Randy Seaver, former journalist and PR pro, blogs about politics, his hometown and his struggles with mental illness.
Running for elected office is not easy; not by a long shot.
But I am so proud of my wife; proud of her courage, her determination and her fiercely independent spirit.
It’s the two-week stretch, and no matter the outcome, I have enjoyed watching Laura grow and face her challenges head-on. She’ll make one hell of a city councilor.
I have come full circle.
When I first met Laura, she was running for one of two seats on the Old Orchard Beach School Board. I was the editor of a local newspaper, and generally wrote endorsements for various candidates in five different communities.
In that particular race, I endorsed the incumbent, mistakenly thinking there was only one seat up for grabs.
I got an e-mail from Laura Kidman the next day. Part of what she wrote: “If I were a newspaper editor, I would get my facts straight. There are two open seats and three candidates.”
Ouch.
I was feeling defensive and returned her e-mail with a curt response, a half-hearted apology and also told her: “If I were going to write to the editor of a newspaper, I would be sure to spell the name of the newspaper correctly.”
This is how our relationship began.
Later in the day, I was complaining about the e-mail exchange to a reporter from another newspaper. That reporter empathized and added that Laura was really cute . . . and single. She offered to show me a campaign photo.
I was smitten, and I immediately returned to my office to write another e-mail to Laura. A response came into my inbox only moments later.
And that’s how it went for the next several days: a series of e-mails that became increasingly flirtatious, leading up to Election Day.
During our e-mail exchange, I made Laura an offer: If she won the election, I would actually bother to cover a meeting of the Old Orchard Beach School Board. But if she lost the election, I would buy her a cup of coffee.
We had still not met in person.
On Election Day, my gut felt as if it were filled with shards of broken glass. I could not concentrate. I was planning to go to Old Orchard Beach and check the polls, knowing that Laura would likely be there, greeting voters as they entered the high school.
I saw her standing against a wall with other candidates, and my heart sunk. I knew instantly that she was way out of my league.
I shook her hand briefly, and then moved along quickly, trying to look important . . . as if I cared about the other races in Old Orchard Beach, and then left quickly without saying goodbye.
I drove away from the high school that night, cursing myself for believing that I might actually have a chance with this woman.
Long story short: Laura lost that election, and e-mailed me the next day to remind me that I owed her a cup of coffee. She provided me three different phone numbers to contact her.
There were more e-mails, and then a first date, a second date and so on . . .
Bottom line, it’s very unlikely that we would be married today if Laura had won that election.
Sometimes a loss is a big win.
After being married only a few years, Laura won other elections; serving two terms on the Biddeford School Committee. And today, she is a candidate for the Biddeford City Council.
This is where it gets tricky. I often get paid to work on political campaigns, but what do I do when my wife is a candidate?
I struggle with wanting to run her campaign, and she pushes back, saying she is going to do things her own way.
Make no mistake, she appreciates my support and advice, but at the end of the day this particular campaign is hers, not mine.
I am personally vested in seeing her win, but I am also reminded that even a loss could be a good thing.
Laura really cares about the city of Biddeford. She has a lot of good ideas about how our city can move forward.
My job is to sit back, and let her do her job; to help her when she asks, but otherwise keep my opinions to myself. And if you know me, you know that is a tall order.
Laura’s campaign won’t really start until Tuesday, and there are seven weeks to go before Election Day.
It just strikes me that if I didn’t make that mistake during my newspaper days, my life would be completely different today.
So, there are two lessons here:
Mistakes can turn out really well, and losses can be very big wins.
Hear ye, hear ye . . .
I have just returned from Biddeford City Hall with the official list of mayoral and city council candidates.
The deadline for filing nomination papers has come and gone; and these are the names you will find on your November 3 ballot.
Let’s start at the top . . .
Mayor Alan Casavant is being challenged for a third-term bid by Daniel Parenteau.
Parenteau ran two years ago as one of six candidates for the two at-large council seats. He finished in last place with a little more than 600 votes. He’s gonna need to step up his game if he wants to win this time.
There are five candidates running for the two at-large seats on the city council. This could be an epic battle. Finally: Seaver vs. Twomey!
Sorry for the distraction, here are the candidates: Councilor Marc Lessard is hoping to keep his seat. Councilor Clement Fleurent has decided to retire and will not be seeking re-election. The other four candidates (in alphabetical order) are:
Melissa “the Wolverine” Bednarowski. She served one term on the council (2011-2013) and is an outspoken critic of almost everything, but especially hates Alan Casavant.
Doris McCauliffe: if you don’t recognize the name, just think of the lady who screams when addressing the council at public meetings.
Laura Seaver: She’s smart, she’s sexy, she’s funny and super motivated. Did I mention she is a super hottie? (My personal favorite)
And, Joanne Twomey. Yes, Joanne Twomey will be battling a Seaver for a council seat. Epic! Twomey has lost her last three bids for public office, including twice being beaten by Casavant for mayor and losing the Democratic nomination for the District 135 Legislative seat in 2012.
Councilor Michael Swanton is being challenged by political newcomer Kathy Russell.
Councilor John McCurry is the only candidate running unopposed.
Councilor Stephen St. Cyr is being challenged by Richard Rhames. St. Cyr was appointed to the council earlier this year, and now wants to earn the seat. Rhames has a strong following in that ward (actually in all wards) and will be a strong contender.
Councilor Robert “Bobby” Quattrone is hoping for a second term but he is being challenged by political newcomer Terry Belanger.
Hang on to your seats, boys and girls. There are six candidates vying for the Ward Five seat. That’s right, I said SIX candidates.
Councilor Bobby Mills really wants to hold onto his seat for a fourth term, but is being challenged by (let me catch my breath) : Nathan Bean, Perry Aberle, Milton Truman, Carol Boisjoly and Karl Reed, Jr. (who runs a web site named best in your girl)
Councilor Roger Hurtubise is retiring from political life. His seat is being sought by former city councilor Rick Laverriere and political newcomer Debbie Croteau Lauzon, the mother of Matt Lauzon. Matt Lauzon has played a critical role in shaping this year’s political landscape by keeping the heat on city officials regarding alleged sexual abuse by two former police officers.
Councilor Michael Ready is being challenged by former Charter Commission member Ben Neveaux.
And there you have it! Your slate of candidates for the city council.
I’ll post the school committee candidates later, but right now I have a birthday party to attend.
Good luck to all the candidates. On behalf of all Biddeford residents, thank you for stepping forward to serve your community.
For those of you who think I am a world-class prick, what you are about to read should only confirm your suspicions.
It is a recounting of my reaction, more than three years ago, when I was about to learn that my wife, Laura, was diagnosed with MS.
The only way I can even begin to assuage some of that guilt is to do what I do…tell a story, share that story and hope that maybe you will feel compelled to help . . . just a little bit
If the following story moves you, if it makes you angry or if it makes you sad . . . please consider clicking this link.
If my words about that crappy day, full of self-righteous indignation, make you smile or laugh . . . please consider clicking that link.
If my words make you wonder how a world-class prick can end up with such a wonderful wife. . . well, you get it. . . click that link.
Enough of this…here’s the story one more time . . .
It is paper-thin and measures only 8 by 3-1/2 inches, but it scares the hell out of me.
It has been sitting on the dashboard of my truck for several days, just there. Always visible. Always reminding me of what I cannot escape.
It is a placard that allows parking in disabled parking spaces. You know the one. The little, gender-neutral stick figure that sits in a wheelchair against a crimson-blue backdrop.
I have been struggling with writing this post for the last several days because I am terrified of both its content and the potential reaction from those who read it.
The reason I have the placard is because Laura was diagnosed with MS in December 2008. Since then, she has experienced fluctuating levels of mobility; and I do my best to ignore it. To brush it off. To think it will eventually go away.
Some days are better than others.
That’s how it goes with MS, people tell me. I try to pretend that Laura is just tired or maybe a bit depressed. Maybe if I work just a bit harder, just a bit more, it will go away. That is a child’s thinking. That has been my thinking.
Make no mistake, Laura is lucky. Her MS is fairly manageable. She is able to go to work each day and leads a more than productive life.
But still, I wonder. Me, the eternal pessimist. This disease is slowly, but deliberately, taking away a little piece of my wife each day, no matter how much I try to deny or ignore it.
I still remember the day she was diagnosed. It was just a few days after Christmas. Laura had been experiencing a strange numbing sensation on her face. She made an appointment with her doctor. He recommended that she see a neurologist. At the time, we both thought it was no big deal.
I was home and knee-deep in ethernet cables when Laura called me on her way back from the doctor’s office.
I didn’t take her to the appointment. My mother-in-law drove her to and from the neurologist’s office.
I regret that decision to stay and work on hooking up my kids’ computer to the internet. But I don’t regret that decision nearly as much as I regret the things I said to Laura when she finally got me on the phone.
“Hey,” she said in a soft-spoken tone which belied the news that should have followed. She wanted to tell me in person, face-to-face.
“What,” I shot back, only half paying attention, much more focused on the twisted mass of blue wires wrapped around my feet.
“I was wondering if you could start a pot of coffee,” she asked.
I was livid. I had already done three loads of laundry, paid the bills and vacuumed the living room. The computer wiring was near the end of my “to-do” list and the thought of one more thing sent me over the edge. Idiot, that I am.
“You want coffee? Make it yourself,” I barked. “Do you know what kind of day I’ve had? Pick up a cup from Dunkin’ Donuts or whatever, but just leave me alone.”
Silence.
“What’s your problem?” I continued. “You’ve been out shopping with your mother, and you want me to make the fucking coffee? Could you be any more lazy?”
“Sorry, ” she said. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll take care of it myself.” And the phone went silent.
She arrived home maybe 20 minutes later. I was still up to my knees in tangled cords. She brought me a cup of coffee and asked if we could talk.
I was still exasperated. “What?”
“They diagnosed me with MS,” she said, trying very hard to hold back the tears.
I let go of those silly cords. We sat down at the dining room table and began our latest adventure.
If you think I was a prick then, I can assure you that I haven’t done much better since.
I avoid conversations about MS. I avoid the annual MS Walk. I don’t want to think about it. I want it to go away.
Every other night is “shot night” at our home. Every other night, Laura injects herself with Betaseron to keep the illness at bay. Every other night, I turn away and find something else to occupy my thinking.
I love my wife. Honestly, I do. And I know she needs my support. Again, some days are better than others.
So today, marks the first day that I used the placard. We took Laura’s mother to Wal-Mart. We parked in one of the disabled spaces. Betty was moving through the store like a speed demon, anxiously making her way toward what would hopefully be her new television. She is 66 years old and she left me in the dust.
Instinctively, I paused, and turned back to check on my wife. I could tell that Laura’s energy level was dropping quickly. “Are you okay,” I asked.
“Yeah, she nodded. “I’m fine.”
I knew it was a lie, and once again…I played along.
Keep your paws off!
Is that clear enough?
Well . . . apparently, I was a bit unclear last week, when I wrote about rumors regarding who Mayor Alan Casavant might appoint to a vacant city council seat.
Although I put to bed the notion that Casavant would nominate me ( or that I would accept such an appointment), some people have speculated that my wife, Laura, would be appointed.
I seriously doubt that Casavant ever considered Laura as an appointment, but just in case: I’ve got news for you, the bearded mayor and for anyone else looking to get freaky with my woman: My wife swapping days are over!
In her most recent column, titled Processes, procedures and proposed politicians, Molly Lovell Keely, editor of the Biddeford-Saco-OOB Courier, dazzles us with her penchant for alliteration.
Keely also speculates that Laura Seaver, my Laura Seaver!, may be on some kind of short list of possible nominees for the council seat.
For more than four years, Laura served on the Biddeford School Committee.
During those four years, our family suffered immense pain.
The second and fourth Tuesdays of every month became a living hell for me and the boys. There was no one here to cook our dinner, to rub our feet, to read us our bed time stories.
That’s it! Enough is enough! I’m done!
I’ve put in almost 10 years of training Laura, instructing her about how to be a good wife, and I’m not going to share my hard work and resources with Casavant or any other elected official in Biddeford.
For the record, Laura is making progress with her good wife skills, and now sorts whites and colors for the laundry. She picks up my dry-cleaning when instructed. Her cooking skills are slowly improving, but her back-rub skills need work and lots more practice.
Hint: If you want a good wife, find a woman before she learns to read. It’s much easier to train them. Otherwise, they start getting all sorts of ideas about being independent and having their own opinions.
So that’s it. I hope this is clear enough. And I will speak to Brian Keely, reminding him that his wife-training regimen needs work.
Editor’s Note: Before all you women out there get your panties in a bunch, this is satire. It’s a short word and should be easy enough for you to comprehend. If you still have doubts, check the video below. Laura is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I do not deserve her.
Laura and I are now facing the prospect of soon being homeless, and it’s all because of a terrorist group in the Middle East, a spilled bowl of water and the power of the internet.
Shortly after the tragic events of Sept.11, 2001, interest rates were slashed as a way to restore consumer confidence in a stumbling economy.
As a result of those slashed rates, the real estate market went absolutely crazy. Just about every homeowner I know, including me and Laura, refinanced their mortgages to capitalize on the lower rates. Meanwhile, property values in southern Maine skyrocketed.
Faithful readers of this column already know that Laura and I live in a relatively small home (with the emphasis placed on the word “small.”) Since we have two dogs, two cats, two rats, two aquariums, two children and two bedrooms, we knew from the day we met that we would soon need a bigger home.
But we were scared by the skyrocketing housing market. So we spent the first several months of our marriage on repairing our credit scores and fixing up our home to increase its value.
During the past two years, I’ve made more trips to Home Depot, Deering Lumber, Moody’s Nursery and Andy’s Agway than I want to talk about.
We first put up a storage shed and then spent several months and many precious weekends painting, tiling and shoveling. We worked our butts off, making our little bungalow more pleasing to the eye and comfortable to live in.
But then tragedy struck. While walking toward the washing machine late one night, I tripped over the dogs’ water dish, spilling the water all over the hardwood floors and soaking my socks. I thought I could make the trip without turning on the lights.
As I went to clean up the water, I leaned over to grab the mop (which is wedged behind the washing machine, which is wedged behind the dining room table) and stepped on a Bionical toy (which is relatively inexpensive, small, plastic and sharp as a razor.)
The pain made me scream, which is pretty normal in my house. No one stirred, not even the rats. I marched (actually limped) into our master bedroom, which measures three feet by six feet, and told my lovely wife that I was ready to snap.
Laura lifted her head from the pillow and said (with her eyes closed) “well then do something about it,” before immediately falling back into a deep slumber. I grabbed a flashlight and made my way toward the computer, which is wedged behind the kitchen sink (right next to the water heater).
I began using the internet to research interest rates, mortgage companies and real estate brokers. I got more e-mail messages in the next three days than you could shake a stick at, and our phone started ringing off the hook.
Within 72 hours, a smiling real estate agent was sitting in our living room (which measures 11 inches by 14 inches). He recommended a mortgage broker he knows and told us what he thought our home was worth. We smiled, too.
There were papers to sign and brochures to read. The whole process took 15 minutes. The broker stepped outside, grabbed a “For Sale” sign and tore up a small section of my beloved front lawn. That was last Wednesday (April 21) at approximately 7:30 p.m.
Within 17 hours, my cell phone chirped. It was my smiling broker. “We have an offer,” he said. “It’s for more than you wanted,” he added, spelling out the details.
Laura and I wanted to sell our home on a contingent basis, which would allow us adequate time to close on a new home. The buyer, apparently, did not want to wait. We had a decision to make. My father always said “a bird in the hand is worth a lot more than President Bush,” so we accepted the offer.
The real estate agent came back to our home that night with a much bigger smile than before. There was more paperwork and lots of questions about how many lead pencils we keep near the desk.
Suddenly, we were faced with a very big dilemma. We had barely started our search for a new home, and we now have less than six weeks to find one, have it inspected and move our 13 tons of belongings into it.
How do you spell stress?
We spent the weekend looking at homes. It’s not so bad, really. There are many affordable properties out there for people in our income range. It’s just that commuting from Caribou is going to mean I’ll be spending a lot more on gas and turnpike tolls.
LESSONS IN MEDIOCRITY 