My Heritage Part III: Not Funny

Why is it that everyone laughs when I say I'm 1/4 Polish? What is so darn funny about being Polish-American?

Oh, let me guess...

Polish jokes.

Polish jokes run on one basic theme -- that Poles are stupid. We are somehow incapable of displaying even the slightest intelligence.

I've been trying to figure out where this notion has come from. I have two ideas, really. The first is that when the first Polish immigrants came to the United States they did not understand English and, like the other immigrants, became victims of taunting. Americans back then ignorantly believed that immigrants weren't as intelligent as they were because they couldn't understand English. For some reason, however, the Polish-stupid connection stuck.

Another thought I had about the subject concerned Wold War II. Poland was the last country to fall to Germany before the Allies declared war. As they were being threatened by the Nazis, the Poles decided to make a stand. It was 1939. Poland was not a wealthy nation. The best they had were war materials from the previous war. Needless to say, the German war machine overran them (as did the Soviets from behind). Maybe their gallantry and courage has been misconstrued as idiocy (why fight a tank with a horse?).

Nonetheless, we have been stuck with this stigma.

Here is a note to those of you who think Polish jokes are funny:

You are the stupid one.

See, it's widely known that racism is a form of ignorance. Racism can be extreme: like enslavement of Africans or the Holocaust. It can be national law: like Jim Crow America or Apartheid South Africa. Or it can be subtle: like thinking all Muslims are like Al Quaida or telling racist jokes. The results can be vastly different, but the root cause is always the same. It's racism.

I do not know a great deal about Polish culture. As stated in Part I of this commentary, I really only knew what being Italian-American was like. But I did have to deal with all those idiots who thought Polish jokes were funny.

I guess that is perhaps easier to swallow than the alternative -- that a people as courageous enough as they were in defending their homeland are far superior than racist fools.

Next time someone tells you a Polish joke, or a black joke, or French joke or any other racist joke, your reaction will guage your character. You do not necessarily have to confront the person. But don't laugh.

It really isn't funny.

My Heritage Part II: I Bet I know What You're Thinking...

We’re going to play a little game here. I’m going to write a word and you are going to remember the first thing that comes to mind. I have a feeling you are thinking of one of two things. Ready?

Germany.

Let me guess. You were thinking of either beer or the Nazis. It could have been the swastika, or Adolph Hitler, or the Holocaust, or some variant, but essentially I’d bet that a high majority of people reading this thought first of the years between 1933 and 1945.

I have ancestors from Germany. They were from Heidelberg and Stuttgart. Every one of them came to this country before World War One. I am very proud of my German heritage. I only wish I knew more about it.

My wife is also of German heritage. In fact, her mother was born and grew up there. She is from Erfurt, a town rich in history – a town that saw, as did my mother-in-law firsthand, the agonies of Communism. Erfurt is in the east part of Germany.

Over the years she has told me stories of living in Germany during that time and the oppression and fear she always felt. In addition, she felt firsthand the horrors of World War II. Her father was a German soldier. He was killed in battle on the eastern front.

She told me of the devastation in Germany after the war, and the difficulties her mother had raising children in a war-torn and oppressed country.

Every time I hear her stories, it gets me thinking. I am an American. Am I, therefore, responsible for the thousands of civilians murdered in Iraq because of this unjust war? How about my parents and grandparents – are they responsible for the victims of the bombings of Tokyo and Dresden? How about the atomic bombs?

I guess there is something wonderfully appropriate that when I think of my German heritage I think of larger philosophical questions. Germany, after all, has a long history of great thinkers, great philosophers and pioneers in education and the social sciences.

We are planning my first trip to Germany (Claudia has been several times). I am so excited. We will see both Erfurt and Heidelberg. My goal is to be a sponge. I want to learn as much as I can.

By the way, if you were thinking of beer, you have excellent taste.

My Heritage Part I: A Rosa By Any Other Name...

In early September, 1984, I had an experience that, for the first time in my life, caused me to question my own heritage.

It was my second day at Iona Preparatory School in New Rochelle, New York. I was a thirteen-year-old freshman sitting in a second floor classroom. Being a Roman Catholic school, I was wearing the necessary tie and jacket that everyone else in class was wearing. Also, with my last name beginning with the letter ‘A’ I was seated at the first desk nearest the doorway. The teacher, a short man with a goatee, was seated at his desk reviewing the names on his roster. The class was Italian I.

“Eric Anderson?” the teacher asked.

“Here,” I said.

“Why are you in this class?”

“To learn Italian.” By now I was worried and took out my schedule. The last thing I needed was to be in the wrong class on my first day. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of classmates. Not that early, yet, anyway.

“You want to learn Italian?” the teacher asked me. “With a name like ‘Anderson’?”

A few students later, a friend of mine with a German last name was asked more or less the same thing, and was further embarrassed when the teacher snickered at him when my friend announced he was 100% Italian.

The fact that the teacher’s name rhymed with ‘Anderson’ and not ‘Esposito’ or ‘Massa’ didn’t register with me at that point. What did was that, for the first time, I wasn’t Italian.

I get reminded of this a lot, despite the fact that I probably know more about Italian culture than at least 95% of the people who love to tell me otherwise. Most recently, someone told me I wasn’t Italian just as she was arguing with me that she never heard of struffoli and it wasn’t an Italian holiday dessert.

My mother’s mother was 100% Italian. Her mother was born in Piacenza, in the Emilia-Romagna region (the region noted for, among other things, Prosciutto di Parma and Parmeggiano-Reggiano). My step-grandfather (the only grandfather I ever knew) was born in Catania, in Sicily. My father’s mother was German, but learned how to cook when she was first married from a Sicilian woman living in the apartment next to hers. My Sundays growing up consisted of mass, followed by playing outdoors until three, when I went in to eat dinner. Every Sunday was rigatoni with “gravy” and meatballs and sausage. All my cousins growing up ate the same way. My friends did as well.

My mother’s father, however, was Polish, making my mother ½ Italian and me ¼ Polish. I knew nothing of my Polish heritage, other than where my grandfather was born. As I said earlier, my father’s mother’s family comes from Germany – Heidelberg and Stuttgart. The only German culture I knew was very bad mistranslations of dirty jokes.

Until I was about thirty, I thought I was ¼ Finnish as well, but it turns out that I am ¼ Russian Jewish instead. For more on that, read Walter Anderson’s Meant To Be and Part IV of My Heritage.

The fact is, and I’m very proud to say this, I am American, not Italian. Italians live in Italy. However, I am an Italian-American. I’m also a German-American, Polish-American and Russian-Jewish-American. Also, I am very proud of my Italian heritage. I am not ashamed of having German, Polish or Jewish blood, mind you, but being Italian-American was all I ever really knew.

You’ll notice, in the From My Kitchen To Yours section, the vast majority of recipes are Italian-inspired. I make my own sausage. I, with my best friend’s family, make wine. My son rolls the meatballs with me. I won’t allow jarred sauces or ready-made Italian meals in my house. Even my wife, who has no Italian heritage, has come to frown on “Italian” restaurant chains like Olive Garden. One ancestor of mine was Marcello Cervini of Montepulciano, aka Pope Marcellus II. Another was Roberto Bellarmino, also of Montepulciano (St. Robert Bellarmine). A relative of mine is a Conte in Tuscany.

So to those of you, from my freshman teacher on, who judge me based on my last name, I say, “Vanno al’ Inferno.”

Frankenfood

I never realized how hard it is to eat right.

I'm not talking about going on a diet or anything -- that's a will power issue and something altogether different. But when I go to the supermarket and pick out foods, I'm floored by how few things there are to eat that are actually good for you.

Forget boxed anything. Growing up, I was always a huge fan of boxed soup -- you know, the kind in that paper bag with the metallic inside to keep the powdered broth fresh. It was my "sick food" and ate it every time I felt ill. Looking back on it, I'm surprised it didn't make me more ill. There is nothing natural in it.

Those other boxed foods are no better -- boxed seasoned rices, boxed Asian meals, boxed Italian meals (which aren't allowed in my house anyway for other reasons). They all are filled with chemicals I cannot pronounce and a bunch of malarcky about real pieces of chicken or natural flavorings or something.

Don't get me started on desserts. Cookies, cakes, whatever you buy in the store is loaded with even more of that garbage. It's put in there to prolong the shelf life of the food so the corporation that mass produces it can earn greater revenue.

So, while the big food corporations are making billions, we're eating stuff that isn't even truly digestible. Breakfast cereals, frozen dinners, frozen pizza -- is it any wonder we have so much cancer and obesity in our country?

Question: Is it pure coincidence that one of the largest cigarette companies, headquartered in Weschester County, New York, is also one of the largest makers of this garbage food?

So, maybe you think it's better to go out and eat, huh?

Guess again. If you live in most of America, going out to eat now is limited to mostly chain restaurants. If you haven't read Fast Food Nation by now then you are missing out. While the book is mostly about McDonalds, it holds true that the chain restaurants are no better. Just because you are handed a menu doesn't mean it still is not fast food.

Here is my advice:

Eat at non-chain restaurants. If it must be fast food, then have pizza (non chain pizza, please!!). Spend more time shopping and less time boiling water to add your pre-cooked meal. Buy veggies and fruits. Make stuff at home.

And remember, when you are buying food from a box, you may be helping a company finance their cigarette ads.

Everywhere You Look...

It's not too hard to find travesties of justice. Really, when you think about it, all you need to do is open your eyes and have a look around.

If you live, work or play in any city, you will see homeless people huddled under even the tiniest of shelters with hopes of keeping them dry. Drive through that cities nicest parts and notice a predominantly (if not entirely) white community. Then drive through the cities roughest parts and see the exact opposite.

Sometimes the injustices are in seemingly unimportant areas. Like sports. Women's figure skating, in particular.

Emily Hughes skated hard over the past week. She earned a bronze medal in the U.S. Figure Skating Championships. She is right where her sister, Sarah, was four years ago. Sarah went on to upset the world and win gold at the 2002 Olympic games. I remember my wife and I rooting for her and her bubbly personality. And Emily seemed to be following suit.

Unfortunately the world will not get a chance to see Emily compete in Torino next month. Michelle Kwan, who hardly competed at all in 2005 and skipped out on the Nationals, petitioned to be allowed on the team. And, despite the actual effort and performance of young Ms. Hughes, Kwan has replaced her.

Now, I know in the grand scheme of things, who represents the United States in women's figure skating is far from monumental. It also will not change the lives of millions or make the world a better place.

But it may very well have ruined the future of Emily Hughes, who earned the right to be on the Olympic team. She may never get this shot again. And some committee decided to steal what she earned to give it to someone who failed to compete.

As I said, you can find injustices anywhere.

Coming Full Circle

On Saturday my wife and I went to a dinner to honor a great man. His name is Ik Jo Kang. He is, among many other things, a martial arts Grand Master. He has trained hundred of students in Hapkido and Ji Do Kwan Tae Kwon Do, many of whom trained long enough with him to obtain a black belt. I am proud to say that I was one of his students.

The first time I met Grand Master Kang was at his school on Main Street in White Plains. I was ten and my parents brought me there to help me gain self-confidence. I was picked on terribly in school and lacked the physical and mental ability to defend myself. Master Kang was small and gentle and could barely speak English, yet he had a confidence that seemed to come through his pores. He also had a smile that I trusted instantly.

From 1981 through 1988 I studied under Grand Master Kang and great students of his, including Master Walter Eddie -- the instructor who taught me how to use what I had learned in Tae Kwon Do and Hapkido. Unter their tutelage, I went from a scared little kid to eventually becoming a 1st degree black belt.

Then, Grand Master Kang went back to Korea and I went off to college. I hadn't practiced martial arts since, nor had I seen him. Occasionally, I saw Master Eddie, but by 2004 so many years had passed that I had all but forgotten the forms and techniques of Ji Do Kwan Tae Kwon Do and Hapkido.

In November, 2004, we enrolled my son in Tae Kwon Do in Milford at World Champion Tae Kwon Do, under the leadership of Master Sejin Park. He and Master Kiye Cho have been teaching Jonathan for over a year now. And with each class I watch, or promotion Jonathan gets, I feel more and more like something has been missing.

I wanted to become a student of Tae Kwon Do again.

Three weeks ago I signed up for classes at World Champion Tae Kwon Do. I have started over. I am a novice, having set aside my black belt as this is a different style of Tae Kwon Do.

Circle back to Master Eddie, who met my son at my parents' holiday party just before New Year's. Jonathan was thrilled to meet his father's master and to be able to perform for him. Master Eddie told me about the dinner for Grand Master Kang and encouraged me to go.

I'm glad I did. I saw people I hadn't seen since 1988 -- some even longer. I got a chance to honor someone who meant a great deal to me in my troubled youth. I was able to walk that path of nostalgia.

Most importantly though, I learned something once again. I may have taken a long hiatus from the dojang, but I have never stopped being a Tae Kwon Do student. As I write this, I am even more invigorated to continue my training.

I'm much older now, and the challenges I face in the dojang are far different than the fifteen year old being told to fight an adult much larger than himself. Today, I struggle for physical fitness and flexibility, things that came naturally to me then. But I am older, wiser and more patient.

The foundation of my training was laid many years ago in an often hot dojang on the second floor of an old walk-up building in downtown White Plains. I'm once again training at a dojang -- learning, exercising, building my physical, mental and spiritual being. I'm studying under a different Master now, with a new style and new building blocks.

But, thanks to Master Eddie and Grand Master Kang, the foundation is solid.

Dear God

Dear God,

As you already know, I have spent the better part of the past twenty years questioning your existence. As I write this, I am still not sure whether I am writing to a divine being or something that mankind created to explain the unknown. The fact is, neither I nor anyone else alive will know the truth. But a lot's happened since I believed in you and I want to say a few things in case you are real and are listening.

God, I've come to discover that all of these religions down here are pretty darn bad. Many of them claim to be the "one true religion" and that believers of other religions, or non-believers, are doomed. That seems to go against everything that makes sense.

If Jews are the "Chosen," and Christians are the only ones to get into heaven and Muslims are the only people who properly worship you, then all of them are wrong, aren't they?

And how is one to decide which is better when all of them are ultimately not truthful?

I live in a predominantly Christian environment with churches all over the place. I was baptized and confirmed Catholic, though I have since renounced that religion. I look into this world I live and wonder who, if you do exist, really are your "saved" souls.

Am I, who doubts your existence but spends far greater effort helping others than most and is doing his best to make the world a better place, doomed to burn in hell?

What about some of the devout Christians out there? We have a president who is deeply religious and talks about his faith far more than a president should, yet has authorized the death of more people than I have even offended in my lifetime. Is he saved?

And what about Pat Robertson? He uses your name as a means for political gain and considers the illness of another to be your doing. What about him?

What about the members of the so-called Christian Right who use the celebration of the birth of Jesus as a means to discriminate against those who do not celebrate that holiday? Can anyone who consciously discriminates against another human being be saved?

It had been my understanding that to be a true Christian one must live a "Christ-like" life. But Jesus was Jewish, which runs counter to all Christian rituals.

In addition, Jesus was a man of peace -- a man who said told his followers to turn the other cheek. He also taught his followers to love one another as one wished to be loved himself.

I don't know, God. Is it me or do most people just not get it? This weekend we celebrate and honor Martin Luther King, Jr., perhaps the most "Christ-like" American who has ever been born. Yet there are people who wish to "honor" him with a show of military prowess. That runs counter to everything Dr. King -- and Jesus -- taught. I wonder if this kind of misunderstanding of his values was like the misunderstandings early Christians made when creating this misguided church millions of people follow.

So, if you really do exist, God, and you are reading this, then it seems that the list of your chosen or saved people is far different from what most people believe. I would think that those who try to be more like Jesus, or Martin Luther King, or Gandhi, or anyone else who tried to peaceably make a better world are your saved people and those who judge others based on their religious differences are those who are damned.

I guess I may never know the truths behind these thoughts.

In the meantime, I'll just do my best to treat others with respect and try to make this world a better place.

Sincerely,
Eric

Milestones

I reached a key milestone in my current novel last night. I made it to page 200.

This is really a significant number only in terms of aesthetics. It could be 197 or 213 or any other random number.

But 200 is nice.

When I finished the first draft of September, it was only 297 pages. Falling Angels was 499. When I had hit 200, they felt like they were becoming books.

200, of course, is not the only milestone. Here are the others:

• First Sentence: Knowing I have started the process is a thrill. I have anxiety when beginning a book and getting through the first sentence goes a long way to alleviate it.
• First Paragraph: I've completed my first thought of the book. I'm going somewhere.
• First page: I feel like I am on my way here. Usually, I am struggling mightily and it can take upwards of a hundred pages before I am really into a book. But getting through that first page means I can get through others.
• Page 53: This is the most important milestone for me. My first attempt at a novel was around 1998 or so. I had characters and a good plot and I knew where I wanted to take the story. I was moving along well, too. I wanted someone to read it at page 53. I hadn't written anything except poetry and schoolwork since high school and I had no confidence whatsoever. I thought I needed encouragement. It never came. I didn't go further with that story. For my two completed novels and for the one I'm writing now, page 53 was tremendous. It meant I was serious about the story. It also meant I believed I could make it into a novel.
• Page 100: I doubt I'll write any 1,000 page books, so page 100 is a milestone in that I have achieved that third digit.
• Page 200: When I get here, I know I am going to finish. The book is becoming a reality.
• The last sentence: Nothing I can write here will describe accurately what I feel here. It's unlike anything else. It's more emotional than academic achievement. It is more personal than winning in any competitive environment. It's wonderful and thrilling and sad all at once.

So I am nearly finished with my third novel. Not sure hwo I feel about that yet and I don't think I can tell you when it happens.

Just know that I've just hit that milestone that ensures me that I will finish the novel.

Alito By Any Other Name...

Message to all of my pro-choice readers:

First, I am sure that I do not need to say that we have a potentially serious problem on our hands. Samuel Alito is the switch to the conservative time machine. His appointment to the Supreme Court is not only a chance to give that White House clown a Supreme Court legacy, but it is a direct threat to hard won rights.

I've spoken with several people in our pro-choice camp and each and every one was ready to take up the protest should an Alito-included Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade. It was good to hear so many people not wishing to take it lying down.

But it is far from enough.

Why wait until it's too late? Why force the issue when abortion is once again made illegal? In the time it would take for smart people to regain positions of authority and give women back rights to their bodies, thousands of women may have to break the law, and perhaps endanger themselves to do so.

If we wait, it is too late.

Find out who your Democrat Senators are. Don't bother with the Republicans, unless they are John McCain. Write to them. Tell them how you feel. Tell them you will not stand for Roe v. Wade being overturned. Tell them that if they fail to respect women's rights when they are faced with Alito's nomination, then they are the enemy.

And never again vote for them. No matter what.

This isn't some little issue. It ties in with all the other threats on our rights that we've experienced since January 20, 2001. In the past five years, many Democrats have acted cowardly in the face of the Bush-led Republican bully. It's time we make them more afraid of us than of the Bush administration.

Remember, if we don't act, we are guilty of letting it happen.

Aliens from Planet X

My six-year-old is a metal head.

I am not ashamed of this. Actually, I am rather proud -- he inherited my tastes. And I get a real kick out of it when a little boy goes crazy for the same songs that I do. Especially when they are songs and bands that are considered rebellious.

For well over a year now, my son would steal my CD's and blast the songs he enjoys on the stereo in our family room. Guns n' Roses, Disturbed, Motley Crue, Ozzy Osbourne and Led Zeppelin turned up to outrageous decibels. I would wonder at times if my wife gave birth to a clone of me.

Saturday night he slept over my in-laws with his cousins. We picked him up and, as usual, he demands we put on one of his favorite "wild" songs, as he likes to call them. We hadn't even buckled in and shut the door when he yelled, "Put on 'Immigrant Song'!"

"Jonathan," I said, "it's not here. You took that CD from me."

"OK," he said. "Put on 'Paradise City' then."

From Exit 44 on the Merritt Parkway to my house, it is a little bit longer than two live versions of 'Paradise City'.

On the way it occurred to me that my son has no idea what Guns n' Roses looks like. He's seen Ozzy's face on a picture or two, but that is the only time he'd ever seen any of the rock stars he loves. So, when we got home I told him I had a surprise for him. I sat him down on the couch and put on a DVD of a Guns n' Roses concert from Tokyo.

At first, he heard the opening riff and his face beamed. He was excited to finally see the faces to the music he loves. But then...

...he did see them.

A lot has happened to the music industry since the last days of pre-grunge rock and roll, nearly fifteen years ago. Everyone seems to wear jeans and "normal" clothes. And no one has long hair.

Jonathan saw Axl Rose in a white leather jacket and spandex shorts and his jaw dropped to the floor. And then there was Slash, with no face and a mop of black hair on his head.

He had a lot of questions.

"Dad, is that a girl singing?"

"Dad, is he in his underwear?"

"Dad, what happened to that guy's face?"

"Why do they all have long hair?"

I tried to remember being a young boy and wondering if the same thing would have shocked me. I was his age in 1976-77. What would have shocked me is a rock and roll band with short hair. Heck, even the BeeGees had longer hair than anyone out there today.

I learned a lot watching Jonathan's reaction to seeing his favorite band for the first time. I wonder if he'll still ask for 'Paradise City' and 'Welcome to the Jungle' when we're in the car.

I would have a whole lot more explaining to do if I ever played him a New York Dolls video.

My Hero

Everyone has a person or persons in their lives that they look up to. They are personal heroes. Sometimes, it can be a person we've never met, like a politician or an artist or humanitarian. Perhaps it is a person who saved us from pain -- a fireman, perhaps, or a policeman. It could even be someone who taught us, and by teaching us has made us better people -- like a teacher or psychologist.

My hero is my dad.

He is the wise man whose advice it seems everyone seeks. Younger or older, successful or not, people search him out to learn what is the right thing to do. I've never once known him to be wrong.

It's more than his ability to help others help themselves, though, that makes him my hero. It's how he got to that place.

My father often says his real life began in the Marine Corp. He was a sergeant and he served in the Vietnam War. I believe, though, that his real life began a few years before, on a street corner in south Mount Vernon, NY.

I will not go into the details of the story, as he tells it far better than I could in his memoir, Meant To Be (yes, I am shamelessly and unapologetically marketing his book here), but I will say that it was that moment, sitting on the stoop when my father's will and determination was born. It is his will and determination I admire most in him.

He is the true American dream -- the boy who came from nothing and, through hard work and building the right connections, became successful. He is a survivor -- he survived a violent alcoholic father, he survived the streets, he survived war. He's done it all.

One of my proudest moments was when he agreed to join me on a charity ride I'd created to raise money for Make-a-Wish Foundation of Connecticut. In 2001 at the age of fifty-eight, he stood out there on that cool October morning in Port Jervis with three other riders, all twenty-six years his junior. There was never any question that he'd be standing 200 miles and three days later in Ithaca at the finish.

When I was growing up, he was an imperfect father. The abuse he'd endured as a child turned into a great rage as an adult and, though he was not one to physically abuse, was prone to harshness. For my part, I was an imperfect son when I was a teen. I voluntarily chose to hang out in a similar environment with similar street kids as he had tried so hard to avoid. I also had my own anger and rage.

That is all past now.

The times I spend with him today are almost always enjoyable. I listen to him. I learn from him. I ask him questions. I've joined the hundreds of others who seek his wisdom.

If you've read my blog you have an understanding of what makes me tick. You get a sense of who I am. I am a man who has learned to live life as best he can and to always do his best to be a better person.

In other words, I try to be more like my father.

When It Rains...

Christmas Eve our water heater went out. It was only the pilot light, but it was a sign of things to come.

It took me a while to get the pilot light re-lit because the pilot itself is situated in a way that you need to be a contortionist to light it. Finally, I got it lit. Two days later it was out again.

It turned out that we had a slight leak in the humidifier pipe above the water heater and the water would flow slowly down in little rivulets perfectly over the water heater and...

Drip. Drip. Tsss.

We fixed that too.

Next came the toilet paper dispenser. Now, I know on the grand scheme of things, fixing a toilet paper dispenser is about as crucial to the function of a house as breaking a Pyrex dish, but I have to say it's frustrating. The thing just ripped clean out of the dry wall. How does this happen? I'm in the bathroom holding a chunk of metal with two large screws coming out of it wondering this exact thing when it dawned on me that maybe the house wasn't built all that well.

Our house is one of those development homes -- McMansions, I think they're called. Pinnacle, a New Jersey-based development company, built Great River Golf Estates and our section, The Highlands at Great River, a few years back. We moved in about three and a half years ago. Until recently, we've had our share of "new house" issues, but nothing major. But I just had this gut feeling after we closed and others began moving in that something was just not right.

That's when I noticed this huge crack in the foundation.

Now, Pinnacle and others have all assured us that it's a natural crack and nothing to worry about. Call me paranoid, but I'm not sold just yet. I have a bad feeling that the crack is growing. I haven't started measuring (I think I'll begin now, though). We'll see. I'd like to sleep on this a few more days.

It was difficult to sleep on it last night though. The furnace went and it was freezing.

Resolutions

Happy 2006!!

I can't believe it. It's like I went to bed some time in the nineties and woke up on the downside of the first decade of the new millenium. How the heck did that happen?

Anyway, there is this tradition called New Year's Resolutions which I have to admit I rather enjoy. See, I believe that self-improvement isn't instantaneous or a one-time thing, but a journey or process. And New Year's is a perfect time to remind yourself of areas where you can improve.

So, that said, here is my list of resolutions for 2006:

• Be more fiscally savvy: I am pretty good as far as spending, but I am prone to moments of extravagance, particularly when it comes to the culinary world. I need to cut back and spend smarter.
• Finish Book III: I'm approaching page 200. I have a long way to go. I want to be done with the first draft before spring, however.
• Get back in shape: I have been in great shape for most of my adult life. Right now, however, I weigh too much and probably can't even run the Corporate Challenge (5K run). This needs to change. I'm 35 and this is the time where being out-of-shape can start to lead to bad health. And I want to be around a while.
• Get my son to better appreciate the outdoors: It's a passion of mine and to be able to hike, camp and do all those outdoor adventures with Jonathan would be terrific. The day I took him to the top of Sleeping Giant was one of the best days of my life. I want the two of us to have more of those.
• Do more around the house: My wife does too much. It's my turn to do more. She deserves at least that much from me.
• Stay happy: No more depression. Ever.