discussion of how you screwed everything up by not sharing your new number?  No, I want it to be all-too-painfully clear.  Scott, many will say that you missed out on a night’s romp.  Perhaps that’s true, but you may very well have missed out on the love of your life.  The first of many special hugs, a lifetime of passion and love. . .

                Oh, by the way, I did not take her up on her generous invitation.  I just replied that I did not think it was a good idea, seeing as she really had no clue who I was (nor I, her).

                “Who is this?” she asked.

                “Who is THIS?” I replied.

               

                I’ve got to admit, Scott, from the way I’ve built this up she seems like quite the firecracker.  Maybe, I’m second-guessing my rejection of that kind offer.  Or maybe, it was a dude sending that text.  Text messages don’t have little hearts dotting the "i’s," so it can be difficult to tell.

                Anyway.

Your negligence hasn’t just damaged relationships and relationship opportunities.  It hasn’t just broken hearts.  It hasn’t just cost you a notch in your pea-shooter.  You see, on my way to work recently, I got a call from Seacoast Security in Rockport.  Look at this.

                It appears that may have been an important call.

                Was it your house?  Your business?  Was it a break-in?  Was it just an escaped chimp throwing feces at your windows?   I mean, I’m sure security companies don’t routinely call customers at 6:15 in the morning just to see what’s shakin’.  Am I right?

                But you know what, Scott?  I don’t care.

                I don’t care if your house is a shambles or if there’s a foot of escaped-chimp feces surrounding it.  I don’t care if Jen can NEVER wish you a Merry Christmas again.  I don’t care if you miss out on the cool way that I’m sure she has of finding just the right gift.  I don’t care if you never, ever share a special kind of hug with anyone ever again.  Give people your new—ahem, now old—fucking phone number. 

People are important, Scott.  Stay connected.

Grandview, Indeed

So, I’m a little discouraged.  I can’t find the phone number for Vassalboro, Maine’s Grandview Café on the internets.  I’m not surprised, though.  I’m sure the place has had much more than its share—or maybe right at its share—of harassing phone calls over the last couple of years.   But I don’t want to harass them, or at least I don’t feel that the call I want to make is all that harassing.  Harassment isn’t funny.  And funny is important to me.  Funny is on my mind all the time.  It’s often apart of my decision making process, and the phone call I want to make is funny.

                But first, let me tell you about the Grandview.  It’s a topless coffee shop in Vassalboro, and when I recently changed routes to cut some time and distance off my daily 90 minute/90 mile commute to work, I started driving by the Grandview every day. 

                And no, I don’t want to stop by for a cup of joe, a bagel, and an ogle.  That’s not all that funny to me.  Although, I must admit, I did entertain the idea of going in, pulling off my shirt and sweater vest, and ordering a low-fat caramel macchiato, but that’s not my style.  Although in the interest of full disclosure, during my much younger days, I could have very easily been talked into doing it, perhaps after a few beers.

                Indeed, I once stripped for money, more or less.  No, I wasn’t a down on my luck, single dad with no other options to feed my babies.  I was stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas, and I was in a nearby bar with some of my friends on the night of some silly hot/beautiful/wicked awesome body contest.  Oh, and I did not see this as an opportunity to show off my “wares.”  My army buddies, Paul Yates and Rene Rios, put me up to it.  “Teddy, you’ve GOT to do this!”  Who could disappoint his buddies with such pleas?  Not me, I tell you.  Not me.

                So, there I was, a fit young soldier in the best shape of my life, other times of my life when I’ve probably been in better shape notwithstanding, my buddies behind me 100 percent, and I had just recently met the lady judges at a party.  So yep, I stripped and pranced around in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers and my masculine glory.  And yes, I won.  Was it fixed? Yes, knowing the judges did help.  I’m not proud of that, but I’m pretty sure that the scrawny, spandex-clad other guy in the contest did not stand a chance against my young, burgeoning manly glory. 

                Overall, I’m a bit uncomfortable and ashamed with my moment of public near nekkidness.  But it was funny at the time, and I didn’t mind the 40 bucks that I turned into rounds of drinks.  I’m much more of an absurdist now, and nekkidness is something I prefer to share only with someone special.

                Oh, and I’m not going to moralize about nekkid lady establishments—indeed, I guess there’s a shirtless dude who works at the Grandview.  As well, in my early 20’s as a young regular army soldier, I did patronize such establishments.  Hell, in my first year at Fort Riley leading up to my 21^st birthday, I frequented bars in nearby Junction City that featured dancers.   I feel that I must qualify this by saying that virtually none of the bars in JC carded me, and virtually all of them featured dancers at least one night a week.  What was I supposed to do?  Not drink in bars?  I now prefer to drink in quieter places, in all my clothes, with fully-clad people around me.  Such a fuddy-duddy, I’ve become.

                Besides, as a friend once said of nekkid lady establishments, “They get all this lead in your pencil and don’t give you nothin’ to write on.”  And you can’t write on your hand.  My mom always said not to. . . Is that what she meant?

But as a fan of coffee, I prefer to drink my java in similarly quieter, clothesful surroundings, too, though when the Grandview opened, I thought the discussions at work were pretty funny.   People joked about stopping by for their morning cup on the way to work.  Some wondered if there was a drive-thru window.  A nearby restaurant posted on their marquee that though they did not have topless waitresses, they did a have a bottomless cup of coffee. 

And what of the coffee at the Grandview?  None of Roadside America’s tips even mention the coffee.  Isn’t that supposed to be part of the allure of a coffee shop?  Is the Grandview all stuff and no substance?

                Whatever quality the coffee may or may not have, it could not help avert a near disaster.  For a few short months after opening, the Grandview was burnt down, bringing little Vassalboro to the regional and national news.  It also brought one question to every local’s mind. . .

                Could it be?

                Yes?

                Say it isn’t so!

                It’s so.

                No.

                Yes, it was arson.

                Even before the local newscasts could get to the “fire marshal suspects arson” part of the story, we all knew it was arson.  Naturally, or rather unnaturally, it was.  Could it have been anything else?

                I mean, electric eels didn’t find their way up the Kennebec River and into the China Lakes Region to overload the circuits at the Grandview.  Lightning didn’t strike the Grandview.  Hell, Ricky Raccoon wasn’t playing with matches outside the Grandview.

                Nope, somebody started this fire.

                But who?  Was it a disgruntled, not—ahem—fully “qualified” topless barista?  No.  Was it a pissed-off conservative local, offended by the baring of chests in anything other than a boudoir, bathroom, or presumably, a doctor’s office?  No.  Was it the owner, trying to cash in on the insurance?  Hardly.

                As it turns out Donald Crabtree, the proprietor, had no insurance on the place.  Yes, you read correctly:  no insurance.  And the investigation showed that one of the shirtless baristas had a boyfriend with a criminal history who was, shall we say, not impressed with her employment at the Grandview, or more accurately, not impressed with her reported affair with Crabtree.   Check out this article and get a load of the picture of Crabtree’s arch nemesis. 

                Now, this leads me to one of the problems I have with the Grandview.  It’s not my current frustration, and no, it’s not that I think Crabtree was nuts simply for even allowing for a suspicion that he was sleeping with this guy's girlfriend.  But it’s an issue I have with the owner as a businessman.  Anyone who’s ever watched Law & Order knows that the shirtless employees of any establishment that features, well, shirtlessness, are significantly more likely to be involved in things like drugs and with people who are scofflaws and who just might consider doing something at such a shirtless establishment.  Something like start a fracas; maybe something like get drunk, uh, wired, and cause an ugly scene; or perhaps, something like burn the fucking place down.

                This is the world we live in, and Mr. Crabtree had no fire insurance.  None.  One would think that in a heavily regulated state like Maine, one couldn’t have a business without such insurance.  But in a victory for liberty, a person, a Mainer, a man such as one Donald Crabtree can run such a business with no fire insurance.  Indeed, a Maine man can run such an uninsured venture, but at his own peril.

                So, a couple hundred thousand dollars in the hole, Crabtree is reopening the Grandview, or at least it seems that way.  The “open” sign has been lit up.  I think.  I don’t pay that close attention to much on my way home from work—sometimes not even the correct turns.  Although, I have noticed the big “LIVE GIRLS” marquee in front of what appears to be a contractor’s trailer.  So many questions.  Is it a contractor’s trailer or was that the temporary home of the Grandview during the reconstruction?  (Apparently, as my “research” has shown, it’s the temporary Grandview.)  Who did do the work on the reconstruction, anyway?  Live girls?  What about the dude who works there?  Did something happen to him in the fire?  Do I really give two poops about any of these questions?

                No.

                I just wanted to write something funny, and I was inspired by a simple topless coffee shop that I pass on my way to work each day, arguably the most inspirational topless coffee house in the history of the world.  Going in and pulling off my shirt and sweater vest would have been funny, and I do have a history of varying states of public undress.  It’s just not my style now.

                What would have been funny, had I the number, would be to call the Grandview and ask if they have free wifi.  Then in a disappointed tone, I’d just sigh and say, “Oh well, I guess I’ll just go to Tim Horton’s.”  I wanted to use TedBlog to encourage everyone to call and ask about wifi.  My goal was to place enough public pressure on the Grandview to offer it.

                It would be painfully hilarious to me to drive by everyday and read, “The Grandview, Topless, Coffee Shop, Free Wifi.”

                I’ll let you know if I get the number.  Maybe we can get an open mic night started, too.

I'm Ted. This is my blog.

I'm Ted.  This is my blog.  I'm going to be blogging here about random bullshit.