Looking back in anger: What’s it take to get my idea heard?

Author's note: This column you are about to read is unlike anything I have done before.

Check back with me at the end.

My co-worker and friend, John Hartsock, years ago told me that I should have kept a copy of all my columns, and then some day put them into one book and try to get it published. It was really great advice. Never did it, but still, great advice.

But if I ever, some day, in fact write a book, I do have a title for it: "Getting More Angry Every Day!"

Ask my wife. Ask my kids. Ask my friends and co-workers. I seem to find something to get mad at each and every day that I'm on this planet. From the things I read and see, and the things I hear, sometimes I cannot help but wonder if God looks at us from on high, takes out his "Etch A Sketch," draws a photo of the big blue marble, and just shakes it up like crazy and starts all over again.

When my kids were little, I got mad a lot, but the Mrs. was always there to rein me back in, pointing out that these young, impressionable minds were going to make mistakes along the way and it was up to us to guide them back on the right track. She used to joke with me as they got older that they were easier to co-exist alongside. OK, but now they are in their 20s and 30s, so no more track guiding.

And for Mrs. Franco, she just needs to pick a day where I am right about everything that happens that day, shake her head yes and agree with me on everything. Honestly, I would like that every day but I am a realist, which just makes me angry to admit that to all of you.

See? You guys are spoiled because I was always such a jovial guy.

For instance, my family will ask me my opinion on something, I will suggest a solution, and then they will go in a completely different direction. I am Charlie Brown and the Mrs. and the kids are Lucy with a football.

In my head, when Ann Marie or the others ask me a suggestion, I see me launching a shooting clay into the sky, and I can clearly see my response on it, only to then see her or the kids using a high-powered rifle to obliterate it out of the air.

What do you think we should eat? What do you think about going here for vacation? BOOM! BOOM!. Honey, I think you're out of ammo ... maybe get one of the kids to buy you some more while I pontificate my next doomed answer.

Just like Walter Mondale conceded the 1984 election to Ronald Reagan about five minutes after the polls closed, I should do the same thing from now on. I will tell them to just pick something, someplace, somewhere, and I either go or I won't go, I'll eat it or won't eat it, live with it or not live with it.

In the last two months, one of my ideas was used involving a tailgate get-together at Saint Francis for a football game. I was so excited, but I didn't have enough credible witnesses with me to testify on my behalf.

My wife was planning a birthday dinner for her father at our house. No problem. I love the guy. I love my house. My wife is a heck of a cook. It's a Sunday. Sunday means football. She knows me and my son Dominic watch the Dolphins game every week, usually at 1 p.m. They were playing at 1 p.m. on this day. My suggestion was 4:30 or 5 p.m.

The dinner was at noon.

My oldest daughter, Maggie, got into the debate, siding with my wife, but my point was, why ask me? I will give Ann Marie credit for still involving me in the discussion, despite the fact that she is conditioned to mentally waive off most anything that comes out of my mouth in the form of an answer. You know the scene in "Raiders of the Last Ark" when at the end, they tell Indiana Jones that the government has the Ark and it is in good hands, but in reality, it is in a giant crate, stored in a mammoth warehouse with thousands of other crates, probably never to be seen again. That is where my ideas go when they are offered up in a conversation.

Listen, I know they love me. I know they care about me. But on the pyramid of ideas and problem-solving thoughts, I'm off to the side of the pyramid, just hoping I get a chance to get into the pyramid.

But to be fair, it has been done to me in the past. When I was planning on asking the former Miss Kuhn to marry me back in the summer of 1993, my date to ask her was going to be July 11, 1993, because that was the one-year anniversary of us meeting. My sister, Cindy, asked me around May when I was going to ask her because she was afraid she would accidentally blurb it out. She wanted me to hurry up and ask. She wasn't kidding. She is like that.

I told my sister that no, it was going to be on July 11, but guess who buckled and asked her on July 2? That's right. Me. Couldn't risk it. Makes me angry just typing that sentence up.

But then again, this column is a risk because I did not have Mrs. Franco proofread this one before I gave it to my boss. I always do that. But you know why I didn't this time? Because I wanted to do something that my 61-year-old body and mind wanted to do. No suggestions or recommendations; just me, getting my way.

And after you're done reading it, if you want to reach out to me and tell me what you think, I'm sure any of the lovely motels or hotels in the Altoona area will gladly welcome you for a visit in the lounge area where I'll be living for the rest of the fall.

Closing argument

The dinner for my father-in-law's birthday was actually switched to 4:30 p.m. that Sunday, which may make you think my wife finally agreed to take my suggestion and run with it. There was no running. It was her decision.

It was changed -- for a good reason that shall not appear here -- but not for me, but it did benefit me.

And in the end, we both got what we wanted. Her dad enjoyed his birthday dinner with a few others, plus my family, and my son Dominic and I got to watch the Miami Dolphins lose their fifth straight game to start the season, and I got to feel, for just a moment or two, that my opinion mattered ... until it doesn't the next time.