An Unhappy Home

Home isn't where my heart is. I hate being home. Not in my parent's house where I grew up, but in my house. My parent's house is what will always be known as "home" to me. No matter how far I go or how long passes before I visit, that is home to me, where I'm always welcomed. The house I bought a few years back as the "fixer-upper", that is my second home. It's where I reside as I write this. The house where I remodeled the kitchen, starting with the ceiling. The house where I remodeled the foyer, starting on my knees. Stripping hardwood floors and making them new again. Sanding, sealing, waxing and buffing. I was bringing the once vacant house back to life. The long days turned into nights and the muscles in my arms and shoulders eventually caved. Although I was growing weary and sore, I refused to cave. My reward - I could see my reflection beginning to appear between the knots in the wood. The knot in the wood led to a lump in my throat. I let out a heavy, happy, heartfelt sigh. Running my hand over each imperfection felt nothing short of exquisite to me. Gazing into that lustrous mirror-like shine was my first taste of the fruits of my labor. A sweet reward. The floors may of been finished, but I was not. Progression. I was truly seeing it. In my house. In my life. The days would turn into weeks and the weeks into months. An entire season had come and gone.

I was taught to measure twice and cut once. But at age 23, this first time home owner learned the hard way, thru trial and error. From one room to the next, I would tear down and build up. Even when I painted, each passing wall brought me a sense of accomplishment and a fresh outlook on my new budding life. It's remarkable what a coat of the right color paint will do for your attitude. It was hard work, but I wasn't going to stop. It had become my mission to own the perfect house. Correction, the perfect home. Warm and inviting. Modern and unique. It had it's own special charm and the hardwood floors would not only show the reflection of those that would walked upon them, but also show the reflection of the man who labored to create them. It would be the house that David built. Well maybe not "built", but redefined. It was a reflection of me. Who I was and where I wanted to be. If home is where the heart is, then my heart was radiating beyond every wall.

A mixture of paint, saw dust and sweat permutated the room when she entered. I had been working for nearly 12 hours that rainy Saturday when she stopped by. Lacquer on my hands, drywall bits scattered on my t-shirt, I didn't look my best. I hadn't shaved and was in need of a shower. It was second nature for me to great her at the door with a hug and kiss. But I was stinky and dirty. She was "prettied up", as always. She didn't have to try. She just was. Pretty. Naturally, by nature. It was one of the many things I loved about her. Before I could explain why I didn't want to give her a proper greeting, as if my pigpen appearance wasn't obvious, she dismissed the grit and grime by wrapping her arms tightly around me with an enthusiastic..."This looks amazing! I love you for doing all of this." She was pleased. And I was happy.

"My boots aren't going to nick or scuff the new floor, are they?" she nervously asked.

"No, you're fine. These floors are made for walking. (a dumb joke, the song - These Boots Are Made For Walking) Here, check this out..."

I went to the far end of room, kicked off my shoes and slid in my socks across the freshly polished floor. To her, my simple often child-like heart was one of my most endearing qualities. Although at 23, I knew what I wanted and I was achieving it. My goals were not just marks to shoot for, marks scribbled on some random piece of paper. My goals were plans set forth into action. I was living my dream and inviting her along for the journey. I had become a grown-up, but yet this little kid would pop out of me to play. To slide across the floor in his socks. Like a modern day "Risky Business" movie reenactment. After the 3rd time whooshing past her, she grabbed the front of my t-shirt. A firm handful. She held onto it tightly and pulled me in. "I love you." She said it serious. Like I didn't know. Like I was hearing it for the first time. She emphasized the "you". She wanted me to know that who I am is enough. Over the course of dating her, I had struggled in my head trying to figure out how I could maintain the lifestyle she was accustom to living. I wasn't able to give her all the fancy things she grewup on. She wanted to reinforce the fact that even though she loved the house, it was me she loved most. Just then my dog ran into the room, wiping out on the floor, of course. She quickly scooped up my little buddy and cuddled the furball. Her compassion, that was one of her most endearing qualities.

Today I could provide those fancy things, but it doesn't matter. It's just material possessions. I've learned real value can not be measured in dollars and cents. Real value you have a hard time replacing. Real value is sometimes invaluable and can't be replaced. My dog has since passed. My almost fiancée has since left. They are irreplaceable, but I keep trying. I miss the sound of 4 pattering paws and the click clock of her heals on my hardwood floors. I come home to a quiet house. Not even the hardwood floors squeak. The silence is deafening. It fucking sucks. I'm not bitter. Just awfully sad. I'm starting to despise these floors. I hate being home. And hate is a strong word. I hate being home.

(In case you were wondering, the hardwood floors will soon be for sale...they are going along with the house.)

Back to School

Back to School

It was my privilege to speak to Professor Ruth Ost's Honors American Lives class about my newly completed manuscript today at my beloved alma mater, Temple University (Journalism, 2000).

Afterwards I traveled across campus, visiting with a former professor and several friends. I also made sure to stop for a cheesesteak at Ernie's lunch truck (the red one on 13th St., between Cecil B. Moore and Montgomery). It's the best on campus!

I had a wonderful time today, but I still had some mixed emotions about my visit to Temple. My time as a college student was the greatest period of independence in my life. Since then, I've become much weaker and far more dependent. On the other hand, at least I'm still here and able to relive those great times.

Though I fondly recall my college days, it sure was nice to be delivering today's lecture as opposed to listening to it!

I'm Writing, But Having Trouble Finishing Anyth

...blog to be continued.

THE BOOK IS DONE!

THE BOOK IS DONE!

I'm pleased to announce that after just over a year, I have finally completed the first draft of my memoir.

It has been an interesting ride, to say the least, and one which has challenged me intellectually, emotionally and even physically. I have learned more about myself and about others and their perceptions of me than I had ever imagined. I've revisited countless memories, both good and bad. And I have reconnected with so many friends with whom I had lost touch over the years.

Many thanks go out to all of my family, friends, doctors, and nurses (and anyone else I have forgotten) for your patience, support, and assistance. I could not have reached this point without you!

As I move forward in my quest to get this thing published, I will post any exciting developments right here, at Winheld's World...

Steeping Up On The Soapbox

Posting about Election Day a day late is like talking about what you are planning to do Saturday night on a Sunday afternoon. It would make you a day late and a dollar short...whatever that's suppose to mean. I just reused the phrase, I didn't write it. Actually I know what it means - it's too little too late. Of course if you are only carrying around a buck in your wallet on a Saturday night, then you have far bigger problems that I can help you tackle at the moment. Anyway, before I get caught up rambling, let me try and make a point here. They say every vote counts and even though the ballots continue to trickle in, I can give you the current standings. The results? A whopping 18 of you think I'm the shiznit! Or rather voted "What isn't to love? I love him!" So for that, I thank you. I feel the love. As I type this, I'm virtually shaking your hand and kissing your baby.

The "I Voted" sticker is free to all voters.
However, I'm sorry to say that reverse jazz hands
are not included with absentee ballots.

I know it's not politically correct to ask someone who they voted for. However, I'm going to offer this info out. Yesterday, I voted for Pedro. My Grandma's best friend Bess (God rest her soul) shouldn't of been allowed to vote. Don't get me wrong, I'm not racist towards old ladies with canes. Nor do I discriminate against anyone who can pull off the Easy Spirits orthopedic shoe look and can eat for half price with a senior discount, because frankly, I'm jealous of that. I say this based on the fact that in the 90s, she casted a vote for Clinton because she thought he was "good looking" and no other reason. I don't know, perhaps I'm a little hard on politicians, but I think they should possess other things besides good looks. Clinton = good looking? Seriously Bess, I know your glasses were thick, but good lord woman.

I also feel those who have no clue who is even running, should not be allowed to vote. If you don't know what a canadate stands for, then how can you stand behind him/her with your vote? Think about it. It's like the blind leading the blind and even a blind, deaf and dumb man can tell you that's no way to run a country. Of course if you want to cast a vote for a canadate because his puffy nose and pasty cheeks turn you on, then who am I to stand in the way of an old woman who carries a big stick?

The point is (and yes believe it or not I have one) that you shouldn't vote just for the sake of voting. Don't do it for the free "I Voted" sticker. Although highly coveted, trying to re-stick your badge of honor after removing it from your fall fleece pullover isn't suggested. Just trust me on that. You are far better off just slapping that puppy on your forehead. And what is with the "I Voted" sticker? Do you want a cookie? Big deal, you voted, so did a billion other people. In the words of Napoleon - "gosh!"

I'm just happy I won't have to see anymore smear campaign ads on TV. No more phone calls from Rudolph Giuliani, Hillary Clinton and Rick Santorum just to name a few. And most importantly, no more obscene text and e-mail messages from Mark Foley! Now if I would of saved my "I Voted" sticker, I would stick it over Foley's mouth so he stops licking his lips at me. Politics are dirty and now I must conclude my soapbox speech because I have that not so fresh feeling.

Voidance

I'm an avoider. I avoid. It's what I do. I avoid what I can't stomach. What I can't face. Who I don't want to stand face to face with. Somehow the vacancy and emptiness fills me up...or so I try to convince myself that it makes me whole and not weird. I'm not a coward, but I don't care for confrontation. I don't look to fight, but I'll stand to fight if need be. Conflict is not a friend of mine, but it's a part of life that I'm aware I must deal with. I deal with emotional voidance when it comes to my family. If I ignore it, it will go away, eventually. It's that mentality. If I pretend it doesn't exist, it will cease to exist. If I will it not to be, my will will be stronger than it's being. The ugly will disappear if I close my eyes and count to 10. In the dark it will die and in the light, I shall escape.

It's a terrible trait. Perhaps it's the worst part of me. I know I'm made-up of many pieces, but this is one piece of me I loathe. It's my demeanor. It's cold and bare. I'm not welcoming. It's much like the black suit. This is not me. I'm not that guy. But to my Mother, she fails to see anything but this right now. And it's not her fault, it's mine. I won't allow her to see more of me. And for that, I blame myself. Things of me I openly could share with a girlfriend or even a perfect stranger, but with my Mom, I clam up. Why is that? My emotions go into lockdown. I brush it all off. I'm brave and unscathed from anything thrown at me. Or so my hard outer shell likes to proclaim. It's strong and resilient to pain. It's that mask. The protective shield. And I wear it well.

I'm usually cuddly and warm. Open and honest. In touch with my softer side and willing to share. Open to listening. Desiring the closeness and the connection. I'm the guy who goes in for the hug. Not the guy who's spine stiffened and who's body became ridged when she laid her hand on my shoulder. I feel awkward and uncomfortable. Disconnected and distant. Even nauseas and angry. The space is becoming greater and I fear one day I'll be in that dark room where I'll count to 10, wishing things will fade away, and that my wish will actually come true. I'll be alone and it will be too late. This is what I'll be granted. I need to open my eyes now.

RunForRuby.wordpress.com

On November 19th, Jessica from SassySuspect.com will running the Philadelphia Marathon. Completing a full 26.2 mile marathon is a goal in itself, but it's not just about crossing the finish line. The goal here is raising money for a little girl nicknamed "Ruby" (Jessica's niece) thru the MAGIC Foundation. Ruby was born with a chronic, life-threatening disorder called panhypopituitarism. If you've never heard of panhypopituitarism, then you aren't alone. Since panhypopituitarism is rare, it is often a struggle to find information about it...and especially to find adequate, informed medical care. That is where the MAGIC Foundation steps in. The MAGIC Foundation has had a dramatic and life-saving impact on Ruby's life. Now, Jessica is asking for your help to continue the ongoing support and care for Ruby and other kids like her from the MAGIC Foundation. To learn more about Ruby, the RunForRuby, panhypopituitarism and of course the MAGIC Foundation, check out www.runforruby.wordpress.com And while you're there, be a love and donate to the cause. If I still haven't convinced you, then take this into consideration...

If a heart warming tale doesn't move you emotionally, then perhaps I can move you visually. Yes, Jess is easy on the eyes. So you can donate a lil cash to help a good cause and in the process watch a cute girl run a marathon! It's a win-win situation all the way around. So you can't lose and neither will Ruby, even if Jess doesn't win the marathon.

Best of luck to you in Philly Jess. May your kind heart fuel your ruby red slippers/running shoes and carry you thru the 26.2 miles. You're a better man than me. I say that because I've never run a marathon and I should be running with you or at least running in this weeks NYC marathon. One of these days I'll do it. Like I told my sister when she ran the LA marathon...just remember, pain is only temporary and there's nothing you can't overcome.