Not A Tiger. Just A Man.

I just can't take anymore of the Tiger-bashing. I'm bored with all of this scrutinizing and inaccurate psychoanalysis.  The fact that Tiger Woods turned his back on his faith and had a previously-unfathomable amount of extra-marital affairs has been over emphasized.  The fact that his personal choices have damaged his earning power has also been overstated.  The recent topic of 'sex addiction' has pushed me to a point that all of these so-called professional journalists have to be put in their place.

Tiger doesn't have a sex addiction.  Personally, I don't believe there is such a thing.  An addiction would indicate that he is incapable of refusing sex.  Though a couple of Tiger's mistresses were less-than-appealing in my opinion, and there is an astounding amount of them, it seems as though he was somewhat selective.  I would argue that this presentation of evidence refutes addiction claim. How?  Not a one of them is black or Asian or Hispanic. He hand-selected these women.  Crackheads won't turn down a rock that isn't the 'right' color. They don't shy away from a dealer because the dude looks shady.  That's an addiction.

(A PB & rock sandwich. Is it 5 o'clock?)

What Tiger has is a complex. It's a complex borne of life-long success which has resulted in an addiction to the word 'yes.' This addiction to the affirmative is an affliction that many successful people encounter and struggle with. I'm not limiting this to world-class, nationally recognized people.  Anyone that has been a big fish in their pond could fall victim.  And the size of the pond doesn't matter. Big fish like to get their nibbles. For a long time, even I couldn't stand being told 'no.'  I was a spoiled kid, and a standout athlete.  I got used to getting what I wanted, when I wanted from someone.  A pair of shoes from my grandma. Wrestling tickets from my uncle. You think Tiger Woods got more or less first-class treatment than me?  Exactly. That's where this situation comes from.  He said it himself. 'I knew my actions were wrong. But I convinced myself that normal rules didn't apply. I never thought about who I was hurting. Instead, I thought only about myself.' 

Consider all of the politicians, movie stars and other athletes that have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar: Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, Jesse Jackson, JFK, Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O'neal, Wesley Snipes, Hugh Grant, Charlie Sheen, even Tiger's dad! I could go on and on.  These men weren't necessarily unhappy with their wives. Nor were they ill with a sex sickness.  Ego was the problem.  These are highly competitive people with an aversion to being told no for anything, which probably began somewhere around grade school.  Money, power and fame clouded their judgement... but they all recovered.  Some got divorced. Some were able to stay married.  But their recoveries all began with an apology.

(Ladies' man.)

While I commend him for his apology's content, not missing a chance to acknowledge everyone affected by this (with the exception of any of the hussies that blew the whistle on him in the first place). The lack of true emotion leaves me with an odd feeling.  I realize that Tiger isn't as charismatic as many of the mega-endorsers happen to be, I'm sure he's human enough to be sorry and really mean it. I liked the fact that his press conference was limited to a lone statement by him, and not followed by questions. This ordeal doesn't need anymore circus-like media frenzy. Really, he doesn't owe any answers anyway.  Personal mistakes don't require public apology. However, if you ever find yourself on television apologizing for something you got caught doing three months ago, I suggest making your production believable. He came accross as robotic. I interpreted his apology as an apology for getting caught.

Tiger's gonna have to play a lot of golf over the next 30 years because
 Elin's taking his kids and a lot of his money with her. 

Situations like this frustrate me about our society. We're so quick to dismiss someone's shortcomings or flaws as illness.  I'm not saying that his persecution is unjust because I believe that it is, but I'm not onboard with trivializing his choices by classifying them as a glitch or minor imperfection or as something that can be cured. Tiger made bad choices because he wanted to make them.  In the back of his mind, he thought that he had enough money and fame to cure the evils he was subjecting himself to.  Life is about choices. The choices a person makes will shape their life, and there's no reset button.  If Tiger's truly sorry, then this personal hell he's created isn't going anywhere.

Not only does he have to re-invent himself, he has to prove himself all over again. He's going to have a line to walk for a while. When Tiger comes back to golf, he has to win.  If he wants his endorsements back, if he wants the media to relax, if he wants to off-set that child support and alimony, he has to win. A lot.

I'd Rather Be A Cat Uncle Than A Cat Daddy

17 months of marriage have taught me a lot of things. I've learned survival tips.  I've learned hair tips (more than just split-ends).  Maintaining a household is hard work.  Something always needs to be budgeted: time, money, energy. Many of these things I expected to learn over time. Before I took the oath, made the promise, and said goodbye to Single Craig, I had a pretty good idea that I was about to be whipped into shape.  I had no idea that I was gonna get tag-teamed by my wife, daughter and the pets. Yes, the pets. What makes it worse it that I hate pets.  Actually, I don't hate pets. I just don't like mine.

I am not an animal-hater.  Generally, I like animals.  That's not true. I don't really like animals, I just don't mind them. Although, I have to say that our animals are pretty well-behaved. My dog doesn't bark like crazy and disturb the neighbors.  The cat has had his front claws removed, so he's not tearing up stuff. I know my dog can't help being a dog, but I find myself loathing his canine instincts and behaviors (he licks everything). Or perhaps it's the combination of a dumb dog and a fat cat.

I didn't have too big of a problem with my wife's cat before we got married. After all, we didn't live together, so I was only around the cat for a few hours while at her apartment.  I wasn't a part of the vet bills, or litter box cleanings, or the incessant meowing at 3am.  I was only around during the fun part.  I never noticed the cat's hair coating half of every exposed surface in the house.  I didn't think much of the cat jumping up on counter tops, book shelves or tv stands.  I was the uncle that didn't see the problem with letting the kids eat an entire box of Nerds for lunch only to send the unlucky parents home with sugared-up brats.

Now I notice cat hair on my clothes and in my sandwich. I notice that he's tracked kitty litter to places where I don't want to think about what may have caused the litter to stick to his feet.  This is the same cat that managed to smear poop on me in my sleep once, so I have a pretty good idea why the litter has made it up the basement steps. He also nearly threw up on my face one sleepy night.  Needless to say, Max (the cat) and I haven't had a very trusting relationship.

(The cat was probably trying to steal her breath.)

My animal-related ignorance got me into deeper trouble when I opted to buy my daughter a puppy.  Yikes! What was I thinking? I brought it on myself.  I set myself up.  I gave my wife the impression that I wanted to be a pet owner. Hindsight tells me that I should've known better.  Of the 29 years of my life prior to marriage, I'd owned a pet for about three months. Less than 1% of my life had been spent caring for (and tolerating) an animal.  Though I did have a pretty cool fish tank for a few years, my experience with non-people is almost nil.

My wife on the other hand has always had pets.  To her, this is normal.  $400 for their flea medicine (our pets don't have fleas. I wonder how much it would cost me if they did), $250 to get the cat diagnosed with an allergy to grass? Comes with the territory.  Not for me.  It's just that the responsibility and expenses far outweigh the rewards of pet ownership for me. I see these expenses as few pairs of shoes I had to forgo.  Or that pair of designer jeans I couldn't have.  Plus, we still have to feed them.

And clean up after them.  I think this idiot dog gets a kick out of watching me gagging as I scoop his extractions in the back yard. I know Milo loves the fact that I've spent back-breaking hour after back-breaking hour replacing the abundance of plants from our home's previous owner with nice, green grass that he gets to dig up.  Now, instead of the Kentucky Blue I originally planted, we have crabgrass and other weed-like turf.  What a spiteful creature.  Having these pets is like having to do the dishes after a delicious dinner that I didn't get to eat.

(Did I mention that he gets beaten up by the cat?)

It doesn't help that my wife and daughter are ridiculously in love with animals. Not just our animals, but every furry, four-legged something-or-other on earth.  The prime example took place on my honeymoon. My wife  is so animal crazy that she was petting stray dogs in Mexico.  Stray dogs!  In Mexico! These were filthiest, mangiest things I'd ever seen and she was undeterred.  This, from a woman that complains about the germiness of kids at Chuck E. Cheese, was fondling filthy, foreign, orphan animals. Wow.

Now I'm stuck. Two animals that I don't like very much, stand to be members of my household for the next 14 or so years.  That's a long time to be miserable.  I've let my wife know that these are the last two pets I'll ever own.  If one of them scurries out into traffic tomorrow, I would like to dream that I'd be one step closer to pet-freedom.  I bet I'd like them more if they were your pets, not mine.

One Week To Go....

Today feels like December 18th.  December 18th is exactly seven days before Christmas. One week.  By this time, we're all so filled with the Christmas Spirit that our exuberance and giddiness begins to fade and morphs into fatigue and the crankiness of two-year-old before naptime.  I'm not talking about the last week before Christmas when you were a kid. I'm talking about the last week before Christmas as a parent. 

See this is the other side of the coin.  As a parent, it is our responsibility to bury the tree with presents but not mortgage even the slightest element of the lifestyle that we've all gotten used to.  Despite the fact that Jesus' birthday is right around the corner, we have to keep going to work, taking out the trash, paying bills and paying the same amount of attention to normal duties as always.

As a parent, your joy on Christmas day is the living cliche. You have to be happier to give than receive. You have to hope that your best effort produces big smiles, a few 'wow moments' and several 'thank you, daddies.'

Well in this case, it's a week before a big day for Daddy.  The anticipation is mounting.  Despite my anxiety, I have to keep up appearances.  I still have to work hard and pay attention to details at my job, I still have to keep up with reading and writing assignments for my classes, but my head isn't in it.  I'm still driving my mother-in-law's '99 Jimmy. I have to remind myself that I still have a life to live, and people counting on me.

I have to prepare for this event as diligently as I would anything else in my life, except it gets less attention than anything else. I still work eight or nine hours per day and I still have the semester's first round of exams coming up, yet this event could hold more rewards than both.

Maybe it's not like Christmas. Maybe it's my 'Super Bowl.' There is no next year. This is a one-shot deal. My Super Bowl happens the day after the NFL's version.  It has taken serious preparation to get to this point. I have given some big hits along the way, and I've certainly taken my lumps too. It's like the biggest game of my life, except I'm not happy to be here. I need to win. People are watching me. People are rooting for me. My wife is in the stands, and she's cheering the loudest. I'm going to compete with every ounce of my being. There's no consolation. It's not still a great season if I lose.