OCD & the Garage Door Opener

We’ve lived in our first house four years, and that whole time we’ve dealt with temperamental garage doors. This is when garage doors randomly open, or don't close all the way, or come down halfway then reverse course. For me, an OCD sufferer, knowing the doors play this fickle game, I insist on driving around the block before leaving for work, or to the store, or anywhere, to make sure the doors are down and staying. Sometimes I do it twice. Once I circled three times. OCD’s a bitch. Temperamental garage doors are just as bad.

The remote opener has to be angled just right. There’s swearing involved, sometimes pleading. It’s understood going in that making those overhead doors obey is a crap shoot. I often imagine a scenario where a band of Clifton Park street toughs are chasing me, and I make it safely to my driveway and house, only to be caught and beaten bloody while trying to open that damn garage. What a way to go.

Fed up with this faceoff, my wife pulled the old battery from her opener, replaced it, problem solved. You may ask why we didn’t do that earlier. Some guy at Home Depot told us we’d have to reprogram the entire system if we changed batteries. I guess we took his word and settled for this daily battle. Hers was always the most temperamental, and with that opener finally working right, I was willing to occasionally deal. Anything not to reprogram.

On cue, my remote opener went bad to worse. It got so bad I’d have to open the door from the wall switch, back my car out of the garage, jump out of my car, run back inside, hit the wall switch, sprint out under the rolling door. This circus show at 6:30AM every morning. I’m always the first to get home, so I’d have to park halfway down the driveway, get out of the car, press the opener against the sensor and go to work. If that didn’t take, I’d fetch the ladder--in work clothes--climb the rungs, break in through the bedroom window, crash to the inside floor, go downstairs and open the door on the wall. Why don't I just go in the front door? Well, I insist on locking the screen every morning and taking my chances with the garage. OCD. What a way to live.

There's no "detectable" battery in my opener, so I thought. I came to the conclusion that the opener was--um--solar powered, and a lack of sunlight, because of Autumn, was causing the problem. Idiot? New-home owner? Both? I decided to drive home, holding the opener out the window as I went. Why? So it could get sun, of course. The dreaded reprogram. After spending fifteen minutes trying to get in on Friday afternoon, we decided enough is enough.

We took the opener to Home Depot, where another worker popped the top to show us that the battery was a tiny, circle-shaped thing that I had dismissed as a piece of the sensor. I’d been running without a replacement for four years, opening and closing several times a day. A miracle battery if you think about it.

Now it’s easy. If I so much as breathe on the opener, my garage door launches open. Good luck getting me now, Clifton Park Street toughs. It’s a wonder what a working battery can do. As for all that reprogram talk . . . The only bad part is knowing how easy my side opens now. It’s seriously scary for an OCD sufferer. Now I'm going to circle the block four times, maybe five, to make sure the door didn’t fly open when I hit a bump and the remote bounced on the sun visor. Your classic win-win.

Brian Huba
10.26.13

Ten Good Books

10. The Appeal by John Grisham
9. The Associate by John Grisham
8. Orange is the New Black by Pier Kerman
7. Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks
6. The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper
5. Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem
4. July July by Tim O'Brien
3. The Beach by Alex Garland
2. Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls by David Sedaris
1. Hologram for the King by Dave Eggers

Get Reading!

Brian Huba
10.20.13

The Turtle

Today I’m going to tell you the story of the Turtle. The Turtle is old and wise, even when it’s young. The Turtle never complains or makes excuse. When faced with a challenge the Turtle never passes the buck or says, ‘That’s not MY job,' or ‘Why should I do that?’ The Turtle never worries about its best interest. The Turtle is totally selfless. The Turtle carries the weight of the world.

Is there a Turtle in your life? There is in mine.

The Turtle I know is my wife’s mother. She is wise and selfless and never makes an excuse when the job needs to be done. When my wife was diagnosed last April, the Turtle dropped her hyper-active life on a dime, rushed to her daughter’s side, never left for the next six months. Once a week, she came from three hours away in a rickety, old van, drove days and nights, fueled on black coffee and yogurt, going from Plattsburgh to Albany to NYC, rinse and repeat. Her existence was in shambles. She was never stronger.

That first week in NYC, when winter became spring, the air thick with new life, we waited for “test results,” huddled like packrats in a Manhattan apartment no bigger than a postage stamp. It was a sneak-preview of what Hell would look like, only this was worse. At least Hell has hot water and dry towels. I broke down 2, 3, 10 times. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was a vice grip to the brain, and every day it turned a little tighter. But the Turtle never weakened or wavered.

From a few feet away, I watched this 70-yr-old woman sleep sideways on a narrow couch, eat candy bars for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and wait, wait, wait for some doctor in some hospital to deliver a potentially-terminal diagnosis against her only daughter. The Turtle never said, ‘Why me?' or ‘I need a break.’ In five days as we waited, hours passing like ice ages, this woman never cracked. Never. Not once. The Turtle carries the weight of the world.

There’s not much out there that can genuinely inspire someone. Maybe inspiration is a lost art, I don’t know. But my wife’s mother was a machine these last six months. She is the reason this fight ended the right way. Without her it simply wouldn’ve happened. She saved her daughter’s life, my wife's life. She saved my life. She put our future plans back on track, and she never once--in six dreary and dark months--said, ‘Sorry, I can’t.' I have never seen anything so purely selfless and incredibly inspiring. My outlook on love has been recalibrated because of what I watched her do. That was true love. The truest.

When it ended, she praised everyone else BUT herself, refused ANY credit for the role of weight carrier, 'Nothing to do with me,' and went home, back to her life, leaving us to resume ours. With a horn beep and goodbye wave, she was gone, and we were a normal couple once again. She’s the Turtle.

When my wife called me from her job with the final results last Weds, the really, really good results, I told her not to call her mother till I got home. Why? I wanted to witness the end in person. I wanted to watch her mother react after living in a shitstorm since April. I found her on the hammock in our yard, on her back, arms and legs spread at her side, lifeless, waiting, lifeless. I asked her to come inside, the results were official. Like a firecracker she came off that hammock, and three seconds later was hunkered over the phone, a kid on Christmas morning. She didn't ask why she wasn't called first. Heck, she'd driven all those miles, waited all those hours, dealt with all those doctors, while hubby #1 watched dogs and went to work. She didn't ask why. She didn't care about that. The Turtle has no ego. I got my wife on the phone, who tearfully reported the results to her mother. Victory...for now.

Off the phone, she asked me to fetch her an ice-cold beer. I imagine that first, frosty sip must’ve been the coldest taste after the longest walk in the world's hottest desert. And that's how the story of the Turtle ends.

Today is my wife’s 32nd birthday.

Is there a Turtle in your life?


Brian Huba
10.14.13

What's Victory Look Like?

What’s victory look like when the opponent's a terrifying force and the fight’s a slugfest that pummels the heart, crushes the soul? That’s the sized fight I’m talking about here. The kind of fight you never want, when everything is at stake, and victory’s not certain, not by a longshot, daddy-o. In fact I can show you thousands who’ve lost this fight. Just follow that winding road through the gut of St. Agnes. There they are, to the right, to the left, they’re out there. That’s what defeat looks like in this. What’s victory look like?

When I was twenty-five I started my first internship at ^%&*$#@* High School. I was sitting in the main office, waiting for my lead-teacher to arrive and bring me in. As I waited, another student-teacher entered the office. A bell above the door buzzed as she came in: good hair, good curves. I looked up, watched her walk to the secretary’s desk. She’d be working with another teacher there. I’d be interning with her. Finished with the front desk, she walked to the row of chairs where I sat, and my life was about to change.

We have so many ideas about what we’d do if given the chance to touch victory. But the truth is when life presents a fight like this, there’s nothing left but a nub when it’s done. And that nub is the only Earthly evidence that you went the distance, punch for punch, round after round after round, and when the final bell buzzed, you were still there, still here. When you fight the fight of your life the only trophy is your life.

We went together for a year then broke up. I thought I’d be better without her, sure of it. I was twenty-six and ready to be single. So off I went. Within a month, my entire life fell apart. I lost my job, crashed my car, ran out of money, was living in slum housing. The single thing, yeah, not so much fun when you’re unemployed and broke. On Halloween night, she came back to me, like a blessing, saved my life. Two weeks later, I had my car back, a better job, even all my money returned. I was nothing without her. I was everything with her.

Many people believe they’re destined to live cinematic lives, no bad could ever come to them, and they’ll be the hero in every situation. We style our hair and nails and get worked up about what people think of us. We all want the cinematic life. But none of that matters. Life is survival, with the hope of having a few great moments along the way. To stay alive is the great gift, the only gift. That’s what coming through a fight shows you. Ignorance is bliss. Victory is pulling the curtain off Oz. Victory is truth.

A few months after my father died, we got married, bought a house; began a life. We exercised and ate right, did everything possible to improve and elongate our time on Earth. I'd never been happy OR lucky. Now I was both. We’d make a family and be successful in our careers, always happy, always together. We were in great shape, physically, great spirits and full of the bully bully. Ours was going to be a great life. Then it came--IT--and it was time to fight.

Victory is never enjoyed by the victor. That part belongs to everyone else. It’s the circle of friends and family that pumps fist and sips champagne when the big fight’s been fought. We all imagine the great things we can do on the heels of a heroic victory. But the real hero wants no part of that kind of fight. The real hero knows nobody "wins" a fight like this. It’s done because there’s no other choice. The real hero understands that winning back your life will forever change your life. The romance and cinema, finished. Victory is truth.

Last night I watched my wife in the bath. She sat in six inches of water, knees folded to her chest; bald head hung low on her now-sinewy neck. Two wash clothes draped her emaciated shoulders like a boxer's robe, and her wedding ring that once fit snug slides halfway down her fourth finger. She’s twenty pounds lighter and half-blinded by oozing stys in both eyes. A nub. But she’s alive and she’s beautiful. Victory...for now.

Read More: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-lost-pearl.html

Brian Huba
10.5.13

True Drue

When I saw the TU headline yesterday--RECKLESS, DISTRACTED, DRUNK--I was in shock. I don’t understand why Dennis Drue all of a sudden decided to roll over and admit guilt on EVERY SINGLE count in regards to the Northway Crash that killed Chris Stewart and Deanna Rivers last December. Honestly, I thought he had a terrific chance of beating many of the felonies against him, if not all.

Let me preface by restating how gut-wrenching this deadly crash was for Clifton Park and the Shen Community, my community. Whenever a young life is lost, any young life, it’s unspeakably sad. There is nothing worse. My heart bleeds for the families involved. With that said, I have never thought they (these families) had a homerun case against Drue. I liked the DA’s chances even less when Drue brought Steve Coffey aboard. Coffey Esquire promised that Drue would walk out of this a free man, NOT guilty on all 58 charges, and man oh man, did I believe him. The burden of proof was just too much. How could anyone “definitively” say exactly what happened that December night on the Northway? Even if Drue had been drinking, doing drugs, driving like Dale Earnhardt, all media fabrications in my opinion, there was no way he’d be found guilty across the board, because there’s no “solid” proof he caused the crash.

In my opinion, the media has been highly unfair and biased against Dennis Drue. The victims were built up like high school All-Americans, amazing in every way, and maybe they were, while Drue was depicted as a dark, shadowy criminal, with an ugly driving record and substance problems. It was completely over the top. Then the TU reports on the callous bullying of Bailey Wind, the passenger who transformed her tragedy into Social-Media Gold. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/02/this-isnt-news.html.

Wind's latest nugget: "5 to 15 years doesn't bring my god damn boyfriend and best friend back #restinpeace." Gold, Bailey, Gold!

Coffey said potentially "overwhelming" evidence influenced Drue's decision, as did "the fact that we had to try this up in Saratoga County." Look at the second part of the quote and you’ll have your answer. That’s why Coffey took this deal, I guarantee it. A Saratoga County Jury would’ve pig-roasted this kid. Half of them would’ve shipped him downstate while wearing a "Shen Must Mend" t-shirt. There was no way he was getting a fair trial here. But I still think he should’ve fought. Who hires Steve Coffey then just backs down without a trial? Why? Because the damning evidence might come out? Who cares? Channel 6 News has already turned Drue into Scott OJ Simpson Peterson. Watch this and tell me I'm wrong:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KMlmf_bcNiU. You call that a balanced reporting of facts? So I say to hell with the ugly dets at this juncture. For Drue’s part, he spoke to no one, never broke character as the media cut a machete through his life. For that reason alone, I thought he’d potentially walk.

"When you combine the alcohol, the (marijuana), the texting, the speeding and all of those things combined," Saratoga County DA Murphy said, "it is no doubt that something like this was going to happen. As a result we had four completely innocent kids suffer unspeakable consequences." This quote pretty much sums up why the Capital Region has become so convinced that Drue's a stone-cold killer. The drinking? Turns out the DA had witnesses who say that Drue was drinking "heavily" at KOTO, and they were so concerned they asked if he had a DD, even though they were strangers. We’re sure that actually happened? This isn’t just a few jerks who all of a sudden remember everything from that night, now looking for five minutes of fame? Where were they last Dec.? Let’s look at the marijuana part. On the surface, that quote suggests that Drue was doing drugs on the night in question, it’s meant to make you think that. Nope, he wasn’t. The texting? Suddenly the Saratoga’s DA has produced another cloak-and-dagger witness that claims he/she was texting with Drue before the accident. Really?

Truth is they HAD to get this kid behind bars. He’d shattered the Shen Community and the pressure to put him away was overwhelming. The media was best friend in this pursuit. I think Drue was “kind of” railroaded here. He should’ve had his shot in court.

Murphy said he believed the denial of the request for a venue change was among the factors that led Drue to plead guilty. Murphy said he was prepared to go to trial and was somewhat shocked to learn of Drue's decision. On Friday, in a cracking voice, Drue repeated the word "guilty" to the series of charges. Then he and his high-priced lawyer left the courtroom, with Drue looking at 5-15 years in prison, life over. The Prosecutors are gonna cut his heart out. He's getting the full 15. And I don’t mean RCJ or ACJ. I’m talking Dannemora, Sing-Sing. Who just rolls over and takes that deal at 22 years old?

You don’t draft Peyton Manning to establish the running game and you don’t hire Steve Coffey to cave on the eve of your life-saving trail. Am I saying something else is going on here? Am I saying the kid was somehow, someway strong armed into quitting before the big game? I don’t know what I’m saying. This kid gave his life away without throwing a single punch.

Read More: http://www.timesunion.com/local/article/Drue-admits-all-58-counts-in-crash-deaths-of-2-4849075.php#page-2

Brian Huba
9.28.13

Darkness Before Dawn

In 2000 my uncle Dave died of cancer. He was 33. From that I had a real fear of turning 33 myself.

Dateline September 2012: A shot of severe chest pain at 3 am, a few nights before my 33rd. I thought it was a coronary. I had always known this, hadn’t I? This was where the wagon would derail. But it was only my first experience with heartburn. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2012/09/stop-and-smell-roses.html. I survived that night, turned 33, and the first six months of said year were great. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was silly for living in fear of a number, an age, a time. We were ready to start a family, a life. It was my time to shine. Then it all went the other way.

Once I read about a religion/belief system that said we chart out our lives before we live them, and as we exist, we know where the road is going. That’s what deja vous is, this religion argues. We haven’t been there before; we’re going there in the future. Somewhere deep in our being, we know our destiny, because we planned it out, pre-birth. I don’t know if that’s true. But something always told me 33 would be a bad one. I had no idea how right I was.

The feared slide of 33 started Easter Sunday. My wife found something (seemingly benign) on her body, and two weeks later, received the most-dreaded diagnosis a woman could hear. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-lost-pearl.html. The world went instantly dark. Plans to make a family: Done. It was a stunning turn of events. I thought we'd be special, world killers, now it was trying to stay alive, intact. We forged ahead, fought, took hold of the horrible situation, just in time to find out our dog, Sophie, had been diagnosed with cancer: Mast-cell tumor. She had to undergo surgery and was quickly declared cancer free: Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/06/sophies-letter-to-shaker-vet.html. That's when we started praying nightly.

People talk all the time about the power of positive thought. Maybe it’s the same way with negative thought. Maybe because I had always feared 33 with such vigor, I created the horror that came halfway through. Maybe all this disaster was my fault.

Then the real nightmare started. I was sitting outside the Rensselaer Train Station, there to pick up my wife, coming back from treatment, when my sister called to tell me that my oldest friend, Chris Premo, had been in an accident, and it’s “bad.” The next five days: Hell itself, ending with Chris’s shocking death on July 29th. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/08/mines-ordinary-life.html. I was 33. The ship was sinking. No end in sight. What could happen next?

Funny you should ask. My aunt’s fiancé was diagnosed with cancer, and I was diagnosed with bradycardia. It’s been nonstop, never ending this year. And I didn’t even mention the death of James Gandolfini. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/07/my-final-word-on-gandolfini.html. As I write this, the Giants are working on 0&3. When I was 33. It was NOT a very good year.

Everything happens for a reason, I believe that. Maybe I can’t read the writing on the wall right now, but someday I’ll understand why this avalanche of sadness rolled over my life at this time. I will recognize how it was a gateway to good. That’s my mentality as I move towards 34.

Yesterday I was mowing the lawn. I went past the house, turned around, and started back towards the front door once more. I love mowing the lawn, seeing the tall grass cut down, the property made clean, one blade at a time. When you start the lawn, the yard’s an unkempt mess, out of control perhaps, and when you finish, it looks great. As I pushed the machine towards the front door, I saw my wife sitting on the stair, watching me. In the window behind her, all three dogs sat, looking out, tails wagging. She smiled, waved. I smiled, waved back. And that’s when I knew everything would be all right. We’re alive, and as long as we're alive, there's hope. Read more: http://brianhuba.blogspot.com/2013/08/life-is-circle-wheel.html


Brian Huba
9.22.13

Twerking Girl

Saturday Night Live leaked its hosts for the first three episodes. Tina Fey will start things off, followed by Twerking Girl Miley Cyrus, then Bruce Willis. Like Meatloaf once said, “two out of three ain’t bad.”

I’m a smidge disappointed that SNL would reward Cyrus’s late-summer slutathon, using such a flimsy platform to launch the retooled cast. Across the board, I don’t understand why Cyrus is getting epic attention for making a fool of herself on an irrelevant awards show. She can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t perform, so she decides to stick her tongue out and dry hump a stage for six minutes, and it projectiles her career? Compared to Cyus, Justin Bieber's Stevie Wonder. But she “twerked” in a flesh-colored bikini so her songs shoot to the top of I-tunes, her CD sales rocket, her face plasters the cover of every magazine? Then SNL comes calling? Is cheap shock value really this powerful? What’s next? One Direction makes soft porn, wins a lifetime achievement?

Lorne Michaels has put his rookie cast on a suicide mission. Do you understand how hard these newbies are going to have to work to cover over Cyrus’s non-existent chops? Remember when Lindsay Lohan took a stab at hosting last season (maybe the season before)? She was making her big “comeback” and Michaels installed her on the heels of all that hallow attention. There are legendary stories of the cast making commercial-break rewrites to sketches. Why? Lohan couldn't get three lines out. Lohan was a train wreck. And that was a well-oiled team (Hader, Sudeikis, Myers, etc). Lohan's Meryl Streep compared to Cyrus.

How can someone as seasoned as Lorne Michaels buy this five-minute bounce, again? Is it really about ratings in SNL’s 700th season? OK, the whole country will watch, sure we will, and we’ll go to bed thinking SNL's in the crapper. This is too big a platform to showcase Hannah Montana. "But, Brian, they're gonna make fun of Miley all night. It'll be hilarious." I don't care about Miley Cyrus. I don't want to spend a whole show on her. I want primetime presence.

And the worst part is I was looking forward to the new SNL cast. The least Michaels could do is fill the first month with established talent at host, give these comedic kids a real chance to win America. I just didn’t realize that twerking and tongue lapping qualified someone for that job.

Read More: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/miley-cyrus-to-host-and-perform-on-saturday-night-live-20130909

Brian Huba
9.14.13