Category: If You Won’t Leave Me – I’ll Find Someone Who Will.

Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band begun to rust
After all the sin we had
I was hoping that we’d turn bad
Neil Young

Ok, it wasn’t the perfect relationship. Sometimes he expected more openness than she was ready to reveal. But he was intense, and loving, and when he talked to her she could hear the way his voice changed and softened. And when he kissed her shoulders, her knees still buckled the same way as they had that first time…

No, it wasn’t the perfect relationship, but it was damn good. They had crossed the first big hurdle with surprising ease. Shayna wanted to wait for her wedding night to share that most intimate of experiences with Gato. Was she really that pure? He didn’t need to know. He loved and respected her. This was important to Shayna. That made it important to Gato.

But it was over now. Ambushed just as their love was about to take flight, Shayna and Gato stood next to her Ford Escort in the mall parking lot and held each other one last time. He couldn’t believe that he was willingly walking away from the most exciting woman he had ever known. She never expected it to end this way.

Both Shayna and Gato had grown up in the shadow of the Catholic Church. While Shayna had strayed over the years, Gato had completely abandoned the faith. His first marriage, an unfortunate experience for all involved, ended in divorce. His second…well even his closest friends don’t know all the details of that mess. Now, at the age of thirty-six, he found himself dueling with the Church and a parent for the love of a beautiful woman. He was not prepared.

Shayna’s mother, condemned to a loveless marriage, had devoutly dedicated her life to the Church. She couldn’t tolerate her daughter married to a divorced man. Wielding Father Lisinski like a blunt instrument, she pummeled her daughter with a faith whose core was LOVE. The choice was clear. Gato and HELL or her home, her faith, her family and salvation.

Shayna and Gato met in their usual booth in the Arby’s in the mall. Slowly she explained her dilemma to Gato. She was torn. She couldn’t decide. He could hear her say that she wanted to choose him while her eyes revealed her terror of losing her family and her Church. Gato wanted her to have it all. He spoke of peaceful coexistence. But after what her mother and the Priest had said, Shayna couldn’t believe that she could keep the Church, her mother, and Gato.

And now it was time to go. Gato knew that she could not make this choice. No matter what Shayna did, she lost. He told her that some people say “I love you” with flowers. Some recite poetry. But he, Gato, would show her today that he really loved her with all of his heart and soul. He would do this by saying “good-bye”. He drew her close, kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. And then he turned to find his car. He fought back the tears and the urge to return to his beloved.

So it hadn’t been a perfect relationship. But it had been a long time since they were perfect.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.

Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.

In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.

All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.

When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.

As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.

One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.

But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.

New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.

By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.

Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit of O.P. P. Now I’m not talking about the recent hit song by Naughty by Nature. That song is about Other Peoples’ “Property.” No. My O.P.P. stands for Other People’s Problems or more specifically, Other People’s Progeny.

Kids! First of all, my children live with me. Regular readers of this column know that I don’t have to tie sandbags around Phillip and Jenny’s ankles to keep them from floating off to heaven. They aren’t perfect. Not even close.

In the last eight years I have been involved with three women and their six children. Four of these children, all girls, were step kids for a time. These six children filled the scale from precocious at one extreme to the kid who is the poster child for Planned Parenthood at the other. One dragged her own personal black cloud with her wherever she went. And the other three were just kids from broken homes who had more baggage than they could sometimes carry.

All six of these children have had some effect on Phil, Jenny, and I. Now this wasn’t all negative. Not by a long shot. But the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.

When I divorced Jen & Phil’s mother in 1985, I told my friends David and Jack that any future relationship I had would include more children. This was my logic:
I. If I got involved with a woman it would lead to marriage.
II. I already had two kids and was not going to father anymore.
III. The woman was going to be a step-mother.
IV. Either she already had kids or she would only have Phil & Jenny for children.
V. It was probably easier to find a woman with strong maternal instincts in her thirties who already had children than it would be to find one satisfied with experiencing motherhood as a step-parent.

As you can see, LOGICAL. There is nothing quite like the analytical male mind. Nothing, including reality. Just because something works in theory does not guarantee that it will work in the real world.

One of the problems I never anticipated was that I would have any trouble loving, much less liking, any of the children I acquired. Through all my years of volunteer work in the public schools as a teacher and coach as well as my experience with the children of relatives and friends, I got along famously with all of the kids. Children tend to be comfortable with someone who is straightforward, who sets guidelines, and who isn’t afraid to laugh at himself.

But the last eight years have been difficult. So many different agendas. So much baggage dumped on our doorstep. Just when Phil, Jen and I think that we have dug ourselves out from beneath the load, a forklift drops another on us.

New relationships don’t bring a woman into our lives. No, a new relationship is the equivalent of an invasion by a full battalion. We get the woman (who is unfortunately seldom the commanding officer of the horde), the children (who often are the real control), the ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, close girlfriends, parents and siblings. As with all invading armies, their first action is to overrun the countryside, declare victory, and then try to convince you that you invited them into your home.

By the time you sort out all of the players (G-d I wish they’d wear name tags) you are two or three months into the relationship. You are already committed, or ready to be. But the real source of conflict still seems to be the children and the parent’s relationship with them. If the children refuse to allow the peaceful union of the adults, the relationship fails. Period.

Well, I’ve walled off the house and fortress Cunix won’t be invaded again for awhile. For the moment, at least, I’m looking for a woman who rides alone.

The inscription on the jar caught my eye. I stepped over the clutter of the antique store to get a closer look. I needed something for the end table and this would do just fine.

As I removed a layer of dust and such from the jar, it began to shake. A cloud of red-blue smoke escaped from the jar and as it began to take shape, a voice filled the room.

WHAT IS YOUR PLEASURE, MASTER?

Master?

MASTER! I AM THE GENIE THAT HAS BEEN LOCKED WITHIN THAT VESSEL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS.

Come on. What’s a good Jewish boy like me doing in an old Arabic tale?

IT IS NOT WITHIN MY POWER TO DISCRIMINATE, MASTER. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE ABOVE ALL ELSE? ORDER IT AND IT SHALL BE YOURS.

Really? I would like my children to have a happy and healthy childhood.

AS YOU WISH, SO SHALL IT BE DONE. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE FOR YOURSELF?

For me? Hmmm. I would like a mutually fulfilling permanent relationship with a woman.

TELL ME SOMEHTING I DON’T KNOW. EVEN ONE CONFINED FOR A THOUSAND YEARS IS AWARE OF MY MASTER’S STORIED PAST.

Good news travels fast.

YOUR LAST ADVENTURE WAS A RIVETING TALE. DESCRIBE THE WOMAN YOU TRULY SEEK.

Let’s see. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Soft features. A warm smile…

STOP, I PRAY OF YOU. YOUR DESCRIPTION IS COMMON KNOWLEGDE. DO NOT WASTE A MOMENT SHAPING THE VESSEL. WHAT OF THE CONTENTS? WHAT OF THE SOUL?

What do I really want? I want to be loved.

DO YOU BELIEVE THAT THAT IS UNIQUE IN ANY WAY?

No. I’ll get the hang of this. I want to be loved by someone that I can respect and value so that her love will be of real value to me.

IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU DON’T RESPECT AND ADMIRE HER, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHETHER SHE LOVES YOU OR NOT?

Yes. That makes sense. An equal. A partner. A co-conspirator.

YES. YES. YES. PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR DESCRIPTION.

I have always been attracted by vulnerability. I have a lot of empathy.

YES MASTER. AND THEIR DEPENDENCY CHASED YOU AWAY ONCE YOU WERE MARRIED.

That is true, but I know that I am vulnerable yet capable of being self-sufficient and organized. Am I that unusual? Is this combination available in a woman?

I CAN NOT SPEAK AS TO HOW USUAL OR UNUSUAL MY MASTER MAY BE. AS TO FEMALE AVAILABILITY, I NEED MORE INFORMATION.

I would like a woman who can function perfectly well without me, but even better with me. I want to enhance her life, not be it. And of course, visa-versa.

CONTINUE MASTER. SHE BEGINS TO TAKE SHAPE.

I want a woman who will love my children, and if she can’t, keep it a secret. I want a woman who will compete with me at Jeopardy!, but not take it personally. I want a woman who excites and stimulates me emotionally and mentally, instead of just sexually.

YES MASTER. FORTUNE MAY SMILE UPON YOU AT LAST.

Great. Now, can you fit all of that into a size 9/10?

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
Casablanca

My evening appointment ran long and I found myself at the corner of Pearl and West 130th Street at 10 PM. It’s a nice neighborhood. It is just not my normal stomping grounds.

I studied the area around me as I waited for the light to change. In front of my Caravan was a little black Chevy pick-up. You know the type. It was one of those trucks that are purchased by people who really don’t need a truck.

The couple in the truck were talking softly. No gestures. They hardly moved as they spoke. Suddenly they leaned together and kissed gently. I don’t know why, but the kiss, their kiss, seemed strangely intimate. It wasn’t a long kiss. It appeared to be no different than thousands of long forgotten good-bye kisses I had shared over the years. But it was different.

The couple resumed their conversation after the kiss. The light changed. They went straight while I turned right to catch the freeway.

A sweet kiss. An innocent kiss. A kiss shared by young lovers. Cliché? Perhaps. But does the fact that these thoughts are common make them any less valid or desirable?

I remember my first kiss. I remember the long, agonizing walks from the car to the doorstep when maybe, just maybe, my date might reward me with that momentary thrill of physical intimacy. How was I to know that she was just as nervous, just as unsure as to what the rules really were?

Is it any different today than it was twenty plus years ago? Not much. The kids seem to age quicker, but they don’t really mature faster. They have the same fears and frustrations as we had when we were in junior high and high school. Their concerns are in some way reassuring. It proves that they aren’t THAT jaded. Innocence changed, but not lost. They’ll be fine.

But what about us? I know that it has been a long time since I have been considered innocent, but as someone starting over I need to know what the rules are in 1993.

I have passed from one serious relationship to another for almost twenty uninterrupted years. Since October 1973 I have never been “unattached” for more than 30 days. I’m wondering if withdrawal symptoms will kick in at the six week mark.

Of course my friends have complete faith in me. The barber shop by my office has a lottery set up to predict the next time I get married. Yes that is as tasteless as betting when an alcoholic will fall off the wagon, but a certain amount of abuse is inevitable.

Is a kiss just a kiss? I don’t think so. I think the first time, each first time, might be the best. The first kiss is the culmination of all our fears, indecision, and sexual tension overwhelmed by the sheer imperative of our need to touch.

It was 3 AM and I was thoroughly exhausted. I had gotten up at 6 the previous morning and had been at her home for about seven hours. We had talked endlessly abut the usual topics: kids, music, cooking, etc… The tension was wonderful. I noticed she touched me when she made a point. I’m a sucker for that. Was she going to kiss me? Would I make a move? I found myself strangely gun-shy.

The moment came as I was about to leave. A kiss. Softly, our lips met for a brief moment. It seemed that the tension evaporated as we hugged and then kissed again. And then I left.

It seems silly to assign so much value to something as common as a kiss. Whether it is the witnessed kiss between two strangers at a stop light or two friends in a kitchen, it is still just a kiss. And we know what a kiss is worth, don’t we?

“No Dave. You can’t buy a 386. It’s already outdated. Ancient history. You have to get a 486.”

My eyes were glazing over.

“And you’ll need a DX. That math coprocessor chip is a must.”

How many stores had I been in? Four? Five? I’d lost count. I barely possessed the qualifications to use a computer and here I was trying to buy one for my office.

Nothing in my background, training or schooling prepared me for this mission. I never took a computer class in high school or college. In fact, the closest I came to a computer in college was to help the pocket protected FORTRAN and COBALT devotees pick up their computer cards that they constantly dropped on the walkways outside of the Student Union.

I checked in to Case Western Reserve University in the fall of 1973. I had an English and Religion double major with a Political Science minor. I was going to be either a Rabbi or an attorney. In either case I would have no need for a computer. One day I had a startling revelation; I wasn’t holy enough to be a rabbi and I wasn’t amoral enough to be an attorney. I have been in the insurance business since 1979. Now I need a computer.

Actually Bill and I have a computer. It is an antique. Our XT clone has a 40 Meg hard drive, no graphics, and we use our typewriter for a printer. This is a system that would have amazed and satisfied all of my computer maven friends ten years ago. Today it brings derisive snickers.

Dealing with computer salesmen is a lot like fielding a solicitation from a charity. “Mr. Cunix you donated $50 when we called last year. We were hoping we could count on you for $100 this year.” No matter what you have done before, you will be pushed to do more.

If you tell the salesman that you want VGA graphics, he will push for Super VGA. Walk into the store in search of Super VGA and you will be advised to purchase Extended. Try shopping for Extended…well, you get the idea. No matter what you choose, you will be counseled by the “computer professional” that you need more.

A guiding maxim of my business is that you never buy more insurance than you need. I have been told that I can’t buy more computer than I need. So I’m looking for a mainframe. Of course, I also need a bigger office to house this new machine and someone to run it. Maybe I can still get into law school.

You heard Brinkley. You saw Feagler. You read George Will. It is now time for me to weigh in with what will hopefully be the last article about the recent election.

Winner- The American people and our system of government. We had the largest voter turnout in twenty years. We are also witnessing a smooth transition of control of the world’s only remaining superpower. We take for granted something that could not happen in the vast majority of countries.

Loser- Negative, deceptive campaign advertisements. From muddy Margaret Meuller to Mike DeWine, the candidate who appeared to hit below the belt (or below the belt the most) lost. By election eve I was beginning to think that Congresswoman Mary Rose Oakar was going to accuse her challenger, Martin Hoke, of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. And who can forget the Republican version of Arkansas?

Winner- The 13th Congressional District. People who know Sherrod Brown would be tempted to move to Elyria or Chardon just so that they could be represented by him in Washington. I attended an International Leadership Conference in Washington several years ago. Mr. Brown, then Ohio’s Secretary of State, was a featured speaker. His talk, and his obviously bright future as a public servant, were topics of discussion during the balance of the conference. It is great to see one of the “good guys” finish first.

Loser- George Voinovich. You campaigned heavily for George Bush, but Ohio made Bill Clinton the President-Elect. Your Lieutenant-Governor ran a campaign for the U.S. Senate that will be remembered long after his name is forgotten. And even with the newly Republican drawn districts, Ohio’s House, Senate and congressional delegation are substantially unchanged. Not a good election, George.

Winner- Dan Quayle. No, really. Actually, Dan won twice. Had he been re-elected there would have been no way he could have successfully run for the presidency in 1996. The American public would not allow either party to control the White House for five consecutive terms. This loss greatly increases his chances for victory in the future. Also, whether you agree with his stand on the issues or not (and I certainly don’t), you do know his beliefs and values. Dan Quayle is consistent and true to a certain set of positions and that gives him a real foundation.

Loser- Cleveland radio. Now that the election is over, we will again be inundated by commercials for “Hooked on Phonics”.

Winner- My son Phillip. Burke Lakefront Airport was the scene of Governor Clinton’s last campaign stop in Ohio. I took Phillip, Jennifer, and my new step-daughter Andrea to not only hear the candidates, but to also work as volunteers. I had a great time, but my experience paled beside Phil’s. He not only shook the eventual winner’s hand, he also shook hands with the future First Lady and exchanged pleasantries. Energized, Phillip volunteered to work the balance of the campaign. He learned more about the election process in two days than in all his previous schooling

By the way, Andrea was disappointed that Phil and I had the opportunity to shake hands with the future President and she hadn’t. I told her that it wasn’t that big a deal. After all, more people shook hands with Bill Clinton than had seen Madonna naked.

I lied. It was a big deal.

We, the Baby Boomers, had a variety of role models while we were growing up. These leaders helped us to decide what we wanted to be as adults.

How many young men practiced an extra hour of basketball motivated by the on-court heroics of Dr. J. and the off-court exploits of Wilt Chamberlain.

How many young men and young women entered public service and government spurred by their admiration and respect of Robert Kennedy and Golda Meier.

And how many of us followed the day-to-day unraveling of the Nixon White House so flawlessly executed by the greatest of all investigative reporters, Woodward and Bernstein? We read the book. We saw the movie. Journalism schools reported a glut of applicants. We all wanted to go undercover and land the big one. Well, this morning I finally had my chance.

Like other self-employed individuals, I too am constantly barraged by solicitations from associations that are supposedly representing me in Washington. Each piece of mail included all of the various ways they have influenced legislation, made my life better, will lower my phone bills, get me better insurance, and all they want in return is the $50-$100 dues they have already earned.

Now I don’t mind these missives. Some are pretty amusing and they all fit easily in the wastebasket. One group, however, is particularly annoying. To protect Joyce from legal action, I won’t use their real name.

The National Association of the Semi-Evolved sells health insurance. No, let me correct that, bad health insurance. Over the last five years I have talked to many of their ex-clients. Somehow I got on to their mailing list. About two months ago I made the mistake of sending back a reply card (postage paid) with a dismissive note about their products and agents. This prompted a call from a local supervisor.

I talked with the supervisor for almost a half hour. Actually, I told him to mail me a brochure and I’d get back to him. He couldn’t. More precisely, he wouldn’t. I was ready to just blow him off when he started to make some extremely strange charges about my current carrier, John Alden, and other normal insurance companies. He begged for a face to face meeting in my home, and this was my opportunity to finally be an investigative journalist.

At about 8:40 this morning, a rusted blue van parked in front of my house. The magnetic sign identified the occupant as a representative of the National Association of Sleaze and Expediency. As the rumpled salesman entered my home I felt like I was about to compete with Dan Quayle on Jeopardy.

I had seen so many movies about going undercover and investigative work that I thought I knew what to expect. I was totally unprepared for the boredom. Five minutes into his presentation I had already tired of the half-truths and generalities. He produced a copy of a Blue Cross claim statement and misrepresented what was in black, white and orange highlighter before me. He lied. And when caught in his lie he restated his remark in the form of a disclaimer that would have made a law professor proud.

My lack of patience got the best of me. After thirty-five minutes of sparring I finally landed the knock-out punch. I told him I wasn’t interested in his conveniently handy book of testimonials, I only wanted to see one claim they had paid successfully. Beaten, he recommended that I stay with my current carrier and quickly packed up his stuff. He was careful to grab all of the written information I had been able to drag from him. He left, tail firmly between his legs, his parting shot roughly translated to “Why buy insurance from a company that will pay most of your claim, when you can buy insurance from us and be guaranteed to have half your bill paid?” I was polite. I didn’t laugh until he climbed into his van.

And there you have it. A story of fraud and intrigue equal to the best of Carl Monday or Geraldo Rivera. Now if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to get washed. He insisted on shaking hands when he left.

It was a quiet Friday morning in July. The Justice of the Peace of this small Massachusetts town paced the aisles of his office turned wedding chapel as he waited for the bride and groom to arrive. Finally one stood by the podium while the other was directed, shotgun to the small of the back, to the front of the room. Not the ideal way to get married, but it was HER fault. After all, she had KNOCKED me up!

(pregnant pause)

Ok, I’m not preggers. There was no shotgun, but yes, I have remarried. I thought you all should know.

Wow, married! Scared? You bet. I mean, I’ve been here before and yet I haven’t. I’ve enjoyed marginal success as a husband, but all previous attempts have ended in divorce. Acquaintances ask me how I have the guts to do this again. I simply answer that I’ll keep trying until I get it right. My friends know better.

I began my quest for stability about twenty years ago. I remember Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad singing “I’m getting closer to my home” and realizing that that was a worthy goal. I wanted a home of my own. I envisioned a shelter. There would be walls to block out the cold. Blankets of warmth would be available as needed. Home wouldn’t be a strife torn dungeon I was sentenced to when I couldn’t find anywhere else to be. No, it would be a safe haven, a secure and peaceful place that would be hard to leave each morning.

Yes, that is a touch simplistic. So, you have your goals – I have mine. As the years have gone by, I have learned from each relationship what has worked and what hasn’t. Now, with all of this experience and knowledge to guide me I stand here today as confused and hopeful as I was on my first wedding night.

Knowledge and research don’t guarantee a successful marriage. Love, luck and flexibility are key ingredients. But who am I even to speculate that those are the key ingredients to MY MARRIAGE. Yes, I love Anna deeply and I have every reason to believe that is reciprocated. Surely, I am due a little Good Luck. I am working on flexibility, though I will never be mistaken for Olga Korbut

We enter hopefully, prepared to work hard for our sake and the sake of our children. Wish us luck. We all could use some luck.