“What was that?” Jess asked, oh, around 3am. “Was it the wind?” The wind had plagued Jess’s mind ever since earlier that morning when she read in the news that”violent winds” were on their way. ”Violent winds…oh no…” I’d responded, feigning fear.

“You heard it, too?” I shot back, still in a partial coma. Before Jess confirmed it, I half-thought I had dreamed the thud against our house. To best describe it, it sounded like the UPS man had hurled a package against our front door.

So, I got out of bed to better analyze the situation. The pine trees in the backyard were going nuts. In the midst of the angriest wind I’d ever known, the treetops acted as though, at any minute, they could snap off and blow to China. Was the three little pigs wolf outside? I wondered if any shingles were left on my roof. 

In front, banging furiously at our front door step, a strip of siding hung by a string from the exterior of our house, as if a mighty gorilla had been working at it all night. Somehow, it held on all through the night, a miracle in itself. 

Not about to tackle a home repair project at three in the morning, I went back to bed feeling uneasy, listening to the wind slap against our bedroom window, feeling like one of the disciples stuck in the middle of the stormy Sea of Galilee, while Jesus snoozed away somewhere below deck. Wake up, Jesus, before our house blows away! 

The next morning I groggily drug myself out of bed to go fetch our trashcan that had blown into the street. I was just happy it was still in the vicinity. The wind had died down just a tad, but it still blew mean and with a Siberian sharpness. I moved to the side of the house, stepping over the articles of my neighbor’s trash now in my lawn (hey, I didn’t know they brushed with Colgate!), where I gathered a particulary large cardboard box I knew to be missing from the trashcan.

I went back inside thankful that I had made it through the wind storm of January ‘08. I had learned a hard lesson, indeed: violent winds ain’t no joke.   

Categories: Nature
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Saturday evening, Jess accidentally knocked herself out on the pills her doctor had prescribed for some back pain she’d been having. That sneaky blinding pink “MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS” label on the pill bottle, slipped right past our noses (when’d that get there?) and without warning, Jess soon nodded off into a deep sleep that’d make Rip Van Winkle jealous. Our conversation leading up to the intoxicated moment went something like this: “You want to play a game?” “Sure…zzz…”

 If you don’t count the tv remote, it was good that Jess had refrained from operating heavy machinery. However, she did drive home on the stuff, and I half-wanted to check her car for dings, animal fur, or perhaps, an embedded lawn ornament.

Abandoned and left with nothing to do, I went right to work at mindlessly zoning out on random fixtures in the living room. When that grew tiring, I thought it might be good to check Jess’ pulse and wait for clear signs of breathing, just to be safe. I did the same with our dog, Phoebe, who lay beside her as though she, too, had gotten into Jess’ pills. The silent, sad walls of the house began to get to me, however, and though Jess and Pheobe snoozed away within arm’s length, they seemed a million miles away. Part of me couldn’t help but feel a little insulted that no one invited me to the 24 hour sleep-a-thon.

After an instance of self-pity, I adjusted to the realization that I should be happy because the night was mine to do whatever I pleased - as long as I did it very quietly, so not to wake the house. But the quiet was too much. For a split moment, I flashbacked to high school library. My chest tightened. I sensed that all too familiar pinned up adolescent rambunctousness. The urge to suddenly bust out laughing and wing paper wads at someone swept over me. Then the fear - I felt eyes on me. Mrs. Matthews was here, I knew it. Any second, she’d emerge from her hiding place, out of the deep dark shadows of the book shelves, and kick me out for another two weeks for being “too loud.”

At the risk of going completely insane with high school flashbacks and the maddening silence, I flipped on the tv. Jess was out for the night, anyway, no matter what ruckus I caused. Instinctively, I landed on the History Channel, which, to my delight, happened to be showing MonsterQuest, a documentary featuring daring scientists and cameramen tracking the jungles of developing countries, hot on the trail of the most notorious mythical creatures, such as the Lochness Monster, Big Foot, and Danny Devito. This noble expedition is done, of course, in the name of Science and, the less advertised, to get to the bottom of what the heck’s in the water that’s making the locals crazy.

But, if you ask me, I don’t think the locals are crazy at all. In fact, they are quite brilliant. What’s better to boost the economy of a poverty-stricken country than the monster tour biz? There’s always a market - man’s innate curiosity - and there’s practically no overhead, just a map and a perhaps a monkey in a mask.

And that may be precisely what we had on our hands here. This particular episode starred ”the real hobbit”, named after the loveable, tiny furry-footed creatures in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings novel triology. In short, the real hobbit is described as an orange-haired, three-to-four foot tall monkey-like creature with a human face (perhaps Gilbert Gottfried’s) whose favorite hide out is the thick jungles of Sumatra, Indonesia. According to eyewitnesses, it has the exact dimensions of the native orangutan - but that’s not what it is! Okay?!

Sometimes, I guess, this baby Chewbaca comes out and says hi to the villagers in his own special monkey-man sort of way by grabbing at roots and bolting up the overgrown side of the nearest dormant volcano when spotted. He’s not particularly violent or cheerful. In fact, the locals call him Orang Pendak, which means “we don’t know what he is or where he came from, but he’s very dull and could certainly use a shave.”

Before the expedition began, the scientists hired the local monster tourguide who had a booth set up right next to the “COCONUT DRINKS FOR 3 BANANAS OR TWO CHICKENS” stand guy. (By the looks of the place, I guessed barter system.) He didn’t speak a lick of English, but in his perfectly urban American translated voice, he went into wild detail about his confrontation with the real hobbit. Upon seeing him, the tourguide froze, he recalled. The real hobbit, probably startled by the monster tourguide bursting in on him in his jungle bathroom, did the only thing a real hobbit knows how: he grabbed at roots and made for the dead volcano.      

To my knowledge, no one’s actually ever held a conversation with the real hobbit. But the general consensus is that he is very intelligent. This was largely confirmed by the way the camera now and then panned in on the treetops, implying that the real hobbit could be cleverly hiding up there, watching (and eating popcorn) as his own search party stumbled through the jungle below calling out his name as if for a lost dog.

Turned out, after a half hour or so of watching these guys tromp around, stopping occasionally to comment on caches of animal dung, I realized the real hobbit was about as exciting as a hermit in need of a haircut. The Orang Pendak was rather a bore. I mean, he could have at least earned the reputation of raiding the village and terrorizing some chickens, or something. But he wouldn’t even give us this.  

To be honest, I didn’t stick around for the second half of MonsterQuest to find out if the scientists ever found him. Chances are they didn’t. Otherwise we’d have heard about it in the news by now, probably on E!, posing as Michael Jackson’s newest pet, or something. But if the scientists ever decide to go after it again, and they need something to slow the little guy down to make him an easier catch, I know where they can find some stuff that beats any tranquilizer out there on the market today.

“Right, Jess?”

“Zzz…” 

Categories: Mystery, Nature, Television, Travel
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God takes on a different light when your head’s buried inside the toilet.

The stomach flu of the century struck my system sometime after lunch on Friday. At first it disguised itself as nothing more than perhaps an office thermostat malfunction (stuck at around 100 degrees) and a small upset stomach. 

“Are you hot?” I’d ask my co-workers.

“Yeah, it’s a little warm,” one would say, nonchalantly, tugging at the front of his shirt just to humor me.

A little warm? You mean it doesn’t feel to you like someone is holding a lit match to your neck? - I didn’t say this, but this is how it felt to me. 

Four hours later, I might as well have swallowed dynamite. I rocked back and forth on all fours moaning with cold sweats, cheek-to-cheek with the toilet seat, which I wished I’d cleaned last week like I was supposed to. My skull throbbed and somehow my senses mysteriously heightened to superhero proportions. All light, even invisible light, tore at my retinas. Even the gentlest brush against the skin felt like a million paper cuts. Everything hurt and smelled bad. Everything threw my stomach into a mess of pain. Crouched in the fetal position like a sick and useless Peter Parker, I tuned my newly acquired supersonic hearing to the conversation of the bugs outside: “Bzzz…bzzz…it’s cold out here.” “Yeah…bzzz…look a light!”  

I was convinced the end was near. And I welcomed it.

It’s interesting to note the quick progression of theology that drifts through the mind of someone who, believing God is good, thinks he’s dying. At first, attempting to gain a proper prospective regarding this violent illness, I accurately nailed down the right source for the hostile feelings I was having toward involuntary retching. No, man, you got it all wrong. It is not vomiting that you hate. No, no, it is the thing that makes you vomit that you hate. (A good part of the disillusionment of the sickness played out with me talking to myself.)

This new line of thinking helped set me straight. I held my head up with the cold, hard porcelain of the toilet seat and  marveled at another one of God’s little miracles, so often overlooked. NEW APPRECIATED FACT: God, in all His infinite wisdom, installed in the human genetic make-up a remarkable mechanism that tells the body when to expel bad Chinese food or any other poison from the body.

I considered this miracle for an extra minute before I thanked God in my own special way by cranking my mouth open wider than I had ever dreamed (or hoped). I watched firsthand as God’s perfect plan unfolded into action. The first round of flu escaped my body in a warm wondrous rush that sent my spine crashing to my sternum. Then again. Five more times for good measure. My heart miraculously did not explode. Praise, God…Bleh…

“Joe…do you need anything?” asked a meek voice. The words drifted in like a weird dream. To my half-coherent skull, it sounded distant and small, like how a speaking mouse might sound. Married a little less than two years, Jess had never seen this ugly side of me before. She didn’t quite know what to do with me. And neither did I.

Instead of answering the mouse voice, I did a sort of backwards half sumersault - a skill involving nothing more than letting go of the toilet - into the bedroom closet (which connects to the bathroom), where I lay in an icy sweat, mumbling the jabber of the seriously sick.

On my back, in the closet, among the nauseous light that burned like the Saharan sun, and the tossing shadows, I resumed my theological studies. During a brief session in between stomach cramps, I moved past considering God’s creations, namely the gag reflex, and on to the mysteries of pointless suffering.

Does this terrible pain inside my stomach count as pointless suffering? And, why would a good God allow it? After who knows how long, the answers to these questions failed to materialize. This of course was of no surprise, given the fact that brilliant philosophers and theologians have been wrestling with these very questions for centuries with no definite conclusions. Chances were, a man, lying in his closet, half mad with the flu was an unlikely candidate for stumbling upon any keys to discovery.

It didn’t matter anymore anyway, because the second wave of flu came on strong and mean. The pain buried itself deep inside my gut and the world spun around like the Gravitron at the Ohio State fair. No more questions, no more thoughts. Everything seemed to boil away. Suddenly, Reality became quite simple; there was me, the pain and God. 

In some circles, my prayer that night doubtfully qualifies as a prayer at all. But it counted to me, because I really, really meant it, and I really, really meant it to be heard: “God, help me!”   

When the sickness finally lifted, it goes without saying that I had not exactly joined the ranks of, say, St Augustine, Calvin or Kierkegaard. However, I was able to establish three certainties: (1) God knows how to win my full and undivided attention; (2) God is good, for He created Gatorade for such occasions; and (3) If it is possible, I always, always prefer less excruciating pain in my interactions with God - please?!

Categories: Christianity, Life
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Jess and I ate very little before heading to Friday night volleyball at the church. As a result, an hour on the court burned up all my energy, turned me into a mindless zombie behind the net. Jess felt it, too, except whereas mine targeted mainly my central nervous system, her condition hit a little lower, rounding out into monster hunger pains.

With one more game left to be played, Jess and I couldn’t do it. Somehow it seemed an impossible task. So we decided to ditch out a little early, dragging our pathetic selves to the car. Instead of driving directly to urgent care, we stopped at the nearest restaurant.

“Panera closes at nine,” informed the man in the parking lot, who seemed to have materialized out of the thin air. A Panera employee? He lugged an invisible colored garbage bag stuffed with a variety of Panera bread, like he’d just looted the place and was now making his get away. Ruled by our stomachs, we didn’t make much of it and took the man’s word for it. So we turned around and ran through our other options.

We ended up at Max and Erma’s across the way because it was close and they have the best Mexican chicken tortilla soup. Or so we thought.

That night, the service was painfully slow. Our waitress was overwhelmed and apologized  a lot to her tables. (In her defense, I’d say she’d been triple sat - you servers can relate.) An adjacent couple in a booth received their Diet Pepsis but not until after they’d finished their meal. The couple was not happy. Earlier, the woman had ordered the Mexican chicken tortilla soup and promptly sent it back. This should have been our first sign that the chefs in back were having an equally hard time as our server. On its late return, the soup still apparently was short on chicken. Giving up, she managed to digest it as it was.

 Finally, just as we started to get frightened that we’d never see the food we ordered, a never-seen-before server came flying around the corner with our soup and half turkey sandwich. The sandwich looked shirveled and bite-sized. The bottom was soggy and the lettuce purple and wilted. But…it tasted good. The soup, not so much. It had roughly the same color I’d expect pepper spray to have if it came in liquid form - mustard yellow. The tiny bail of tortilla stips on top was just a dot in the middle of the Olympic-size bowl of soup. 

I took a bite. Its temperature was lukewarm, but the spice invaded my throat like I’d just devoured a fistful of nettles. It tasted like…like…formaldehyde, maybe? My throat instantly raw and my insides burning like an active volcano, I grabbed my glass of water and sucked on the straw like there was no tomorrow. Then, I took a frantic mental inventory of our neighboring table’s waters as well as all other potential water sources - the tap at the bar, the Max & Erma’s toliet (the tank water, not the bowl, of course - gosh), the tears streaming down my face - in case our server failed to return in time and I was about to human combust. Thankfully she arrived with a pitcher of water. “Yes, please.”    

“O man!” Jess exclaimed, misty eyed, “this is a spicy batch!”

Suddenly it became clear to us that it wasn’t that the chicken had been left out of the soup, as the woman who’d choked it down before us had suspected, rather it had simply melted to oblivion before it hit the table.

Sweating, Jess managed through more of her soup. When she came back up, her lips were swollen and chapped, like she’d just eaten a very messy tube of red lipstick. My lips and tongue stung dearly, worse than if I’d kissed a colony of red ants. We traded sounds of agony until finally our soups were gone. Oh man did that hurt.

Afterward, my stomach was very upset at me. Once home, I had half a mind to swallow a tray of ice cubes, just for any kind of relief. My tongue and lips stung right up until it was time for bed. And as I lay down to sleep, I wondered, face burning, if all this could have been avoided if only we’d played that last game of volleyball.

Categories: Food, Sports
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