Reality Bites (Pilot), S1 E1

A story…

remote control

Anne sat down on the faded couch wanting to unwind after a long day at work, losing herself in reality TV, watching people unaware that their private lives are on display for the world to watch. She slouched low, burying herself in the folds of the overstuffed sofa curious about the five college students who live together. What Anne knew, as did anyone else who tuned in daily, that these students were offered free rent in an on-campus house, as part of an internship.

What the students didn’t know was that they were part of an experiment, based on the movie The Truman Show, to see if in fact their lives can be truthfully documented. The psychologist running the test was interested to know how five, very diverse, unsuspecting people would interact. He was hoping to learn more about how the human mind thinks, the value of facial expressions and body language and also why people have hidden agendas.

Anne indulges, every afternoon, in the unedited show, soaking in the truths of the unsuspecting young adults as they live a carefree lifestyle. Yet, she feels slightly guilty for watching them, without their knowing.

“My guilty pleasure,” she whispers, as current events unfold before her eyes.

simply a complicated thought

what is the bottom line, really?
is there one?
do you really stop at a certain point?
flip yourself around and return where you started?

hoping for something new, fresh?

to begin again?

maybe, maybe not.

you may stop at the bottom line.
you may turn around.
you may look back.
and you may see familiarity.


it just might be that your mindset is different.

does it feel better? worse? or the same?

and what do you do if what you feel is not what you want?

does it matter? does it make a difference?

should you even bother with the bottom line at all?




Mr. and Mrs.

f7804-img_1469When I first met Rudy I appreciated his kindness. He didn’t put on a show, a “look-at-me, I’m rough, tough, and I’ll tumble”.  Nah, Rudy was gentleman, without attitude. A good guy. With squared shoulders, narrow hips, and a serious set of brown eyes.

Those were our innocent days. The days we were slowly learning about each other. What made us tick. What made us tock. And what didn’t. Slowly, we began to reveal who we were. How our lives were formed, the reasons we acted the way we did, or didn’t, and who played a part in the formation of who we’d become. Young adults.

Before we even knew the other existed, Rudy and I both learned the importance of being independent as young teens. I grasped rather quickly that I had to create my own life, in my own way, without help. From anyone. Even in the midst of a large family. After his father died, Rudy knew he had to leave his mom to figure out how he fit into the world beyond his family. So, he moved from Central America to the United States. Full of fear, combined with wonderment.

Some might consider that I married Rudy, and he attached himself to me, so that we both could fill a need. To find someone, anyone, to stand with. To be with. To make a family with. But that wasn’t the case. That’s not what was on our mind. Not at all. Simply put, Rudy and I met, we liked each other, and, so, we got married. There was no agenda behind our relationship. At all. We just were. Two young adults. Following our hearts.

And, so, here it is, thirty years later, still both very independent, with lots of ups-downs-and-all-arounds, still learning. Still listening to the ticks, the tocks, and the whatnots. Listening. Listening. Listening. Reaping the rewards of understanding.

what do you do when a man cries?

You listen, of course. You listen to him tell you he can’t figure out what is wrong with him. Wonders why he doesn’t seem to care. About much. All you can do is listen until there is a pause, a break from his stream of words.

Then you tell him what you think. Where the problem might lie. You tell him that it is most likely not something current that has caused him grief, to give him the feeling of giving it all up. No. You tell him you believe it may have to do with a time long ago. During his youth. That for some reason, as a small boy, he seemed to feel not-so-very-loved. That specific moments could have dirtied his mind. Ingrained themselves into his psyche.

You also tell him that maybe he’s spent his life trying to please someone who is no longer around to please. You tell the crying man he needs to find it within himself to believe, to know, that he is indeed worthy. Worthy of everything he’s accomplished. And that if he can find it in his heart, his mind, and his soul to believe how valuable he is to the world. To his wife. To his children. He will feel rewarded. Happy. And full.

That unless he discovers his value, deep down, he will always have a hole where all the good things get washed out, plugged up by the bad.

It’s psychological you tell him. That it’s absorbed in his mind.

So, you make a suggestion.

Find that person in your memory. That person you’ve been trying to please. Find his face. And tell him you are okay. That you no longer need anyone’s approval. Only your own. And then you will see. Life will brighten. Feel lighter. Less harsh. And only then will you be truly happy.

In response, the tearful man will say to you, I think you are right. I think I am holding onto something from long ago. Something that is hurting me. Hurting my life. And my relationships. Then he will breathe deep. Wipe away the tears that have fallen. And embrace you. Hold you tight. Because you are the person he trusts the most.