Should you ask the woman on the elevator if she's ok?

I've been having a string of good fortune as of late. I've recently accepted the position of Vice President of Interactive Strategy for Two West Inc. I start my new position April 17th. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I am rather excited at the potential for the future; which leads me to this afternoon:

I like to believe that I am a compassionate person. I try and offer help where I can to total strangers as well as good personal friends. I get on the elevator - 32nd floor. I'm already changed into my workout clothes. I'm pumped for a number of reasons (going to the gym early, leaving early, father-in-law is taking the boy for the night). Elevator stops on 27 (I believe). A woman enters the elevator, obvious that she had been (a) crying (b) about to cry (c) obviously upset.

"are you ok?" I ask.

"no, I'm not ok...I've just been fired..." she blurts out.

What seams like an endless passing of floors on the way down to one I'm hit with "holy shit, get me off this god-damn elevator" to "holy shit, this poor girl" to "what in the hell am I going to say to this woman to help her in the least!?"

"I'm so sorry..." is all I can muster. Stunned, not a clue, hoping she sees into my face and realizes that I will in fact listen for the remainder of ride and actually care.

"I had too much to drink last night and said something I shouldn't have...I've worked there 10 years...what am I going to do..." she almost mutters to herself all the while looking blankly into my eyes.

"I'm so sorry...are you going to be ok to drive" I say, still not having a CLUE what to do in a situation like this.

"Probably not..." Choking back the tears.

Elevator hits one.

I'm stunned - standing there having just been stripped from my high, looking at this woman who at that very moment was in the complete opposite state of mind as I glances at me for the last brief moment...

"and the worst part is my husband has cancer" stated matter of fact with a slight hint of rage.

And then she disappeared in the opposite direction. As she walked away I said for the last time "I am so sorry..." which now sounds so trite it sickens me.

Could I have said something other then "I'm sorry" to make her feel any better? Did I even help by opening my mouth and asking if everything was ok? Could I have done more? I just think I could have done more then "I'm sorry" even though I really am. What a shitty end to the day - to be fired the day after you say something in mixed company the night before.

Sitting here (still) all I can think is I am so very sorry for this woman who got onto the elevator this afternoon. I really hope she is ok.

How Sports Saved My Soul

I've been grappling with a number of varying emotions as of late, specifically with the current state as to which I reside. I wasn't raised with a football in my hand, nor was I inundated with the Sunday spectacle which is traditionally know as "Game Day". Sports were always an option, a fun activity, not a way of life. I have no memories of hard coaches pushing us to the limit of our abilities. I have no memories of a father forcing me to "...catch one more..." or "...you can run faster then that..." or "...what are you, a girl??...". What I do have are fond memories of playing catch with my dad, playing soccer as far back as I can remember, and how much it hurt to be cut from the Baseball Team my Freshman year of High School. It never occurred to me while I was living on the East Coast that I in fact love sports - watching Caps games (glass seats, of course), the O's at Camden Yards (box seats, of course), the Bullets (now known as the Wizards), and even the Skins and Ravens. But how does that play out for my son; my daughter?

This past weekend my boys (the 10 six year olds whom I coach U6 soccer - I call them my boys) played their second game. I won't even go into the debacle of the first. We play split fields: Aggressive and Non-Aggressive. I coach the Aggressive side while my assistant coach coaches the Non-Aggressive. After the game, my son runs over to me (having played on the Non-Aggressive side) and screams "I scored 3 GOALS dad!!!"

My son. 3 goals. Holy shit. 3 goals? Not 3. He scored 3!?

So after a post game custard and I start to review the things I want to work on for next practice, it hits me - I've been introducing soccer to my son since he was very little. Soccer is one of my favorite sports, so I started him young. Fundamentals, introduction of varying tactics, aggressive attacking on my part to allow a core understanding. It worked. I mean, holy fuck, it actually worked. And I saw it coming. I watched him start to dribble the ball without thinking about it - with both feet. It's taken him a little longer then most, but I hoped that when it clicked, he'd be stellar - and he is.

When we moved to the mid-west it was a "concern" as to how I would broach the sports issue with my own children living in such a sports engrossed town? Taking cues from my own father while incorporating a drive that I felt could have pushed me a little harder has really brought a sense of "this is cool as shit".

I look forward to the day I can scream at my daughter openly, with a group of witnesses such things as "ATTACK!!" and "you call that a KICK!?" and my favorite "sweep the LEG!"

I totally wanted one of these as a kid - DAMN YOU MOM AND DAD!

So much has happened since last I posted...little site called H&R Block launched to a new Look and Feel, shit with the kids, crap with the wife, new soccer season, still no cool ass new car, and a ton of other stuff that seems to be missing...OH YES, the whole no smoking or drinking thing. Kind of hard to have a BLOG called drunk in life when in fact you are currently sober in life? Oh well, next January 6th we'll see who confusing who!?

So in a moment of random events, I mention to my nephew (who is into Transformers) that a live motion picture is in the works. I look up when the release is (2007) and let him know. I search on eBay for a Megatron to see what those realistic guns are going for - HOLY SHIT, $351!!?? My mom and dad wouldn't let me have one of these beauties as a child because I might have "pointed it at someone..." all the while owning REAL guns which I shot in my backyard? Go figure.