Trophy wife

On our drive to work this morning, I told Melinda I think of her as my trophy wife.

She said, “No, I’m not. At most, I’m your participation trophy wife.”

I live in a world filled with ghosts

I lost my mom a little more than a year ago.

Yesterday, I went to a funeral for my next door neighbor. He was a fantastic guy. Raced Porsches in his spare time. ALS took him way too young.

Late last year, the man I started my ad agency with died. He wasn’t even 50 yet.

Two years ago, my first boss in Wisconsin died of brain cancer in his young 60s.

At least five times a day, I am reminded of one of those people.

When you’re young, the world feels like it’s been there forever and will be there forever.

But, now, I’ve reached the age, where nearly everything I do, or see, reminds me of someone who is gone.

Pictures of my mother on the bookshelf.

The ramp leading to the house next door up which my neighbor would drive the electric wheelchair he had traded for his Porsche.

The old business card my partner designed laying among the clutter on my desk.

Everywhere I look there are ghosts.

The slippery slope

Today, I passed a megachurch that appeared to have a giant slide in the middle of it.

I like to think that the top of the slide was labelled “Heaven” and the bottom of the slide was labelled “Hell.”

That way the slide would teach children that getting to Heaven requires a hard, purposeful climb and that any slip would result in them hurtling downward towards eternal damnation.

On the other hand, it would probably just make the kids think that going to Hell was fast, fun, and made you shout, “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!”