By John Y. Brown III, on Wed May 14, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET  Marital advice
When a husband says that his wife isn’t appreciative enough of him it is like the Grand Canyon saying to a person throwing a small stone into the Canyon, “That isnt enough to fill me up.”
So ladies, please throw in slightly larger stones.
And thanks for throwing “in” and not “at.”
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Just for today…
Instead of trying to right a wrong that was done to me, I will forgive the person and never think of the incident again.
Tomorrow I can go back to trying to right wrongs against me.
But only if I have finished today’s assignment.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed May 7, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET One more reason it is good to be a gal.
My theory is that when we meet St Pete guarding the Pearly Gates the conversation with us is going to sound a lot like the conversation we have with a police officer when we are trying to talk our way out of a traffic ticket.
We concede we made mistakes but that that it wasn’t deliberate –and we try to focus on the good things about our driving and driving history and how much respect we have for the law, etc, etc and then try to make an emotional appeal to their sympathy.
But women, I suspect, have a much higher success rate than men do at talking their way our of traffic tickets. And I also suspect that is a transferable skill that can be used on St Pete, too.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon May 5, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Not being ready to hear something doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
Yesterday I was talking to a counselor friend and we got on the subject of “next phases” in life.
I mentioned my kids had just turned 16 and 20 and I missed the feeling in our family of being “captain of our team” –and lately felt more like I had been relegated to the position of third base coach whose only role was making odd scratching and touching signs that looked like early onset of dementia to observers.
I was laughing because I was exaggerating. Until my
friend pointed out that I was exactly right —and then reassured me by describing the occasional important role that a third base or first base coach can play.
But that wasn’t what I was expecting or ready to hear.
There was a long silent pause.
As I waited for my friend to tell me he was just kidding, he was simultaneously waiting for me to let this painful truth to sink in.
Then I interjected my conclusion. “No. Uh-uh. No…That’s not what is happening in my situation. That’s not really what I am talking about.”
Before adding, “I am talking about players that go through a bad season or two before they make a big comeback.”
Then there was another long pause.
This time I didn’t say anything. I just pretended to slide my fingers across the bill of my cap, touched my chest, tapped my nose and winked.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri May 2, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET 
Late night conversations with my wife.
I am restless and up and my wife Rebecca is half asleep and trying to go completely to sleep.
Me: “Hey honey. Want me to make some tea and we can talk?”
Rebecca: “No. I don’t want any tea.”
Me: “But you want to talk?”
Rebecca: “You can talk. I am not going to respond, though.”
Me: (after a pause) “Ok. What would you like to talk about?”
Rebecca: (no answer)
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Apr 30, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET My beautiful wife and some shmo Romantics and realists (and silly young couple arguments).
My son Johnny was talking to my wife and I last week and reminded me that I once described myself to him as a “romantic” and my wife, Rebecca, as a “realist” and wanted to know what I meant by that.
I knew exactly the story he was talking about and I told him that I thought the story depicted well the difference in what it means to be a romantic versus being a realist.
After my wife and I had been dating for several months we started to discuss the possibility of marriage. We were in our 20’s and weren’t engaged yet but felt we soon would be and were talking one night at dinner about our love for one another. It was our conversational version of Billy Joel’s song, “I love you just the way you are.” “Would you still love me if I flunked out of law school?” I asked. “Of course I would” Rebecca reassured me.
But during the course of this otherwise sweet conversation I decided to push the envelope a little too far. I asked Rebecca a hypothetical question. “Let’s say that instead of going to law school I drove a taxi and never went to college and had no plans of ever going to college, would you still love me and want to marry me anyway?”
Rebecca looked puzzled at me as she thought about my question. “I’m not so sure about that one.” She said. “I doubt I would want to marry you if you were that different.”
I was floored! I reasoned defensively, “I would still be me …the same person I am right now. You know? But born into a different economic circumstance and with a different job and background. That’s all.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sure you’d be sweet and I would maybe date you but I don’t think I would be able to marry you,” Rebecca tried to explain. “In my family, college is just very important and I don’t think it would occur to me to marry you if you weren’t ever going to go to college.”
“Really? You wouldn’t marry me if I drove a taxi and never planned on going to college?” I said woundedly. So I tried to change the hypothetical. “OK. What if I drove a taxi, hadn’t gone to college but was considering going to college? Would you marry me then?”
Rebecca said, “That’s not a fair question.” “So you are saying ‘no?’ I interjected. “I guess so,” Rebecca said. But added, “It’s not fair to ask that and it doesn’t make me shallow for saying I wouldn’t marry you if you were that different. It’s like me asking you if you’d marry me if I was grotesquely overweight right now. I don’t think you would.”
“That’s different.” I said. “That’s something about you personally that would be different. In my hypothetical I would be the exact same person I am now– just born into a different environment.”
“I don’t think there’s a difference.” Rebecca said.
“Of course there’s a difference,” I said.
“Well, if there wasn’t a difference in our questions, would you marry me if I were really, really overweight?” Rebecca asked again.
“I would,” I said. “Even though it is different.”
“No you wouldn’t” Rebecca snapped.
“I would for sure if you were up to…maybe…say just 40 pounds overweight”
“See!” Rebecca exclaimed. “But not if I were 60 pounds overweight?”
“No, I would marry you if you were 60 pounds overweight right now –assuming you wanted eventually to get in better shape.”
“Well, then, if you drove a taxi and hadn’t gone to college but eventually wanted to go to college –and maybe even graduate school– I would probably marry you.”
“Probably?” I queried.
“Yeah. OK. I would marry you. But only after you finished college.” Rebecca explained.
“Well, I would marry you if you were 60 pounds overweight and wanted eventually to get into shape –but I wouldn’t make you wait until you got in better shape before I would marry you.” I said dejectedly. “We’re just different, I guess. I must be more of a romantic than you are.”
And that is, I suppose, the difference between a romantic and a realist. The romantic is always prouder of his hypothetical position, his hypothetical zest and his hypothetical passion. But a little sad that it isn’t fully reciprocated by the more sensible among us. Who romantics seem inevitably to find and marry. And these realists seem to find a satisfactory amount of admirable real qualities in the romantics they marry. But the romantic feels their spouse—by focusing on only their existing and actual qualities—is missing out on the hypothetical qualities the romantic admires most. But because the realist overlooks the romantic’s hypothetical qualities, and because the romantic overlooks the realist’s actual qualities, they can somehow make it all work. And Lord knows they need each other. But as to who needs the other more? That is a whole different argument. But sounds a lot like the one above.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Apr 29, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET  I just bought a book to read with my Rebecca.
Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life by James Hollis.
As Paris Hilton would say, “That’s hot!”
Yeah, I know. When we met I never really saw a book like this as a future gift we could enjoy together. But check out the intro:
“Your life is addressing these questions to you: What has brought you to this place in your journey, this moment in your life?
What gods, what forces, what family, what social environment, has framed your reality, perhaps supported, perhaps constricted it? Whose life have you been living? Why, even when things are going well, do things not feel quite right?
Why does so much seem a disappointment, a betrayal, a bankruptcy of expectations?
Why do you believe that you have to hide so much, from others, from yourself? Why does life seem a script written elsewhere, and you barely consulted, if at all?
Why have you come to this book, or why has it come to you, now? Why does the idea of your soul trouble you, and feel familiar as a long lost companion? Is the life you are living too small for the soul’s desire?
Why is now the time, if ever it is to happen, for you to answer the summons of the soul, the invitation to the second, larger life?”
If you are in middle life, that is pretty hot–in its own way!
Paris Hilton notwithstanding.
By RP Nation, on Mon Apr 28, 2014 at 3:36 PM ET  My dad was a simple man from Tennessee. He worked in a factory for 40 years leaving that concrete floor every afternoon to a farm where he raised some of the best tobacco in Kentucky. Up until five weeks ago, he had never stepped foot in a doctor’s office or hospital. My father passed away a few days ago. Thankfully, he went peacefully. I thought I would take this opportunity to share a few observations and life applications gleaned from my dad’s last days.
• The Power of Friends. We took dad home as Hospice met us in the living room with a hospital bed. His friend Charles came that afternoon and held dad’s hand and reminisced about many of the memories they shared. I heard him say, “Bill, we’ve had some great times together. We cut a lot of tobacco. I love you!” Wow! What a beautiful thing to see two friends holding hands and reliving the past. We frequently shake hands with one another, but how often do we take that opportunity to pull that person a little closer and let them know we love them? I regret taking opportunities to tell friends how much they meant to me, that I loved them. Charles made it in time to tell dad he loved him, many other friends of dad did not. When I pass I hope my family is by my side but I pray my friends are there too!
• The Power of Flowers. I must admit, in the past I didn’t put too much thought into sending flowers when a friend, family member or business associate suffered a loss. I would call the florist, place the order and never put too much thought whether it actually comforted that person during this difficult time. But as I entered the funeral home for dad’s visitation I was immediately overwhelmed by the flowers that surrounded my father. I personally smelled, touched and enjoyed each flower arrangement. And as I reviewed that small envelope with the sender’s name, I wept. Not only did the flowers brighten the room, they touched my family in a deep and powerful way. Several arrangements were from organizations where my father had been a customer. And while I know they sent them out of the goodness of their heart not expecting anything in return, my family and I will be even more loyal to that business after this compassion. But we don’t need the passing of someone to send flowers. An inexpensive flower arrangement to a friend letting them know you’re thinking of them or how much you appreciate them sends a very strong message. Bottom line, I will never second-guess whether I should send flowers again.
• Visiting with others. My wife’s father died over 25 years ago and she can still remember every one of her friends who attended his visitation. Again, I will be honest. There have been many occasions I questioned whether I should stop by the funeral home and pay my respects and comfort that family. Many times I’ve talked myself out of going. But the times I listened to my heart and made the visit, I never regretted it. Like my wife, I will never forget those who visited with my family during these tough times. But visiting with a friend or family goes way beyond a death of a loved one. What keeps us from making time to call that friend and simply say, “Can I drop by and visit with you? How strong would that be? In my workshops I tell leaders the greatest respect you can show your employees is to simply spend time with them. A one-on-one visit with the only agenda to show appreciation and strengthen the relationship.
• Forgiveness & Reconciliation. The passing of a loved one is often an opportunity for forgiveness and reconciliation. As I was greeting visitors at the funeral home there were a few “surprises” in line. For whatever reasons (past arguments/disagreements, etc.) there were a few people I didn’t expect to see. There were also a few flower arrangements sent from people I would not have expected. And as I greeted and embraced those people there was a weight lifted, a warm feeling. Not a word said about the past, just a simple, “I’m sorry about your loss.” And reconciliation doesn’t necessarily mean resolution. Way too often, we avoid reaching out to someone thinking that would mean rehashing the past. Forgiveness and reconciliation can happen without rehashing the incident. And just like reaching out to our friends and sending flowers, we don’t have to wait for a funeral for forgiveness and reconciliation to occur.
I’m back at work now. I will continue to grieve my father’s passing while continually striving to be the man he was. I will never forget the love, compassion, friendship and generosity so many showed my family and me during this difficult time. And in the future if I grab your hand and say, “Thanks for being my friend, I love you,” please do not be alarmed! I might even send flowers.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Apr 21, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Our planet’s one great differentiator.
If there are other–and more advanced planets–in our universe, they may well be smarter and more technologically advanced and may even have wiped out disease, but there is no way that any planet has faster drive-thru service at fast food restaurants than we do here on planet Earth.
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Today is April 20th.
And I am really excited.
Why?
It’s not a holiday or my birthday or anyone else’s birthday who is really close to me. In fact, nothing special has ever happened to me on April 9th –in 50 years.
But it’s about time something did.
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Daddy’s little helpers
A regular cup of coffee used to be enough to get me going in the morning but nowadays I need a large coffee with a shot of espressp at around 645am and to be late going somewhere by 655am.
Being late causes my body to excrete cortisal and adrenaline –and is cheaper than Starbucks–and by 7am I am super amped up and damn near frantic.
And ready to greet the day.
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Today, for my success strategy, I am going to try to tap into my inner Forrest Gump.
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About as perfect as I will ever be… is to be imperfect with my sleeves rolled up.
Which is a good definition of being perfectly human. And trying to do a little better.
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Being over 50 is a lot like being the owner of a retail store and suspecting that a certain product should be discounted—but not discounting it and hoping no one notices.
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 Some things –like what you notice is listed at the bottom on your iPod–you hope others don’t notice, too.
I admit it. I downloaded “U Cry.” And listen to it sometimes when no one else is around.
By John Y. Brown III, on Sun Apr 20, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Sunday morning worship is for humans trying to do better not for people trying to pretend they aren’t flawed.
Great Sunday school class this morning: Biblical, spiritual, practical and relevant.
Left me feeling connected to my faith a little stronger than when I arrived this morning –and with a slightly larger calling for the week ahead.
And even gave me the spiritual strength to try to forgive that asshole I wasn’t going to forgive until next week.
And maybe even apologize myself to people who were planning to wait until next week to forgive me.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Apr 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Tonight my wife and daughter and I couldn’t decide if we should order room service for dinner or go out. We decided, since we were in Boca Raton, to go out –to our favorite Italian restaurant after driving by the old apartment complex where Rebecca and I lived briefly when we were newlyweds in the early 90s. I was fresh out of law school and working for Kenny Rogers Roasters. It was an exciting time in our lives and our son was born in a Boca Hospital just down the road from our apartment a few months before we moved back to Kentucky.
Lots has happened since then and tonight our daughter was with us and we wanted to share our memories with her. Unfortunately, our favorite Italian restaurant was no longer around but we found an excellent substitute, Trattoria Romana, a 4 1/2 star restaurant nearby. The problem was we were looking a little ragged and unkempt after driving 5 hours from Key West. We were wearing sweatpants and, in my case, was unshaven and wearing a rumpled shirt. But we were determined to retrace our steps the best we could for old times sake.
As we walked into the elegant restaurant we could tell we stood out in an awkward and uncomfortable way. We felt like the Beverly Hillbillies had just walked into the Boca Raton country club and at any minute we would be asked to leave. We joked among ourselves that maybe we were making other people uncomfortable that they may had overdressed tonight. After some uncomfortable self-conscious banter we were seated. Not beside the kitchen door–which was what I expected– but in a secluded corner tucked away from visibility from anyone save the waiter. It was obvious but not offensive if were willing to suspend disbelief long enough to get through an appetizer and entree.
We continued to chuckle and joke among ourselves as the waiter brought bruschetta to our table. I tried to eat the bruschetta while ordering but ended up dribbling oily chunks of tomato in an orderly pile beside my plate instead of inside my mouth. My daughter was laughing almost uncontrollably at how deftly I was fulfilling the stereotype we assumed our waiter had of us–and I wasn’t being self-deprecating. Just self-fulfilling.
I wanted to play it up with the waiter and ask if they served possum and grits. But I didn’t. We ordered rigatoni and ravioli, two entrees easy enough to pronounce–and split the two entrees among the three of us. So far, so good. We skipped dessert and asked for the check before something really embarrassing happened.
As we slinked out I joked with Rebecca and Maggie that maitre ‘d was probably expressing relief that we were leaving quietly and not creating a spectacle. We laughed again amongst ourselves and filed in line behind several older regulars at the restaurant who were chatting and chuming it up loudly and proudly–and a little intoxicated. One, a distinguished looking man of about 70, turned to me and peering over his bifocals couldn’t decide if he should give me his car parking stub or not. So he just held it out in my direction in an uncommitted way so that if I were the valet I would know to take it but if I wasn’t it would look like he was just making it known he had a parking stub but wasn’t directing it at anyone in particular.
I was laughing to myself at yet another slight– but also, by this time, getting a little irritated. So I responded by pulling out my parking stub and offering it to the distinguished 70 year old man. “Could you, uh, please get my…Oh wait! I’m sorry” And then the man’s friend interjected laughing, “He thought you were the valet and tried to give you his parking stub” We laughed together and I said I would be happy to get their car if they were good tippers and not in a particular hurry.
Then some other friends from their party came out and we tried to chat but one of the other gentleman, also about 70 and distinguished looking, said to his group just loudly enough for us to hear, “Open the door and anyone can walk in.” He was referring, apparently, to us–the riffraff in sweatpants and, in my case, unshaven and with a rumpled shirt.
I thought to myself. “Surely, he’s not referring to us.” But my wife and daughter assured me he was.
I looked at him agog and thought to myself, “What do you say to that?” I didn’t say anything. And at that moment the valet pointed to where our car was parked across the lot rather than deliver it to us. We, staying consistent, only had $1 of cash left and used it as our tip. I was very discrete in handing it off hoping the valet would think he got a larger single bill than a $1 and wouldn’t notice until we had pulled off the property.
The drive back home we joked about our dinner experience as outcasts and I tried to think of something clever I wished I had said to the man who made the rude comment about opening the door and anyone walking in. But nothing at all came to me. Which confused me. I am usually good at telling people off after they offend me and I am driving home having an imaginary conversation with them and putting them in their place. I was offended but other than fantasizing what it would have felt like to punch him (which, of course, I didn’t), I couldn’t come up with a clever or funny retort. And didn’t really even want to. It just felt like any way I could respond to such a rude comment would automatically devalue me more rather than put the other person in his place. (Especially if I haven’t shaved.)
And that, I suppose, is the lesson I learned tonight.
In the future when I go to a nice restaurant, I will try to dress more appropriately. If I do that I won’t feel as awkward and have to make inside and self-deprecating jokes about myself. Or pretend I don’t know who the valet is. And if someone treats me rudely by making an insulting remark, there’s nothing I need to say at all in response. Just let it lie and leave it with the rude person un-responded to. And just fantasize about punching the rude guy in the face (even though I really don’t) as I drive off the lot–after tipping the valet $1.
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