Again, I apologize for the change of address, but if you'd like to catch a glimpse of my fashion/technology site and see what you've been missing - just click here.
Still not proud of the name, but the address is nothing to be ashamed of... loren-sanders.blogspot.com
9.05.2011
8.12.2011
We Are Moving
I've no idea who "we" are besides Marshall and myself, but we're moving. Things have been great here, but it's time for a change.
I know we're leaving mid-mini-series, but never fear, not only will we pick up where we left off, but we will also post the first two episodes on the new site.
Like the Weight Watchers commercial says, "It's a new dawn. It's a new day. And I'm feeling good."
I would say goodbye, but I'll see you as soon as you click the link.
I know we're leaving mid-mini-series, but never fear, not only will we pick up where we left off, but we will also post the first two episodes on the new site.
Like the Weight Watchers commercial says, "It's a new dawn. It's a new day. And I'm feeling good."
I would say goodbye, but I'll see you as soon as you click the link.
8.11.2011
Day Two, Day Two
EDITOR'S NOTE: The following post was written days ago, but in real life... I got cut off by a minivan tonight. Angry, I pulled up beside them to see that it was 2 nuns. Just made the night that much better. Home cookin', windows down, and nuns who can't drive.
Sunday rolls around. The agenda is straightforward: breakfast and filming. Before I finished my Chick-Fil-A sandwich, the shirts are ready and an offer is made on my tye-dye apparel: $10 and the other guy’s shirt, which happened to look every bouncy ball made before 1995.
Offer rejected. I didn’t go to one of the finest business schools on the planet for nothing. Well, I didn’t go to one of the finest business schools, but it was fine enough to teach me two concepts useful in this situation. The second was supply and demand – my shirt was better than everyone else’s, I could name my price. This concept was preceded by one of the concepts that built the foundation of modern society – outsourcing. Another thanks to Madeline, my personal tye-dyer.
Time to film. Well, time to walk through it a few more times and then try to film. A little background on this adventure…
Each year at camp, we have a theme. Usually this theme involves at least some of the staff to dress in ridiculous costumes. I have yet to be outside of the “some” mentioned in the previous sentence.
For the music video, it has been decided that some of the favorite characters from the past will be included. One problem: the lip-dub concept requires one continuous shot, and some of the cast have played several roles over the years… While we did re-visit the outsourcing well, more often than not, it was decided that those playing multiple roles should continue to do so and just sprint between parts while changing clothes. Cool.
The expected production time was set at an hour. I took the over. It was quickly changed to an hour and a half. I remained faithful to the over.
16 to 24 costume changes, half a container of baby powder, and 37 minutes later, we were done. Color me impressed. I’ve never been happier to lose a bet. Chicken sandwiches for all.
EDITOR'S NOTE: This is probably a bad idea...
Our efficiency left us with no more tasks to accomplish before the campers arrived. Naps, thin pickle slices, and a couple of hours of iPod shuffle all filled the void. This would be the last time the shuffle all would be allowable for fear of the occasional questionable lyric.
As I mentioned, the kids arrived early and often. We didn’t let them inside until 3. The early bird may get the worm, but if you’re early in the middle of the day at the end of July, you may also get a heat stroke.
Registration commenced. I posted up on the second stop in the assembly line. The joy of this spot is that it’s merely a hardcopy version of the excel work done at the first stop. As such, I was of no importance, and it gave me a way to start trying to learn all the kids’ names. [Note: You may read that as me taking a genuine interest in the campers. Or you may read that as me looking for those random few seconds of joy when you approach a kid, call them by name, and know full well they have no idea who you are… After reading that again, I feel I should promise not to trade in the Altima for a white van with no windows.]
After registration and before dinner, the first camp couple was formed. If there’s one thing church camp is good for besides stitches, capture the flag, and swimming in water that will probably give you a staph infection, it’s breeding long-lasting relationships.
Remaining highlights from Sunday included one counselor wearing a luchador mask for the duration of the afternoon a-la-Rey-Mysterio, the two most popular kids in camp arriving (the youth minister’s 18 month-old twins), the first two visits to the first aid kit, an episode of Family Feud where we learned that a squash is allegedly a fruit, a pretty sweet night time devotional illuminated by the Christmas lights adorning the Hollywood Squares set, and some minimal cabin conversation that may have revolved around that crazy lady in California who was quite familiar with the garbage disposal.
If you missed it, click Here for Day 1.
Sunday rolls around. The agenda is straightforward: breakfast and filming. Before I finished my Chick-Fil-A sandwich, the shirts are ready and an offer is made on my tye-dye apparel: $10 and the other guy’s shirt, which happened to look every bouncy ball made before 1995.
Offer rejected. I didn’t go to one of the finest business schools on the planet for nothing. Well, I didn’t go to one of the finest business schools, but it was fine enough to teach me two concepts useful in this situation. The second was supply and demand – my shirt was better than everyone else’s, I could name my price. This concept was preceded by one of the concepts that built the foundation of modern society – outsourcing. Another thanks to Madeline, my personal tye-dyer.
Time to film. Well, time to walk through it a few more times and then try to film. A little background on this adventure…
Each year at camp, we have a theme. Usually this theme involves at least some of the staff to dress in ridiculous costumes. I have yet to be outside of the “some” mentioned in the previous sentence.
For the music video, it has been decided that some of the favorite characters from the past will be included. One problem: the lip-dub concept requires one continuous shot, and some of the cast have played several roles over the years… While we did re-visit the outsourcing well, more often than not, it was decided that those playing multiple roles should continue to do so and just sprint between parts while changing clothes. Cool.
The expected production time was set at an hour. I took the over. It was quickly changed to an hour and a half. I remained faithful to the over.
16 to 24 costume changes, half a container of baby powder, and 37 minutes later, we were done. Color me impressed. I’ve never been happier to lose a bet. Chicken sandwiches for all.
EDITOR'S NOTE: This is probably a bad idea...
Our efficiency left us with no more tasks to accomplish before the campers arrived. Naps, thin pickle slices, and a couple of hours of iPod shuffle all filled the void. This would be the last time the shuffle all would be allowable for fear of the occasional questionable lyric.
As I mentioned, the kids arrived early and often. We didn’t let them inside until 3. The early bird may get the worm, but if you’re early in the middle of the day at the end of July, you may also get a heat stroke.
Registration commenced. I posted up on the second stop in the assembly line. The joy of this spot is that it’s merely a hardcopy version of the excel work done at the first stop. As such, I was of no importance, and it gave me a way to start trying to learn all the kids’ names. [Note: You may read that as me taking a genuine interest in the campers. Or you may read that as me looking for those random few seconds of joy when you approach a kid, call them by name, and know full well they have no idea who you are… After reading that again, I feel I should promise not to trade in the Altima for a white van with no windows.]
After registration and before dinner, the first camp couple was formed. If there’s one thing church camp is good for besides stitches, capture the flag, and swimming in water that will probably give you a staph infection, it’s breeding long-lasting relationships.
Remaining highlights from Sunday included one counselor wearing a luchador mask for the duration of the afternoon a-la-Rey-Mysterio, the two most popular kids in camp arriving (the youth minister’s 18 month-old twins), the first two visits to the first aid kit, an episode of Family Feud where we learned that a squash is allegedly a fruit, a pretty sweet night time devotional illuminated by the Christmas lights adorning the Hollywood Squares set, and some minimal cabin conversation that may have revolved around that crazy lady in California who was quite familiar with the garbage disposal.
If you missed it, click Here for Day 1.
8.06.2011
Taylor Christian Camp - Episode I
Welcome to the first mini-series “Check You For Tickmarks” has offered. The goal is simple: The following few posts will be a replay of each day of church camp. If you were there, this will give you an opportunity to see the other side of some of the more interesting events. If you weren’t there, this will give you an opportunity to see what camp is like since you used to go – you know, before you had air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and flashlights.
I had this idea that I would get up every morning to write this and discuss the highlights of the previous day. That way, I could be guaranteed a hot shower and a few minutes of uninterrupted time each day. Breakfast is at 8:15. It’s 6:38. I’ve already showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth. [NOTE: Who knew that one little eggshell mattress could do so little to hide the discomfort of a 3-inch 45-year old mattress?] I’m pretty sure I could write 15,000 words before breakfast. Keep reading. It won’t be that long.
So, let’s catch up. Yesterday was Sunday. The kids were supposed to arrive between 3 and 5. A vast majority of them got here at 1:45. However, camp doesn’t start at registration, young ones. On the contrary, camp started long before.
We came up Friday night to start getting everything ready. We unloaded two trailers full of food, lumber, sound equipment, 6-ft inflatable balls, and rubber duckys. We dabbled around camp for a while and then went to sleep. Friday was relatively uneventful.
Saturday, work began at 10 am. The agenda included building an 11-foot tall Hollywood Squares set sturdy enough to hold 9 staff members [Editor’s Note: the last day of camp revealed that the set could actually hold at least 15 people], manufacturing a Plinko board, erecting some PVC pipe structure, constructing a Family Fued faceoff table, and some girl work. Let the sweating commence.
There were about 12 of us up here at that point, so we split up and got after it. The short straws, of which I was one, headed down to begin constructing the Hollywood Squares set. We did everything but fell the trees for this thing. Honestly, it went very smoothly. Of course, this is compared to previous years where we spent countless hours constructing a saloon without the proper parts, and trying to make a cabin resemble a pirate ship using only junk we found in a dumpster.
2 hours in, the first level was built and, though untested, strong enough to hold a Prius.
Lunchtime. Campers, a little insight into the other side here… For the first day or two of camp, the counselor diet consists of Chick-Fil-A sandwiches, thin little pickle remnants, pickle-stained bread, and your choice of mayonnaise or ketchup. Why anyone would choose ketchup in this situation is beyond me, but it happens. Lunch involved sandwiches one and two of my weekend.
After lunch, we continued our plywood journey to the sky, careful not to jinx it by claiming aloud what we were all thinking – “This is actually working. We might get this done in a semi-reasonable amount of time.” After training my trigger finger to work with an electric drill that was apparently designed to be used by Bruce Willis in “Armageddon,” level two had been achieved and was fit for a Royal Rumble. In retrospect, my numbering system is off, as the ground was level one, so this meant we were pretty much done. It was approximately 3:00. To call this a victory would be an understatement similar to proclaiming “The Annexation of Puerto Rico” as just another play in Little Giants.
After helping and/or hindering some other projects, we set out to conquer our last two Saturday tasks…
First thing’s first: Let’s film a lip-dub. If you’re not familiar with a lip-dub, this was my introduction to the concept.
So we begin our walk-through of TCC’s lip-dub production. After a couple of run-throughs, we decide we don’t have enough daylight or general hydration to complete this today. A bottle of water and a shot of procrastination for everyone… We’ll take care of it tomorrow.
Task two: Tye-dye our camp shirts. In an episode of thinking outside the box, someone suggested we get white camp shirts this year and tye-dye. Fantastic idea. Everyone gets to pick the color of their shirt, and no one is to blame for the failed concept except the children themselves.
So we tye-dyed our camp shirts… I say “we” tye-dyed shirts. One of the other counselors [NOTE: For the newer readers, I try not to use names on here so as not to offend, incriminate, or aid and abed. Thus, we’ll call her Madeline] who was well-versed in tye-dye actually made mine, and bless her for it.
We made some game show signage, giant X’s and O’s for Hollywood Squares, and drank a ridiculous number of Sprite in an effort to produce 24 empty 12-oz. bottles. Then we slept… Longer than we would for the rest of the week.
I had this idea that I would get up every morning to write this and discuss the highlights of the previous day. That way, I could be guaranteed a hot shower and a few minutes of uninterrupted time each day. Breakfast is at 8:15. It’s 6:38. I’ve already showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth. [NOTE: Who knew that one little eggshell mattress could do so little to hide the discomfort of a 3-inch 45-year old mattress?] I’m pretty sure I could write 15,000 words before breakfast. Keep reading. It won’t be that long.
So, let’s catch up. Yesterday was Sunday. The kids were supposed to arrive between 3 and 5. A vast majority of them got here at 1:45. However, camp doesn’t start at registration, young ones. On the contrary, camp started long before.
We came up Friday night to start getting everything ready. We unloaded two trailers full of food, lumber, sound equipment, 6-ft inflatable balls, and rubber duckys. We dabbled around camp for a while and then went to sleep. Friday was relatively uneventful.
Saturday, work began at 10 am. The agenda included building an 11-foot tall Hollywood Squares set sturdy enough to hold 9 staff members [Editor’s Note: the last day of camp revealed that the set could actually hold at least 15 people], manufacturing a Plinko board, erecting some PVC pipe structure, constructing a Family Fued faceoff table, and some girl work. Let the sweating commence.
There were about 12 of us up here at that point, so we split up and got after it. The short straws, of which I was one, headed down to begin constructing the Hollywood Squares set. We did everything but fell the trees for this thing. Honestly, it went very smoothly. Of course, this is compared to previous years where we spent countless hours constructing a saloon without the proper parts, and trying to make a cabin resemble a pirate ship using only junk we found in a dumpster.
2 hours in, the first level was built and, though untested, strong enough to hold a Prius.
Lunchtime. Campers, a little insight into the other side here… For the first day or two of camp, the counselor diet consists of Chick-Fil-A sandwiches, thin little pickle remnants, pickle-stained bread, and your choice of mayonnaise or ketchup. Why anyone would choose ketchup in this situation is beyond me, but it happens. Lunch involved sandwiches one and two of my weekend.
After lunch, we continued our plywood journey to the sky, careful not to jinx it by claiming aloud what we were all thinking – “This is actually working. We might get this done in a semi-reasonable amount of time.” After training my trigger finger to work with an electric drill that was apparently designed to be used by Bruce Willis in “Armageddon,” level two had been achieved and was fit for a Royal Rumble. In retrospect, my numbering system is off, as the ground was level one, so this meant we were pretty much done. It was approximately 3:00. To call this a victory would be an understatement similar to proclaiming “The Annexation of Puerto Rico” as just another play in Little Giants.
After helping and/or hindering some other projects, we set out to conquer our last two Saturday tasks…
First thing’s first: Let’s film a lip-dub. If you’re not familiar with a lip-dub, this was my introduction to the concept.
So we begin our walk-through of TCC’s lip-dub production. After a couple of run-throughs, we decide we don’t have enough daylight or general hydration to complete this today. A bottle of water and a shot of procrastination for everyone… We’ll take care of it tomorrow.
Task two: Tye-dye our camp shirts. In an episode of thinking outside the box, someone suggested we get white camp shirts this year and tye-dye. Fantastic idea. Everyone gets to pick the color of their shirt, and no one is to blame for the failed concept except the children themselves.
So we tye-dyed our camp shirts… I say “we” tye-dyed shirts. One of the other counselors [NOTE: For the newer readers, I try not to use names on here so as not to offend, incriminate, or aid and abed. Thus, we’ll call her Madeline] who was well-versed in tye-dye actually made mine, and bless her for it.
We made some game show signage, giant X’s and O’s for Hollywood Squares, and drank a ridiculous number of Sprite in an effort to produce 24 empty 12-oz. bottles. Then we slept… Longer than we would for the rest of the week.
7.27.2011
Holding Hands in Pink Dresses
At this point in the adventure, we’re in Vegas. We catch a cab from the airport to the hotel. If the cab were a crow, it would have traveled 3/4ths of a mile. But the cab was a cab, and it went 26 dollars. The house always wins.
We arrive at the Mandalay Bay. There’s a fancy revolving door with compartments big enough to house guests and luggage. We test the limits of these doors by packing 3 guys and 3 bags into one compartment. Two minutes later, we enter the lobby.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. The same holds true for this blog. Mostly because I have convinced myself that my parents and at least half of the eldership at church reads this. Nothing to see here, folks. Keep it moving.
On the real though, I have no idea what the first four word phrase in this sentence means. The trip was fairly uneventful, so allow me to unleash bullet points:
- We walked past Pete Rose. In Vegas. I love irony.
- We witnessed a boxing weigh-in interview in our hotel lobby.
- We saw lions lick some guy’s hand.
- We inhaled a lot of second-hand smoke.
- We walked out of the hotel at 10:00 AM and were instantly pegged by a limo driver who said (accurately), “These guys are going to McDonald’s. Bet on it.”
- We saw two heavy-set men holding hands wearing pink dresses.
- We were offered approximately 45,000 flyers for strip clubs and escorts.
- We left a tenth of an inch shorter due to the bottom of our feet melting as we walked around the pools [NOTE: We only walked around 4 of 7 pools on the hotel property.]
- We saw street performers dressed as Elvis, Michael Jackson, Mario, Luigi, Darth Vader, a Storm Trooper, a couple of those statue guys, the Temptations, and a midget dressed as Chucky.
- We saw some guy from Dancing with the Stars. [NOTE: I had to take one of my friends’ word for that one. The friend shall remain nameless.]
- We ate at an Irish pub stocked full of actual Irish people. I had a shepherd’s pie so as to feel the full Irish experience. [NOTE: I was unaware that the Irish experience lasted long past dinner.]
- We paid $6.49 for a bottle of water. Ok, “we” didn’t, but one of us did, and that was ridiculous enough for me to mention.
- We were offered cocaine. More than once.
- We watched an Oompa-Loompa lose $200 in under 2 minutes.
And we closed out the trip by listening to *NSYNC’s greatest hits album… Ok, “we” didn’t do that either, but I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was easily the best 50 cents I have spent this year. Thank you, Essex bargain hunting section. The world needs another boy band.
Anyway, that’s most of what I remember about the trip that could possibly be considered worth writing about… Next week, I’ll be heading to church camp to atone for my trip to Vegas… I’ve made it as easy as I can to cyber-stalk me. All you have to do is read. See you next time.
We arrive at the Mandalay Bay. There’s a fancy revolving door with compartments big enough to house guests and luggage. We test the limits of these doors by packing 3 guys and 3 bags into one compartment. Two minutes later, we enter the lobby.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. The same holds true for this blog. Mostly because I have convinced myself that my parents and at least half of the eldership at church reads this. Nothing to see here, folks. Keep it moving.
On the real though, I have no idea what the first four word phrase in this sentence means. The trip was fairly uneventful, so allow me to unleash bullet points:
- We walked past Pete Rose. In Vegas. I love irony.
- We witnessed a boxing weigh-in interview in our hotel lobby.
- We saw lions lick some guy’s hand.
- We inhaled a lot of second-hand smoke.
- We walked out of the hotel at 10:00 AM and were instantly pegged by a limo driver who said (accurately), “These guys are going to McDonald’s. Bet on it.”
- We saw two heavy-set men holding hands wearing pink dresses.
- We were offered approximately 45,000 flyers for strip clubs and escorts.
- We left a tenth of an inch shorter due to the bottom of our feet melting as we walked around the pools [NOTE: We only walked around 4 of 7 pools on the hotel property.]
- We saw street performers dressed as Elvis, Michael Jackson, Mario, Luigi, Darth Vader, a Storm Trooper, a couple of those statue guys, the Temptations, and a midget dressed as Chucky.
- We saw some guy from Dancing with the Stars. [NOTE: I had to take one of my friends’ word for that one. The friend shall remain nameless.]
- We ate at an Irish pub stocked full of actual Irish people. I had a shepherd’s pie so as to feel the full Irish experience. [NOTE: I was unaware that the Irish experience lasted long past dinner.]
- We paid $6.49 for a bottle of water. Ok, “we” didn’t, but one of us did, and that was ridiculous enough for me to mention.
- We were offered cocaine. More than once.
- We watched an Oompa-Loompa lose $200 in under 2 minutes.
And we closed out the trip by listening to *NSYNC’s greatest hits album… Ok, “we” didn’t do that either, but I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was easily the best 50 cents I have spent this year. Thank you, Essex bargain hunting section. The world needs another boy band.
Anyway, that’s most of what I remember about the trip that could possibly be considered worth writing about… Next week, I’ll be heading to church camp to atone for my trip to Vegas… I’ve made it as easy as I can to cyber-stalk me. All you have to do is read. See you next time.
7.24.2011
Once Upon a Midnight Dreary...
As I can’t sleep on planes, there’s only so much I can do to keep myself occupied in the sky. Therefore, you get stuck with another post. I’m on the way back from Las Vegas, crammed behind a couple of folks who are not from around here. Here being North America. The lady was kind enough to recline her seat while my computer was resting on the tray table, nestled tightly under the seat. I discovered that a Toshiba laptop can successfully prevent a Boeing 737 passenger seat from reclining by acting in a manner similar to your foot when a young child is trying to get through a door that you have pressed your foot up against the base of in an effort to entertain yourself and frustrate said child.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
7.11.2011
Back to Life. Back to Reality.
What took you so long? Well, welcome back. Glad to have you.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
6.18.2011
East Nashville is Too Stupid for McDonald's
Editor's Note: I wrote the first part of this post a few weeks ago, but then I calmed down and decided not to post it. Yesterday, East Nashville assured me I should go ahead and throw it up here. So I just opened the word document and tacked on yesterday’s experience at the end…
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Given the aura my neighbors give off, you can imagine the line of fancy restaurants waiting to get into Inglewood might not stretch around the block. Or even around a Lego for that matter. While Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris sit atop their ivory towers barely within biking distance (because we all know east-siders love their bikes), I’m here to tell you East Nashville isn’t competent enough to handle McDonald’s.
I had plans to mow the yard today. Then, outside, it began to look like one of those old-timey pictures you get made in Gatlinburg. You know, all brown and murky and whatnot. So I opted for an extra study session at work in lieu of mowing the yard. Plus, I figured the rain would rinse the pterodactyl [didn’t even use spell check] poop off my car. [Seriously, the birds at my house must be emus.] Therefore, I could use the time I would have spent washing my car on Saturday mowing my grass.
Given the extended day at work, I didn’t really feel like preparing dinner tonight. Even for my definition of preparing. So, I decided to join the billions served. The McDonald’s nearest my house has a double drive-thru. Side-by-side. Thus, allowing the patron to pick a lane prior to ordering. This piece alone was almost too much for the guy in front of me to handle, but I waited patiently while he made the wrong decision.
I proceeded into lane 1, ensuring that I would be given the opportunity to order first. I ordered. 30 seconds later, the half-naked grandfather in the car next to me ordered. I pride myself in having a fair share of observance for my surroundings. As such, I was fully aware that, in order for the drive-thru to operate at its highest efficiency from this point on, I would need to arrive at the first window before Captain Beergut.
Once the person in front of public indecency left lane 2, I took my spot on their bumper. Then the shirtless genius proceeds to weasel his car into the 74 degree angle between my front bumper and the rear of the car in front of me. Cautiously assuming I was smarter than this guy, I chose to ignore his existence. Then he began to yell. Mind you, no one was moving, and I had my windows up.
Continuing my ignorance, he continued his. As he screamed at me to inform me he had ordered first, I decided pretending he wasn’t there was futile. So, windows up, I looked over at him. It was at this point I learned he was a grandfather. And that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I couldn’t see pants either for that matter. As he continued to yell at my passenger side window, I stared. Blankly. No emotion. No words mouthed back. Just staring.
He stopped yelling. I won’t claim I intimidated him. I will claim there must come a point when a senior citizen wearing only skin realizes his son and grandson might not be keen on him continuing his tirade. He closed his soliloquy with, “Do you understand me?” My window didn’t answer him.
I didn’t contest his position, allowing him to continue on to the first window, where they charged him $4.25. Surprisingly, that was the total of my order too. What are the chances? Alas, all I was left with was the joy of smirking at him while he looked back in his side-view mirror.
You might ask, “Loren, was this story really worth 700 words?” Well, no, not unless that toddler survives the next few years of his life without a car seat and reads this one day, coming to the realization of what a feat it was to make it out from under the shadow of his pappy.
Next time it rains, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Never fear, today’s story is shorter. Big Macs are currently 99 cents. As such, I have been to McDonald’s more in the past 3 weeks than I have in the previous 2 years. What can I say? I’m a sucker for savings.
Anyway, yesterday, I ordered my Big Mac and pulled around. As I waited behind the minivan at the second window, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The McEmployee handed a bag of food out the window, and the van started to pull away.
Three feet later it stopped. The lady driving the van opens the door. [Note: Often in East Nashville, this is done at a drive-thru because the window doesn’t work. That was not the case in this event.] The lady driving leaned out and said, “He didn’t get his fries.”
I couldn’t hear the McEmployee’s response, but it was apparently not enough to make the van driver happy. She got all the way out, and reiterated, “He says he didn’t get his fries.”
Again, I can’t hear the response, but, if there was a response, it was very quickly cut off by the van driver’s claim, “[Expletive] that! I’ve got the grease! I’ll just talk to the manager.”
I thought I was semi-fluent in ghetto language, but I have no idea what it means to have the grease. However, to have it at McDonald’s is, at least, ironic.
The lady pulled up and waited to speak to the manager. That manager was, understandably, in no hurry as he was at the window when I pulled up, sharing a laugh with at least 3 other workers.
I’m ready for Big Macs to go back to being overpriced.
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Given the aura my neighbors give off, you can imagine the line of fancy restaurants waiting to get into Inglewood might not stretch around the block. Or even around a Lego for that matter. While Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris sit atop their ivory towers barely within biking distance (because we all know east-siders love their bikes), I’m here to tell you East Nashville isn’t competent enough to handle McDonald’s.
I had plans to mow the yard today. Then, outside, it began to look like one of those old-timey pictures you get made in Gatlinburg. You know, all brown and murky and whatnot. So I opted for an extra study session at work in lieu of mowing the yard. Plus, I figured the rain would rinse the pterodactyl [didn’t even use spell check] poop off my car. [Seriously, the birds at my house must be emus.] Therefore, I could use the time I would have spent washing my car on Saturday mowing my grass.
Given the extended day at work, I didn’t really feel like preparing dinner tonight. Even for my definition of preparing. So, I decided to join the billions served. The McDonald’s nearest my house has a double drive-thru. Side-by-side. Thus, allowing the patron to pick a lane prior to ordering. This piece alone was almost too much for the guy in front of me to handle, but I waited patiently while he made the wrong decision.
I proceeded into lane 1, ensuring that I would be given the opportunity to order first. I ordered. 30 seconds later, the half-naked grandfather in the car next to me ordered. I pride myself in having a fair share of observance for my surroundings. As such, I was fully aware that, in order for the drive-thru to operate at its highest efficiency from this point on, I would need to arrive at the first window before Captain Beergut.
Once the person in front of public indecency left lane 2, I took my spot on their bumper. Then the shirtless genius proceeds to weasel his car into the 74 degree angle between my front bumper and the rear of the car in front of me. Cautiously assuming I was smarter than this guy, I chose to ignore his existence. Then he began to yell. Mind you, no one was moving, and I had my windows up.
Continuing my ignorance, he continued his. As he screamed at me to inform me he had ordered first, I decided pretending he wasn’t there was futile. So, windows up, I looked over at him. It was at this point I learned he was a grandfather. And that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I couldn’t see pants either for that matter. As he continued to yell at my passenger side window, I stared. Blankly. No emotion. No words mouthed back. Just staring.
He stopped yelling. I won’t claim I intimidated him. I will claim there must come a point when a senior citizen wearing only skin realizes his son and grandson might not be keen on him continuing his tirade. He closed his soliloquy with, “Do you understand me?” My window didn’t answer him.
I didn’t contest his position, allowing him to continue on to the first window, where they charged him $4.25. Surprisingly, that was the total of my order too. What are the chances? Alas, all I was left with was the joy of smirking at him while he looked back in his side-view mirror.
You might ask, “Loren, was this story really worth 700 words?” Well, no, not unless that toddler survives the next few years of his life without a car seat and reads this one day, coming to the realization of what a feat it was to make it out from under the shadow of his pappy.
Next time it rains, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Never fear, today’s story is shorter. Big Macs are currently 99 cents. As such, I have been to McDonald’s more in the past 3 weeks than I have in the previous 2 years. What can I say? I’m a sucker for savings.
Anyway, yesterday, I ordered my Big Mac and pulled around. As I waited behind the minivan at the second window, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The McEmployee handed a bag of food out the window, and the van started to pull away.
Three feet later it stopped. The lady driving the van opens the door. [Note: Often in East Nashville, this is done at a drive-thru because the window doesn’t work. That was not the case in this event.] The lady driving leaned out and said, “He didn’t get his fries.”
I couldn’t hear the McEmployee’s response, but it was apparently not enough to make the van driver happy. She got all the way out, and reiterated, “He says he didn’t get his fries.”
Again, I can’t hear the response, but, if there was a response, it was very quickly cut off by the van driver’s claim, “[Expletive] that! I’ve got the grease! I’ll just talk to the manager.”
I thought I was semi-fluent in ghetto language, but I have no idea what it means to have the grease. However, to have it at McDonald’s is, at least, ironic.
The lady pulled up and waited to speak to the manager. That manager was, understandably, in no hurry as he was at the window when I pulled up, sharing a laugh with at least 3 other workers.
I’m ready for Big Macs to go back to being overpriced.
6.11.2011
The New Woman's Guide to Getting Married
In the words of a famous General, 'I don’t mean to brag, but…' once upon a time, before I entered the 8-5 world [Note: Yes, Dolly, it seems the days of 9-5 are behind us], I spent some time as a youth intern. What that means is that I got paid to play games, make iTunes playlists, put together an occasional PowerPoint, and mold young people during the most impressionable part of their lives. Before I put my humble hat on, I was pretty good at most of those things.
All that to say, if you see teenagers driving away from my house, please refrain from checking any state or national registries. Though, odds are, they are leaving the scene of a crime. It seems last week there was a party on my deck starring King James, Nelly, and Tim McGraw: I have been trespassed against. Over and over again.
For those of you who didn’t grow up in a small Church of Christ, one thing you should know is that, while the CoC world is full of good people, these people don’t throw anything away. You want to know which people were at church on May 17th, 1972? I can look that up in our database. That database is a series of cardboard boxes full of attendance records. In case that whatever you call that cloth-like wallpaper that has covered the walls of the auditorium for 30 years now somehow disappears one day, never fear: We have a couple of spare rolls in a closet. Do you remember the plastic horses suspended by springs that you used to ride on as a child? I do. Mainly because they’re stashed across from one of the classrooms at church.
This week, some of those youth group kids avoided joining a gang and opted to clean up around the church. [Because everything a teenager does during the summer months that is not joining a gang is obviously in an effort to keep them from joining a gang.] As a part of their charitable labor, they cleaned out some of the relics around the church house.
As we have been taught for so long, act as if someone is always watching your actions. Unlike Crosby, Stills, and Nash, we have not taught the children well. In lieu of throwing the junk away, most of it ended up on my back deck.
Day one, day one, God made light when there was none. Day one, day one of church clean up, I come home to some new literature…
I found humor in this. Then things got a little more violent on day two…
Day three was a special one. Backstory: A little over a year ago, the preacher decided to do an object lesson involving trophies. Lucky… er, blessed… for him, our church was a basketball powerhouse in the 70s, a softball dynasty in the 90s, and returned to basketball glory in the early 2000s. If you’re doing the math on the basketball team, you’re right, I still haven’t found that humble hat. Anyway, preacher brought lots of trophies down from the 3rd floor and claimed he would throw them away a couple of weeks after the lesson if no one claimed they wanted them.
A year later, those trophies still sat in the corner of one of the baptistery changing rooms. Until day three. I back in to my driveway like any other evening, when I see a trophy on my gate with a sign reading “You’re the Greatest.” [Thanks, by the way.] I thought this was a great contribution to the deck compared to the previous days. Then I opened the gate…
Day four was the final day of cleanup. I managed to fight through the suspense and make it through the workday. Contrary to what you may have heard, most days when I come home, there are not girls waiting for me at the door. Day four was not most days…
As I know you read this looking for life lessons [and if you’ve read this far today, you obviously deserve it], here are today’s:
1. When you stumble across that banner that says “Community Day 1981”, go ahead and throw it away.
2. If you feel like giving me a gift, just leave it on the back porch, I’ll get it.
3. To my neighbors who read this, if anyone is wondering whether we have a Neighborhood Watch program, we apparently do not.
All that to say, if you see teenagers driving away from my house, please refrain from checking any state or national registries. Though, odds are, they are leaving the scene of a crime. It seems last week there was a party on my deck starring King James, Nelly, and Tim McGraw: I have been trespassed against. Over and over again.
For those of you who didn’t grow up in a small Church of Christ, one thing you should know is that, while the CoC world is full of good people, these people don’t throw anything away. You want to know which people were at church on May 17th, 1972? I can look that up in our database. That database is a series of cardboard boxes full of attendance records. In case that whatever you call that cloth-like wallpaper that has covered the walls of the auditorium for 30 years now somehow disappears one day, never fear: We have a couple of spare rolls in a closet. Do you remember the plastic horses suspended by springs that you used to ride on as a child? I do. Mainly because they’re stashed across from one of the classrooms at church.
This week, some of those youth group kids avoided joining a gang and opted to clean up around the church. [Because everything a teenager does during the summer months that is not joining a gang is obviously in an effort to keep them from joining a gang.] As a part of their charitable labor, they cleaned out some of the relics around the church house.
As we have been taught for so long, act as if someone is always watching your actions. Unlike Crosby, Stills, and Nash, we have not taught the children well. In lieu of throwing the junk away, most of it ended up on my back deck.
Day one, day one, God made light when there was none. Day one, day one of church clean up, I come home to some new literature…
I found humor in this. Then things got a little more violent on day two…
Day three was a special one. Backstory: A little over a year ago, the preacher decided to do an object lesson involving trophies. Lucky… er, blessed… for him, our church was a basketball powerhouse in the 70s, a softball dynasty in the 90s, and returned to basketball glory in the early 2000s. If you’re doing the math on the basketball team, you’re right, I still haven’t found that humble hat. Anyway, preacher brought lots of trophies down from the 3rd floor and claimed he would throw them away a couple of weeks after the lesson if no one claimed they wanted them.A year later, those trophies still sat in the corner of one of the baptistery changing rooms. Until day three. I back in to my driveway like any other evening, when I see a trophy on my gate with a sign reading “You’re the Greatest.” [Thanks, by the way.] I thought this was a great contribution to the deck compared to the previous days. Then I opened the gate…
Day four was the final day of cleanup. I managed to fight through the suspense and make it through the workday. Contrary to what you may have heard, most days when I come home, there are not girls waiting for me at the door. Day four was not most days…
As I know you read this looking for life lessons [and if you’ve read this far today, you obviously deserve it], here are today’s:1. When you stumble across that banner that says “Community Day 1981”, go ahead and throw it away.
2. If you feel like giving me a gift, just leave it on the back porch, I’ll get it.
3. To my neighbors who read this, if anyone is wondering whether we have a Neighborhood Watch program, we apparently do not.
5.30.2011
God Bless Nashville and the Surrounding Areas
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Especially if you’re from Brentwood and are already committed to looking at your reflection in the fogged up door in the frozen food aisle. Because, in front of the Bagel Bites and Pizza Rolls, there stands a pair of oversized sunglasses perched a few inches above a shimmery shirt with enormous armholes that hangs a full four inches below the waistband of a pair of tights tucked neatly into a pair of, you guessed it, Ugg boots.
O tal vez eres de AntioquÃa. Usted no tiene miedo de usar sus pantalones cubiertos de pintura y botas con punta de acero. Su bigote está bien establecido por encima de los labios que hablan español. A medida que tirar de su camioneta de la playa de estacionamiento...
You have to quickly steer your truck up onto the sidewalk to avoid the soccer mom in the giant SUV who is completely lost because she typed the wrong address into the GPS she uses to get around Green Hills. The typing in of the incorrect coordinates is understandable, given the fact that she typed it in while driving in bumper to bumper traffic, fixing her makeup, texting her friend in the giant SUV behind her, and waving her hands around at the driver in front of her as if he is the one who would fail a retest at the DMV. I won’t speak to your mothering skills, but you’re failing at the stay-at-home part, lady.
Excuse me for one second, I was distracted by the thought of working someone from Madison into this. I still struggle to comprehend how a person could walk around in such large shorts. For those of you who have purchased such large shorts, do the plaid boxers and wifebeater come with it? Maybe it’s a big one piece. I’m pretty sure the Michael Vick Falcons jersey that is draped around your neck and one shoulder is sold separately, and I’ve seen the signs for the Air Force Ones ($35 if you call the number stapled to the telephone pole).
Honestly, I stole the first paragraph from a post entitled “East Nashville is Too Stupid for a McDonald’s” that I wrote a couple of weeks back, but the blog server was down (that’s about as techy an explanation I could give). My anger for the guy at McDonald’s expired, but I was kind of proud my description of a stereotypical East Nashville resident. So I thought, “How can I morph this into another post?” Then I thought, “It’s Memorial Day, run with that.”
So this is what you got… Whether you’re a Blood or a Crypt, a goth or a prep, a jock or a hipster, a soccer mom or a kid with two moms, a retiree or a trust fund kid, a high-ranking executive or a college student eating Ramen noodles, there’s men and women who are literally putting their lives on the line to allow you the opportunity to carry on in your current role. And they don’t always make it back.
So, I’m sure it’s been put out there on a lot more important, well-read, higher-trafficked stages, but thank you to those of you who are serving, have served, will serve, or any other conjugation of the verb in the military. Yes, it is your job, but you deserve more than the thanks you get, more than one day’s memorial a year, and more than the $500 discount on a new car that I saw advertised today.
5.10.2011
My Digital Paper Boy Just Hit You in the Face
So it’s been a while… For those of you with A.D.D., this post is right up your alley. For those of you with epilepsy, might want to avoid the flashing lights - this post may have a flair for the psychosis. What have we missed since last we got together…
Personals
You ever wish your quiet neighborhood was suddenly infiltrated with millions of horny, pubescent creatures dangerously in need of some Visine? Who needs internet dating when you can live in a hole for 13 years only to wake up to a gaggle of girls that really only want to have kids?
Current Events
Happy belated Mother’s Day to mine. She’s better than yours, but we don’t have to get into that. Evidence: Me. And leftovers.
Sports
Did you know Nashville had a hockey team? Did you know Memphis has a basketball team? Did you know the NBA and NHL playoffs are nowhere near over? You're welcome.
Health
Then there was the time I flew with a sinus infection. I’m not asking to play a major role in your life, but let me make a difference here. A Greyhound bus may have a negative connotation. That connotation won’t make your brain explode. Pick up a can of Lysol and make sure your armrest is down.
World News
A couple of top secret stealth helicopters full of Leroy Browns flew into a residential neighborhood, a couple of hundred feet from a military training academy, and took down the most wanted man in the world. Oh, and they brought a dog along. I’m not here to give an opinion for or against the celebration of a man’s death, but someone should give Waldo and Nemo a heads up.
Pop Culture
Tonight, Glee took a moment to kick me and the rest of their audience squarely in the metaphorical crotch when they somehow roped us in to not changing the channel when they assembled a playlist that included the following: Rolling in the Deep, Friday, and Dancing Queen. America, emasculated.
Coupons
A few weeks back I had the pleasure of purchasing $93.78 worth of milk and ice cream. In case you were wondering, that’s 15 and 8 gallons, respectively, at Scottsville, Kentucky Food Lion prices. To the poor girl who checked me out, I apologize and wish you the best in your quest for interpersonal skills.
Now get out there and spit game like a cicada. Remember you’re fly.
Personals
You ever wish your quiet neighborhood was suddenly infiltrated with millions of horny, pubescent creatures dangerously in need of some Visine? Who needs internet dating when you can live in a hole for 13 years only to wake up to a gaggle of girls that really only want to have kids?
Current Events
Happy belated Mother’s Day to mine. She’s better than yours, but we don’t have to get into that. Evidence: Me. And leftovers.
Sports
Did you know Nashville had a hockey team? Did you know Memphis has a basketball team? Did you know the NBA and NHL playoffs are nowhere near over? You're welcome.
Health
Then there was the time I flew with a sinus infection. I’m not asking to play a major role in your life, but let me make a difference here. A Greyhound bus may have a negative connotation. That connotation won’t make your brain explode. Pick up a can of Lysol and make sure your armrest is down.
World News
A couple of top secret stealth helicopters full of Leroy Browns flew into a residential neighborhood, a couple of hundred feet from a military training academy, and took down the most wanted man in the world. Oh, and they brought a dog along. I’m not here to give an opinion for or against the celebration of a man’s death, but someone should give Waldo and Nemo a heads up.
Pop Culture
Tonight, Glee took a moment to kick me and the rest of their audience squarely in the metaphorical crotch when they somehow roped us in to not changing the channel when they assembled a playlist that included the following: Rolling in the Deep, Friday, and Dancing Queen. America, emasculated.
Coupons
A few weeks back I had the pleasure of purchasing $93.78 worth of milk and ice cream. In case you were wondering, that’s 15 and 8 gallons, respectively, at Scottsville, Kentucky Food Lion prices. To the poor girl who checked me out, I apologize and wish you the best in your quest for interpersonal skills.
Now get out there and spit game like a cicada. Remember you’re fly.
4.11.2011
Do We Have to Give You Money?
So last week the two teachers of the 2nd and 3rd grade class at church asked me if I could do about 5 minutes on the Lord’s Supper in their class the following week (yesterday).So yesterday after worship, I grab the extra trays and head up to face my 3rd grade fate. It is at this point I realize I haven’t seen either of the aforementioned teachers at church. One of my former Sunday School teachers wanders in.
I inquire, “Are you teaching this morning?”
“Nope. I thought you were.”
“Ok. (I was ready to go 5 minutes… What’s 45 divided by 5 again?)”
Since the young families at church collectively abandoned birth control about 10 years ago, there were 7 kids in this class (that’s a decent sized class for our congregation). 7 lumps of clay, just waiting to be molded by my shockingly small hands.
So, I went through a little background information, quickly realizing these kids were a lot more responsive than the teenagers who make up my other teaching experience.
First interesting question: “Did Jesus ask his apostles for money after dinner?”
This one was fun for me to answer.
Second interesting question: “Is that really wine in those cups?” [Note: I never passed it off as such.]
Third interesting question: “Why can’t kids be baptized?” It only took about 45 seconds of our Catholic discussion to get 7 late converts to Lent. Kidding. I didn’t mention Catholics… That might have made this question as enjoyable as the first interesting question.
Final interesting question: “Why are the trays gold?” Because the trays that Nelly’s grillz-maker made just wouldn’t fit into the budget. Even after the special contribution. [Smile on the rocks, please.]
I made it at least 20 minutes longer than I was expecting. At that point I rediscovered the joy of Hangman. Of course, due to Title IX, we also had to have a hangwoman. I even went so far as to make a hangpig [Note: the hangpig was the only round I won – meaning that the kids didn’t figure it out – but that’s mostly because I switched gears from Lord’s Supper words/phrases to Noah’s Ark, and I didn’t give them the apostrophe.]
Today's life lesson: If you're not willing to buy the Uterus Tic Tacs anymore, at least train your little ones to ask interesting questions.
3.31.2011
It Was Just Supposed to Be a Free Oil Change
So, a while back, I got a coupon in the mail for a free oil change from a car dealership. Ironically, the coupon was from a different dealership than the one at which I recently spent a couple of Pacman sacks to get my check engine light off. Today I redeemed that coupon. Plus, I also needed a headlight bulb replaced.
The last time I had a headlight go out, I spent 2 hours breaking into my car to replace it. Then I drove away, only to realize the replaced light was saluting a long lost brother of light in Sammy Sosa-like fashion, pointing to the sky. Nothing like driving down Ellington and feeling like you’re peeking up the skirt of every ghetto bridge along the way. That was about 10 months ago. You want to guess which headlight went out Tuesday? You’re right. I suck.
These are the reasons I decided to let the professionals do it. Plus, I didn’t want to break my streak and actually get something free from a car dealership.
I called yesterday to schedule an appointment. The guy said it would take maybe an hour and a half. He then asked if I wanted a ride back to the office or if I wanted to wait it out. I decided to go at lunch and wait it out.
Upon arrival, they told me everyone in the shop was at lunch. Therefore, it was going to take at least 3 hours.
Courtesy van it is.
So I got to ride shotgun… Then everyone else started piling in. Aside from the fact we weren’t in a Beetle or a Mini-Cooper, I’m fairly confident I know what a clown in transit must feel like. So the 8 of us take off down the road. I’ve ridden in many a church van full of nasty kids. This was in no way comparable, but shotgun was still looking like a pretty good call.
We got one dropped off in less than 5 minutes. Clutch for the folks in the middle seats. Then things got interesting.
Due to our driver’s traffic allergy, we are driving through the hood of West Nashville. He’s constantly reassuring the backseat crew that they will not get shot. I’ve driven this area many a time to avoid Charlotte traffic, so I am not worried about my safety. Blue lights serve to bolster this feeling. Until I realize the blue lights are not going around our courtesy van.
It’s been a while since I’ve been pulled over, but I’m fairly familiar with acceptable etiquette. The driver pulls over. It is at this point in time my version of standard operating procedure ceases. Our driver greets the officer with a string of profanity audible from at least the back bumper.
You want to know what 7 people standing in a parking lot outside of a courtesy van looks like? Drive a courtesy van, cuss out a cop and refuse to give him your license, registration and proof of insurance.
Yep.
I’d like to thank my business casual for stopping the second and third cops from handcuffing me… Can’t say as much for the driver and his two fast friends who stepped to his misguided defense. He who has ears, let him hear: officers of the law do not enjoy wit and sarcasm when handcuffing courtesy van riders.
Additionally, I now know how thorough a drug search [Note: to clarify, search of a car, not human cavities] can be when performed by trained personnel.
In a truly surprising turn of events, no one got arrested. I couldn’t have typed that sentence and ended it with “fired.” Two hours and one new driver later, I got back to work. Just in time to turn around and catch the shuttle back to the dealership.
You remember when your librarian friend told you that you can’t use Wikipedia as a source and you can’t believe everything you read on the internet? She’s right. I hope I sufficiently dusted off my fiction writing.
In reality, the first part of that story was true. You know… the uneventful part? Once I got in the courtesy van, it was just me and the friendly driver. We talked NCAA basketball and made it to the office in under 10 minutes.
Whoever decided there would be one day a year when it is socially acceptable to lie? It’s not even April, fools. Keep an eye out tomorrow… You never know when someone will get to work 2 hours early and decorate your cube like Neyland Stadium.
The last time I had a headlight go out, I spent 2 hours breaking into my car to replace it. Then I drove away, only to realize the replaced light was saluting a long lost brother of light in Sammy Sosa-like fashion, pointing to the sky. Nothing like driving down Ellington and feeling like you’re peeking up the skirt of every ghetto bridge along the way. That was about 10 months ago. You want to guess which headlight went out Tuesday? You’re right. I suck.
These are the reasons I decided to let the professionals do it. Plus, I didn’t want to break my streak and actually get something free from a car dealership.
I called yesterday to schedule an appointment. The guy said it would take maybe an hour and a half. He then asked if I wanted a ride back to the office or if I wanted to wait it out. I decided to go at lunch and wait it out.
Upon arrival, they told me everyone in the shop was at lunch. Therefore, it was going to take at least 3 hours.
Courtesy van it is.
So I got to ride shotgun… Then everyone else started piling in. Aside from the fact we weren’t in a Beetle or a Mini-Cooper, I’m fairly confident I know what a clown in transit must feel like. So the 8 of us take off down the road. I’ve ridden in many a church van full of nasty kids. This was in no way comparable, but shotgun was still looking like a pretty good call.
We got one dropped off in less than 5 minutes. Clutch for the folks in the middle seats. Then things got interesting.
Due to our driver’s traffic allergy, we are driving through the hood of West Nashville. He’s constantly reassuring the backseat crew that they will not get shot. I’ve driven this area many a time to avoid Charlotte traffic, so I am not worried about my safety. Blue lights serve to bolster this feeling. Until I realize the blue lights are not going around our courtesy van.
It’s been a while since I’ve been pulled over, but I’m fairly familiar with acceptable etiquette. The driver pulls over. It is at this point in time my version of standard operating procedure ceases. Our driver greets the officer with a string of profanity audible from at least the back bumper.
You want to know what 7 people standing in a parking lot outside of a courtesy van looks like? Drive a courtesy van, cuss out a cop and refuse to give him your license, registration and proof of insurance.
Yep.
I’d like to thank my business casual for stopping the second and third cops from handcuffing me… Can’t say as much for the driver and his two fast friends who stepped to his misguided defense. He who has ears, let him hear: officers of the law do not enjoy wit and sarcasm when handcuffing courtesy van riders.
Additionally, I now know how thorough a drug search [Note: to clarify, search of a car, not human cavities] can be when performed by trained personnel.
In a truly surprising turn of events, no one got arrested. I couldn’t have typed that sentence and ended it with “fired.” Two hours and one new driver later, I got back to work. Just in time to turn around and catch the shuttle back to the dealership.
You remember when your librarian friend told you that you can’t use Wikipedia as a source and you can’t believe everything you read on the internet? She’s right. I hope I sufficiently dusted off my fiction writing.
In reality, the first part of that story was true. You know… the uneventful part? Once I got in the courtesy van, it was just me and the friendly driver. We talked NCAA basketball and made it to the office in under 10 minutes.
Whoever decided there would be one day a year when it is socially acceptable to lie? It’s not even April, fools. Keep an eye out tomorrow… You never know when someone will get to work 2 hours early and decorate your cube like Neyland Stadium.
3.28.2011
For Optimal Viewing Pleasure, Read on a Jumbotron
Today’s novel novelette [Note: I fully expected that to be red-squigglied, but apparently novelette is a word – guess I’ll have to stick with “parablismic” as my attempt at making an original entry into the dictionary. Parablismic – adj. Worthy of being a parable; an analogy on steroid-laced AGH - Analogy Growth Hormones.]… Anyway, today’s novelette: Obedience to a large screen.
We live in a culture that longs to do what Simon says. Sure, we all think we’re above the law. Some people speed. Some people let their grass grow beyond the allowable limit of the local ordinance. Some people post ads on Craigslist in an effort to find a new victim… But a vast majority of humankind cannot resist the urge to obey a jumbotron.
You pass random people in public and you’re lucky if you don’t get hissed at once a week, but you put a clipart picture frame on a huge TV screen and paste the words “Smile Cam” on the top? Nothing but chiclets.
Two words and eleven exclamation points can make an stadium full of introverts shriek like Tatum Riley when Billy Loomis hits the garage door opener. “Make Noise!!!!!!!!!!!” So you won’t scream just because I typed it on the internet? What if you were reading this on a jumbotron? Don’t act like it wouldn’t work.
Then there’s the Kiss Cam. Really? Aside from the rare humor found when the guy goes for the lips and ends up with a tongue full of dandruff, there is nothing entertaining about watching people kiss at sporting events. Okay… two sets of dentures colliding on screen can sometimes be considered cute, but even then, that’s really only if you’re trying to be the next one on screen with the member of the opposite sex next to you who is also claiming the mustache-to-mustache contact is cute.
What is it about the big screen that makes people stop thinking and start pulling out pale triceps flab for the Gold’s Gym Flex Cam? Sure you could pull a Jamie Foxx and blame the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol, but the PDA happens regardless of the BAC.
Where else will this work? After I bought a Mercury or two, if I had money, I might just try to rent one of those LED billboards and give a few friendly suggestions to passers-by… [Just imagine the exclamation points because I dislike exclamation points.]
Close Your Eyes
Change to Mix 92.9
Put Your Hands Up, They’re Playing My Song
Stop Sucking at Driving
Slow Traffic Keep Right on Picking Your Nose – No One Will Notice
On The Count of 3, Everybody Take a Hard Right...
1...
2...
Your Blinker Has Been On Since You Changed to Mix 92.9
You’re a Grown Man… Trade in the Beetle
Think About What This Screen Is Telling You To Do Before You Do It
Keep Alabama Beautiful... Then Let Your Leprechaun Friend Drive Your Unicorn Home.
We live in a culture that longs to do what Simon says. Sure, we all think we’re above the law. Some people speed. Some people let their grass grow beyond the allowable limit of the local ordinance. Some people post ads on Craigslist in an effort to find a new victim… But a vast majority of humankind cannot resist the urge to obey a jumbotron.
You pass random people in public and you’re lucky if you don’t get hissed at once a week, but you put a clipart picture frame on a huge TV screen and paste the words “Smile Cam” on the top? Nothing but chiclets.
Two words and eleven exclamation points can make an stadium full of introverts shriek like Tatum Riley when Billy Loomis hits the garage door opener. “Make Noise!!!!!!!!!!!” So you won’t scream just because I typed it on the internet? What if you were reading this on a jumbotron? Don’t act like it wouldn’t work.
Then there’s the Kiss Cam. Really? Aside from the rare humor found when the guy goes for the lips and ends up with a tongue full of dandruff, there is nothing entertaining about watching people kiss at sporting events. Okay… two sets of dentures colliding on screen can sometimes be considered cute, but even then, that’s really only if you’re trying to be the next one on screen with the member of the opposite sex next to you who is also claiming the mustache-to-mustache contact is cute.
What is it about the big screen that makes people stop thinking and start pulling out pale triceps flab for the Gold’s Gym Flex Cam? Sure you could pull a Jamie Foxx and blame the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol, but the PDA happens regardless of the BAC.
Where else will this work? After I bought a Mercury or two, if I had money, I might just try to rent one of those LED billboards and give a few friendly suggestions to passers-by… [Just imagine the exclamation points because I dislike exclamation points.]
Close Your Eyes
Change to Mix 92.9
Put Your Hands Up, They’re Playing My Song
Stop Sucking at Driving
Slow Traffic Keep Right on Picking Your Nose – No One Will Notice
On The Count of 3, Everybody Take a Hard Right...
1...
2...
Your Blinker Has Been On Since You Changed to Mix 92.9
You’re a Grown Man… Trade in the Beetle
Think About What This Screen Is Telling You To Do Before You Do It
Keep Alabama Beautiful... Then Let Your Leprechaun Friend Drive Your Unicorn Home.
3.22.2011
Before Chairs and Desks were Separate
Well, I hope none of you has (early grammar test paired with foreshadowing – boom) tried to contact Dr. Drew or any other VH1 personality due to withdrawals from the blog. Though if you contacted Dr. Dre or any other Dr. Pepper commercial personality because of this blog, that’s fantastic.
Anyway, it may have been brought to my attention by a preacher’s kid that it’s been a while since I graced you with my vocabulary. So, when this thing goes south, blame the PK.
You ever remember random things from middle or high school? As I am fairly self-aware, I suspect I am a hit with the younger generation, so some of you may still be in high school. Now I’m not talking about remembering that time you pegged a good friend in the forehead with an egg, that time you got tossed out of a basketball game for trash-talking a future NBA lottery pick, or that time you dragged a gutter into your geometry class. I’m talking about random educational tidbits that you have no business remembering.
Allow me to take this opportunity to thank my primary and secondary educators. Bless your hearts. It’s thanks to you all I can rattle off 60-some-odd prepositions in under 10 seconds, I use the Pythagorean theorem to try to calculate the hypotenuse of the angle the jerk in the Toyota Tercel used to cut me off, and I find it hilarious to tell elementary school kids there is a country called Djibouti. And the capital of Djibouti? Djibouti.
If you don’t have random knowledge projectiles flying through your mind occasionally, you might want to sit in on a G.E.D., ACT, or U.S. Citizenship test sometime. You’re missing out.
Aside from the author of a semi-world-famous-blog, you know who else has these fortuitous facts pop up? Dwayne Michael Carter... “I got through that sentence like a subject and a predicate.”[Grammar] “I have more jewels than your jeweler – touch and I will bust your medulla.” [Anatomy] “I told you I get paid by the letter like ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY ZZ TOP.” [Wordly Wise]
See kids, when your parents tell you can be whatever you want when you grow up, that’s a lie. You can’t be mermaid. You can’t be a mermaid’s husband (no matter how awesome that would be). And you can’t be the greatest rapper in the world… unless you pay, paid, or will have paid attention in school.
So in the a world that hits you 140 characters at a time, insert a little unexpected information every once in a while to surprise and edify (fine, those don’t really rhyme, but it was as close as I could get while being distracted by Glee’s Umbrella/Singin’ in the Rain) your fellow man. And remember your helping verbs: am, is, are, was, were, be, being, been, has, have, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, could, would, may, might, must, can.
Anyway, it may have been brought to my attention by a preacher’s kid that it’s been a while since I graced you with my vocabulary. So, when this thing goes south, blame the PK.
You ever remember random things from middle or high school? As I am fairly self-aware, I suspect I am a hit with the younger generation, so some of you may still be in high school. Now I’m not talking about remembering that time you pegged a good friend in the forehead with an egg, that time you got tossed out of a basketball game for trash-talking a future NBA lottery pick, or that time you dragged a gutter into your geometry class. I’m talking about random educational tidbits that you have no business remembering.
Allow me to take this opportunity to thank my primary and secondary educators. Bless your hearts. It’s thanks to you all I can rattle off 60-some-odd prepositions in under 10 seconds, I use the Pythagorean theorem to try to calculate the hypotenuse of the angle the jerk in the Toyota Tercel used to cut me off, and I find it hilarious to tell elementary school kids there is a country called Djibouti. And the capital of Djibouti? Djibouti.
If you don’t have random knowledge projectiles flying through your mind occasionally, you might want to sit in on a G.E.D., ACT, or U.S. Citizenship test sometime. You’re missing out.
Aside from the author of a semi-world-famous-blog, you know who else has these fortuitous facts pop up? Dwayne Michael Carter... “I got through that sentence like a subject and a predicate.”[Grammar] “I have more jewels than your jeweler – touch and I will bust your medulla.” [Anatomy] “I told you I get paid by the letter like ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY ZZ TOP.” [Wordly Wise]
See kids, when your parents tell you can be whatever you want when you grow up, that’s a lie. You can’t be mermaid. You can’t be a mermaid’s husband (no matter how awesome that would be). And you can’t be the greatest rapper in the world… unless you pay, paid, or will have paid attention in school.
So in the a world that hits you 140 characters at a time, insert a little unexpected information every once in a while to surprise and edify (fine, those don’t really rhyme, but it was as close as I could get while being distracted by Glee’s Umbrella/Singin’ in the Rain) your fellow man. And remember your helping verbs: am, is, are, was, were, be, being, been, has, have, had, do, does, did, shall, will, should, could, would, may, might, must, can.
2.15.2011
The Dilemma of a Man
I wish Dave could see me now. The Larry Bird of Perfect North Ski School watched his promising pupil fail time and again merely two weeks ago on the icy slush of Lawrenceburg, Indiana. As we parted ways, I could see it in his eyes… “Kid, you’re destined for a day on the training slopes at a top speed that would struggle to keep up with Verne Troyer carrying Terrance Cody over his shoulder down a sandy beach… You’re just not cut out for this. Stick to the grass, buddy, and the world will spin a little smoother.”
Dave, I agreed with you. I agreed with you in Indiana, and I agreed with you at the top of the lift in Breckenridge, Colorado. Then came a revolutionary revelation: Two weeks after beginning my quest for the 2014 Winter Games, on a hill far away, I learned how to turn left. The Rocky Mountains were mine to conquer.
With my newly discovered ability, I could now stop getting angry at 6 year-olds humming past me on the slopes. I could move on to seeing how close I could get, at my pedestrian speed, to the woods without actually visiting the ghost of Sonny Bono past. I can’t explain how relieving it was to no longer be a complete failure. I had moved on to being below average, and I was thrilled.
There was no green circle slope in Breckenridge that could contain me. Sure, there were a few that took me down a time or two, but Colorado had no idea how good I got in Indiana at getting up on skis.
Turning right and left, snowplowing straight ahead, I was practically unstoppable. Then my so-called friends led me to a new lift. Whether it be a skewed view of myself or not, I like to think I’m rather perceptive. Observing my surroundings, it became evident that there was no green circle waiting for me at the top of this ride….
Here I was faced with a classic dilemma: what is more important to a male, pride or a general concern for self-preservation?
You cannot have both. At some point in your life, you will be forced to choose. The great males in history have all faced this dilemma at some point in their lives.
Then I fell.
Tumbled right off the chair. Popped a ski off. Spun my pole like a baton twirler at halftime.
I picked up my pole, my ski, and fumbled around for my confidence. It was all downhill from there. Only literally though, not metaphorically. Breckenridge blue diamond achieved. Dave was right there beside me the whole time. Metaphorically, of course.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m still not a good skier. But the secondary mantra for the weekend proved true [NOTE: the primary mantra was Firework by Katy Perry, but that one wasn’t really a demarcation point for success.] Practice makes not so sucky.
Dave, I agreed with you. I agreed with you in Indiana, and I agreed with you at the top of the lift in Breckenridge, Colorado. Then came a revolutionary revelation: Two weeks after beginning my quest for the 2014 Winter Games, on a hill far away, I learned how to turn left. The Rocky Mountains were mine to conquer.
With my newly discovered ability, I could now stop getting angry at 6 year-olds humming past me on the slopes. I could move on to seeing how close I could get, at my pedestrian speed, to the woods without actually visiting the ghost of Sonny Bono past. I can’t explain how relieving it was to no longer be a complete failure. I had moved on to being below average, and I was thrilled.
There was no green circle slope in Breckenridge that could contain me. Sure, there were a few that took me down a time or two, but Colorado had no idea how good I got in Indiana at getting up on skis.
Turning right and left, snowplowing straight ahead, I was practically unstoppable. Then my so-called friends led me to a new lift. Whether it be a skewed view of myself or not, I like to think I’m rather perceptive. Observing my surroundings, it became evident that there was no green circle waiting for me at the top of this ride….
Here I was faced with a classic dilemma: what is more important to a male, pride or a general concern for self-preservation?
You cannot have both. At some point in your life, you will be forced to choose. The great males in history have all faced this dilemma at some point in their lives.
- Kevin McAlister chose to man-up and embarrass the wet bandits [You could argue self-preservation here, but you’d be wrong. That little hero could have wimped out, called the cops, camped out in the Catholic church, or hopped on a Penske truck to New York, but he chose to go all Under Armor and protect his house. And the movie would have sucked if he didn’t.]
- John Lennon went the love-clouded self-preservation route and scurried off with Yoko. Sure, he avoided a few cold showers, but the world missed out on at least another decade of nonsensical lyrics.
- Jimi Heselden chose pride. He set out to prove to the world that his Segway creations could do more than putter along at 2 miles an hour. Forget Red Bull. Buy a Segway and fly.
- Long before Jared walked to Subway and Jillian Michaels conned her way into a career of yelling at people, Gandhi threw self-preservation to the wind, embracing hunger for a greater cause.
- Tiger Woods should have been sitting in his recliner, popping Vicodins during the 2008 US Open but he chose pride. He hobbled around, making the world feel like the 200 million dollar man was the victim. Pride got him a big trophy, a big check, and probably two or three additional STDs.
- Michael Scott roundhouse kicked pride in the stomach and pawned his golden ticket idea off on dedicated Dwight K. Shrute. Dwight, on the other hand, put Dunder Mifflin’s reputation on his broad, beet-stained shoulders and made humanity proud to know their way around a pair of nunchucks.
Then I fell.
Tumbled right off the chair. Popped a ski off. Spun my pole like a baton twirler at halftime.
I picked up my pole, my ski, and fumbled around for my confidence. It was all downhill from there. Only literally though, not metaphorically. Breckenridge blue diamond achieved. Dave was right there beside me the whole time. Metaphorically, of course.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m still not a good skier. But the secondary mantra for the weekend proved true [NOTE: the primary mantra was Firework by Katy Perry, but that one wasn’t really a demarcation point for success.] Practice makes not so sucky.
2.06.2011
An Open Letter from a Plane
Dear Ten Thousand Feet,
I have never longed for you more than today. After an hour of sitting in the plane on the tarmac, I have missed you like Lieutenant Al Powell of Die Hard fame misses Twinkies. It seems Denver had a mile high of 9 degrees today. Therefore I got my first de-icing experience. Unfortunately, this came at a time when I was seated in front of a very talkative threesome.
Things started off promising. As a Southwest B01 boarding pass, I had to go to the rear of the plane to get my aisle seat. However, I did manage to lock down row 17. For those frequent Southwest fliers, you know what this means. For the grounded, this means I am on the first row for drink orders in the back third of the cabin. Count it. Then the conversation began behind me…
The young gentleman began explaining the de-icing process and related payment schedule to the two young ladies. When asked how he knew all of this, he explained he was in construction and his boss had sent him to Aviation conventions. A few jokes and casual references to his smoking and drinking habits later, the ladies revealed they were doing graduate research at Vanderbilt. Their field: Molecular Physiology.
Bob the builder was not fazed by this daunting career variance. The ladies began explaining their fields of research, each having a focus in Diabetes. Bob talked about how his grandfather makes a great cheesecake. They begin explaining the differences between type I and type II. He tells about how someone in Denver offered his grandma a bowl of marijuana. They explain how a research facility operates. He talks about roofies.
I cannot make this stuff up.
[Meanwhile, as I have discovered that typing these things makes a flight go by faster, I am at it again. The flight attendant just moved on to take row 18’s orders. Unfortunately, an old man had just finished up in the rear restroom. This old man passed the flight attendant right at my shoulder. And yes, he did go butt towards the flight attendant. As I had been missing you so much, I had my earphones in at 10,002 feet; therefore, I had no audible warning of the fast approaching old man genitalia. Four layers of fabric have never felt so insufficient as the four between my shoulder and that old man’s crotch.]
The combination of early boarding, waiting for connecting luggage, and de-icing provided me a full hour of this auditory anguish. Currently, the ipod is at full volume. Alas, Bob’s chainsaw of a voice still pierces my ears. The scientists appear happy to be conversing with something other than a fieldmouse, so the conversation continues.
Ten Thousand Feet, as soon as I sit down in a fully upright seat, there’s always something missing. My approved electronic device waits, patiently stowed, for me to retrieve it. Without you, TTF, I am incomplete. I know so often you go unnoticed. A mere number, a threshold of aural enjoyment. Not today. Today, TTF, I thank you.
Well, I guess we’re together now, and I finally got that off my digital chest. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go ahead and bask in the joy that is you. Still though, I think this plane is bound to land with at least 4 people who are dumber than they were when we began de-icing.
This is me promising to never again take you for granted.
Love,
Row 17.
[NOTE: Tune in next time for my most recent skiing adventure... it went a little differently than the last.]
I have never longed for you more than today. After an hour of sitting in the plane on the tarmac, I have missed you like Lieutenant Al Powell of Die Hard fame misses Twinkies. It seems Denver had a mile high of 9 degrees today. Therefore I got my first de-icing experience. Unfortunately, this came at a time when I was seated in front of a very talkative threesome.
Things started off promising. As a Southwest B01 boarding pass, I had to go to the rear of the plane to get my aisle seat. However, I did manage to lock down row 17. For those frequent Southwest fliers, you know what this means. For the grounded, this means I am on the first row for drink orders in the back third of the cabin. Count it. Then the conversation began behind me…
The young gentleman began explaining the de-icing process and related payment schedule to the two young ladies. When asked how he knew all of this, he explained he was in construction and his boss had sent him to Aviation conventions. A few jokes and casual references to his smoking and drinking habits later, the ladies revealed they were doing graduate research at Vanderbilt. Their field: Molecular Physiology.
Bob the builder was not fazed by this daunting career variance. The ladies began explaining their fields of research, each having a focus in Diabetes. Bob talked about how his grandfather makes a great cheesecake. They begin explaining the differences between type I and type II. He tells about how someone in Denver offered his grandma a bowl of marijuana. They explain how a research facility operates. He talks about roofies.
I cannot make this stuff up.
[Meanwhile, as I have discovered that typing these things makes a flight go by faster, I am at it again. The flight attendant just moved on to take row 18’s orders. Unfortunately, an old man had just finished up in the rear restroom. This old man passed the flight attendant right at my shoulder. And yes, he did go butt towards the flight attendant. As I had been missing you so much, I had my earphones in at 10,002 feet; therefore, I had no audible warning of the fast approaching old man genitalia. Four layers of fabric have never felt so insufficient as the four between my shoulder and that old man’s crotch.]
The combination of early boarding, waiting for connecting luggage, and de-icing provided me a full hour of this auditory anguish. Currently, the ipod is at full volume. Alas, Bob’s chainsaw of a voice still pierces my ears. The scientists appear happy to be conversing with something other than a fieldmouse, so the conversation continues.
Ten Thousand Feet, as soon as I sit down in a fully upright seat, there’s always something missing. My approved electronic device waits, patiently stowed, for me to retrieve it. Without you, TTF, I am incomplete. I know so often you go unnoticed. A mere number, a threshold of aural enjoyment. Not today. Today, TTF, I thank you.
Well, I guess we’re together now, and I finally got that off my digital chest. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go ahead and bask in the joy that is you. Still though, I think this plane is bound to land with at least 4 people who are dumber than they were when we began de-icing.
This is me promising to never again take you for granted.
Love,
Row 17.
[NOTE: Tune in next time for my most recent skiing adventure... it went a little differently than the last.]
2.01.2011
Living the Mile High Life
What did you learn this weekend? Ok, I’ll go first. Well, I pretty much learned how to ski – more of that to come in a later post – but, outside of skiing, this was still a very educational weekend…
- I learned a new game… Irish Uno. With the new game came the following lessons: How to sing “Firework” while keeping one’s tongue outside the classic barrier that is one’s lips. Loren learned how to play an entire game without using the first person subjective pronoun. I also learned that everyone I was playing said game with spoke much better British than I.
- I learned one can sleep in a ski lodge and people will go on about life around you, especially children showering you with their slobbery Oreo crumbs.
- I learned that near the prison outside of Denver, there is a sign that reads, “Correctional Facility: Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers.”
- I learned a fireworks show on top of a mountain consists of 3 One Bad Mothers, a Louisiana Yard Dog, and an Ultimate Fantasy.
- I learned if you’re looking to buy weed, all you have to do is move to Denver and pull a muscle when you sneeze.
- I learned real people really do ice-fish. We drove past a frozen lake on Sunday to see 15 iceholes on the lake. Beside the iceholes, there was also an icy racetrack where jeeps were going all "2 Fast 2 Furious."
- I learned to not take my six-and-a-half foot shower head for granted ever again.
- I learned, for some people, adjusting to the higher altitude means you have the stomach of an Olsen twin. Hi, I’m some people. I never thought half a cookie would do me in. Forget Jenny Craig, just live on a mountain. As the mysterious third verse of “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Sand” goes, when the altitude goes up, the BMI goes down.
- I learned really good and really bad snowboarders both have a keen sense of knowing when they’re up a proverbial creek. As one gentleman was boarding up a ramp he began his profane proclamation. He waited until his head hit the ground to finish.
- I learned not having cable is totally worth not watching Jersey Shore.
- I learned that when one finds oneself “shopping” with friends of the opposite sex, seeing how many times one can ride the escalator in Forever 21 before leaving can leave one feeling very creepy. One gave up after merely two escalator laps.
- I learned there was a “Take the Money and Run” before “Take the Money and Run.”
- I learned one can park a 4-Runner in a Nike Shoebox. Just don’t expect the door not to get stuck.
- I learned girls look very attractive in a ski resort.
- I learned you can’t see wedding rings through ski gloves.
- I learned that the Tulane and New Mexico basketball teams fly Southwest. And, as a result of my seeing these teams and knowing how to use Google, I learned that New Mexico would beat Tulane by 20.
- I learned there is a time and place for bunkbeds. Namely, childhood or prison.
1.31.2011
Three Feet From a Three Year-Old
At most points in time, the skies are usually packed with suits and retirees. But this week was a little different…
Monday morning, we took a full flight to Houston with a brief touchdown in San Antonio along the way. There were only 9 of us passenger types that were continuing on from San Antonio to Houston. We obediently stayed seated so Mary could do her through-count, and then we were permitted to move about the cabin. As a semi-seasoned traveler, I made my way towards the front of the aircraft to gain a better seat. Settled in on the window of aisle 3, they came.
Instinctively responding to the repetitive training, I reached to secure my oxygen mask before helping the 22 elementary school kids who had just begun scurrying onto our flight.
I hope little Johnny [who am I kidding – odds of one of those kids being named Johnny in this day in age are 3400:1] didn’t take it personally when we made eye contact and the only word I could muster was “really?”
Turns out J-Dog and his friends were on a field trip. That field trip was to the San Antonio airport and not Houston. Crisis averted. The children took their picture, put in their earplugs, and headed out onto the tarmac, leaving me to wish that I was the one going out on the tarmac.
We’re in the air on the way back to Nashville now [Yes, folks, this is another highly-anticipated live-but-delayed-due-to-internet-access post].
One sidenote before we get to the second of my two subpar storylines...
Sidenote: If you’re not familiar, Southwest is to other all other airlines as the Harlem Globetrotters are to the Washington Generals. This is mostly due to the fact that their employees act like people. Sometimes sarcastic people. And I LUV them for it. Today, just after family boarding, we begin boarding “B 1 through 30.” As B7, I am ready to hand the guy my boarding pass when this older couple comes running [relative term] up flashing their A27 and A28. “We’re A’s. We tried as hard as we could, but we just couldn’t get here fast enough.” I smile and wait. The Southwest guy takes the lady’s boarding pass and asks, “Why are you breathing so fast? Is somebody chasing you?” He then proceeds to step to the side and look for her pursuer.
I get on the plane, lock down my aisle seat on a row whose window seat is occupied. Immediately, I pretend to sleep so as not to be disturbed by someone looking to lurk on the vacant middle seat. After the aisle traffic has died down, I wake up. Soon, I find myself repeating steps 1 and 2 as we are waiting on some connecting passengers. During the waiting process, I am un-formally introduced to the child sitting one row up and over from me.
She says she’s three, but her fingers tell a different story. I have no idea what this girl’s name is, which is probably best in case this blog becomes huge so she doesn’t have TMZ coming after her. [NOTE: The water on today’s flight tastes like a mixture of hand lotion and icy hot.] We’ll call her Nancy, given my earlier stance on old-school names. Nancy had two shining moments before we reached 10,000 feet and my headphones went in.
1. Nancy’s mom was traveling with Nancy and her younger sister. Mom leaned up to the gentleman in front of her and asked that if little sister was getting too annoying to let her know, and she’d take little sister out of the carseat and hold her. The gentleman told her everything is fine, and Nancy responded by asking, “Mommy, is that PawPaw?” “No baby, that’s the nice man who is sitting in front of us.”PawPaw, if you’re reading this, congratulations on being generic.
2. As I mentioned, we were waiting on connecting flights. During the wait, Nancy asked, “Mommy, are we here?” This was a totally legitimate question given how much time we spent sitting at the gate.
As I close up the computer for this trip, I can tell you this, the safety information card in your seat pocket is very interesting to a three year-old. Also, I have determined that part of flight attendant school is avoiding French fries in the aisle. Nancy has gotten a little careless in her old age, yet no one has stepped on the rejected potatoes she has left strewn about the cabin.
Anyway, you want an advertisement for birth control? Film people traveling with their kids. Frozen pea sales will skyrocket.
Finally, I’m not sure about the amenities in Heaven, but if there’s a blog ticker up there somewhere and this is scrolling [Not saying these words are worthy of glory, but there’s a lot of time in eternity], to all you folks who were old when I was little, thanks for taking the time to eerily stop and look at me, making ridiculous faces and talking in awkward voices at me. My parents probably didn’t like it at the time, but I’m sure you meant well… Nice wings.
Monday morning, we took a full flight to Houston with a brief touchdown in San Antonio along the way. There were only 9 of us passenger types that were continuing on from San Antonio to Houston. We obediently stayed seated so Mary could do her through-count, and then we were permitted to move about the cabin. As a semi-seasoned traveler, I made my way towards the front of the aircraft to gain a better seat. Settled in on the window of aisle 3, they came.
Instinctively responding to the repetitive training, I reached to secure my oxygen mask before helping the 22 elementary school kids who had just begun scurrying onto our flight.
I hope little Johnny [who am I kidding – odds of one of those kids being named Johnny in this day in age are 3400:1] didn’t take it personally when we made eye contact and the only word I could muster was “really?”
Turns out J-Dog and his friends were on a field trip. That field trip was to the San Antonio airport and not Houston. Crisis averted. The children took their picture, put in their earplugs, and headed out onto the tarmac, leaving me to wish that I was the one going out on the tarmac.
We’re in the air on the way back to Nashville now [Yes, folks, this is another highly-anticipated live-but-delayed-due-to-internet-access post].
One sidenote before we get to the second of my two subpar storylines...
Sidenote: If you’re not familiar, Southwest is to other all other airlines as the Harlem Globetrotters are to the Washington Generals. This is mostly due to the fact that their employees act like people. Sometimes sarcastic people. And I LUV them for it. Today, just after family boarding, we begin boarding “B 1 through 30.” As B7, I am ready to hand the guy my boarding pass when this older couple comes running [relative term] up flashing their A27 and A28. “We’re A’s. We tried as hard as we could, but we just couldn’t get here fast enough.” I smile and wait. The Southwest guy takes the lady’s boarding pass and asks, “Why are you breathing so fast? Is somebody chasing you?” He then proceeds to step to the side and look for her pursuer.
I get on the plane, lock down my aisle seat on a row whose window seat is occupied. Immediately, I pretend to sleep so as not to be disturbed by someone looking to lurk on the vacant middle seat. After the aisle traffic has died down, I wake up. Soon, I find myself repeating steps 1 and 2 as we are waiting on some connecting passengers. During the waiting process, I am un-formally introduced to the child sitting one row up and over from me.
She says she’s three, but her fingers tell a different story. I have no idea what this girl’s name is, which is probably best in case this blog becomes huge so she doesn’t have TMZ coming after her. [NOTE: The water on today’s flight tastes like a mixture of hand lotion and icy hot.] We’ll call her Nancy, given my earlier stance on old-school names. Nancy had two shining moments before we reached 10,000 feet and my headphones went in.
1. Nancy’s mom was traveling with Nancy and her younger sister. Mom leaned up to the gentleman in front of her and asked that if little sister was getting too annoying to let her know, and she’d take little sister out of the carseat and hold her. The gentleman told her everything is fine, and Nancy responded by asking, “Mommy, is that PawPaw?” “No baby, that’s the nice man who is sitting in front of us.”PawPaw, if you’re reading this, congratulations on being generic.
2. As I mentioned, we were waiting on connecting flights. During the wait, Nancy asked, “Mommy, are we here?” This was a totally legitimate question given how much time we spent sitting at the gate.
As I close up the computer for this trip, I can tell you this, the safety information card in your seat pocket is very interesting to a three year-old. Also, I have determined that part of flight attendant school is avoiding French fries in the aisle. Nancy has gotten a little careless in her old age, yet no one has stepped on the rejected potatoes she has left strewn about the cabin.
Anyway, you want an advertisement for birth control? Film people traveling with their kids. Frozen pea sales will skyrocket.
Finally, I’m not sure about the amenities in Heaven, but if there’s a blog ticker up there somewhere and this is scrolling [Not saying these words are worthy of glory, but there’s a lot of time in eternity], to all you folks who were old when I was little, thanks for taking the time to eerily stop and look at me, making ridiculous faces and talking in awkward voices at me. My parents probably didn’t like it at the time, but I’m sure you meant well… Nice wings.
1.17.2011
You Better Brace Yourself, Fool
Aside from reminding me how old I am on a regular basis, the church youth group is sweet enough to allow me to tag along on most of their adventures [though trips to D.C. and Disney replaced Pascagoula, Mississippi and Gary, Indiana immediately following my retirement from youth internship]. This weekend was back to Indiana. This time for a winter retreat, complete with skiing.
I have skied [or whatever the past tense of ‘to see’ is] before. However, when I say before, I mean one day in 7th grade. Below I have listed the highlights of the weekend. Granted, some emphasis is placed on skiing. While my audience may not be large, I’m not foolish enough to think they don’t want to hear the interesting parts of the weekend...
• In case you’re a facestalker, I want to be the one to tell you, I bought and wore a scarf. Let’s just say, the scarf gene passed down quite effectively.
• In ski school, Dave, my instructor, asked me if I was left handed. I responded no, attempted to perform his next simple task, and he asked, “Are you sure you’re not left handed?”
• I enjoyed some of the greatest worship time I have had in a long time… No offense to the Sunday morning regulars at church who may be reading this.
• This little fella was riding the magic carpet behind me on the bunny slope. 15 seconds after this photo was taken, I looked down and saw 2 tiny skis between mine. The little man was tucked under me like I was a papa penguin.
• Our lodging for the weekend: a Boy Scout lodge. If you’ve ever spent much time on a church trip, you have probably experienced the joy of Podunk accommodation. This weekend was no different.
• The walls in the aforementioned Boy Scout lodge were apparently made of paper mache. Similar to what I imagine a low-security prison to be like, every door clicked at least 3 times when it slammed, echoing throughout the hall of 2-man cells.
• Dave looked at me on my last trip down the hill in ski school with a sad look that said something along the lines of, “Son, you need at least 3 more hours with me before you can look like anything above an alpine tumbleweed.”
• This weekend reminded me that a mid-20s accountant can pull a lot out of curriculum intended for 16 year-old high schoolers.
• Loveland, Ohio is basically the Hendersonville of Cincinnati. As determined by the houses, Red Robin [Yum.], boutiques, and Starbucks in the grocery store.
• In my 3 hours I spent practicing until I could turn left, my favorite moment was when a little kid, no more than 4 years old, was walking up the hill holding his snowboard, alerting everyone he passed, “You better brace yourself, fool.”
• While watching Toy Story 3 [The title for the weekend was Toys R Us, theme being how to stay tru [sic] to yourself, others and God.], I realized Ken wore rompers and still managed to get Barbie approximately 3 times.
• I’m still not sure I can turn left, but I did have the pizza and right turn to fall back on [pun] to kick inertia in the snowballs and stop my descent.
• Even as Christians, we often find ourselves “putting more weight on the backs of those who already have so much… weight that we’ve dropped more often than we’ve carried.”
• I fell more times than I had fingers, thus failing one of the personal goals for the weekend.
• Apparently, it was a good decision for me to call it a career after one year in cub scouts. Of the three showers in the guy’s bathroom, one was a handicapped stall that could have used about 4 gallons of CLR. The other two were designed with a stationary shower head, protruding 2 inches from the wall, drizzling straight down. As such, I chose the handicapped stall and waited 3 minutes each morning for hot water.
• One of the youth ministers on the trip came back from a ride on the lift and shared what he had learned from his lift buddy: It's best to tie someone up with nylon rope. It doesn't leave rope burns.
• Turns out a weekend like this one gives you that spiritual encouragement that makes fulfilling the “warrior picking up his sword and slashing demonic thugs” role a little easier to fill for a while. [Relax, elders and deacons, that wasn’t the lesson, but demonic thugs was to spiritual analogies mentioned this weekend as the Black-Eyed Peas are to modern day pop music.]
• In an interesting turn of events, I joined one of the kids in the ski lodge in singing a few a cappella songs by a local group from a cd released circa 1996. After said kid left on the first van back to the boy scout barracks, I looked over at the next table in the lodge only to see one of the youth ministers who was in the local a capella group in the mid-‘90s. He was also joining a Nashville youth group on a ski trip. The term “small world” doesn’t really cover that one.
• My previous post regarding popular youth group songs held 75% true. Only Vanilla Ice failed to arrive... Rob Van Winkle went cousin Rip on us and disappeared.
In summation, it was a great weekend for fun, spiritual growth, and humility, courtesy of a fleet of 8 year olds that are way better at skiing than I will ever be.
I have skied [or whatever the past tense of ‘to see’ is] before. However, when I say before, I mean one day in 7th grade. Below I have listed the highlights of the weekend. Granted, some emphasis is placed on skiing. While my audience may not be large, I’m not foolish enough to think they don’t want to hear the interesting parts of the weekend...
• In case you’re a facestalker, I want to be the one to tell you, I bought and wore a scarf. Let’s just say, the scarf gene passed down quite effectively.
• In ski school, Dave, my instructor, asked me if I was left handed. I responded no, attempted to perform his next simple task, and he asked, “Are you sure you’re not left handed?”
• I enjoyed some of the greatest worship time I have had in a long time… No offense to the Sunday morning regulars at church who may be reading this.
• This little fella was riding the magic carpet behind me on the bunny slope. 15 seconds after this photo was taken, I looked down and saw 2 tiny skis between mine. The little man was tucked under me like I was a papa penguin.
• Our lodging for the weekend: a Boy Scout lodge. If you’ve ever spent much time on a church trip, you have probably experienced the joy of Podunk accommodation. This weekend was no different.
• The walls in the aforementioned Boy Scout lodge were apparently made of paper mache. Similar to what I imagine a low-security prison to be like, every door clicked at least 3 times when it slammed, echoing throughout the hall of 2-man cells.
• Dave looked at me on my last trip down the hill in ski school with a sad look that said something along the lines of, “Son, you need at least 3 more hours with me before you can look like anything above an alpine tumbleweed.”
• This weekend reminded me that a mid-20s accountant can pull a lot out of curriculum intended for 16 year-old high schoolers.
• Loveland, Ohio is basically the Hendersonville of Cincinnati. As determined by the houses, Red Robin [Yum.], boutiques, and Starbucks in the grocery store.
• In my 3 hours I spent practicing until I could turn left, my favorite moment was when a little kid, no more than 4 years old, was walking up the hill holding his snowboard, alerting everyone he passed, “You better brace yourself, fool.”
• While watching Toy Story 3 [The title for the weekend was Toys R Us, theme being how to stay tru [sic] to yourself, others and God.], I realized Ken wore rompers and still managed to get Barbie approximately 3 times.
• I’m still not sure I can turn left, but I did have the pizza and right turn to fall back on [pun] to kick inertia in the snowballs and stop my descent.
• Even as Christians, we often find ourselves “putting more weight on the backs of those who already have so much… weight that we’ve dropped more often than we’ve carried.”
• I fell more times than I had fingers, thus failing one of the personal goals for the weekend.
• Apparently, it was a good decision for me to call it a career after one year in cub scouts. Of the three showers in the guy’s bathroom, one was a handicapped stall that could have used about 4 gallons of CLR. The other two were designed with a stationary shower head, protruding 2 inches from the wall, drizzling straight down. As such, I chose the handicapped stall and waited 3 minutes each morning for hot water.
• One of the youth ministers on the trip came back from a ride on the lift and shared what he had learned from his lift buddy: It's best to tie someone up with nylon rope. It doesn't leave rope burns.
• Turns out a weekend like this one gives you that spiritual encouragement that makes fulfilling the “warrior picking up his sword and slashing demonic thugs” role a little easier to fill for a while. [Relax, elders and deacons, that wasn’t the lesson, but demonic thugs was to spiritual analogies mentioned this weekend as the Black-Eyed Peas are to modern day pop music.]
• In an interesting turn of events, I joined one of the kids in the ski lodge in singing a few a cappella songs by a local group from a cd released circa 1996. After said kid left on the first van back to the boy scout barracks, I looked over at the next table in the lodge only to see one of the youth ministers who was in the local a capella group in the mid-‘90s. He was also joining a Nashville youth group on a ski trip. The term “small world” doesn’t really cover that one.
• My previous post regarding popular youth group songs held 75% true. Only Vanilla Ice failed to arrive... Rob Van Winkle went cousin Rip on us and disappeared.
In summation, it was a great weekend for fun, spiritual growth, and humility, courtesy of a fleet of 8 year olds that are way better at skiing than I will ever be.
1.10.2011
Elf Ears? I Guess I Can See That
Well today was a snow day… and, even though I am a grown, tax-paying citizen, I built snowmen (well, more on that later), threw snowballs at children, went sledding, and basically lived the dream. Since you clicked the link to learn more about me and waste 2-8 minutes depending on your reading level, let me tell you about my day…
The alarm was set for 6:15… Always ahead of the curve, I woke up at 6 and called the number at work to see if our office was open. It was then I heard the sweetest words outside of “There’s a new Die Hard movie coming out” – “The Corporate campus is closed.” At this point, I turned the alarm off and hit the hay hard for a couple of more hours. I like my job a lot, but, today, I’ll take 2 hours sleep over a spreadsheet.
So I rolled out of bed at some point, showered to be presentable for, well, no one, and then checked the phone. I had a lovely text message waiting on me inviting me to a day of snowy adventure with a few church folks… What else would I be doing all day? Well, I started by watchingRegis Seth Myers and Kelly, so the day was probably bound to fail anyway.
When I arrived, there was already a snowman assembled, fitted with an Auburn hat and a spy scope. The resident seven year old set out to name the snowman, realized “Aubie” sounded too familiar [In hindsight, he probably feared copyright violations], and stumbled through something his parents decided must have been “Oliver.” Thus, Oliver the Auburn fan snowman was born.
Snowball fights ensued. As I figured I had a natural athletic advantage over a majority of the participants, I decided to give myself a challenge and settled for throwing my snowballs over a small building in the backyard. Relatively unsuccessful, I set out to tick off Oliver.
At this point I had visions of sugar plums and a giant snow duck to go side-by-side with Oliver. It looked really good in my head. 20 minutes and several excuses later I was left with one of the following: A) a goldfish; B) a headless duck; C) a turtle or D) a bust [think museum] of someone famous laying on their back. Those were all actual interpretations. If you’ve ever taken a multiple choice quiz, you know the right answer is, of course, B. Alas, as I type, the duck is still sitting outside the window. He would be staring at me, but he doesn’t have a head… or he retracted it into his shell.
After the failed duck, we set out to sled. Traversing the streets of East Nashville on foot, we set out to find the greatest hills the Riverwood area has to offer. We found lots of concrete. But we stuck with it and eventually found enough ice and snow to keep us flying. In the most movie-worthy moment of my day, I manned the 2 man sled down the hill [Feel the rhythm] with a youth group kid on board behind [Feel the rhyme]. Once we reached a pretty good speed, I may have noticed we were veering a little left [Let’s get on up]. Apparently, the youth grouper realized this as well, and bailed out [It’s bobsled time]. It was within seconds that I ducked under the mailbox and slid into the ditch without the benefit of the sled. As you may be aware, given the post-sled analysis you are reading, I survived. [Cool Runnings]
We returned for an afternoon of Big K, Balderdash, and Blogging… As of 5:00, it’s been a good day, less Abraham Lincoln taking a nap in the backyard and a seven year old whispering to her parents that I have elf ears. In as non-sacrilegious tone as possible… When I was a child, I played in the snow as a child. When I became a man, I continued my childish ways, but stopped crying when I fell off the sled.
I don’t say it enough, but thank you for choosing my blog to waste your time. I know you could be watching Jersey Shore, or reading Harry Potter books, but you chose me instead. I’ll never forget that. Until the Alzheimer’s sets in.
The alarm was set for 6:15… Always ahead of the curve, I woke up at 6 and called the number at work to see if our office was open. It was then I heard the sweetest words outside of “There’s a new Die Hard movie coming out” – “The Corporate campus is closed.” At this point, I turned the alarm off and hit the hay hard for a couple of more hours. I like my job a lot, but, today, I’ll take 2 hours sleep over a spreadsheet.
So I rolled out of bed at some point, showered to be presentable for, well, no one, and then checked the phone. I had a lovely text message waiting on me inviting me to a day of snowy adventure with a few church folks… What else would I be doing all day? Well, I started by watching
When I arrived, there was already a snowman assembled, fitted with an Auburn hat and a spy scope. The resident seven year old set out to name the snowman, realized “Aubie” sounded too familiar [In hindsight, he probably feared copyright violations], and stumbled through something his parents decided must have been “Oliver.” Thus, Oliver the Auburn fan snowman was born.
Snowball fights ensued. As I figured I had a natural athletic advantage over a majority of the participants, I decided to give myself a challenge and settled for throwing my snowballs over a small building in the backyard. Relatively unsuccessful, I set out to tick off Oliver.
At this point I had visions of sugar plums and a giant snow duck to go side-by-side with Oliver. It looked really good in my head. 20 minutes and several excuses later I was left with one of the following: A) a goldfish; B) a headless duck; C) a turtle or D) a bust [think museum] of someone famous laying on their back. Those were all actual interpretations. If you’ve ever taken a multiple choice quiz, you know the right answer is, of course, B. Alas, as I type, the duck is still sitting outside the window. He would be staring at me, but he doesn’t have a head… or he retracted it into his shell.
After the failed duck, we set out to sled. Traversing the streets of East Nashville on foot, we set out to find the greatest hills the Riverwood area has to offer. We found lots of concrete. But we stuck with it and eventually found enough ice and snow to keep us flying. In the most movie-worthy moment of my day, I manned the 2 man sled down the hill [Feel the rhythm] with a youth group kid on board behind [Feel the rhyme]. Once we reached a pretty good speed, I may have noticed we were veering a little left [Let’s get on up]. Apparently, the youth grouper realized this as well, and bailed out [It’s bobsled time]. It was within seconds that I ducked under the mailbox and slid into the ditch without the benefit of the sled. As you may be aware, given the post-sled analysis you are reading, I survived. [Cool Runnings]
We returned for an afternoon of Big K, Balderdash, and Blogging… As of 5:00, it’s been a good day, less Abraham Lincoln taking a nap in the backyard and a seven year old whispering to her parents that I have elf ears. In as non-sacrilegious tone as possible… When I was a child, I played in the snow as a child. When I became a man, I continued my childish ways, but stopped crying when I fell off the sled.
I don’t say it enough, but thank you for choosing my blog to waste your time. I know you could be watching Jersey Shore, or reading Harry Potter books, but you chose me instead. I’ll never forget that. Until the Alzheimer’s sets in.
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