Protect the Target

In sports like Soccer and Basketball it’s not uncommon to see a player assume a defensive position, arms down, hands cupped together below the waist in an effort to provide some additional protection of “things”. This is a protective move reserved for the male players of these sports, naturally.

The other day I ran into Target and after getting what I needed, stepped into the bathroom. In this particular Target the men’s room is located at the front of the store to the right of the main entrance. It’s situated around the corner at the end of a narrow hallway. As I came around the corner on my way out I nearly ran into a woman, apparently on her way in. She had medium length dirty blond hair pulled back into a braid and wore an oversized red Target vest. She also had on extra acid washed jeans cut from the 90’s with a high waist, baggy through the hip and thigh then tapered tight around the ankles.

I must have startled her and was shocked when I noticed she pulled into the two-handed protective stance reserved for soccer and sometimes basketball. As I walked away, though, I became troubled. What exactly was this woman expecting me to do? And why did this move come so naturally?

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Who's the pig now?

A few months ago I wrote about a contest I participated in during my college years. I was a freshman at the time, yet still, to this day, I don’t completely see what was so bad about going a few weeks without washing my hair. “I still showered every day,” I explained to Linda when first describing the contest. “I’m not even going to respond to that,” is what I think her response was.

A week ago I was talking with my brother Graham and the topic of cars came up. For some reason or another he was describing the interior of his car, leaving me speechless in the process. “I mean seriously,” he said, “I’m the only one who ever drives it so why clean it.”

“Umm,” and before I could put actual words together he continued.

“I haven’t touched the inside of this baby in a good 6 months. And that includes cleaning any of the garbage out of it.” Graham spends a good portion of his job on the road and eats lunch from drive-through restaurants. I told him I couldn’t imagine what the back seat looks like and he responded, “Yeah and you should see what’s puddled in my coin tray. Whatever it is, it’s congealed.”

When Graham got married each sibling was asked to give a gift along with a reason or short story explaining the nature of the gift. I gave his wife a horse shovel explaining that when Graham’s side of the room became piled so high she couldn’t find the bed, she could break out the shovel and go to town. She was young and still in the honeymoon phase of the relationship but I saw a look of terror flash in her eyes. I can’t imagine what she thinks of his car.

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J.D. Salinger

By most standards I’d be considered a pretty avid reader. On average I read a book about every two weeks or so with maybe a few weeks a year where I don’t read much at all. This, usually, because I can’t find anything that intrigues me. Compared to Linda, though, I’m a lightweight. She can burn through two books in a good weekend. My brother Trevor fits into this category as well.

Even as a young teen I read a fair amount. I come from a family of readers. It wasn’t until high school, though, that I remember really being significantly impacted by any one book. Caught of guard you might say which, I did, along with, “I’ve never read a book with the “F” word in it.” I was a freshman in high school at the time and had never been assigned to read a book I actually enjoyed prior to ‘The Catcher in The Rye.’ It was a real eye opener. I went on to read pretty much everything Salinger wrote, finding some of his works just as excellent and others just good. I don’t recall reading anything from him that I didn’t enjoy.

Later, while Linda and I were living in New York City and before we had any children, I decided to read the book again. You know, see if I could re-capture the same magic from the first time. That was about 14 years ago and it was still just as excellent.

Yesterday J.D. Salinger passed away which reminded me of that first time I read about Holden Caulfield.

What do you remember about the first time you read one of his magnificent works?

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Blacklisted

Yesterday Linda asked me to drop by Costco to pick up some plastic wrap. We like the kind they carry because it comes in a 3,000-foot roll and tends to cling better than some of the other brands we’ve tested. While there I decided to have a look around and shortly found myself in the tool aisle after a quick perusal of the book table. It was here, in the tool aisle where I recognized an older gentleman dressed in slacks and a pair of nice loafers. I had seen him on my way into the store and it seems he, like me, had been browsing a few different sections of Costco before arriving in front of the tools.

While I looked at the air compressors he looked at a set of screwdrivers, a set that claimed, “Over 150 different parts.” I’ve looked at this same set before but decided against so many bits and pieces. This man’s hair was a chalky grey and was parted severely down the side creating a very straight line of hair across his forehead. Later I would remember thinking he reminded me of the kind of men I’d seen while traveling to Germany for business but at the moment I was distracted by the most warbly fart I’ve ever heard, which, was produced without breaking stride. By this point we were both moving again, me behind him - and closing.

My wife Linda isn’t a fan of the word ‘moist’ and in fact has compiled quite a list of words she wishes had never been invented. At times, though, one of these blacklisted words fits perfectly and must be used. This was one of those times, I thought to myself, as I walked into a moist cloud of such nastiness that it literally brought tears to my eyes.

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Men, Tools, and Addictions

A couple months ago my friend Jeff and I were having this conversation when the topic of knife sharpeners came up. It seemed we’d both found the task of keeping a knife sharp untenable and spent a few minutes comparing notes. He has far more experience than I do, even complaining at one point he maintained a bone yard of ineffective knife sharpeners crowding the back of some closet. I only have three sharpeners none of which work very well. The conversation took a turn though and I forgot about my interest in sharp kitchen knives.

This past Sunday I threw a few hot dogs on the grill then began slicing up a dill pickle. Gretchen and I prefer ours with a couple slices of pickle, she with catsup and me with both catsup and spicy mustard. And I should say “attempted” to slice up a dill pickle because my knife was so dull it simply squashed it to the point of splitting rather than actually slicing. I tried a second knife with the same result and ended up finishing the job with a large bread knife which, did the trick but left me frustrated with the idea I owned the right tool for the job but said tool was in less than optimum shape.

I called Jeff.

He was at my house in 15 minutes flat bringing along the best of the bone yard and explaining, “This one will do the job but for me, it just takes too long to get there.” After about 10 minutes working on one of my knives I agreed and we spent the next few minutes talking knife sharpener shop. I showed him a few of my woodworking tools, which I keep razor sharp and we agreed it was what we’d expect out of a good kitchen knife. “The problem is,” I explained, “that I have a really nice jig for sharpening hand plane blades and chisels but it won’t work for a knife.” This led us to the internet where I showed him what most would consider the penultimate of tool sharpeners and happens to offer a knife sharpening attachment. This is a sharpener that also carries a price to match.

A couple of hours later I got an email from my friend Jeff explaining he was doing everything in his power to avoid what he termed, “A visa event.”

I responded with a video link and second review. Just to push him over the edge.

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He's Baaaack

On Sunday after church when Johnson grabbed my arm and said, “Hold on a minute young man,” then finished a conversation he’d begun earlier with some other unsuspecting bystander; I thought he was going to yell at me for last week’s blog post about his penchant for women’s perfume. Ordinarily I’m not afraid of adult males over the age of 70 but frankly, Johnson scares me. Maybe it’s the way his eyes look oversized and fish-like behind his 1/4” thick glasses or the way he quivers just before he shouts at me. Or maybe the way he clinches my arm just below the elbow every time he speaks to me. Either way, I’ve been avoiding him.

“I have something I want to talk t o you about,” he said and then he let me sweat for a second.

“OK.”

“I bought two new chairs and I have the old ones in the garage. They’re armchairs and they’re nice.” The implication was clear, ‘Yes, they’re old to me and I’ve replaced them with a much nicer set, but as far as you’re concerned, they’re better than anything you’ll find elsewhere. And don’t question me on that.’ He continued, “Why don’t you come by the house and take a look at them? They’d be perfect for a couple of your girls.”

Until a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t sure Johnson even knew who I was. I now wondered if he knew who my daughters were. Each is quite small for her age and people often comment with things like, “Wow that little girl is 11?” or “Your children are all so tiny.” I’m not sure what they expect, neither Linda nor I are big, yet still, they go on and on as though two parents standing on the smaller side of the human growth chart should have given birth to a pack of giants.

Size aside and regardless of the chairs real condition, what do four little girls need with a couple of used armchairs?

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See This? It Hurts.

As a kid, maybe when I was six, I jumped off the stage at our church and sprained my ankle. It was in the evening, as I remember it, following our usual church services. My parents were visiting with friends in the lobby when the news arrived and their response was something I became quite used to hearing, “I’m sure you’re fine,” they said. My father is a doctor and after a closer examination of my swollen ankle added, “If you don’t slow down you’re going to really pay for it later, when you’re older.”

The weekend before beginning the fourth grade I shattered my upper jaw, broke my nose, and nearly lost my upper four front teeth. This particular injury introduced me to casts for teeth, which I wore for four months. It was putty colored and closely resembled the color of juicy fruit gum. For kicks I’d flash my toothy cast in class then wait for my teacher’s reprimand, “No gum chewing, Christian. Spit it out.” What I didn’t have to wait for was parents and the one about slowing down or paying for it later.

At twelve I broke my little toe and at fifteen I cracked my sternum; each bringing the same response, “You’ll be fine but you’d better slow down or you’re gonna pay.” When I was eighteen I broke my left foot while skateboarding. I cracked a bone my father the doctor referred to as the ‘cuboid’, which is cube shaped and apparently takes a lot to break. Then we consulted with a surgeon about putting a pin in place where I heard him say, “I can fix this but you’re gonna feel it later.”

This wasn’t the last bone I broke, in fact things got much worse in the injury department long before they improved. Each time, though, I effectively ignored the warning and continued merrily along.

Last night as I got up from the couch I let out a little whimper. When Linda asked if I was OK I responded that my entire body always hurts. “I mean what’s wrong with me?” I asked. “My hip hurts so bad I’ve been limping for 3 weeks. My left foot aches nearly constantly. I wake up in the night with so much pain in my shoulder and wrists I can’t go back to sleep.” And then I added, “What did I ever do to deserve this kind of constant pain?”

Hmmmm.

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