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.

• 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.
  

I’m no John Lennon. I shuffled up to take my spot on the chair lift to my impending vegetative state. We rode that lift, bodies scattered on the ground below, to a dizzying altitude at which there were people in planes using approved portable electronic devices that were not as close to the ozone as we were. As the lift rose higher and higher, a great sense of apathy came over me. No fear. No adrenaline. My time had come. It was time for me to make up for the Michael Scotts of the world. We passed the “Tips up” sign. The snowy ground evened out. The chair began to turn, empty, leaving me alone at the top with only my skis and my pride.

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.

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.]

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.
  

Finally, I learned that suckers like you will read anything I put up here. But seriously, thanks for stopping by. I strive to give you all the highlights of my boring life while hand-selecting the grammar rules I want to break each post.

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.

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.

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 watching Regis 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.

1st Course in the 4th Circle of Hell's Kitchen

I’m sitting here watching re-runs of Glee, sipping on finger-quote sweet tea. Welcome to Tuesday night.

You see, I made an attempt at sweet tea last night. For those of you who are living vicariously through my blog, I hope you are getting at least a couple of servings of vicarious vegetables a day because I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. On the contrary, you might struggle to find a worse cook. Though I can’t say I suck at it because I generally avoid trying it. It's like saying I suck at having a colonoscopy - I might be good at it, but we'll never know.

When I moved into the house, I had the genius idea to buy cheap food that would keep a long time in order to make my cabinets appear full and to have stuff in the house in case someone came over who could cook. Included in that purchase, were 100 tea bags and 5 pounds of sugar. Last night I put them to not so good use.

While I cooked the frozen chicken tenders [Note: This time I got fancy and put them on a salad.], I decided to make tea. I read the tea bag box which had directions for making one quart of unsweet tea. Turns out, I needed a gallon of sweet tea. It was at this point I started the process. With a call to Mom. She got me started, but I made the critical error of sounding semi-confident on the phone and asking specific questions. Therefore, as soon as I hung up, I had more questions and had abandoned enough of my independence for one day.

So I pulled up Google. 3 queries later, I all but threw in the towel. I was 15 seconds away from trying to calculate fluid ounces to non-fluid ounces so that I could use a Gatorade bottle to measure the sugar when I finally found something with a measurement on it. Sure, it was a piece of Tupperware that was previously home to leftovers from Mom. And yes, my dear mother, I do intend to keep that until you specifically ask for it back.

When it was all said and done, I had made drinkable tea. Honestly, it’s not great, and I have no idea how to improve the process next time, but I count it as a victory nonetheless.

So, to my future wife [Because I know you’re reading this… Well, know is a strong word.], don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll mow the yard and change the air filters, but if dinner is left up to me, we’re having Hot Pockets. I love you.

Now if I could figure out how to get my freezer to stop auto-defrosting my ice cubes, I could really pull the wool over the south’s eyes, fill up my Mason jar glasses with some sweet iced tea, and make them think I was from around here. The Mason jar glasses were courtesy of my grandmother... A meal really is a team effort around here.

Finally, I know Glee isn’t real, and some of you may not consider it cool [which is ironic, considering the glee club itself isn’t cool at McKinley High], but Quinn Fabray, if you’re reading this and have ever wanted to go to dinner with an auditor who has a low-traffic blog, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I promise at as many real dates as you want prior to Hot Pockets.