Dave Matthews Band

I like the Dave Matthews Band and a year ago Linda and I had a chance to see them in Phoenix. As much as I enjoy them, Linda absolutely loves them. Sometimes I wonder if she listens to anyone else.

A few weeks ago we learned DMB will be performing in UT this summer during the same week we plan to be there visiting family. Then a few days ago we learned the concert would be free, which meant getting tickets would be near impossible. My brother Graham, who lives there, is also a huge fan so I called him and began making plans for getting tickets. “OK, so if you go to the actual venue location and wait in line while Linda and I simultaneously get online our chances are better,” I said.

He agreed and over the next few days the two of us refined our plans. He added his wife Devri to the equation but we both agreed he and I would need to spearhead the operation. “They’ll be able to each man computers but you know we’ll have to get them all set up for this to work. It’ll really be up to you and I,” I added. Graham agreed wholeheartedly.

Tickets were scheduled to go on sale this morning at 9:00 am - my time, 10:00 am - his time. At this point in the morning I found myself standing in front of an army of sales reps pitching the newest color stories for the Tiger Woods Collection and had completely forgotten about the concert. Graham, it seems, had completely forgotten as well.

At 8:55 am each of us received text messages from Linda asking about getting tickets. Neither of us responded.

At 9:00 am sharp we again received text messages announcing tickets had been secured. Neither of us had anything to do with this.

How awesome is my wife!

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Lunch at the Sweat Lodge

Back when I was 16 or maybe 17 I had a filling put in one of my front teeth. This was one of those tooth colored versions meant to match; and for a long time it did. The majority of this filling sat behind my tooth with only a small portion wrapping around the side and into the front. Just a sliver really, which over time has turned a yellow grey and no longer matched the color of my tooth. Or maybe it was the other way around, my tooth no longer matching the unchanged filling. Either way, for the past several years my dentist has gently pointed out this small discrepancy, suggesting I might consider changing it for something more up to date. She’s a heavy, amorphous thing with gentle hands and a pleasant way about her and whether it’s her professionalism or simply her personality, she’s always seemed cheerful to me. I’ll call her Joy and I like her. Still, there’s no way I’m having a filling removed and replaced just because of a little color mismatch.

A month or so ago while having a routine check-up and cleaning my dentist, I’ll call her Joy, noticed the filling in question was beginning to fail and her suggestion became more of an insistence. “You really need to change this filling now Christian. It’s beginning to leak a bit around the back which, if left untouched, will begin introducing decay into the tooth.” I set up an appointment.

On Wednesday I arrived during the lunch hour expecting a quick in-and-out visit. I figured my tooth had begun the job itself by initiating the separation and how difficult could it be to remove that? I went so far as to imagine there’d even be limited if any drilling. I completely forgot about the needle part.

“Just a little pinch as we numb things up,” Joy explained. “Now with the very front tooth like this most people experience numbness in their nose as well. It’s just the way the nerves work and it’s totally normal. Only about 10% of patients don’t have this sensation,” she added. “Now, sometimes it helps to wiggle your fingers and toes. It’ll help keep your mind off the injection.”

Wait, what? Something didn’t sound right about that and so I’m going to come clean myself. Smile or no smile, cheerful or not; I hate the dentist and typically begin sweating the minute I sit in the chair. Depending on the duration of a particular visit I can, at times, come away looking like I’ve laid down in a puddle, which essential I have.

And then the stinging began; not so much from the needle Joy stuck into the thin gum line just above my front tooth, rather from the poison she was injecting into them. I could feel the burn run from inside my upper lip straight to my nose, which began burning so bad my eyes started watering. Next, as the pain increased, my watering eyes turned to crying eyes and as tears poured down the side of my face I wondered whether my hair was getting more wet from the tears or the sweat.

“You’re doing fine,” Joy said. “Tears are fairly normal too.” And then she added, “Though I’m not sure I’ve witnessed so many before.”

Her comment worried me. “Is it that noticeable?” I wondered, which in turn made me sweat even more. I would have liked to respond but by this point the burning had spread along the roof of my mouth to the back of my throat making it not only burn but also leaving it numb and unresponsive. An hour later, just as I gained sensation back to my throat Joy finished. Drenched from a combination of sweat and tears, I stood wondering if Joy was thinking to herself, “Everybody sweats a little when they come see me, though I’m not sure I’ve witnessed anyone sweat so much before.”

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Mexican Standoff

If I were asked to describe my mother I could use any number of flattering adjectives without hesitation. Kind, thoughtful, huge influence on who I’ve become, the sort of person any son would be proud to call his mother; you know, the stuff orphans dream of. Wonderful, fantastic, funny, the list goes on but then, at the very end, there’s the stubborn thing. It’s a trait I inherited myself and one I share with each and every one of my siblings. Push, and we push back, tell us we can’t and watch out because nobody tells us we can’t do something.

Take for example the time some contractor told my mother there was no way she could refinish the hardwood floors in our house without hiring a professional. This was back when I was 13 or so and my mother had her eye on the three largest rooms in our home, each with a different species of hardwood laying dormant beneath the ugliest carpet on earth. The next thing my brothers and I knew we were hauling carpet out the back door and pulling up tack strip. My mother became her own general contractor and when she hung up her hard hat a week or so later we had a living room, a dining room, and a family room with wall-to-wall hardwood.

I love my mother and in a normal week might talk to her once or twice and maybe more should something come up. Sometimes I call her and other times she’ll call me, but pretty much at least once a week we’ll talk. She doesn’t live close enough to see more than a couple times a year but still, we keep up nicely on the phone.

I haven’t spoken to my mother since Christmas; she hasn’t called me and I haven’t called her. It seems we have a Mexican standoff.

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Frosty the Sled Driver?

I had a really good blog post all set for today. Fear, pain, and tears - all the makings of a good post. And then this happened. . .

On my way into work I noticed the driver in front of me had a funny shaped steering wheel so I sped to pass for a closer look. I was on the passenger side as I pulled alongside and saw an elderly gentleman riding shotgun. If I’m guessing, I’d say he was in his 70’s and sat slouched low in his seat with a fedora pulled low over his eyes and if he hadn’t glanced my way I would have said he was sleeping. The woman driving, though, she’s the one that caught my eye. Again, I’m guessing, but she was probably his wife - similar age, similar slouch in her posture with a Betty Crocker hair-do in place of the fedora. Both pretty normal, I’d say, but then there was the matter of the “assistant driver.”

At first glance I wondered if she simply had a decorated steering buddy attached to her wheel. You know, the kind of knob used by professional truck drivers to facilitate big sweeping turns while shifting and doing whatever else it is they do while driving. But this was no steering buddy; rather she gripped in her hand a 6” stuffed snowman. Freestanding and something she could take on the go, maybe pack in her purse, his body was a dingy grey suggesting a long-term tenure in the roll of assistant driver. On his head he even wore a green top hat with a little black hatband wrapping it’s base. Weird.

I wish I’d taken a picture.

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Spelling Bee

I was talking to my brother about nothing specific the other day while on my way to work. We like to catch up a few times a week and on this particular morning the topic turned to each other’s blogs. While I have just the one, it seems he starts a new one every other day making it difficult for me to keep up. He suggested I check out his newest effort and when I was having a hard time with the spelling of the address said, “Just do a search for it on Google. I’ve got both the number one and number two spot for my latest post.” When I asked what I should search for he answered, “Bear Grylls’ Sunglasses. Or you can search for Bear Grylls Oakleys, I have top spots for both of those.”

Totally unbelievable I thought, and then asked, “And how do I spell Grylls?”

“Dude, you don’t need to know how to spell anymore these days,” he offered the added, “ Google, man.”

While it’s true my spelling competence sits at about 5th grade level and I rely heavily on spell check; I like to think a basic grasp of spelling is important.

Next our conversation moved to Graham’s work and how the knife selling business was going. A few weeks ago I mentioned a co-worker was admiring my pocketknife and he offered to give her a discount. I asked if he’d seen any order come through in her name and he replied. “Just a minute, let me pull up our system and do a quick search.” After a minute or so of silence I wondered if we’d been disconnected before realizing the problem.

“You spell it P. A. M.”

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Snow in Dallas?

My trip to Dallas last week was supposed to be in-and-out, a quick out-and-back to see a few golf courses and visit a few accounts.

On Tuesday morning the weather prediction was for a slight chance of snow for Thursday morning, “This will most likely be a quick dusting and turn to rain by lunch,” the weatherman assured us. Tuesday was partly sunny with a high of 39º. The average for this time of year in Dallas is 59º so while the day was cold, it was dry leaving me inclined to believe the weatherman.

On Wednesday morning the forecast changed to include the likelihood of snow well into the afternoon on Thursday but nothing to really worry about. I toured a few courses while wondering about my Thursday afternoon departure. Wednesday night the weatherman suggested it might begin snowing a bit earlier and should be considered cause for concern. “It’s likely that we’ll begin getting snow around 3:00 am which may last till late into the day,” he said. “We may get a good inch or two which could turn to ice Thursday night,” he added.

By Thursday morning there was at least 3 inches on the ground. It was at this point I knew things were not going my way.

My flight was intended to depart DFW at 4:20 pm but things did not look promising. My airline had already cancelled 150+ flights by this point. We pulled back from the gate around 5:00 then taxied for 2 1/2 hours waiting in the line to be de-iced. At the second in line position our pilot came on with an update, “Well folks we’ve finally made it to the front of the line. We’re next up to be de-iced but I have some bad news. I just hit my 14 hour FAA regulated maximum so we’re going back to the gate.” We taxied 30 minutes to get back to the gate followed by another half hour waiting to deplane. Another hour waiting in line while the airline searched for a fresh replacement crew before telling us the flight was cancelled.

By this time the hotels were full and the roads solid ice. Dallas got 14 1/2 inches of snow breaking a record set in 1914.

I spent the night in the airport and at 2:00 am while wandering around the terminal decided weathermen are a joke.

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Blowing Minds On The Links

I’ve been traveling this week leaving me with little time to post. Yesterday I spent the day going from golf course to golf course visiting with club pros and various buyers about their likes and dislikes in the apparel market. While those who enjoy the sport might find this to be more like a vacation, for me it’s one of the most boring parts of my job. I’m in Dallas Texas and yesterday spent time at both Colonial Country Club and Shady Oaks Country Club, which if you’re a golfer means something. The fact that Ben Hogan considered Shady Oaks his home club and won numerous times at Colonial would also carry meaning. But for me, these facts hold little interest and when they ask if I’m interested in playing a round, “On the house” I turn them down.

“You did what?” my younger brother asks then laughs. “Bandon Dunes asked if you wanted to play and you turned them down? Ha, Ha, they’ve NEVER heard that before. You must blow their minds.”

“Yeah, you might be right,” I guessed then added, “And I’m sure Torrey Pines, Rhode Island Country Club and Westchester Country Club haven’t heard that either.”

Yesterday I added a few more blown minds to my list.

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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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