Today is the start of my vacation!  And since today’s schedule holds no particular shape or form, I decided it only necessary that my writing should follow suit. I just want to free write, and maybe in the end something I wrote will maybe make sense to someone somewhere. That’s the cool thing about writing, so much of it is subjective. So take from it what you will.

Yes, that’s right, no work for me today. But poor Jess had to still go in. Something about a potluck, a secret angel (same thing as a secret santa, I guess) gift for a co-worker, and one last Christmas shin-dig for her preschool class before handing the rowdy buggers over to their parents till next year, all wound up on sugar overdoses and ideas of presents.

This morning I slept in just a bit. Instead of my usual 5:45am early rise, I allowed myself an extra hour or so to make it a solid eight hour night. Jess, running late, barked instructions from the shower how to make the fruit smoothies. This, I knew, was serious business. In the past few months, She had grown highly disciplined in the art of morning smoothies. Being my first attempt at it, I could tell in her voice that she didn’t trust me all the way. Neither one of us did.

“One kiwi, one banana, one canned fruit, one cup of yogurt, six frozen strawberries, six ice cubes, and then press ‘mix’. Run it until the noise stops,” she said. “And make sure the lid is on tight or it will blow all over the place.”

I entertained the image of the purple smoothie dripping from the counter tops.

“Six ice cubes?” I asked

“Six ice cubes.”

In the kitchen I gathered all the necessary ingredients, as directed, and tossed them in one by one into the blender. One banana – check – that was easy. Six ice cubes and six frozen strawberries – check – easy. But when it came time to add the kiwi, unfamilar with the fuzzy walnut looking thing (are there kiwi trees?), I was forced to go back for further instruction.

“Do I just throw the kiwi in with its skin?” I asked.

“No, peel it first.”

My confidence shaky, I approached it as I would an orange: gouged out the navel, then tore at the opening in hopes the skin would detach as one easy sheet. But the kiwi’s skin is thin and frail and pulled off only in tiny bits and pieces. Five minutes later, I found myself still picking at the stupid thing, the same method I’d probably employ for plucking a very small chicken. Kiwi stuck under my fingernails and my hands were sticky and useless. But finally, after extreme persistance, the green, fleshy fruit stared back at me, naked and defeated. This was one fruit I’d be happy to blend. Later, I’d learn that a knife works better to slice the skin off, a little insider information sure to cut the terrible task down to thirty seconds.

The canned pineapples were last to go, but not without a fight. Is the fruit in rebellion? The tab broke off when I tried to open it, and Jess, with towel on head and rolled eyes, shoved the unruly can in the electric can opener, which I still can’t get to work.

“Haven’t you ever opened canned fruit before?” she asked.

“Yeah. Twenty years ago,” was my only line of defense.

Freed from their imprisonment, I dumped the pineapples into the blender and hit “mix”. Jess disappeared down the hall to what sounded like rocks in a garbage disposal.

In the end, it all turned out. And, I don’t mean to brag, but let’s just say I make a pretty darn good smoothie. Jess soon relieved me of my work and poured a glass for her and one for me, then outfitted both with straws. We prayed first, still unsure if smoothies count as food to be blessed. After two slurps, Jess shot up with her cup, indicating it was time to go.    

I waved good-bye as Jess smiled brightly back. Jess’s smile and her car shrunk into the gray distance. With her gone, all that was left to watch was the quiet sky, thick and lonely, like a colorless smoothie. Then, studying the rich purple contents of my glass, I realized Jess was my bright-colored smoothie in an otherwise gray morning. I took another sip from my straw. It tasted great. And the kiwi was definitely worth all the effort.                

Categories: Food, Life, Marriage
2 Comments »

Wednesday morning, the world, usually pitch black at 6am, possesed a curious phosphoresence. Overnight, the first snow of the season had transformed the typical early morning colors into what seemed like the stage of the Nutcracker. The world felt fresher, the oxygen breathed more richly. Consumed by this magic, my mind reverted back to my childhood. I felt that old familiar pang of excitement over a possible school cancellation.

This school boy abandon quickly fled once I noticed my driveway buried in two feet of snow. That meant work for me. The winter version of the Biblical flood had hit Columbus, and unfortunately, someone needed to shovel. If only I had a snow shovel…

Unfortunately, I didn’t own one. If I remembered right, this was the same problem I had last winter. One measly blizzard last March, and the snow shovel shortage of the century suddenly swept the state. Lowe’s, Home Depot, Walmart – none had them in stock. I never checked, but I bet they were going on Ebay for roughly the same price as Ohio State/Michigan tickets. Store clerks laughed in my face when I asked them to direct me to the snow shovel department.

“Will any of your other locations have ‘em?” I’d ask.

“You can try,” they answered, with a tsk-tsk-tsk-like air.

I swore this would never happen to me again. Next time I’d be first in line. I’d buy mine in June. But summer came and the heat of the days made any thoughts of snow vanish. By the time fall rolled around, I’d stroll carelessly by rows of shovels at Lowe’s. There are so many; they won’t run out. Plus it’s not near snowy or wintry enough to buy one now. Maybe next week. There’s time - duped by the universal lie. To make a long story short, I never bought one.

Well, now I was paying for it. After slipping back and forth to work in my tiny Ford front-wheel drive, and after taking a series of spills in the work parking lot, straining a groin muscle, I decided to use my lunch break to finally go buy a snow shovel.

I went to Lowe’s. I Tracked through the dirty parking lot slush and slidding doors with damp pant bottoms. Wasting no time, I made a beeline for the nearest red-vested Lowe’s employee. In an aisle of snow blowers, she worked hard punching buttons on a hand-held electronic device. It resembled a chintzy, Dr. Who laser gun.

“Excuse me,” I asked, using my sorry-to-trouble-you voice. “But do you know where I can find the snow shovels?”

“All we have is in front where you walk in,” she said, still operating the Dr. Who gun. It made a beep.

Unable to remember, I probably uttered a weak joke to cover the embarrassement of having just walked right by them on my way in. I thanked her for her detailed directions and made my way over to the limbo part of the store located between the outdoor and indoor entrances. Inside, every step tripped one or both of the automatic sliding doors. I searched the area for shovels while the doors slid frantically on their rails. Open, close; open, close.  

Finally, a cardboard box of plastic handles near the indoor entrance attracted my attention. ”Snow Shovels – $20″ was scrawled in permanent market on a sign. I held my breath and gained a better look at what appeared to be sand shovels.       

Surely this isn’t all they have, I thought. The Dr. Who woman made a mistake. These aren’t even two feet long, and would easily snap under the pressure of a full load of snow. What’s the point.

As if trapped in a horror movie, I took flight for the nearest Lowe’s employee. Barely able to restrain from snatching two fists full of his red vest and demanding to know if the sand shovels were their idea of some sick joke, I calmed down just enough to ask him if that’s all they had.

“Yup,” he said, with his quality customer service mock sympathy. “We ran out earlier today.”

“Will you be getting more in?” I asked.

“I hope so,” was the only help he offered.

I tromped back to my car through the slushy parking lot, defeated, angry that I lived in a world where kiddie sand shovels could be sold for snow shovels – for $20. Later that day I found out that the weekend was suppossed to bring warm weather. This brought some relief. I would only be the neighborhood slob for a day or two, until the snow melted. And as the work day ended and I headed back home on the cleared roads, I thoroughly convinced myself that I will never let this happen to me again.        

Categories: Life, Nature, Shopping
3 Comments »

I’d managed to dodge all the 4:30 a.m. invitations run in the newspapers and commercials by the various local stores, promising me either a free or heavily discounted something or other, if only I show up, wallet in hand, before everything in the store runs out. Still shaking off a Tryptophan hang over, I was in no mood to toy with ”Black Friday” – the hallowed shopping day after Thanksgiving. Instead, I sent my wife out into the swarm of bargain shoppers and loaded parking lots by herself. Her little sister did go with her, though, which made up for the bad feelings I had had for staying home.

Out the door, her only instructions to me were this: I needed to be showered and fed by the time she returned at 2p.m., and, oh yeah, don’t forget the batch of clothes that need to be folded in the dryer. On this note, I nodded, yes, yes, absolutely, yes. I had my whole day planned out in my mind, which included mainly doing whatever I pleased with the utmost productivity. I gave her a quick peck on the lips and before her car even left the driveway, I had a jumbo sized pot of coffee going. It was a boiling cauldron of energy – Starbucks Latin American Super Blend, equivalent to a mule kick to the chops. I gladly wake up with it every morning. And the rumors kicking around about it having been known to kill moderate-sized animals is exactly that – just rumors. The main thing is that the rich coffee blend boosts my productivity at least 110%, and I had a ton of unimportant things to tend to.

But something in this batch was lacking - no – draining. It made my brain heavy and my thoughts groggy. Briefly, I questioned Hugo Chavez’s hand in all of this. After launching out a few badly composed emails, trying to make sense of a book I’m reading, and thinking hard about raking the leaves still covering our yard, it was almost noon and I had nothing to show for it. My pajamas pants were still on and practically becoming a second skin, and the effects of not showering began taking its toll.

But first, I needed to take care of my stomach. I found a can of condensed bean and bacon soup hidden in the shadowy back of the kitchen cupboard. I  hoped this might snap me out of the never ending brain-fog. I pealed back the lid, turned the can over and emptied the skin-colored contents into the pot on the stove.  Except it wasn’t that easy. The soup stayed put, clinging to the tin can walls with all its stubborn might. After a series of unsuccessful shakes and taps, I got a spoon to help speed things along. I stabbed the heaving mass to loosen it up, and eventually it worked, but not without first unleashing the kind of grotesque slurping sounds only a soft, fat, furless, pink, thirsty animal could emit.

When the clumps of bacon/beans finally dropped into the pot, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t hungry. But, so much work went into it. As stated in the directions, a soup can of water followed and was stirred in with the same poor spoon I’d used earlier. After all the hard work, an overflowing bowl of it joined me at the table.  Upon closer inspection of the thick, misty soup, it made me think that this looks identical to how my brain has felt all day. 

By the time Jess got home, I was spent – showered, fed and the clothes were folded, but spent. I’d somehow managed to complete my assigned jobs fifteen minutes before Jess came through the door (which, now that I’m thinking about it, makes me wonder if I ever used soap in the shower). She lined up her shopping bags of good buys along the living room wall and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

I kind of smiled, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t think of one thing I did. I sort of wanted to have my day back to do all over again. But if forced to list at least one accomplishment to show for the day, I’d go with I learned some lessons about myself. One, being grossly unproductive can be quite tiring. And, two, with Twighlight Zone strangeness, I get more things done with less time to do them in than if I have all the time in the world.      

Categories: Food, Life, Shopping
3 Comments »

It was a rotten feeling sitting there in the quiet dark of the morning, listening to the distant grind of the garbage truck making its rounds through our neighborhood. Yes, I forgot to put the trash out last night. And this morning, I sat at the kitchen table in the hard glow of the stove light helpless to do anything, hopelessly alone, just me and the approaching sound of the garbage truck as it neared the curb in front of my house. The empty curb, garbagecanless.

The problem was that the bulky, green garbage can supplied by the city sat in the corner of our garage, pinned in by my car. Somehow I had lost my own car keys in the midst of running errands last night in Jess’ car. For no good reason, I had instinctly brought them along. I remembered absently pulling them out of my flimsy jacket pocket at one point in the evening in the Target parking lot, thinking, I better not lose these. I must admit, that was very good advice to myself, but that was as far as it went, because I did just that: I lost them.

So as I sat there listening to the creaturely sounds of the garbage truck’s mechanical arm reaching down for my neighbor’s trashcan, I did my best to tune out the thoughts that my trashcan could have been next, if I wasn’t so stupid. Instead, I concentrated on that which lay in front of me: The Book of Ecclesiastes. Suddenly, for some reason, all the torture and trouble I was presently experiencing over my car keys felt so meaningless. It didn’t matter if I found my car keys and got my trash out on time or not. I was still ultimately destined for the grave, just the same as the guy who had his car keys and was on top of trashday.

When it was time for Jess to wake up, I reported to her that I had made the executive decision to leave the materials in our trashcan to mature an extra week. Then I told her the truth. “Well, won’t that pose a problem for getting to work this morning?” she asked about my car keys.

After reviewing all the facts (Until then, I hadn’t got much further than being upset over not getting the trash out), I said, “Well, actually, yes. Yes it will pose a problem.” So I made one last ditch effort to scan the house. After almost giving up in utter despair, I decided to include God on this, even though I felt it was such a trivial thing to pray about misplaced car keys. But, as I’m slowly learning, God does care about little things like these. Funny, I was just placing the period at the end of my prayer request when, lo and behold, my car keys were staring me right in the face. They were in the seat crack in Jess’ car, right where I’d been sitting.

Categories: Life
No Comments »

It’s a good hurt, I kept telling myself. By now, my breathing had reduced to a heavy wheeze and I started having serious questions about my heart holding out. It’d been no less than ten years since I last jumped into a full court basketball game. Now I was paying the penalty. Sure, I run. I exercise a little. But anything outside the usual strain of my exercise routine is quick to send me to my knees and keep me popping Aleve for the next 48 to 72 hours.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o’clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and “good game’s” like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented “good job” swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o’clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don’t remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.

Categories: Fitness, Life, Sports
1 Comment »

One of the first things that popped out of Jess’ mouth this morning was that there should be a gum called Phoebblicious, named after Phoebe, our nervous nine pound Beagle-Chihuahua mix. Unsure and uncaring of the ingredients it’d contain, I quickly agreed both outwardly and inwardly. Two things I knew for certain: that the gum would be tan and white (the color of Pheobe’s ridicuously short hair), and that I’d chew it.

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting – I’d be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I’d automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I’d own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it’d be quite the good life. We’d live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I’d be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and…I’m not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we’d be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer’s Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year’s crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,”You married the wrong girl for that.” Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I’m probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.

Categories: About a dog, Life
2 Comments »

It’s always exciting when you’re skimming Scripture and you find yourself suddenly singing the words you’re reading. Normally this happens when I’m all alone, attempting to untangle some unfamiliar passage in Isaiah. Then – Boom – a block of recognizable verses jump out of nowhere, and my head breaks out into song.

This was the case the other night in our living room. Jess has been reading a Psalm a day. As she read her NASB version, she stopped and exclaimed, “O my gosh! We sang this last year in Christmas Choir!” It was Psalm 3. “O yeah!” I exclaimed. Then, since it was the Old King James translation we had sung, I pulled out the ancient version, dusted it off, and we began singing Psalm 3 together, minus that part about God breaking the teeth of the ungodly, of course.

“But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; the glory and the lifter of mine head…”

Now, old English isn’t typically my speech of choice, but that night it sounded wonderful.

Categories: Christianity, Life, Music
6 Comments »

I hit the sack last night in the third quarter of Monday Night Football. There was little pleasure in watching my FantasyFootball team sink into oblivion, and sleep, I’ve tested and learned, is the best for forgetting things – well, for a while anyway. My head hit the pillow, as I geared myself up for a good eight hours of forgetting. 1 and 3 for the season so far- could anything be worse?

It was pitch dark, the clock read 3:30am, when the tremors began. It startled me at first, but then the sleep left my brain and I regained my bearings. It all felt too familiar. The restrained jerks, the stiff jolts, the silent struggling – our dog Phoebe was experiencing another seizure, a mild one, but a seizure nonetheless.

Seizures have become somewhat of a trademark for Phoebe these days. She typically experiences one about every other month, and when asked, the vet reassured us that it was common in little dogs (“Toy breeds,” he called her). Their blood-sugar level drops quickly, or something, and that’s what triggers it. It was quite frightening the first time Jess and I saw Phoebe do this, but now it’s become much a part of the routine of caring for her, like feeding her or giving her a bath.

Jess was first to call it, “She’s having a seizure.” She stated this more matter-of-factly than in alarm. Then she moved in clockwork fashion, like a surgeon who sees past the gore of an ER patient to the list of immediate procedures needed to be performed.

“Get the white towel,” barked Jess. She had Phoebe sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

“Where?” I asked.

“In the closet.” In the middle of the night, I had woken up to find myself as Jess’ surgeon aid.

I came back with the white towel.

“Lay the towel down.”

“Why?”

“No questions. Just do it.”

After the towel was under Phoebe, the inevitable happened, her bladder let go. This was the predicted stage 2 of the seizure. Next, after things had calmed down, we moved into stage 3, and I carried her to the dark, dewy backyard. There, she had plenty of room to work out the rest of the shakes. I watched Phoebe finish her business from the back door window while Jess made up a new place for Phoebe to spend the remainder of the night.

From beginning to end, the seizure lasted nearly a half hour. Before I crawled back into bed at 4am, I checked espn.com to confirm my FantasyFootball defeat. It was official. I had lost, and my prize was a dog low on sugar.

Categories: About a dog, Life
1 Comment »