Angels watching over

It’s not my habit to snap pictures with my camera phone while driving. Today, though, on my commute into work I recognized a woman I used to work with. One thing led to another and I snapped a picture.

She’s a pattern maker and five or so years ago we worked together on the Nike basketball line. Her name is Ella and she’s Russian, accent and all. We were talking about our children when she surprised me with her feelings toward her only daughter. “She is devil, that one,” she said. “13 years old and becoming 23. I hate her.”

“Hate her?” I asked. And then I followed it up because she seemed so sincere. “Hate?”

“Yes. I do. I hate her. She is devil child.” It was uncomfortable and made me wonder who in the relationship was really the devil.

What surprised me when I saw the car she drove was her apparent turnaround. Notice the bumper sticker, and the Jesus fish, and the license plate surround, "Angels are watching over me."

Read more...

Complex what?

Last week Linda and I attended parent teacher conferences for our daughter Gretchen. This was our first experience with junior high conferences, which were set up production style. I had imagined walking from class to class, mirroring Gretchen’s 7 period schedule and was surprised to find the entire teaching faculty spread around the perimeter of the gymnasium. Set back from each teacher about 10 feet was a line of blue tape on the floor along with a music stand. These were the cheap black metal ones typically found in schools and I had no idea of their role in the conferences.

The idea was for parents to find the teachers they’d like to meet with then wait behind the tape line for a chance to hear about their child. Each teacher’s desk held a sign reading, “Please Observe a 5 Minute Limit.” Gretchen is a 4.0 student so the limit really wasn’t at play in any of our discussions. On the last teacher, though, we waited for fifteen minutes while the mother of a boy labeled a troublemaker patiently shook her head. It was a bit frustrating and I would have left but we saved Gretchen’s favorite teacher for last. Mrs. Frost, I’ll call her, and she teaches ‘Language Arts’ which is a fancy name for reading and writing. Linda and I sat down and the conversation began much like the others, “Gretchen is incredible this and amazing that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I thought. And then she did.

“The thing that’s so tricky about language arts,” Mrs. Frost continued, “Is that each child is at such a different level. I have to make sure each one understands things like complex sentence structures and independent clauses. This is difficult stuff for most 7th graders.”

I’ve been writing this blog for about 4 months now and having a good time doing it. I get the impression most of you enjoy it too. I’m not, however, completely sure what either a complex sentence structure is nor how to identify one. Kids these days, huh?

Read more...

Droid Does

One of my brothers celebrated a birthday yesterday. I thought of calling him several times throughout the day and then, like an idiot, entirely forgot to call him till the following morning. “What’d you get?” I asked him. He’s much younger than me but still old enough to feel the pull of adulthood and told me his birthday was kind of nice just to have over. Then added, “I got that new Droid phone, though. It’s sweet.”

The ad line for this phone is, ‘Droid Does’ suggesting there isn’t much it can’t do. My brother began listing a few of the things the phone does that his past one couldn’t. “I really just got it though. I’m still getting familiar with it but overall it’s really sweet.” And then he mentioned a feature I’m familiar with, “It even has a barcode scanner that lets you find products both in your area and online and compare prices.”

About a year ago a friend was over and was explaining this same feature on the original Google phone. His explanation left out the critical word ‘barcode’ claiming only, “This phone has a scanner built into it. I can just point it at anything and it’ll tell me where to buy it.” This particular friend has a lot of energy and began surveying the room for an item to scan. In an effort to help I offered, “Here’s an apple, can it scan that?”

“No, but it can scan pretty much anything but food,” his voice rising with a hint of frustration.

“How about the piano right there?”

And again, “No.” Then he added just a bit louder, “It’s really more for finding stuff you’d buy,” before beginning to move from room to room looking for something to demonstrate this new feature with. I bought both the apple and the piano and wondered what his scanner actually did as I followed him into the kitchen. There he found one of my daughter’s schoolbooks and flipping it over began scanning the barcode only to get an “item not found” message.

Exasperated he simply packed the phone up and left.

Apparently Droid does what G phone doesn’t

Read more...

Donald Trump, I Presume?

“So he calls me up and asks me what to do. So I tell him to lower the price. Just a little though, but enough to let them know you’re serious.”

This was the conversation I observed the other day during lunch. The man having it wore a badge around his neck. And I say ‘man’ because his friend did little more than grunt a few times for the duration of the meal. It was a lecture, really, which he gave loudly and was endured by both me and his friend. The badge hung from a clear plastic band, which I recognized as a key card typical to one of the many tech companies in the area. He was dressed in faded navy sweat pants that stretched tight through the hip and thigh region and gathered at his ankles revealing dingy white sweat socks with stripes. Up top he wore a thick blue and gold rugby shirt beneath a black leather bomber jacket that matched his heavily worn loafers. I wondered if this was intentional but guessed not.

It seemed he rubbed elbows with a large scale developer who had called desperately seeking advice on unloading what the genius before me referred to as, “A few properties he just couldn’t get a read on.” “He’s like that, you know? He and I have been friends a long time and he’s never been able to see the forest for the trees. You know what I mean?” he asked his lunch mate. “So he calls me up and I set him straight,” he continued as he described a condo here and a home there, all suffering from lackluster features and poor locations. “I mean you can’t fix the location, right? That’s not changing no matter what, so I pointed that out and then we moved on to what he could do. You know, I mean, if he wanted to take my advice and actually move anything.”

Normally I spend my lunches reading and will often move to another table if a particular conversation becomes too distracting. But Baby Trump here was too good to pass up. I was hooked.

“I told this developer friend of mine, listen, with a nice coat of paint in the right color, his properties would practically sell themselves,” he continued. “And don’t use the cheap stuff either, I told him. The ladies can see the difference and they’re the ones you gotta sell. Trust me.”

He continued with his lesson for a bit, describing the difference between a good paint and a poor one, but I began to lose interest. Besides, I had what I needed - a coat of paint in the right color, don’t cheap out, something about location, location, location and keep one eye on the ladies. NBC's The Apprentice here I come.

Read more...

Brotherly Love

So I was in Costco the other day taking care of a bit of business. The stalls there are enameled grey and stop about 7 or 8 inches from the floor. Next to me was a young kid who was spending his time divided between beating a rhythm out on our shared wall and talking to his younger brother who was playing in the sinks. From what I could tell the younger brother was bored, passing the time by systematically turning on each of the automatic faucets.

It was the older one, though, that confused me by calling out, “Hurry up Danny.” Danny replied that he was hurrying and for his brother to be patient.

“I am hurrying, John. I’ve got to get it right though so just be quiet or I’ll leave.” This was answered by more vigorous wall pounding.

A few more seconds passed and then I noticed a tightly balled up paper towel roll under my door, landing just on my side of the wall between our stalls. A small hand quickly reached under and grabbed it. “Oooh thanks Danny. And it’s a warm one!”

“Told you,” replied Danny.

I have three brothers. I love each of them. I have three brothers-in-law on my side and four on Linda's side. I love each of them. I will never, ever do this for you. Ever.

Read more...

Last Laugh?

I’ve never been a big fan of doing things backwards. Sure I procrastinate from time to time and might even be guilty of pure stupidity every once in a while, but I like things in a certain order. You know, the cart before the horse.


Similarly, I’ve never been a fan of Kris Kross the teenage wrap duo from the early 90's popular for wearing their clothing backwards; so you can imagine my surprise when I saw an 80 year old man walking through Costco with his polo shirt on backwards. I was running a few errands the day after Thanksgiving and noticed the old guy being led by the hand through the crowds by an equally elderly woman. Presumably his wife, but what do I know? If the roles were reversed and it was me, stooped and half out of my mind, I like to think Linda would at least mention the shirt thing. “Oh that’s just terrific Christian,” she might say, “You’ve gone and put your shirt on backwards - again!” Or at least, “Hey Bozo, you might want to look in the mirror before we leave.” I like to imagine 40 years from now she’ll at least give me that much.

I wondered if maybe this guy was a complete jerk to his wife through 62 years of marriage and this was her passive aggressive way of paying him back. She might say something like, “Your elevator might not make it past the 2nd floor anymore, Honey, but I’ll be damned if you won’t look like a complete idiot every time we go out in public.”

I really have no idea but as this wizened old couple passed I swear I caught the tiniest of smirks on the old guys face, a sort of last laugh perhaps?

Be good to those you love.

Read more...

Airsoft

“Corn. What’s up?” This is how I begin pretty much every conversation I have with my younger brother Graham. He begins the same way with me. Conversations used to begin with “cornhole” which was an abbreviation of “cornholio” and that, somehow, came from the days of Beavis and Butthead mixed with the fact that Graham’s middle name is Thorne. So Thorne became Corn and it’s just stuck.

“Corn. I need a new airsoft gun; something more powerful than the spring-loaded one I own now. I’m looking at either CO2 or Gas powered.”

I’ve been researching airsoft guns lately in preparation for the upcoming holidays where a bunch of friends and I get together with some of the teenagers from my church and spend an hour or so shooting each other in a darkened gymnasium. It’s a nice opportunity to take a bit of aggression out on the punks I attend service with and since Graham is into this sort of thing, I’ve been calling him a lot lately for advice. He and our brother Trevor run an online knife company and I also figured with their connections they might be able to help me out with a deal.


It’s Trevor’s company and though they work together, sitting a few feet from one another all day every day, to an outsider they appear almost as independent contractors and if I’d never visited I would have imagined they worked in completely separate offices. My phone calls with either one tend to go like this, “Well, is Trevor there right now? He is? Well then why don’t you just ask him for me?”

“Just call him,” Graham will say.

“Really?” I’ll ask. “But he’s right there. Like 4 feet away.”

“Yeah, just call him.”

So this is what I’m up against if I’m hoping to score a deal on a new gun. I’ll keep you posted.

Read more...

NASCAR aint so tough

Most people I work with eat on the second floor of our building, buying pre-made sandwiches and drinks from what they refer to as “the coffee cart.” The cart is actually an “L” shaped counter permanently attached to the floor with a cooler on one for the sandwiches and drinks. The girl working behind the counter is slight of build with dark medium length hair and she never smiles. I think she’s bored. I have never bought more than an occasional drink from the cart preferring to go out for lunch where I can spend a few minutes away from my desk.


Yesterday as I sat down to eat a very tall man caught my attention. He wore a black leather bomber jacket with the NASCAR logo embroidered across the chest. Alongside the orange,red and blue NASCAR logo was a second embroidery for the television network ‘TNT’, which presumably is where one might find NASCAR races. His hair was honey blond and feathered back from a part down the center and sported stripey highlights. The jeans this man wore were skin tight making his thin frame appear even thinner. What really caught my eye, though were the boots that his skinny legged jeans were tucked in to. They were black like his jacket with long pointed toes capped with decorative silver tips. Thin leather straps wrapped around at the ankles and had silver stars hanging along their length making a sort of star anklet. Rather than cowboy boots, which would have been forgettable and never would have caught my attention, these boots were loose around the man’s legs. I would have guessed these were women’s boots if they hadn’t been so large. Like fairy boots for grown men, prompting the thought, “House divided.” Tough NASCAR guy up top, dainty fairy boot prancer on the bottom half.

I really enjoy my lunchtime.

Read more...

But that was years ago

“You’re gross.” This was what Linda said to me the other evening while discussing with Gabrielle, our youngest, why she needed to wash her hair more than once a week. It’s these little life lessons that have been popping up lately at an alarming rate that prompted Linda’s disparaging comment. Then just this morning Leah exclaimed, “I don’t need to shower, I showered Saturday.” Which, in turn, prompted another claim from Linda, “They get this from you. You’re gross.”

It’s true; I might have mentioned that back in college I won a contest to see who could go the longest without washing his hair. And I might have gone an extra week after the last of my competition fell off at week 3, just to put an explanation point on my dominance, but that was years ago. Besides, the contest was to go without washing one’s hair not go without showering. Nobody went a whole month without taking a shower.

And sure, when I was 14 my brother Cameron and our two friends John and Bryan might have gone Sunday to Sunday without showering but like I explained to Linda, “We spent every day all day swimming in their reservoir. That’s 8 hours of lake cleaning every day, which at 14, is at least as good as 5 minutes of shower cleaning.”

“I’ve never felt that clean after being in a lake,” Linda said. “You’re gross, and now our girls have taken after you.”

Read more...

Pearl Jam - Backspacer

I can’t imagine working through a season of design without music. Good music inspires me so I’m constantly on the hunt for something new. My tastes are fairly broad ranging from Elvis Costello to Black Sabbath and from the Kings of Leon to the Kinks. The only music I really don’t like is country, which in my opinion is fingernails on the chalkboard.

Several years ago I got on this Brazilian jazz kick and discovered Baden Powell. His father was a huge Boy Scouts of America fan and named Baden after the founder of modern day scouts. I’d highly recommend checking some of his music out but today would like to talk about the new Pearl Jam album Backspacer.

I own 4 or 5 of Pearl Jam’s albums and find I usually enjoy about half of the songs on any particular album. Sure, Ten is phenomenal but outside of that I find about half their work is, for me, just OK. Within the Seattle grunge genre I’d much rather listen to Nirvana or Sound Garden both whose lead singers fascinate me.

I bought Backspacer last week on a Monday while on my way into work and began listening to it on the rest of the drive in. I have to say, there isn’t a song on this new album I don’t like. Give it a listen while I give it 5 stars.

On the music front, who can't you live without?

Read more...

The cost of a life

Yesterday Gabrielle spent the day at a friend’s house. Recently they bought a dog and she was anxious to see it. She got home around dinnertime and while we ate, her sisters wanted a report. “What color is it? How big is it? Is it a puppy? How old is it?” They peppered her with questions, which she did her best to answer.

“They rescued the dog from a shelter,” Linda filled in, “And when they picked it up they were told it was 9 months old.” Apparently, though, the dog has had some trouble and spent some time at the vet getting fixed up. It was through the vet our friends discovered maybe the puppy was only 4 or 5 months old. They also discovered there’d be a hefty bill to accompany this new information.

This is nothing, though. A few weeks ago at work I was setting up for a big presentation coming the following week. It’s a tedious process where I cover the walls with my seasonal designs with each style arranged alongside the various colors and patterns it will be offered in. Imagine the many stripes a golf polo might come in then multiply it by 25 - 30 polos and you begin to get the idea of what the walls look like.

I prefer to go through this process alone, often wearing my iPod to keep me company but on this day there happened to be another designer in the room along with one of our merchandisers. I’ll call her Nancy and the merchandiser Jared. Nancy had recently broken up with her boyfriend over a misunderstanding and was relaying her story to Jared. It seems the boyfriend was unemployed and spent most of his time on the couch while Nancy worked. This went on for several months and apparently, "Not once did he get his lazy butt off easy street and hunt for work." While for most, this alone would cause a break-up, Nancy is patient and tried to be understanding. It wasn’t until the boyfriend left the front door open, letting Nancy’s dog run into the street and get hit by a car that the relationship became irreparable.

“How bad was the accident? Jared asked.

“Well, it cost me $20,000 to keep the little guy alive.” She said this without skipping a beat, in a matter of fact way that suggested, “who wouldn’t spend 20 grand to keep a dog alive.”

In my opinion this is absolute insanity but we're all different.

What’s the most you’d spend to keep a pet alive?

Read more...

Reuse-aphobia

I think it’s fair to say that freaks come in all shapes and sizes, but at our local market they tend to come in clumps. This is a boutique market containing it’s own in-store barbeque which serves up smoky goodness in salmon, steak, and chicken. There’s also a deli counter reminiscent of New York City and made to order Chinese take-out. The butcher is actually a butcher and offers personal cuts of meat and on weekends there’s even a wine steward to help with one’s pairing.

Linda and I use it more for convenience than full blown groceries but after seven years of popping in a few times a week and several times on Saturday, we’ve become friends with a few of the checkers.

One in particular, Brittany, is especially chatty and if pressed even the slightest, loves to dish. A while back is noticed a woman a couple spots ahead of me in line with a cart full of toilet paper and decided to ask Brittany when my turn came. The carts in our market aren’t the true full-sized versions like those found in more pedestrian grocery stores, but still, the cart was piled quite high.

“Hey Brittany, what’s up with the toilet paper?” I asked.

“Oh her? Well. . .” And what I came away with was shocking. It seems this woman is a germaphobe mixed with a fear of who knows what. Apparently she buys a cartload of toilet paper each week because she is only willing to use each roll one time. Once finished with her business, whatever remains on the roll is discarded and replaced with a fresh, virgin roll.

I’m not exactly sure how Brittany discovered this little tidbit but the good news is, TP woman has a son and he’s more messed up than his mother.

Read more...

Lunge, hike, lunge, hike.

With three of my four daughters playing soccer, my weekends tend to get a bit hectic. This past weekend, though, was accompanied by heavy rain and thunderstorms. In Portland we play through any amount of rain but the first sign of lighting has everyone running like scared little rabbits. Gretchen’s game was cancelled after 15 minutes of play following two flashes of lighting. Her games last an hour and a half and since this week’s game began at 12:30, I dropped her off in search of lunch and missed both the thunder and the lighting, returning just in time to see her scrambling off the field. Ordinarily I enjoy her games but was happy this week when I didn’t even have to step out of my car in to the pouring rain.

Leah’s game was scheduled for 1:30 and was also cancelled, leaving Margaret to play the only game this week, which she endured through the absolute worst weather of the day. Heavy rain, high winds and dropping temperatures combined to make it nearly unbearable. Wrapped in three coats and boots, I cheered from the sidelines alongside her coach while the team riding the bench shivered beneath an easy-up tent.

Ordinarily the parents gather to form a cheering section on the opposite side of the field congregating on cheap folding camp chairs. This week, though, I wanted to give Margaret a little extra support and stayed on the team side of the field. Pep talks, shouting and whistling, you know, the usual sideline stuff expected from parents, which, for me, is the kind of behavior that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.

And with good reason, too. A few weeks ago Linda and I were at one of Gretchen’s games where we visited with our friend Mary on the sideline. The day began with rain but turned sunny a few hours before the game, which can have an effect on people here in Oregon. For Linda, Mary, and me it had the effect of us peeling back our coats and leaving our umbrellas at home. Footloose and fancy free, one might say, which left us laughing casually when Mary’s little boy ate berries off some unknown shrub. “Kids,” she said, “They just want to put everything they find in their mouths,” and then we laughed a little bit more.

While the effect from this brief respite from the rain had me in a t-shirt, it was nothing compared to its effect on one of the other parents. One of the fathers, whom I’ll call Frank, was dressed in a white mesh running shirt with matching white and blue running shoes. Frank also wore a pair of thin grey warm-up pants that stretched tight as he bent to touch his toes. He was facing away from us and while I wouldn’t consider him fat, no one would mistake him for being fit either. Each bend seemed to reveal more and more as the fabric stretched taught against his skin. Following the toe touching he turned to face us then proceeded to hike his pants up uncomfortably high, which, apparently, was in preparation for his next routine - deep lunges. This routine went on for several minutes, lunge, hike, lunge, hike and with each hike he’d inch the elastic waistband higher than the previous time all the time facing us for his little performance. It was uncomfortable so we laughed a bit more.

So, as I stood in the freezing rain this past Saturday, cheering for Margaret a bit louder than usual I thought, “at least I’m standing upright covered in many, many protective layers.”

Read more...

Recycle and reuse, yes but reduce as well?

I’m a preservationist. Not so much when it comes to the environment and recycling which, in Oregon is serious business and something Linda points out I’m not fit for. “You can’t just go around throwing everything in the recycling bin, mister,” she’ll say.

“Why not?” I ask. “It’s made of plastic.” It’s a legitimate question that, in turn, Linda responds to with a little quiz.

“Do you see the recycling symbol somewhere on that?”

“Uh, no. But,” and she’ll cut me off.

“That’s because you can’t recycle plastic wrappers.”

Still, I try. It’s in my nature, which is why just the other day we had a similar conversation. I was unpacking my winter clothes from storage and re-packing summer weather items in their place when Linda mentioned her surprise at how many clothes I had. “I can’t believe you have so many clothes you actually have to keep half of them in the storage room,” she said.

“Not half.”

“Well pretty close to it. All my clothes fit in the closet all year round,” she pointed out. And while technically this is true, it might have something to do with the fact that Linda occupies three closets in our house while I have just the one. But the real reason for the packing and unpacking twice yearly is that I never get rid of any of my clothes. It’s a trait I inherited from my father. As kids growing up he regularly wore items from his college wardrobe then strutted around boasting. “Check out these babies,” he’d say referring to the most threadbare corduroys you’ve ever seen. “Not bad for 20 plus years, huh.”

This past weekend, while I was digging through a pair of large rubber made bins, I asked Linda for some advice on what to break out and what to save for another season. I had two piles going, one marked for the upcoming season and the other slated for long-term storage. This turned into a family activity and I soon found myself trying things on in front of five very vocal ladies. “Yeah, keep that dad,” or “I remember that, I love that,” they cried. And this is when things turned ugly. Working in the apparel industry gives me the chance to get a free sample here and there; mostly workout clothes or an occasional jacket. A few summers ago, though, I got my hands on a charcoal grey lambs wool sweater. It zips at the neck and has a black stripe across the chest but since it was July, I squirreled it away in one of my seasonal bins. I’ve never actually worn it and each year I contemplate breaking it out. It was this sweater I was trying on when Margaret came clean, “Uh, dad? That makes you look fat.”

“OK, shows over,” I announced, then I decided to turn over a new leaf and started a new pile marked Goodwill.

Read more...

Busy, busy, busy.

I’ve been horribly busy the past two weeks and on top of that, I’ve been sick. But who isn’t busy? Linda has had her hands full with four sick girls, all down with the swine flu. And let’s be honest after the first day of having children home from school the charm wears off and it’s work, work, work.

My five year old, Gabrielle, got a mild case and was only home from school a few days the week before last. She’s small for her age but has this inner confidence, which comes out occasionally in the form of shouted demands. “I don’t want to go to bed right now. I want to eat,” or “I’m working on something special, leave me alone!” And then she’ll follow it with a little stomp. For effect. She’s like a pint-sized general, really, which is what I call her sometimes. Just for fun, which in turn makes her mad and stomp again. “Don’t call me that, Dad. I’m not a general.”

On the afternoon of her return to school she insisted Linda walk her in to her kindergarten class. Normally Gabrielle is independent preferring to walk in from the parking lot on her own but it seems there’d been a homework assignment given while she was out. Writing the letter “N” a few times on a page or something or other. She’d worked hard to get it done and wanted Linda to walk in to be sure she got credit for her work.

So sure, I’ve been busy and even a bit sick, but so has my five year old. Sorry I’ve been away.

Read more...

Well, it's just a theory

I have this theory about not getting sick. It stems from my college years when money was tight and food a premium. This was what my brother Trevor referred to as my ‘camel period,’ a time when, in my mind, I convinced myself that should I feel even the slightest of symptoms, a big heavy meal was all it took to sidestep any real illness. Call me crazy or chalk it up to wives tale medicine but it’s a practice I still live by.

Besides, it’s really not that different than the idea that drinking a certain beverage while flying will keep the plane aloft, which is what my friend Dave thinks. He revealed this eight or so years ago while on our way to Germany for work. “I’ll take a ginger ale, please. And can I have the whole can?” he added then turned to me revealing his theory. “It’s not that I actually believe we’ll crash if I don’t drink ginger ale, it’s just, well, you know, we’ve never crashed while I do drink it.” I smiled then turned a popped another mentos in my mouth wondering if his ginger ale and my mentos would do the trick. It was, after all, a long flight.

This morning Linda and I woke to the fourth and last of our girls down with a fever and I smiled. Looks like a big fattening lunch is in order.

What odd little secret theories do you live by?

Read more...

Back to School

It’s been over a month since Linda and I attended back-to-school night at the junior high where our daughter Gretchen attends. I’m not horribly good at keeping track of time so in my mind it might have been last week as easily as three months ago. I know it’s the middle of October and I can do the math but this requires me to, well, do the math. I have a fine grasp of minutes and hours and even days but somehow my mind grew up neglecting to keep track of weeks and years. So there we were attending back to school night for our thirteen year-old, which left me wondering, “How did I end up with a thirteen year old?” And then I asked Linda, “Do we really have to attend back to school night for a thirteen year old? I mean is there anything they’re actually going to tell us that we don’t already know?”

“Of course we’re going. This is important so you’d better pay attention too,” Linda replied.

As it turns out it wasn’t really important and after the first presentation the next six were pretty much identical. It wasn’t until our fifth stop, math I think, that I perked up a bit. This teacher was lanky and reminded me of a stork as she paced back and forth between the projector and her desk and I swear her knees even bent the wrong way. For the fifth time I listened as she explained the process of checking our children’s grades via the online tool, then moved on with a fictitious example just as the other teachers before her had. These were perfect examples of students with perfect grades. “C’mon,” I whispered. “Where’s the example of a bad student? Someone more realistic.” And then I spent the next few minutes entertaining myself with the thought of the stork breaking tradition and giving the parents a demonstration of the online component using an ‘F’ student.


I tuned back in just in time to catch her add, “I’d like to talk about the type of calculator your children will need for this class.” Now I’m a bit of a gadget geek and decided I’d better listen on the off chance we’d need to buy a new calculator. “A regular one is fine but it might be nice for them to have one with some extra buttons,” she said.

It’s been years since I’ve been asked to calculate the sine or cosine of anything but I vaguely remember having a calculator that could handle such a task. I do not, however, remember my math teacher suggesting we pick up a calculator, “with some of those extra buttons,” and wonder what kind of instruction Gretchen will be getting. My mind wandered again imagining the P.E. coach suggesting, “Each of your students will need a lock for his or her locker. I’d suggest one with some of those line thingies around the edges.”

Read more...

Richard Simmons?

My wife Linda has me on this ridiculous schedule of waking up between 5:00 am and 5:30 am to go to the gym. Should there be a class she plans on attending then the alarm chimes closer to 5:00 am, and it it’s simple a regular morning we’re blessed with an extra 30 minutes. She kicked this new lifestyle plan to better health well over a year ago and, to be fair, I should mention my attendance is spotty at best - maybe 50%. OK, 25% if I’m being completely honest.

This morning marked an early departure schedule and while these are generally extra miserable, today was different. After spending 30 minutes on a new elliptical - stair machine combination contraption I walked to the far water fountain. It’s down the only hallway in the gym across from the racquetball courts and situated in close proximity to the gyms 3 classrooms. It’s a bit further from the main water fountain but worth the walk because there’s never a line-up and the water is always colder. And it was here, near the water fountain, that I noticed a new instructor. He was like a train wreck and I couldn’t help but stare.

Best described as the Asian equivalent of Richard Simmons, his body was tubby complete with man boobs and thick trunky legs. He was wearing a long oversized t-shirt that hung down to mid-thigh revealing just a sliver view of bright pink shorts. At first I mistook the new instructor for a woman and who wouldn’t? Solid white Reebok aerobic shoes and tall bulky socks pushed down revealing the smoothest calves I’ve ever seen on a man. He was working the class into a frenzy, up and down the step platform in a grace generally reserved for ballet. “Arms out people, arms out and make it look beautiful. And one, and two, and three,” he called in a lilting voice. I just couldn’t look away as his upper body swung back and forth on what could only be described as hips. The guy had hips.

As he turned to face the class I noticed a small black microphone protruding from the big loopy curls that framed his round face and still, I couldn’t look away and his perm took on a life of it’s own. Bouncing with the beat of the music it was mesmerizing. Our eyes met and piped out without missing a beat, “C’mon come join us.”

The spell was broken and I ran, smiling with the thought I was pretty sure I’d just met Mr. Simmons doppelganger.

Read more...

What's Real?

“Gabrielle, you need to eat some real food.” This was what Linda said to our youngest last night as she lay on the floor crying, “I don’t want chili and I don’t want yogurt either.” Yogurt is our go to offer should one of our children decide they’re hungry before bedtime.

To a visitor this scene might have prompted the question, “Real food? I didn’t notice the child gnawing on a piece of plastic fruit. What do you mean, ‘Real Food?’ I’m not a visitor though, and have long since begun compiling clues into the mystery of Linda’s claim for real food.

The very first clue came early on in our relationship while on a road trip from Utah to California to visit my family. It’s a thirteen-hour drive meaning we would eat along the way. Several times. The logical answer to food while road tripping is fast food - it’s cheap and, well, fast. And while I can comfortably eat fast food every day of my life, Linda prefers it only occasionally. In fact, I can eat the same identical fast food meal from the same fast food chain for weeks on end without skipping a beat, while for Linda, occasionally actually means not really very often at all. It was on this, our first road trip that I heard Linda’s plea for the first time, “I need some real food.” This was ground zero, the beginning, clue numero uno - “Real Food” is not fast food and cannot be found on the road. Especially from the comfort and convenience of the driver’s seat.

Years later it was my brother-in-law Dave who asked the question, “What is it with the ‘Real Food’ thing? What do you call this?” It was a legitimate question, posed between bites of a Krispy Kreme donut. Our two families were vacationing together in Florida which, frankly, begged the plea, “I need ‘Real’ anything.” We were on a whirlwind trip with a single week to cover Disneyland, The Epcot Center, Cape Canaveral, Sea World and Krispy Kreme Donuts for the third breakfast in a row. At this point even one of my daughters chimed in, whining, “Dad we need real food.” Clue #67 - Real Food is not donuts for breakfast, at least not more than once a week.

So last night, while Gabrielle lay on her back on the kitchen floor spinning circles and crying, “I want a granola bar, I want chips, but I don’t want yogurt,” clue #394 fell into place. Real Food is not chips and a granola bar for dinner.

Read more...

Sephora and the Movies

Linda and I wanted to catch a movie this weekend but settled on running a couple of errands instead. At some point along our route we found ourselves in Sephora, which is the make-up equivalent of a child’s candy store. Candy apple red nail polish line the shelves aside bubble gum pink lip-gloss and smoky shades of eye shadow. Banks of scrubs, blushes, powders and balms are enough to keep even the most disinterested housewife spinning at top RPM’s.

On the right side of the store, running the entire length is a wall dedicated to the shiny silver tools associated with cosmetic upkeep. Since face powders and potions hold little interest for me I generally congregate in front of these mechanical wonders along with the rest of the men in the store, where we share unspoken gestures suggesting, “You too? Yeah, but check out this really cool precision ground pair of clippers fabricated from surgical steel,” as we do our best to keep from getting bored.

While Linda looked for a new face scrub at the back of the store I noticed what I originally took to be a small elderly man hovering around the perfume counter. His grey hair was cropped short then slicked back tight against his head. He had a severe part down the left and wore what looked to me like the boy’s version of a men’s crisp white oxford dress shirt. It was un-tucked, hanging down over a pair of tight but ill-fitting jeans.

At first I imagined he was shopping for a gift, possibly for someone special in his life but what really caught my attention his quick side -o-side glances as though he were casing the joint. “Looks like we’ve got a shoplifter on our hands. Something’s going down and I’ve got a front row seat,” I thought as I moved in for a better view. “This is turning out better than the movies.”

When my little inmate transitioned from smelling and glancing, smelling and glancing to vigorously pumping the perfume into a cloud that engulfed his entire body from head to toe I decided I needed to move back a bit and maybe seek a better angle. It was at this point I realized the person in question was not actually a tiny thieving man but rather, an oddly coifed middle-aged woman. My movement must have startled her, our eyes briefly met as she took one last glance in both directions then pumped a dozen or so sprays into her crotch and bolted from the store.

Much better than the movies

Read more...

There, I fixed it - or - Finally my chance to use my new words

I'm not generally a huge fan of the forwarded email but yesterday when a friend from work sent me an email titled, "There, I fixed it," I was overjoyed. Finally here was a chance to use the new lingo I've been practicing since my last post.

VERY 'WT'. Here are just a few:

My favorite one is of the two guys in the pool with the floating power strip. Which one is your favorite?

Read more...

Word Fun

Every group or clique tends to have their own set of insider words and phrases and the business community is no exception. Each of my three brothers belongs to this business world as do each of my three brothers-in-law. I don’t and while I’m comfortable talking shop, I’m not always comfortable talking with the same shop lingo. I’ve tried from time to time but the words just don’t feel right in my mouth and end up sounding forced. It’s like when hear suburban white kids using rap lingo in their conversation, they know the words yet still, it just doesn’t feel quite right.

My business world friends use terms like, “Hey man, I gotta bounce so I’ll talk to you later,” or maybe, “I hear you but do me a favor and just shoot me an email on that.” These are insider terms reserved for those inside the business community.

I was visiting one of my brothers a while back and we were sitting around enjoying a casual conversation. This was late in the evening but the air outside was still warm so we had all the windows in his home open. His wife had two of her sisters in town as well and they, along with two additional friends rounded out the company. The conversation was casual and light, moving from updates on children to the latest news at work. At one point we even discussed the reason everyone should own an iphone. I think it was one of the sisters that brought it up saying, “I just don’t know how I lived without mine.” She decided everyone should own one and half the room agreed while the other half was definitely against the idea. We were at a standoff and the conversation moved on.

Later in the evening the other sister turned and said, “I know, we totally shouldn’t - we just can’t help ourselves.” I missed the point of the statement but when dirty little secrets come up in a conversation like that, it grabs ones attention. Then she turned her head to the side a bit and mouthed the words, “It’s a little ‘WT’,” and then she giggled. I’d never heard the term ‘WT’ and wondered if it was an abbreviation carried over from text messaging. She said it in a way that suggested a guilty pleasure so it took me awhile to figure out it’s meaning.

A few weeks later my neighbor used the ‘WT’ thing while referring to some toys strewn across his front lawn. As in “Look at my front yard. We’re totally ‘WT’.” While his use of the term was more obvious in it’s reference, by this time it wouldn’t have mattered, as I was already hip to its meaning.

I’ve been keeping my eye out for ways to throw this newly found term into a conversation and sometimes practice it to myself in my car on the way to work. I can’t quite make it come out right and worry it’ll come across sounding forced or contrived. “Do I mouth it like my brother’s sister-in-law turning my head for effect or do I just throw it out like it’s no big deal the way my neighbor did? I wonder.” I think I’ll have to practice it a bit more but for now, brother, I gotta bounce.

Any terms you find funny?

Read more...

Toaster Oven Research and Derailment

So Linda has decided she’s interested in a toaster oven and wondered if I could do a bit of research to figure out which one to buy. We already own a toaster but due to her celiac disease she can no longer use it. She likes the idea of a toaster oven, which can remain dedicated to gluten-free cooking as a way to further avoid cross contamination.

Generally I start my research in one of two places, the internet or Costco. I discovered this week we no longer keep a Consumer Reports account so I was forced to dig deeper into the net looking for information. This site listed Cuisinart as their top pick and it seems most other sites agreed that Cuisinart is the brand to beat. They offer a wide range of models to choose from leaving the consumer the freedom to select the features they’re after. Personally I like the idea of the appliance doubling as a convection oven and will look for one of their models offering this feature.



Deciding it was time to check what Costco had in stock I pulled into their parking lot alongside a taxi cab mini van. While Portland has it’s share of cabs its uncommon to see one over in Beaverton where I work let alone in the Costco parking lot. What I saw next was even more remarkable. The taxi cab driver was just getting out of his car as I pulled up, he was dark complected, tall and dressed in a long sleeve black turtle neck and Levis. He wore a thick gold chain over his shirt which had what looked, to me, like a large gold coin dangling from it and a toothpick stuck from the corner of his mouth. All this was more or less normal but what really caught my eye and then my entire attention was the fact that his pants hung unbuttoned down around his hips. Our eyes met and he gave me a nod, switching his toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth, then shrugged as if to suggest, “What? I like to be comfortable when I drive. You got a problem with that?”

It turns out Costco does have the Cuisinart toaster oven I’m after but I was too distracted to buy it.

Read more...

Share and Share Alike

I called my brother Cameron the other day to see if I could send him a pair of socks. Specifically I was wondering if he’d ever wear a pair of used socks, as I know some people have issues with wearing used clothing. Sure I understand avoiding, at all costs, a pair of used underwear but beyond that, for me, pretty much anything goes. Still, I wanted to be sure before sending the socks.


Cameron has recently suffered an injury to his leg followed by surgery and now nears the end of a two-week period in a cast. “Get yourself a nice straight coat hanger and cut it down to a manageable length. You’re gonna need to scratch.” I know because I’ve done the cast thing. This will be followed by a month or so in a removable boot, which I too have endured. Unlike a cast, the boot brings a newfound freedom by introducing the ability to gimp along without the aid of crutches. It also allows one to remove it periodically and air things out which is where the socks come in. During my orthopedic boot wearing days I found a pair of compression type soccer socks which work wonders in keeping the leg comfortable. This particular pair is made by Nike and also boasts dri-fit technology, which helps keep the boot dry, which, in turn equals a less smelly boot and a less itchy leg. Wanting to do something nice for my brother, you know, show him I care, I searched high and low for a pair of these socks only to discover they no longer make them. Hence the question about the used pair.

A few years ago Linda and I were visiting Cameron in Southern California when the discussion about sharing came up. Actually, it was about the dangers associated with sharing. We were sitting around the island in his kitchen while his wife Melissa demonstrated a new blender my brother had recently purchased. It seemed its greatest selling point was it’s ability to take everyday ingredients straight from the refrigerator and blend them at speed high enough to actually boil them. “And why do you need a blender to boil soup,” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to use the stove top?”

“Well maybe,” she guessed, “but it’s just the fact that you can that makes it so great.” Her point was lost on me, their son Kyle’s, however, was not. He was maybe 10 at the time and had come into the kitchen complaining about sharing his sleeping bag with his younger sister Paige.

“C’mon dad, sharing a sleeping bag is just gross,” he complained. Melissa, my wife Linda and Paige disagreed while Cameron, their oldest daughter Sarah, and I agreed with Kyle. We were a room divided and began constructing a list of other things that should never be shared.

Socks never came up but I thought I should ask.

Where do you draw the line?

Read more...

My wife Linda has been asking me if I’d be willing to do a research and review on toaster ovens. About six months ago she was diagnosed with celiac disease, which has forced her to live quite differently. The short of it is her body cannot tolerate any gluten and the long version is, well, very, very long. Even the smallest of bread crumbs can make her sick for days which is why she’s in the market for a dedicated toaster. Traditional bread toast is out of the question but it’s replacement - a delicious white rice flour bread mix sounds better toasted. Seemingly innocuous things like Mentos have gluten along with soy sauce, pizza, and burritos. Reece’s sticks contain gluten while, thankfully Reece’s cups do not. Linda now shops armed with “the safe list” a 3 page single-spaced, two column affair clarifying whether all those odd, never before seen ingredient items will make her sick or not. I still don’t know what lecithin is but have come to know it as “safe”.

We’ve already established I have eating issues and can’t imagine what I would do if I had been the one with this new diagnosis. Linda in general is an extremely healthy eater while I am not. “What did you eat for lunch?” she asked me yesterday.


“Jack-in-the-Box,” I answer, mumbling because I know what she’s going to say.

“Nice. Sounds yummy.”

I like their tacos, though and can’t help it. It's a dirty little secret I satiate every so often hoping Linda won't think to ask what I've eaten for lunch that day. So while I definitely have my eating issues I’ll admit that I’m quite comfortable dipping down to the bottom of the barrel of the culinary world where I’m also comfortable peeling back the crust collecting and the bottom of said barrel and licking up the leavings.

By the way, I’m pretty sure down at the bottom of the barrel, underneath the crust that has formed is where Jack-in-the-Box harvests the grease they use to deep-fry the tacos I love.

What sick thing do you love to eat? And don't lie, everyone has a dirty little secret they love to eat.

Read more...

Mac Tech Support

As a fashion designer I generally tend to consider myself in pretty good touch with what’s going on. You know, up to speed pop culture-wise and stuff. I’m also a bit of a tech geek, keeping up on the latest gadgets and technology as it relates to my work and stuff. My knowledge is really just a half step above being pure pedestrian but it’s this half step that keeps a small army of friends and relatives calling for support. Last week it was Linda’s sister Janet, “Christian we just bought our first Mac and I can’t figure out how to do anything with it. Can you help?” she asked.

“Sure, what is it you’re trying to do?”

“Well the screen is just blank so what do I do?”

When I asked if she’d turned it on there was a pause followed by the realization that there might be slightly more to a Mac than simply “plug and play.”

Earlier in the week my daughter Gretchen received a text message then complained, “I’m so tired of getting forwards from so and so. All she does is forward stuff all day long. She never actually sends any real texts to me.”

I had no idea one could forward a text message, believing this feature was limited to emails. I mentioned this and there was a pause followed by my realization that there might be slightly more to texting than simply texting.

Like I said, slightly above pure pedestrian.

Read more...

Patrick Swayze - A Review

I have four daughters and they, along with their mother, love everything dance. ‘The 5 Ladies’ as I refer to them, have weekend dance sessions in the kitchen while I either stand on the sidelines waving a flashlight during the “lights out” portion of the session or I make myself scarce. It’s not that I dislike dance, I just don’t love it the way they do. For the past year or so, they have also watched the television show ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ during which, again, I generally make myself scarce.

In the dance movie category there seems to be one that stands alone - ‘Dirty Dancing.’ Ask Linda and she can tell you the time and place, what she wore and how her hair was done the first time she saw this movie. “Oh, I remember I was in junior high and. . .,” but by then I’ve drifted off. I’ve never seen ‘Dirty Dancing’ and really have no interest in ever seeing it. I realize I might be the lone citizen of these United States who hasn’t seen this dance classic, but that’s fine by me.


In my mind I will always remember Patrick Swayze for his classic sketch with Chris Farley while they ham it up on SNL as Chippendale dancers. To me there’s nothing better than stretching out on the couch turning Saturday afternoon and finding ‘Next of Kin’ or ‘Roadhouse’ on TNT. And for that I can even overlook his sweet hairdo from the Chippendale thing.

So while Linda will remember Patrick for his work in ‘Dirty Dancing’ and I’ll remember him alongside Chris Farley and kicking butt in the Deep South, what will you remember him for?

I give Patrick 5 out of 5 stars. (As a bonus, here’s a reminder of what we’ll miss tracked with Linda’s favorite song.)

Read more...

7-11, Pepto Bismol, and Ugly Americans

I’ve traveled a fair amount, maybe a little more than most. China, Spain, Vietnam and Germany along with Japan, England and France are just some of the places I’ve been; each with it’s own cultural nuances. We’ve all heard the term “ugly American” and unfortunately I’ve witnessed this first hand. Recently while traveling to Hong Kong with some co-workers I was surprised to see the biggest single piece of luggage I’ve ever seen rounding the conveyor belt. This was a hard sided case the size of a large trunk equipped with tiny multi-direction wheels. Made from a hard, shiny plastic it was the color of Pepto Bismol. I was horrified to discover it belonged to one of my co-workers though I can’t say I was surprised. We often travel to three and sometimes even four countries on a given trip so most tend to travel light. A single suitcase and a carry-on seem to work best. “What’s with the giant pepto case?” I asked.

“Isn’t it cute?” my co-worker answered. “It’s so I can sleep while I’m here.”

Huh? I turned to another travel mate and asked for some clarity. “She shoves a tempur pedic pad in there because she say’s she has a bad back,” she whispered.

Ugly American.


Yesterday I dropped into 7-11 for a drink and noticed they’re pitching a new refillable drink container. Brightly colored in the shape of a guitar these “cups” come complete with a filling port on the back and a long flexible straw protruding from the front. They’re about half the size of a real guitar and even come supplied with a strap so they can be worn over the shoulder. When I got to the counter I asked if they’d sold any and was surprised when the cashier answered with a British accent. Standing about 5 foot nothing and roughly the same size around he shifted his weight back and forth as he gave his answer.

“Oh, yeah we sell a lot of those. People seem to love them and even wear them around their necks like a real guitar.”

“Really? They wear them around their necks?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he continued. “Completely American.”

While he might have been right, can a foreigner cry “American” in America?

Read more...

China Can't Come Soon Enough

I’ve heard that people are generally either good at algebra or good at geometry but rarely both. Similarly, it’s been said, people are either good at remembering names or good at remembering faces but, once again, rarely both. In my case these theories hold true as I’m excellent at geometry and never forget a face. And while I’ve yet to find my life wanting in the algebra department; what good is remembering the face when the matching name never makes it out of long term storage?

At work there’s this guy named Mitch, I think. We don’t work together but I tend to run into him once or twice a week in the hallways. He’s about my height with dark brown hair, always wears a genuine smile, and has these unforgettable steel grey eyes with just a touch of blue. We were introduced when he first started with the company about a year ago. This too is a guess as, like algebra, I’m horrible with time. My memory serves me fine for a week or two, maybe three but past that, events might as well have occurred three months ago or three years ago.

Mitch on the other hand seems to have a rock solid memory and never hesitates to show it off, turning a one-time introduction into a great display of mental capacity. “Hi Christian,” he’ll say as we pass in the hallway. Or maybe, “How’s your week going - Christian?” No matter what, he makes a point of throwing my name into every passing. At first I’d just respond with a simple “hey” or “how’s it going?” but it became awkward so I began mumbling his name hoping if it was close enough he wouldn’t notice. Mitch can easily sound like Mike or Matt or even Rich and besides, I was pretty sure his name was Mitch.

Yesterday an announcement was made and sent by email congratulating some guy named Scott on a promotion. It seems he’ll be moving to China and heading up a division involved in manufacturing. There was a picture attached - brown hair, genuine smile, and these unforgettable steel grey eyes with a touch of blue.

Mitch never sounds like Scott.

Read more...

A Death in the Family

This past weekend we suffered a death in the family. Well, at least that’s what my daughter Margaret cried. She’s eleven and on Friday found a caterpillar in the road. “He was just on the edge, Dad, by the grass,” she explained. “I rescued him from getting run over and we’re going to keep him until he turns into a butterfly.”

This was after school and she wrangled two of her sisters, Leah and Gabrielle, into helping. They spent the rest of the day arranging a cage including sticks, leaves, and berries foraged from our yard. “We’re making him comfortable,” they said. “This way he’ll turn into a butterfly faster for us.” Then they turned back to feeding him, which to me looked more like force-feeding.

“How do you know that’s his mouth?” I asked.

“Because orange stuff was coming out the other end,” they answered in unison. Then Gabrielle my five year old added, “But I cut it off - because it was gross.”

Surprisingly, Saturday morning found the little green guy dead. Leah, who is eight, asked, “Do you know how to bring a caterpillar back to life?”

“Well, I don’t think pouring water on him will do the trick,” I offered.

“Oh, we know. We’re cleaning him for his funeral.” Leah answered while Gabrielle gently rolled him back and forth across the pavement; her chubby fingers assuring the caterpillar would never, ever return to the living.

I love that my little ones still imagine I’m capable of performing miracles. My oldest daughter Gretchen turned thirteen last week and has begun rolling her eyes at almost anything I do and say. “I didn’t know you could forward a text message, Gretchen,” and her eyes roll. “Since you have P.E. first period, can’t you just save time by wearing your gym clothes to school in the morning?” Eyes roll, arms flail, feet stomp.

Margaret decided to bury their caterpillar mid-day Saturday following tears and prayers for a return to the living. A hole was dug, flower petals picked, and a long rock was placed over the hole on which they gently rested the little guy. It was at this point I suggested they construct a funeral pyre. And then explained it.

Six eyes rolled and I could see my status as a miracle worker fading from their sight.

Read more...

Julie & Julia - Review

I’m convinced that at birth I got my wires crossed. Somehow some kind of chemistry soured or maybe my brain sent out a mixed signal during early development because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I cannot stand food noises. Chips munched, cereal slurped, crisp crudités crunched - all of it drives me absolutely crazy. Sigmund Freud might blame it on my mother but when she came to visit last week it was me who suggested we go to a movie.


We went to see Julie & Julia, once again my suggestion, and why not? It came highly recommended by my wife Linda and our good friend Jeff. “Go see it they said, you’ll love it. Meryl Streep is incredible.” And she was. She took the role of Julia Child and filled it so well I caught myself wondering if, in fact Meryl Streep was Julia Child. I mean, she is old enough and while I don’t remember seeing much of Julia Child on television maybe they’re actually the same person. It sounds crazy but she really was that good.

Oddly, though, they never said much about the ‘Julie’ character played by Amy Adams - yuck. And even worse still was the guy who spent the entire film eating Julie’s cooking - LOUDLY. Frankly it ruined the movie for me. What was I thinking voluntarily going to a movie about eating food? Slurping, crunching, smacking and lip licking, it was all just a bit too much for me.


I give Julie & Julia 2 out of 5 stars (it would have been a negative 5 but Meryl Streep really did do an incredible job).

Read more...

Surgical Taco

I dropped by the dermatologist yesterday on my way home from work. And while I like to make it sound off the cuff and casual, there was nothing relaxing about it. My doctor and I are not friends. She’s a small trim woman with dark short-cropped hair and she smiles a lot while asking to do unspeakable things. In the past six months she’s carved so much skin cancer off me that when I told my brother-in-law Wade I’d been hit with a shotgun blast he believed me. This was in July while boating on our family vacation. “Really?” he asked. “Did it hurt?” I thought about really running, taking him for a nice ride, but considering the pattern of scars across my chest and arms it’s hard to believe the involvement of anything but a shotgun.

I’m no stranger to injury but, for me, there’s something about laying down and voluntarily being carved like a Christmas ham that makes my head spin - quite literally. Yesterday was my 5th visit in 6 months, I think, yet still every time my doctor asks me to lie down I begin to sweat profusely. “You look pretty good, Christian,” she said with a smile. “There are just two more spots we need to remove. How about we just take care of those right now?” This is a woman who knows my history, one who’s seen me nearly pass out at the first sign of a scalpel and so she tries to make the suggestion of removal sound easy going and optional. “Just roll over to your stomach and I’ll start with the larger one on the back of your neck.”

And it’s at this point that things become really uncomfortable. I try and roll to my stomach but have already begun sweating so much that the paper liner I’m laying on is stuck to me head to toe, wrapping me up like a paper taco. My doctor asks if I’m OK and all I can think is, “I hope Wade doesn’t hear about this, he’ll really run with it.”

Read more...

Swan Island Dahlia Battle

This past weekend my mother paid us a visit. She loves to garden and spends countless hours each week working in her yard. The back yard is reserved for vegetables and berries but the front is where she grows her flowers. About a week after she moved in she dug up half her lawn to plant more flowers and her children called her crazy. “Who digs up their lawn?” we asked, pointing at the surrounding neighbor’s lawns. Of course it turned out looking beautiful and she has the whole neighborhood jealous.

Then, last year, she put up an 8-foot fence with thick wood posts and heavy gauge wire. It looks like the kind of barricade one would imagine surrounds Fort Knox. “It’s to keep the deer out,” she insists. “They keep eating all my flowers.” While this might be true, the fence has her children now convinced she’s crazy. She insists the neighbors are jealous of her fence as well but I’m not buying it.

Either way, my mother loves flowers and for the past four years or so has wanted to visit during the Swan Island Dahlia Festival. It’s the largest of its kind, at least in the U.S.; something one of my mother’s neighbors loves to remind her of. She’s a small, fast talking woman who likes to hold her own visit to the festival over my mother’s head. “So,” she might say, “it’s just too bad you didn’t make it out to the dahlia festival this year.” She bides her time, waiting till mid-September, knowing it’s too late for my mother to catch a quick spontaneous flight. “It’s such a shame too because it’s the largest one of it’s kind,” she’ll add as she walks away. “Acres and acres of the most beautiful dahlias you’ve ever seen.”

Well no more, miss neighbor of my mother’s. She’s been to the Swan Island Dahlia Festival and seen the ‘dinner plate’ section. She’s been in the creepy underground display cave and she’s walked the acres and acres of the most beautiful dahlias in the world.

Oh, and by the way, rumor has it this was the biggest most glorious show in the entire history of the Swan Island Dahlia Festival.

Read more...

Alden's All Natural

It’s no secret that I love ice cream. I have for as long as I can remember and I like it plain, unadulterated, topping free. While still in high school my mother was introduced, through a friend of a friend, to a black market source for purchasing ice cream in bulk. It came in 1/2 gallon plastic tubs and 2 1/2 gallon brown paper containers and was intended for ice cream parlors, which meant there was a minimum order. The word on the street was that most families would group together and spread the order between three or four homes but in my house we covered the spread single-handedly.

Every month or so my mother would hand me an order form with instructions to fill it out. “Just pick 15 or so flavors in the half gallon size and one or two of the 2 1/2 gallon size,” she’d say. We had two freezers and looking back I wonder if they were simply there to foster my habit. Later that day we’d meet in the garden out of earshot where we’d look from side to side before exchanging the form, X’s carefully marking each of my selections. Then just after dark she’d head to some back alley where she’d knock twice and ring once on an unmarked door and wait for further instructions. The order form would be slipped through a mail slot in the door and she’d be instructed to back the family van up to the loading dock. At least that’s how I remember it.

Since that time I’ve become quite a connoisseur of the creamy stuff. In Texas it was Blue Bell in California it was It’s-It. Any form, any location, I’ve always found the best.

Flavors are important too and in my book mint chocolate chip is about halfway down my scale, at best. For Linda, though, it’s number one - by a mile. Since I do the bulk of the consuming when it comes to ice cream I also carry the most weight when it comes to selecting and usually avoid mint chocolate chip. The other day though, in a moment of weakness I bought her a container of mint chocolate chip. Feeling whimsical I decided on a new brand called Alden’s Ice Cream touting all natural everything. All I can say is I have a new favorite and if you live in Oregon go get yourself some and enjoy the weekend. Their website doesn’t advertise the mint chocolate chip but trust me, it’s on the menu.

I give Alden’s Ice Cream Mint Chocolate Chip a 5 out of 5 stars.

What’s your favorite brand and flavor?

Read more...

President Obama, I have a solution

President Obama, I have a solution. Well, truthfully, it’s not my solution but I was present at its inception and it seems these days when it comes to politics, attendance is all that really counts.

This was a few weeks ago while Linda and I ran a few errands. We have a local market across the street from our house and a larger grocery store a mile away, but once a week or so Linda drives to the neighboring town to shop at Winco. Half big box warehouse, half grocery store on steroids, Winco sells produce by the truckload and canned goods by the case. Unlike Costco, this particular grocer offers large quantities of food in bulk and regular sized packages. Employees wear stiff green vests decorated with buttons that say, “Employee Owned & Operated” and work at a pace on par with government offices. Lines form behind back to back registers outfitted with huge self serve conveyor belts. The idea is that if customers unload their own carts then pack their own bags overhead goes down along with the prices.

It was here, just outside Winco where I witnessed history in the making. A rusted Ford Pinto had just pulled up coughing black smoke out the back and cigarette smoke from the windows and we witnessed a homeless man tumble from inside. He loudly thanked the driver for the lift then proceeded to unload 12 wheelbarrow-sized bags filled with aluminum cans. Winco is home to the largest can and bottle-recycling center I’ve ever seen. Just to the left side of the entrance sits an entrance large enough to drive a truck through. It’s like a cave, dimly lit, and extends back deep enough to hold a small army of patrons. The cement around the entrance is stained with wine and smells so strongly of alcohol it really did provide a perfect environment for such a brilliant idea.

“If President Obama just started a cash for cans program and paid these people more than a nickel a can, he could probably fix the economy in a month,” Linda said. Winco was our first stop, about 9:00 am, and there was already a large lineup of patrons waiting to cash in their evenings take. Linda kept on saying something like, “Publish this on your blog, Christian, send it to the masses.” But I wasn’t listening, I was wondering how many cans we had back in our garage should this plan go into effect.

Read more...

What's in a name?

Today at work while discussing apparel construction techniques with one of our pattern makers, she mentioned taking the train to Seattle over the weekend. It was off the subject, yet still, she continued, “So I was about halfway there when I noticed these four nerdy types larping with an iPhone.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Well, you know, they were using the iPhone in place of dice. You can do that with those things, they shake and all. They’re incredible.”

“Uh,. . . I’m talking about how you just slipped in “larping” like it was no bid deal. What is that?”

She explained that it stood for “Live Action Role Playing” then threw in, “Everyone knows that, Christian.”

I didn’t.

Some of you are probably asking a similar question, “What or who is an Ashmarlin?”

Here’s the thing, it’s just a name, nothing more, nothing less. Back in college a friend and I had this great idea we’d start a clothing line. I imagined we could start small, maybe make a few select pieces and grow from there. He, on the other hand envisioned multiple collections from the start then followed it up with the statement, “We’ll put JCrew out of business.” He said this in a frenzy, the sort one imagines being used when referring to taking over the world and is always followed by an evil laugh. And just like that I lost interest and we went our separate ways. Ashmarlin is the name I came up with for what I imagined would be a quaint little apparel brand and it seemed fitting for my quaint little blog that I hope, someday, will take over the world.

Read more...

Personal Sculpting Fitness Program®

Readers,

I have spoken with my sister Megan about this but don’t believe anyone else is aware of a milestone I’ve begun meeting in my life.  Except Linda, who is acutely aware and is in fact reaping the benefits with great joy.  I have discovered an incredible supplement which has turned the fitness world on it’s ear and turned me into the specimen Linda has always dreamed of. I have kept a journal documenting my progress and willingly share it with you now, here in this blog.  Take it for what it’s worth but believe me, this is powerful stuff.  Each Tuesday I’ll send out another day torn from my journal giving you proper time to wrap your mind around the previous entry.

Day 7-
Portions of my personal hygiene regimen have become a bit difficult these days.  But with the incredible results I’m seeing from the Personal Sculpting Fitness Program® I now have a very impressive body and the trade-off is well worth it.  Having muscles on top of muscles however makes it a bit hard to reach things, if you catch my drift.  My arms seem only capable of bending enough to accommodate barbells and these delicious Personal Sculpting Shakes 6 times a day but I’m learning to cope.  This delicious elixir only passes the doors to my new temple by using those little bendy straws, but once again the trade-off is nothing.  I mean seriously, what’s worth complaining about when you look this good.  With such terrific results I’ve hardly noticed the disruptive 4-hour increments with which they must be taken and Linda is willing to put up with the night portion of my regimen on account of the “eye candy” factor.  Her words not mine.  


Until next Tuesday, do your best to stay as fit as me.

Read more...

Garage Sale Lightweight

We had our neighborhood garage sale this weekend and apparently I missed the big picture. The advertisement my neighbor Chris posted in the newspaper slated the start time for 9:00 am and ending at 4:00. By 8:00 am Saturday morning he and his wife had 5 large folding tables piled with items to sell. We hadn’t even started breakfast. My wife Linda walked the Portland to Coast Race this weekend leaving the girls and I to handle the garage sale. It’s the largest walk race of it’s kind with over 400 teams made up of 10 - 12 walkers each and lasts two days. This was her first year in the race and my first garage sale.

Chris had two televisions, furniture, books, and box after box filled with Taiwanese junk. He has two sources of income which he refers to as “my companies.” The first is a printing business where he takes a photo submitted by the customer and prints it on a Wheaties box just like the real ones you buy in the store with someone famous on the front. He’s the inventor or creator or whatever you’d call it of this idea and I believe he does a comfortable business with it. His second source of income, however, is from importing crap from Taiwan and China and hocking it to the lowest common denominator. Plastic 3-D puzzles, half sized coloring books with hard waxy crayons included, and spongy rubber holiday decorations are just a few of the items he sells.

A few months ago we ran into each other on our way to work. I to my office and he to his warehouse which another neighbor clarified for me, “It’s just a storage unit that he calls his warehouse.” This particular morning he had a new item to import and was anxious to talk to me about helping out. He held up a pencil made entirely from recycled Chinese newspapers. “You can even see little bits of Chinese writing there if you look closely,” he said. He had normal, pencil length versions and short stubby versions and it seemed he wanted me to get my company to buy great loads of the short version. “These would be great for handing out as promo items. Just imagine printing the logo right here at the end. It’d be a great marketing tool.”

This was yesterdays idea though and now as he prepared for the onslaught of garage sale buyers he arranged boxes and boxes of holiday decorations. Christmas and halloween mostly but there were a few strings of green leprechaun lights as well. I looked back at my driveway and his eyes followed.

We had a single item - a toddler bed that’s been sitting in our garage for the past six months taking up space. Is that all you’ve got,” he asked?”

Read more...