Just go get some tissues now, OK?

Sometimes people tell me my column made them cry. A lot, actually. They tell me that a lot. And I usually say, "I swear I was not trying to make you cry. I really wasn't."

And I really wasn't. I have a simple creative process (because I am a simple creative creature). The process of writing my column always starts with a small, striking, everyday moment that flashes unusually bright. Little lightning.

It can be jarring when it happens. So I have to stop and turn it over in my mind for a while -- kind of mentally explore its edges until I begin to see that sublimely ordinary moment in the context of some larger theme. And it's usually a theme most people can relate to in some way because we're all a whole lot more alike than we are different.

Then I write it all down a couple of different ways until I find the one I like best. And then, apparently, people read that and get all boohoo weepy-face.

Huh.

Most of the time, I could not begin to tell you why some of my columns have that effect on people. But sometimes I write about things that even make me cry, and then people say, "Your column made me cry," and I say, "Me, too, friend. Me, too."

Fair warning: This is one of those.

Jim Fortune: Author of a million little peaces

My wide-eyed 9-year-old exclaimed to me recently, “Did you know that some houses run out of hot water?”

I laughed. “Yeah, bug, most houses have a tank that heats water, and when that tank is empty it takes a while for it to fill back up. It’s called a water heater.”

“We don’t have that?”

“Nope, we have a tankless system your dad had installed a few years ago. That’s why you and Jack can take a shower in both bathrooms and I can do laundry all at the same time and no one ever runs out of hot water.”

“That’s so cool.”

“Yeah, it is. Your dad has good ideas.”

People have told me I need to read that book about the five love languages – the one that tells you which type of display of affection you (and your mate) find most meaningful.

I have never read that book, and I bet I never will (honestly, it all sounds so drippy, and I’m pretty sure there’s gross churchy stuff in it) but I can tell you exactly which type of affection on that list gets me where I live: Acts of service.

Acts. Of. Service. I swoon even as I type it. Swooooon.

My marriage is not perfect, but I seriously won the love language lottery when I walked down that aisle. The things that make me want to crawl straight into my husband’s lap are the things his methodical, engineer nature just compels him to do: Install a tankless water heater so I will never get cold trying to wash and condition my ridiculous, enormous hair; build me a massive bookshelf so I can keep and admire all of my beloved books; unfailingly load my to-go coffee in the car for me every single morning because, dammit, it’s morning and I will forget.

In fact, earlier this week, my usual to-go mug was missing, so he put the coffee in a different mug – one that has a handle – and he asked me if I drink coffee left- or- right-handed so he could put the lid on facing the right way.

PEOPLE. Do not try to tell me there is anything hotter than that. Because there is NOT.

And OK, I did not actually know the answer to the question about how I drink my coffee because, as I mentioned, MORNING, so he just had to guess. But still. Swoon.

There is profound peace in knowing I will never run out of hot water and that my to-go coffee will always be in the car when I finally wake up halfway into my commute. Meanwhile, do you know what my husband never does? Any of that other crap on that list of love languages.

Gifts? Shit no! Because if he bought me gifts, I’d be all, “What the fuh? What did you spend on THAT?”

Words of affirmation? Puhleez. Don’t need ‘em. The only time he ever speechified at me about our boundless love was this one time in 1998 when he was proposing marriage, and the whole thing was a little weird, y’all. Yes, I’m amazing, he’s amazing, we are crazy about each other. I’m aware. No need to issue a memo.

Quality time? Well, I’m pretty busy, yo. Quality time is great in theory, but I’ve got a ton of work to do and I do need to take my runs. Besides, we’re happier vegging in a grubby pile on the couch after the kids go to bed than we’d be doing some fancy date-night thing.

And physical touch? Yeah, OK, I dig it. But don’t sneak up on me and start rubbing things or I might punch you. I’m a little edgy, you know? And I’m still kind of sore from my run.

Don’t worry, though. It’s nothing a scalding hot, 90-minute shower can’t fix.

Don't even try to beat geocachers. You will lose.

Hey, did you see that the word 'geocache' recently won the add-a-word-to-Scrabble contest? True story. It beat out rivals including 'Bitcoin' and 'zen.' Beat them to death, y'all.

I could have told those other words they didn't stand a chance. Geocachers are some hardcore mofos. They organize and strategize nonstop. That's what geocaching IS. Organizing. Strategizing. Mobilizing. Bitcoin and zen? Really? Fake money and some chilled-out, new-age vibe? Girl, puhleez.

Just about the time geocache was dominating the Scrabble contest, I wrote a TFP column about my sons' obsession with geocaching. I didn't know about the Scrabble thing when I wrote the column,  but it makes sense. This is clearly a pastime that has reached some kind of global critical mass. It's like a nerd tsunami.

In fact, I am sitting here covered in dirt and pollen and brier scratches because it's a pretty day, and that means we had to spend it climbing around in the woods geocaching. The only thing better than seeing my kids enjoy something this much is knowing I can now use it to kick ass at Scrabble EVEN MORE.

Everyone wins.

So not sorry

I have two million things to do today, including some work I didn't finish last week at the office, some tedious cleaning that won't get done unless I do it, some household bookkeeping and, god god please please PLEASE, a run I plan to take once I figure out what the kids are doing today and how it affects my ability to get away from everyone for an hour.

So I am not sorry this blog post is so short. In fact, I'm pretty much not sorry about anything ever anymore. My column in today's TFP is about this special unsorryness, which I've pretty much perfected as I settle into my 40s. It will strike some people as obnoxious and selfish. And guess what? 

Still not sorry.

We all need a little more nothing

Hey friend, how've you been? Busy. Yeah, I know. But it's no good. Knock it off. Just stop. 

No, look. I get it. Work that comes on like an avalanche, family and friends who need your time and attention, workouts that get cut short and houses that need maintaining and errands that need running and the heat went out during a snowstorm and holy crap I forgot the kid's parent/teacher conference and now I'm driving too fast to get there and oooooh wait, I think I may have booked a meeting over this so which of these commitments am I ditching?

I get it. I promise, no one gets it better than I get it. But enough. Stop. Just. Stop. Stop and read this column.

And then please go do nothing for a little while.

Nothing to do, nowhere to be.

  

Odd woman out

When my mother was pregnant with me, her firstborn, my father greeted her at the end of every day by asking, "How's my son?" And she'd fire back, "Your daughter is fine."

My mom always wanted a daughter, and I'm convinced she made me female through sheer force of will. We're two headstrong peas in a pod, Mom and me. She's my original and eternal best friend, but I honestly never understood why she was so hellbent on having a daughter. I was (and continue to be) a pain in the ass.

So when I had my sons, I was genuinely indifferent to their genders. I wanted kids. I felt swooningly lucky to have them. When both my babies showed up with boy parts, there was never any talk of trying for a girl. Babies! Yay! The end.

And now they're 13 and 9, those baby boys of mine. And while I still feel swooningly lucky to have my sweet, grubby boys, I'm beginning to see why Mom was so determined to give herself a little female company in her family. 

My god, y'all, it's manly up in here these days. And in that spirit, I give you my column in the TFP last week.

Boys. Cars. (I am 120 miles away having a pedicure.)

So much wasted space

Did you know that if you took all the extra spaces people type between sentences every day and placed them end to end, they would fill 10,745 pages? Every single day?

Yeah, I totally made that up. So you did not know that. But it sounded kind of compelling there for a minute, huh?

It is true, however, that you're only supposed to type one space between sentences, and it's true that the two-space mythology is maddeningly persistent and it's even true that I managed to make an entire column out of that topic in this past Sunday's Times Free Press.

Well, that topic and also TED Talks and New Year's resolutions. In fact, a couple of people even told me they didn't know about TED Talks until they read that column. So maybe that column did more than just take up space.

But, honestly, probably not.