It wasn't Meant to Be

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I’ve been growing it out over the past several months and went in just for a trim. You know, clean it up a bit. A few weeks ago, though, when my hair was looking nicely unkempt and shaggy, I was running an errand after lunch and overheard a couple of guys talking about me outside the Best Buy. “Hey, isn’t that the guy from that movie? You know, the one about the three friends who get into trouble in Vegas.”

It was both exciting and awkward hearing someone talk about me and my hair. The movie they referred to, The Hangover, had just won a Golden Globe award and I assumed they mistook me to be Bradley Cooper. He’s tall and handsome and I slowed my pace to hear more.

It is my habit to shave no more than twice a week, generally on Sunday mornings before church, then again on Wednesday or Thursday depending on my mood. It’s not uncommon for me to shave only once though and this was one of those weeks. My beard fills in fairly quickly and by Friday my stubble tends to look more like a beard.

This was a Friday and my beard and I listened as the second guy added, “Yeah I figured he had that beard just for the movie.”

It seemed I wasn’t being mistaken for Bradley Cooper at all rather for Zach Galifianakis. I haven’t seen the movie but with previews playing round the clock I’ve become familiar with his character. He’s the short chubby one and I felt completely deflated.

It seems my hair isn’t the only thing that needs a trim.

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Travolta at the Table

In Oregon Spring Break arrived the beginning of last week. A few weeks before that Linda mentioned we should plan on taking a trip, “Maybe go and see our families in Utah,” she said. This was in the evening after the kids had gone to bed and while we lounged around I mulled the idea over in my head. And then she added, “Just so you know, there’s no way I’m spending an entire rainy week with the girls home from school and nothing to do.”

We spent Spring Break in Utah with our families.

While we were there at one point the subject of this blog came up and my brother Graham suggested, “You need to post to that thing every day if you ever want to go big.”

“I just don’t always have the time,” I responded. “And besides it’s not always that easy coming up with a subject to write about.”

“I’m just saying,” he said and then the subject took a turn followed by another and the topic of blogs was dropped. The idea, though stuck, and for the rest of the week I mulled it over in my head while spending my evenings observing my brother Graham.

It turns out he’s a gold mine when it comes to blog topics. Just in the short few days we were in town he taught me a hand signal when noticing his two-year old appeared constipated. He thought out loud that he’d like to, “Go for the full fifty next time,” then followed this up with a demonstration on a knife sharpener he’d brought home from work. It wasn’t so much the things he did that I noticed rather the way he does them coupled with his constant commentary.

Take our last night at dinner for example. My sisters, brothers-in-law, mother and Linda and I sat around a crowded table in a busy restaurant. Graham made quick work of his meal then patiently fed our sister Stephanie’s baby pinto beans with a plastic fork. Her name is Reagan and I think she’s nearly two and has chubby hands and a permanent smile on her face. I’ve never seen such a cheerful baby and while Graham stuffed beans into her face she giggled and waved her hands. At one point her hand caught the plate in front of her tipping its contents into Graham’s lap. Unfazed he picked up what he could then stood, baby in hand, and did a little hip thrust projecting the remaining food back onto the plate. “See,” he said, “That move has more than one use,” then walked across the dining room for a refill on his drink.

I wish, for the sake of this blog, I could have a few more weeks with my family.

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Timing is Everything

The other day I was in the men’s room in the building where I work. I’m not going to say where I was specifically or what I may or may not have been doing and will simply leave it at that. I will say, however, there was a man in one of the stalls whose cell phone rang. This caught my attention and I watched through the gap between the floor and partition as he scrambled to find his phone. He had the ringer set quite high and was having trouble retrieving it, you know with his pants around his ankles and all.

None of us can control when a call comes in and while my personal tendency is to keep my phone on vibrate mode each of us has our own personal cell phone preferences. If it were me, however, in this man’s situation I would have found my phone, cancelled the call and when the time was more suited returned the call. This is what I expected Mr. Office Stall to do and was surprised when I heard him say “hello.” He followed this with what I would consider a lengthy conversation under any circumstances. This was one of those two-way conversations that to me as an outsider sounded casual and something that could have easily been postponed. A chat, really and again, as an outsider, there was nothing comfortable about it.

When the call finally did come to an end I was surprised to hear Mr. O. S. say, “Hey could I call you back? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

I wondered what had prevented him from starting things off that way.

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Stomach Woes

Several years ago, which the way I keep track of time is probably more like 10 or 12 years, one of my cousins got married. When the reception was announced my brothers, brothers-in-law, compared notes and made plans to attend. I think it was Wade who pointed out, “That place has the best food. It’ll be one not to miss. They have this beef and it is. . .” None of us needed to hear anymore; we were all in.

When the day arrived and we were all sitting around a table with plates piled high before us, a sort of unofficial contest broke out. Maybe my brother-in-law Mark or possibly my brother Trevor asked, “How many of those beef strips do you have on your plate?” He wasn’t asking anyone in particular, rather lobbing the idea out to the collective group. You know, just making sure the bar was clearly set for the evening. The menu included a salad I’m sure along with a nice selection of side dishes but once he’d pointed this out the focus shifted to these one-inch strips of bar-b-qued beef. Each strip was about half an inch thick and eight or so inches long. Game on.

I remember Graham, my youngest brother, being too young to compete in any serious fashion. He was maybe 14 or 15 and fit into the junior lightweight category just behind me. Neither of us made it past the single digit zone. Trevor gave things a good run, landing just north of the teens, but the real heavyweights were our two brothers-in-law Mark and Wade each finishing the evening well into the high teens. Each also complained for several days of “stomach issues” and my sister Jennifer added, “Mark smelled like that stinking beef for nearly a week.”

Last week Graham called me complaining about stomach trouble then relayed the following story. “So we were out with the in-laws and all the cousins and we went to McDonalds for dinner. My father-in-law, Don, and me and my brothers-in-law all ordered the 50 piece Chicken McNuggets meals for everyone to just share.” And here’s where I stopped him.

“Wait a minute, 50 pieces? I had no idea they made those.”

“Oh yeah, they’re awesome. They come with 50 McNuggets and a couple of orders of large frys and a few drinks,” he said.

“And everyone ate McNuggets?” I asked. “Even Devri?” I added, who is Graham’s wife.

“She ate a couple. I think,” he continued. “But that’s not the point. Dude, I ate 32.”

“What?”

“Yeah, 32. That was a day and a half ago though and my stomach isn’t, well, things aren’t really working if you know what I mean. And my stomach is killing me. Does that seem weird?”

It seems the junior lightweight has moved up to the full professional heavyweight class. And, no Graham, that doesn’t seem weird. Weird would be if you didn’t skip a beat after consuming what any normal human being would consider to be a disgustingly impossible amount of McNuggets.

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Bleeding Out

A couple of days ago Linda cut her thumb while washing a kitchen knife. Having lived through more than my fair share of injuries; my tendency leans to the un-amazed and under whelmed when it comes to this sort of thing, which I pointed out. “Oh, yeah, that looks like it hurts. It doesn’t look that bad, though.” And then I foolishly added, “I’ve seen much worse.” It’s true I have seen worse but saying it might not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Linda has an incredible memory and a knack for tactical recall of said memories. I worry this will go down in the banks alongside the time I suggested, “If you don’t puke, or at least feel like you’re gonna puke, I’m sure you didn’t break your wrist.” This after a biking accident in which she did, in fact, break her wrist.

Half a second later Linda passed out.

Yesterday she asked me to swing by Target on my way home from work and pick up some band-aids. Wanting to make up for past mistakes I happily agreed. She’s been using the kind typically referred to as a “butterfly bandage” and is often used in place of stitches. They’re more secure and saved us a trip to the doctor for real stitches, which in my opinion is always better.

After spending a good ten minutes in the bandages aisle and coming up empty I went for help. The girl I found was young and bubbling with enthusiasm. She had dark hair pulled back into a pair of pigtails and wore a red calf length jacket reserved for employees assigned to the pharmacy department. I explained my interest in butterfly bandages and she led me to the same bandage aisle I’d already visited. “I know exactly what you’re looking for and we have them,” she said. “You’re talking about those kind people put on elbows and knuckles, right?”

Following a detailed description using words like “small” and “not for elbows and knuckles” I could see my happy little helper was still not getting it so I added, “The bandages I’m looking for are typically used in place of stitches,” and yet, still nothing. She suggested I try a nearby pharmacy and began giving me directions at which point I interrupted.

“How far away did you say this place is? Because I have someone at home who is bleeding out. I’m not sure I have 5 minutes.”

“Uh, well I think there’s a Rite-Aid a little closer but I’m not sure.”

Just for theatrics I turned and sprinted toward the door.

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The end of an era

65 days 4 hours 37 minutes. . . Mexican Standoff over!

I threw in the towel because I'm just that kind of guy.

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