ashmarlin

Slow on the Uptake.

2010-06-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

For those a little slow on the link update thing. . . we've moved.

Ashmarlin has moved

2010-06-01T08:55:00.000-07:00

Click here to see the new digs.

The 100

2010-05-27T09:50:00.001-07:00

This is it. The big one. OK, so it's not really that big of a deal but this does mark my 100th posting. And that feels pretty good. Next week I actually do have something at least a little bit big - I'll be launching a new blog. Stay tuned.

Just a Tiny Patch

2010-05-26T13:57:00.001-07:00

The other day while looking in the rear-view mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs. We’ve had nearly constant rain for the past month but on that day, the stars seemed to align and the sun shone through the clouds in the same split second I checked the mirror. It’s reflection revealing a peppering of grey across my scalp.

Later I mentioned it to Linda and all she said was, “You don’t really have that much. Just that one tiny patch above your left ear and a few random ones everywhere else.”

Today I’m adding to the patch of grey.

Just a Thousand?

2010-05-25T14:24:00.001-07:00

While eating lunch today I noticed the man sitting in the booth across from me. This was in a local hamburger establishment called ‘Burgerville’ whose menu boasts of ingredients produced locally and includes items only available in season. These items tend to rotate on and off the menu about every month or so and are advertised with huge posters that hang in nearly every window. Currently on display is the ‘Grilled Coho Salmon Sandwich’, which includes a description beneath it using words like ‘frisée’ and ‘lemon aioli.’ It’s a description that seems out of place next to red plastic booths and the smell of french fries. I’ve been to several different locations and each has the same veneer of sticky grease coating the tables. Burgerville likes to add to this ambiance by bringing one’s food out to them rather than offering it at the counter. It’s a nice touch that isn’t fooling anyone.

So while I waited for my food I couldn’t help but notice the man across from me. He was mostly bald with what remained cropped short. The blue t-shirt he wore looked like it was pulled that morning from the dirty clothes hamper and advertised what I assumed was his employers construction firm. In his ear he wore a bluetooth headset flashing at the ready and he was slouched so low in the booth his knees touched the bench across from him. When a woman delivered his food I think he slouched an extra half an inch and asked, “Hey you got any thousand?”

Really? So we’re shortening “thousand island dressing now?”

Flip, Flop, Flip, Flop

2010-05-24T11:29:00.000-07:00

We’ve all been frustrated while trying to straighten the bend in a wire coat hangar. I’m not talking about straightening one out to roast marshmallows over a campfire on or to construct a scratching tool for use beneath a cast. I’m referring to the rehabilitation process of making a bent hangar work again as a coat hangar.

The tendency is to take a corner in each hand and attempt to bend the wire back to its original shape. My personal preference is to employ my thigh, while bending the hangar across it. I’ve seen people use the arm of a couch or the edge of a countertop as well. The result is the same, however, with the bend doing nothing more than flipping from one side to the other rather than actually straightening.

I don’t make it a habit of sharing much detail about my coworkers but from time to time I notice something that can’t go without mention. The other day, while speaking with our admin about some travel arrangements, I noticed she picked up a bent coat hangar. Her name is Mychl, which is pronounced the same as the more common spelling - ‘Michelle’, though there’s nothing common about her. Armed with the energy for two and the common sense of three, she’s the office equivalent of a Tasmanian Devil. At least that’s what I imagine pretty much every time I see this woman; mid-fifties, dark curly hair that’s slightly wile, spinning, bouncing, and maybe even foaming at the mouth a bit as she’s constantly solving 17 problems simultaneously.

So Mychl picks up this hangar and begins attempting to straighten it while answering a question about my travel itinerary. She begins by working the hangar across the edge of her desk but it simply flips then flops back and forth with no real result. Frustrated and needing to burn off a bit more energy while stuck solving my simple problem, she places the unresponsive hangar across her chest. I’m guessing in her mind she’s thinking, “I bet I can get more leverage on this little sucker if I can just pin it here between the top of my ribcage and my left boob.” The problem is the hangar is doing it’s best to remain bent. Flip, flop, flip, flop - above the boob, below the boob, above, below.

“Hey Mychl, could I borrow that a minute so I can gouge my eyes out?”

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Outerwear

2010-05-21T13:49:00.001-07:00

No post today. Out on the golf course testing an update to some of the outerwear I'm working on. See you Monday.

Legal Eagle

2010-05-20T11:11:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago an attorney friend of mine asked me for a favor. Between family lawyers and the friend ones, I probably know a couple dozen attorneys and like keeping them on the speed dial. Just last month, for example, when forced to deal with a frustrating insurance issue regarding the family car, I consulted with an attorney brother, an attorney brother-in-law, and two attorney friends. There’s something about a little legal jargon that makes me feel invincible in the midst of conflict. I like to pepper the conversation with big lawyerly terms gathered from my lawyer crowd, hoping to scare my opponent into capitulation. Things get heated, though, and I’m not always sure when to use the right term. When this doesn’t work I blame it on my adversary’s inability to detect nuance and the fact they weren’t born with a brain. Next I resort to less subtle jousts like, “Well, when I spoke with my attorney about this, they recommended such and such.” This tactic generally proves even less fruitful.

So the other day when my friend asked for a favor I quickly said yes. It seems he’d had some legal problems of his own and when the legal jargon tactic followed by statements like, “You realize I am an attorney,” didn’t work he turned to me. And why not? I’m no attorney but then he was way past the legal route and came looking for some more specialized work.

It turns out my friend was heading to small claims court and needed a person not directly involved in the case to serve papers to the defendant.

“Perfect,” I said then added, “You realize I have a bit of experience with this sort of thing, don’t you?” And while I’ve technically served papers before I did spend a year as a private investigator looking into insurance fraud cases. But like I told him - that’s a totally different story for another time.

I caught a lot of people though. Unfortunately yesterday turned out a bust as the defendant didn’t live at the expected address. I’m on the case though and will now turn to my killer private eye skills to track them down.

Jim Gaffigan, Cake, and What?

2010-05-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite comedians is Jim Gaffigan though admittedly I’d be hard pressed to name more than five and that includes Gallagher whom I believe is dead and the only thing I know about him is that he made his fortune smashing fruit before huge crowds. This seems completely stupid to me and I’ve always assumed those attending Gallagher’s shows must have been either completely drunk or totally wasted to see the humor in having chunks of watermelon and cantaloupe splattered in their faces. Gaffigan, though, is hilarious and I’d highly recommend seeing him if given the chance.

A couple of years ago we got turned onto Jim Gaffigan one night while flipping through the channels and then saw him live when he came to town. It was Linda, actually, who stumbled upon his stand-up show one evening when I was out with a friend and since then we’re slightly obsessed.

He’s most famous for his bit about ‘Hot Pocket’s’ but for me, whether it’s deodorant, bacon, or white trash; everything he does is hilarious. He also does this one about cake and office birthday parties, which is based on the premise that we all behave like we’ve never seen a cake before the second it shows up at the office. “What’s this?” he’ll say. “Cake? Well, I guess I could try it.” I’m sure if you spent a second on youtube you could find a clip.

This is what I think of every time a cake shows up around here at work. Take last week, for example, this woman I work shows up on her birthday with a large cardboard cake box. It had one of those shiny foil stickers in the corner displaying the name of the bakery on it so I know it’s going to be a good cake too. Not one of those cheap theme cakes with waxy frosting that comes from the grocery store. I asked her why she was bringing a cake on her birthday and she explained, “That’s how we do it now. Everyone brings their own cake for their birthday. It just makes it easier.”

I didn’t see how this was easier or how it made sense but she insisted, then added, “and anyway, this isn’t a cake. I brought a fruit tart instead.”

A fruit tart? Really?

A few minutes later she broadcasted an email to the entire department announcing birthday treats. About a half second later the first guy showed up a bit out of breath from running. He’s about 4’ 10” and works on footwear engineering and grumbled, “Oh, I thought there’d be cake.”

You, me, and Jim Gaffigan too my friend.

The Name of The Wind - For the Record

2010-05-18T09:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon on my way back to the office following lunch I called my brother Trevor to discuss a book I’d recently finished. ‘The Name of The Wind’ by Patrick Rothfuss falls into the fantasy genre, a category I don’t often read. In fact at the time he suggested I read it, I asked if he read sci-fi exclusively or if he dabbled in other genres. Trevor reads more than anyone I know except maybe for my wife Linda and politely suggested, “Well, ‘The Name of The Wind’ is actually considered fantasy. And yes I read other genres.” He went on to tell me he thought the book was as good if not better than ‘The Lord of The Rings’ series. Then changed his mind adding, “yes I actually think it is better than ‘The Lord of The Rings’.”

The book is a massive 722 pages and took me nearly 2 weeks to finish. For me the first half felt slow and didn’t really get moving till somewhere between page 300 and 350. I mentioned this to Trevor adding that the category was largely new to me and admitted I didn’t think I caught all the nuances. I’d give it 4 - 4 1/2 stars because it really did end strongly, while he gave it a solid 5.

Later in the conversation Trevor mentioned he’d read the days posting on my blog and wondered if I actually saw the people I write about. He added that he loved my post but wondered aloud along with Graham how I could possibly notice the sorts of things I write about. My mother has asked the same thing - several times.

So just to clear things up I’ll share with you what I’ve told them. I’m very observant. I never forget a face. Ever. People I see at the mall on the weekend I can remember from the movie theatre from a month ago. Stuff like that. Because of my profession I’ve honed my wicked observation skills and probably notice more than most. The people I blog about are actual people I’ve met or at least seen.

That said, Linda claims I add so much to a story they become unrecognizable then often adds, “Either that or we really see things differently.” I like to imagine it’s the latter.

Blackberry vs. Q-Tips

2010-05-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago I was sitting around chatting with my family. It was a reunion of sorts, though only about half the family was there. The subject of cell phones came up and we compared notes for a minute or two about who used which phone and why. My sister Stephanie mentioned she was in the market for a new phone and had a few questions. Phones came out of pockets and purses and a sort of informal demonstration began. This went on for five minutes or so before Megan our youngest sister said, “Tell everyone why you need a new phone Stephanie.”

The two are practically neighbors, living a couple of blocks apart and from what I gather spend most days together in some fashion or other. Apparently Megan was “in the vicinity” when the phone was lost. “I dropped it in the toilet,” Stephanie said. “OK? And before that I ran it through the washing machine. But that time it dried out and still worked. Unfortunately the toilet wasn’t as forgiving.”

“Was there anything else in the toilet? Graham asked.”

“No. I was just leaning over it to get a Q-Tip and it fell out of my pocket.” I wasn’t sure I believed her and asked if Megan was in the bathroom with her when it happened.

They insisted in unison they weren’t that close.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Fred Meyer picking up a couple of yogurts for lunch and stopped off in the restroom. Theirs is located at the end of a long winding hallway with doors lining both sides marked ‘Employees Only’ in thick black lettering. As I rounded the last corner I nearly bumped into a tall woman dressed in heels and a light grey business suit and skirt. Her hair was pulled back tight and she wore a look on her face that suggested she wasn’t one to be messed with. I quickly stepped aside and noticed the wad of paper towels she was using to dry off her blackberry cell phone.

It seems Stephanie isn’t the only one “reaching for Q-Tips.”

Perfection

2010-05-11T08:33:00.001-07:00

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘Don’t mess with perfection.’ This is a statement not to be confused with it’s close cousin, ‘If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it,’ which is close, but only at first glance. While the second statement refers to an object that works, or at a minimum, services and requires little to no attention the first statement calls one’s attention to something that merits complete and utter focus simply because it can’t be improved upon. They’re opposites, really.

May 11th each year, for me, is perfection.

Happy Birthday Linda!

Planes, Trains, and wait, what?

2010-05-10T12:36:00.000-07:00

I’ve been away from my writing for nearly two weeks and haven’t so much as touched a pen or the keyboard the entire time. I guess we all need a break sometimes and it’s taken me these near two weeks to regain my interest in writing. Well, that and a laundry list of distractions I have been forced to work through so I can get back to business here on Ashmarlin.

First I had to plan a trip to Taiwan and Hong Kong, which I was not looking forward to. I tend to travel to Asia a couple of times a year for work and this sort of travel really gets old. The good news is the trip was cancelled, the bad is that it was replaced with a trip to Florida.

I’ve been to Florida on several occasions and have always heard the state laid claim to the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the country. If you’ve even been, you understand the reason for this reputation - I really dislike Florida. And, frankly, would prefer Taiwan and Hong Kong even with the accompanying 25 or so hours of flying and the 4 - 5 days of jet lag recovery.

The swap to Florida was bad news but I guess the upside was that I was supposed to be meeting with Tiger Woods to work through some design stuff. He ended up canceling.

During this on again, off again travel planning I got a call from my daughter Leah. She’s nine and was crying so hard I could hardly tell what she was saying. Between sobs I caught, “Car...sob, sob, sob... acci... sob, sob... dent...,” and then she hung up. It turned out to be minor, “just a fender bender,” agreed the body shop. Then suggested the repairs should only take a couple of days.

This was before the insurance company got involved, though, which turned into a nightmare of it’s own. A nightmare that morphed and grew of it’s own accord for over a week and has required dozens of phone calls, voice messages left, and letter writing. The upside to this little adventure is that after nine years our family car has been replaced with a spanking new one with all the whistles and bells.

To kick off this little personal pain session, though, was a relaxing evening with the family. Leah and Margaret had been begging for weeks to play a game as a family. Following dinner one night Linda and I finally agreed to a round of balderdash. This is the one where one player has the actual definition to some unheard of word in the English language and the remaining players make definitions up before everyone guesses which one is right. We played 5 or 6 rounds before, out of the blue, Leah claimed, “The only thing Dad and I have in common is we both like treats.” While it is true, in fact, Leah and I do both like treats; I like to imagine we have a bit more in common than a taste for sweets.

So for the past 10 days or so while stumbling through my many distractions, all I could think of was what else I shared in common with my daughter Leah.

Should things go from bad to worse

2010-04-26T09:23:00.001-07:00

Some members of my extended family have spent years planning for the worst and expecting nothing less that total catastrophe. This weekend while bouncing around the internet I saw this little device and thought I'd offer it up to those family members who are interested.

You'll also note this product is made in the good old U.S. of A. which satisfies another extended family conspiracy theory of doom and destruction.

If you're reading this and asking yourself, "Is he talking about me?" The answer is probably not. You know who you are.

Watch Battery

2010-04-21T09:41:00.001-07:00

A week or so ago I found myself in Fred Meyer, a local chain that combines groceries with apparel, yard items, and home repairs. They’re based here in Portland and seem like what Sears Roebuck might have felt like back in the 50’s. I’d heard from a co-worker that this was the place to go when one needed to replace a watch battery, a chore, which at least in our house, goes months and even years neglected. In the past I’ve always gone to one of those sketchy watch repair places located in malls. These are the kinds that line the walls with glass cases containing watches from brands that seem familiar but oddly out of place at the same time. They tend to charge outrageous prices for battery replacement and more often than not the sales person shifts to a full court press if one casts even the slightest glance toward a new watch.

“Oh, you like this new watch, eh?” asks the Middle Eastern associate. “This is good watch, very reputable brand. This is good buy right now. Is waterproof to 3,000 meters.”

“I had no idea Esprît was still around, let alone made men’s dive watches.”

“Oh, yes. This is big brand in Europe still. They are the best.”

“But 3,000 meters?” I ask. “I thought the max for any brand was more like 500 meters.”

“Europe, my friend. This is European watch. You like, I can take 5% off for you my friend. Today only.”

My past experiences more or less which explains why sometime last week Linda handed me 5 watches when I mentioned my news about Fred Meyer’s battery deals.

When I arrived I was directed to the jewelry counter where I spoke with the watch repairman. He was dressed in an antique cardigan sweater and wore thick magnifying lenses over his regular glasses. He was in his late fifties or early sixties if I were to guess and asked in a thick Asian accent, “What you need today?” I explained I was looking to have a few watch batteries replaced and he wondered how many was a few.

“Oh, all five? Yes? How about $40 total, all five?”

It really doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

Bluetooth Devices

2010-04-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago while picking up a few things at Costco, Linda and I decided to split up. She went one way, I the other, each with a list of items and a plan to meet back toward the front, “Near the checkout line,” she said as she headed into the walk-in cooler for some cucumbers. This was a Saturday and the place was so crammed with shoppers we figured by separating we’d more easily slip in and out of the crowd.

Personally I love Costco but hate a crowd. On Saturdays, when it’s crowded, I’m left angrily navigating around the sample lines mumbling about the foolishness of waiting 20 minutes for a teaspoon sized bite of frozen enchilada but with a grin on my face. “Success is mine,” I thought as I made it around the Aidells sausage sample buffet only to be almost knocked down by a giant blur of blue. In front of me stood a large black woman with an imposing presence and a baby tucked under one arm. She was dressed in an ocean blue frock that wrapped her girth from neck to toe and sported a matching headband. This wasn’t one of those skinny little rubberized headbands my daughters wear, rather it was a wide one and was fashioned from a strip of fabric matching her dress. It wrapped up from her forehead and disappeared into a pile of dreadlocks creating a sort of hair dam.

She was talking loudly when I noticed her, which I first mistook as directed at me. An apology perhaps, or even an angry word or two and it took me a minute to realize she’d hardly noticed me. She was having a conversation all right, but as I listened it became clear her words were not meant for me or the baby beneath her arm. It was at this point I noticed this woman had a cell phone tucked up into her headband, cocked just right so as to enable her to talk and listen at the same time.

In January Oregon passed a law prohibiting cell phone use without a hands free device while driving. I’ve heard bluetooth sales have jumped dramatically here and imagined the conversation my woman in blue might have had upon hearing about the new law. “Nobody’s gonna tell me I need an $80 bluetooth thingie. I got a whole drawer of headbands for that.”

Out of Touch

2010-04-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I've been away. I'm completely swamped trying to make Tiger Woods look good for the Fall season of 2011. I'll be back next week with some good stuff.

I had no idea, really.

2010-04-07T11:18:00.001-07:00

It is my habit to tidy a room by moving it’s out of place contents to new, neatly stacked residences strategically placed about the room’s perimeter. A re-shuffling, really, and it’s a skill that takes a certain talent to pull off. To my trained eye, a pair of pajamas, three socks and a sweatshirt I haven’t worn in a week just look better in an organized pile next to the nightstand. “There’s just this little gap between the closet door and my nightstand just begging for some company,” I think to myself. Gently rest these items alongside a half filled glass of water and to me, the collection simply disappears.

If one were to ask me to assign myself to a category - clean or messy, I’d go with the clean one without hesitation. “Look around,” I might add. “I just cleaned this room and it’s spotless.”

My wife Linda, though, would beg to differ. Two weeks ago we returned from spring break where I thought I’d have the chance to get a morning of snowboarding in. I prepared for the trip with goggles, gloves, snow pants and a choice of jackets but when it came to packing it seemed we’d run out of duffle bags so I stuffed my gear in a white plastic Hefty bag. When we returned from vacation I emptied the contents of my suitcase but left the plastic garbage bag in the hallway outside our room. Holes had begun to tear spilling its contents on the floor but I honestly hadn’t noticed. Two weeks ago when I propped the bag in the corner I was careful to nestle it next to a closet door where it sagged, blending perfectly with the door’s casing.

This morning Linda said to me, “When are you going to clean up that bag of ski clothes?” And I looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. “The white garbage bag,” she said. “The one that’s been sitting right outside our bedroom door for the past two weeks?”

I hadn’t noticed. Really.

Am I really that bad?

2010-04-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

My oldest daughter Gretchen is becoming increasingly independent and homework is no exception. From time to time she might ask Linda or I to do a once over on a project she’s completed but we both know it’s just a formality. She really doesn’t need our help. Yesterday, though, she did ask for help with a particular word. Surprised she didn’t know the answer I listened to the conversation. “Mom, what’s the definition for Folktale?”

“It’s a story that’s been passed down through a family for many, many years,” Linda responded. And then she added, “Or basically anything Dad puts on his blog.”

Once Perfect

2010-04-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

I thought about posting a really great April Fools post. I really did and it would have been great. But I’m tired after spending half the night on the couch. The seasons are changing here and with that come frequent pressure changes - High shifting to low and vice versa. It’s a combination that makes my bones ache, keeping me up nights and hobbling during the day.

Since today is April 1st I thought I’d simply ask for a moment of silence in memory of my once perfect Achilles tendon. Today marks my four-year anniversary since rupturing my right Achilles that, trust me, was no Aprils Fools joke for Linda or me.

It wasn't Meant to Be

2010-03-31T06:37:00.001-07:00

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.

Travolta at the Table

2010-03-30T09:29:00.001-07:00

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.

Timing is Everything

2010-03-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Stomach Woes

2010-03-15T09:12:00.001-07:00

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.

Bleeding Out

2010-03-04T09:26:00.001-08:00

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.

The end of an era

2010-03-02T08:52:00.000-08:00

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

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

Dave Matthews Band

2010-02-26T10:48:00.001-08:00

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!

Lunch at the Sweat Lodge

2010-02-25T06:34:00.001-08:00

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.”

Mexican Standoff

2010-02-23T07:06:00.001-08:00

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.

Frosty the Sled Driver?

2010-02-19T09:03:00.001-08:00

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.

Spelling Bee

2010-02-18T06:56:00.000-08:00

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.”

Snow in Dallas?

2010-02-16T09:35:00.001-08:00

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.

Blowing Minds On The Links

2010-02-11T07:13:00.001-08:00

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.

Protect the Target

2010-02-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

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?

Who's the pig now?

2010-02-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

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.

J.D. Salinger

2010-01-29T11:17:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Blacklisted

2010-01-28T11:07:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Men, Tools, and Addictions

2010-01-26T15:21:00.000-08:00

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

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

I called Jeff.

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

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

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

He's Baaaack

2010-01-25T09:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

“OK.”

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

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

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

See This? It Hurts.

2010-01-19T09:01:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmm.

Roses Are Red. . .

2010-01-13T09:43:00.001-08:00

“You’re wrong,” one of the older men in my church said to me. And then he added, “You don’t know what you’re talking about either,” just in case he’d left any room for doubt with his first statement. I’d been attending this particular congregation for over 4 years when this occurred, yet this was our first conversation. He’s a tall man in his 80’s and I’ll call him Johnson. I see him from time to time driving around town but on Sundays he wears a brown suit along with coke bottle glasses trapped in oversized squarish frames. His shoes appear large for his frame and are slightly squared off at the ends reminding me of two loaves of bread.

We haven’t spoken since. He kind of scares me.

This past Sunday, though Johnson’s wife arrived late and sat in front of us. I wondered if maybe he was sick until a few minutes later he arrived. Even before he sat down I could smell him. This was not the smell of strong body odor nor the distinct scent of cologne rather it was the unmistakable smell of rose scented perfume, which is the kind I remember my grandma wearing only not so heavily. My daughter Margaret sitting at the far end of the pew leaned forward asking, “What’s that smell?” I pointed in front of me and she mimed, “Johnson’s wife?” then giggled when I clarified.

I’m not exactly sure what happened Sunday morning but like to think Johnson decided to brighten his grouchy personality with a bit of roses and spice and everything nice.

Nail Biter

2010-01-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

In college and even before that, I bit my nails. I’ve always been a nail biter. I prefer nipping at the corner of the nail then tearing the unwanted portion off rather than chewing them down to the quick. It just seems cleaner.

When I first met Linda and we were becoming friends, she noticed my habit and mentioned, “Um, you bite your nails.” It wasn’t the statement itself that conveyed her feelings but the body language that accompanied the moment, which suggested, “You’re gross.” As I remember it, she followed things up with the word “nasty.”

Because I liked her I stopped. Then, after she fell for me, I picked back up where I’d left off.

The other evening while watching a bit of TV, Linda looked over and said, “You know they make these things called nail clippers.”

Maybe I should consider stopping again, I still like Linda after all.

Triple Threat

2010-01-07T09:39:00.001-08:00

Yesterday Linda asked me to pick up some stamps at Costco. I wasn’t aware the Costco sold stamps but she assured me, “They sell a big package of those new forever stamps. And they’re the ones on strips rather than the roll,” she added.

It’s always odd waiting in the checkout line in Costco when you don’t have anything to put down on the big black conveyor belt. Most tend to have huge cartloads which makes those with one or two items stand out. Take the elderly couple behind me for example. They had a cart brimming with cuts of beef, canned vegetables, and the largest box of Depends I’ve ever seen. Noticing it made me a bit uncomfortable for them, but they seemed fine and focused their energy on pushing me forward so they could begin unloading their cart. Still, I directed my eyes forward out of respect for the elderly.

In front of me was a pudgy woman with a thick black braid that hung halfway down her back. She wore an acid washed denim jacket and a big pink bow tied at the end of the braid. I wondered if so much hair felt heavy, then noticed she had only two items on the belt, which made me completely forget her hair noose. Costco tends to sell things in value packs of two. This woman’s items consisted of a double pack of latex self-exam gloves and a double pack of aspirin. The packaging on the gloves read, “Now with textured finger tips!” Worried my mind would wander to places nobody should go; I looked to the man in front of her.

He was an odd looking Hispanic man with a sour face. Standing not much above four feet he was nearly as big around and teetered on top of spindly legs. His purchase was a single double pack item. I leaned forward just a bit to get a closer look and what I came away with was a real eye opener. A two pack of stool softener! I watched as he paid then went straight to the food counter and asked for a cup of water, which, at least might have explained the sour face.

Tomorrow's Tomorrow and Beyond

2010-01-05T09:16:00.001-08:00

I took a fairly long Christmas vacation this year making my return to work all that more difficult. I’m not generally know for tidy living so when things got hectic around the office leading up to my break my design space went way beyond slightly messy. I spent the morning yesterday cleaning and rearranging then took it a step further and cleaned up Ashmarlin.

You’ll notice I updated the logo and added a few features. First, down on your left I added a follower section. It’s pretty easy to sign up and follow and while I don’t think there is a maximum number of followers you may want to sign up soon. Then, on the right, I added a link button. This is for those really dedicated Ashmarlin readers who want to put a link on their own blog or website. It’s easy, just copy the code below the Ashmarlin button and paste it into an HTML page element on your blog or site.

Now, when it comes to the New Year, 2010, I feel like things are looking up. Like there’s a lot to look forward to. Around home, we’ve been discussing whether we’ll call it two thousand ten or twenty ten. I’m not sure about you but we’re leaning toward two thousand ten. We’ve also heard a couple other options, which we’re for sure not going to use. The other day I got a voice mail asking for some calendar info for twenty thousand and ten (20,010)? And then yesterday, while discussing the topic in class, one of Gretchen’s teachers actually threw out, “I personally like two hundred thousand ten rather than twenty ten.” Really? 200,010? You’re teaching the children of tomorrow and apparently hoping to teach the children of like, tomorrow’s, tomorrow’s, infinity tomorrow.

So while we’re all waiting for the 198,000 some odd years or so, take a minute and sign up to follow Ashmarlin. Then pass it on to a few friends, which is also easy, just click the little envelope at the bottom of any post and send away.

Christmas is over, now what?

2010-01-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

I tend to make huge plans for Christmas break. Small jobs and big projects make my list of hopes for the holidays. And then the vacation arrives and one thing leads to another and I find it over while still holding a long, unfinished list.

Two weeks ago the break started off great until it was interrupted by Gretchen screaming, “Get out of here. I’m working on Christmas presents.” She wasn’t shouting at me, rather one of her sisters, and who could blame her? She comes from an illustrious line of big project planners. We’re starters though, and not necessarily the best finishers. Take me, for example, I have at least 27 projects in various stages of completion as we speak, which is something that tends to drive Linda crazy. This is nothing though; my mother is probably juggling twice that number piled in her bedroom alone.

When I was younger we were encouraged to put our projects to some sort of good then offer them as gifts for Christmas. “Gifts are more meaningful when we make them at home,” my mother would say then disappear behind closed doors for a day or so. As procrastinators, though, it was our habit to wait till the Christmas vacation began before starting, and then worked furiously to finish. Boundaries would be set up and lines drawn then protected with our lives. The secret business of Christmas gift making was all that mattered come December 20th or so.

We tended to aim high figuring that when it came to making things it was better to take on more rather than less. Then, come Christmas morning, we offered these gifts in various stages of completion. “Thanks for this partially finished robe,” one might say as easily as, “I’m not sure what this is but I’m sure I’ll love it when it’s finished.” Back then it was understood that value was placed in the effort and not the completion of a gift. It also went without saying that anything not completed by Christmas ever would be.

I’ve tried not to pass this particular habit on to my family and am happy to say I finished all my Christmas projects this year. I do, however, have a bed I’ve been making for Linda and I that’s 75% finished.

Angels watching over

2009-12-17T07:06:00.001-08:00

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."

Complex what?

2009-12-15T07:05:00.001-08:00

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?

Droid Does

2009-12-10T09:47:00.001-08:00

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

Donald Trump, I Presume?

2009-12-07T13:48:00.000-08:00

“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.

Brotherly Love

2009-12-02T09:03:00.001-08:00

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.

Last Laugh?

2009-11-30T09:37:00.001-08:00

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.

Airsoft

2009-11-20T09:09:00.000-08:00

“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.

NASCAR aint so tough

2009-11-18T09:35:00.001-08:00

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.

But that was years ago

2009-11-16T09:32:00.000-08:00

“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.”

Pearl Jam - Backspacer

2009-11-13T09:08:00.000-08:00

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?

The cost of a life

2009-11-12T09:27:00.000-08:00

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?

Reuse-aphobia

2009-11-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Lunge, hike, lunge, hike.

2009-11-09T09:20:00.000-08:00

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.”

Recycle and reuse, yes but reduce as well?

2009-10-28T06:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Busy, busy, busy.

2009-10-26T09:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Well, it's just a theory

2009-10-14T08:50:00.000-07:00

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?

Back to School

2009-10-13T07:07:00.001-07:00

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.”

Richard Simmons?

2009-10-09T09:52:00.001-07:00

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.

What's Real?

2009-10-07T06:51:00.001-07:00

“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.

Sephora and the Movies

2009-10-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

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

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

2009-10-02T06:34:00.001-07:00

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?

Word Fun

2009-09-28T06:55:00.000-07:00

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?

Toaster Oven Research and Derailment

2009-09-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Share and Share Alike

2009-09-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Mac Tech Support

2009-09-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Patrick Swayze - A Review

2009-09-18T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.)

7-11, Pepto Bismol, and Ugly Americans

2009-09-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

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?

China Can't Come Soon Enough

2009-09-16T09:27:00.000-07:00

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.

A Death in the Family

2009-09-14T08:57:00.001-07:00

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.

Julie & Julia - Review

2009-09-11T08:37:00.000-07:00

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).

Surgical Taco

2009-09-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

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.”

Swan Island Dahlia Battle

2009-09-09T06:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Alden's All Natural

2009-09-04T07:26:00.000-07:00

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?

President Obama, I have a solution

2009-09-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

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.

What's in a name?

2009-09-02T07:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Personal Sculpting Fitness Program®

2009-09-01T07:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Garage Sale Lightweight

2009-08-31T07:30:00.001-07:00

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?”

Yukon Denali Hybrid - Research & Review Friday

2009-08-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve lived in Portland two separate times. The first time, 13 years ago, was for a year and a half and this time around I’ve been her seven years. Linda and I had originally moved from New York City for a new job with Adidas. Like most people living in New York we didn’t own cars so upon arriving in Portland we needed two. Since budgets were tight back then we decided on a new-ish car for Linda and our brand new baby girl Gretchen which meant the options for my commuter car were limited. We drove back and forth across Portland 15 times looking for the perfect deal. At one dealership we ran into a man I’ll call Juan. He was short and wore a deep red satin shirt under a blazer I guessed was cut in the mid 70’s. His black hair was slicked back and upon seeing us he nearly sprinted to our car. “What can kind of car can I put you into today,” he asked?

When car shopping I like to keep things surface believing if I remain aloof I’ll be able to shop in peace. In truth, it never works out this way and Juan was intent on proving me wrong. I mentioned I was looking for something small, “Just a commuter to get back and forth to work. I’m not looking for anything special,” I added. He suggested we take a look at a small import on the far side of the lot. It’s my experience that car salesmen will generally make small talk if there’s any dead air time but not Juan, he smoked. And he moved so fast Linda and I had to jog walk to keep up.

“What d’you think of this one,” he asked when we arrived. It was one of those really, really tiny Honda’s, I think. This one was a pale metallic blue and had a mismatched driver’s side door. He suggested I take a seat and when he opened the door I was welcomed by the unmistakable trace of a heavy smoker. Not a smoker myself this in and of itself was a deal breaker but there were so many more reasons I didn’t like the car. Being the shrewd salesman that he was, Juan picked up on my distaste and asked, “What’s wrong with this car?” And then he kind of leaned in a way that suggested, “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So. We can clean that up no problem. This is a good car, buddy. I’ve got a list of people who want a car like this.”

“Really,” I asked? I pointed out that it had over 200,000 miles on it and he reminded me it was a Honda. “But there’s a cigarette burn hole in the seat.”

And this is where Juan got really pushy wondering what my problem was. There were lots of other cars on the lot but in Juan’s mind this was the jewel of the dealership. There was an uncomfortable pause where Juan took a few long drags on his cigarette then added, “Listen, if you don’t like this car then I don’t think I can show you anything else. This car is perfect for you and if you can’t see that then maybe you should go.”

I agreed and Linda and I began walking back to our car. I thought he might chase us down, try another tactic but he didn’t.

-

I’ve had lots of requests for reviews so let me know early if you have something in mind so I can give it plenty of attention.

Today I’m going to give you the facts on GMC’s Yukon Denali Hybrid. This request came from a mother of 5 who currently drives an Infinity QX56 and is tired of filling the tank. While the Infinity is a well made, reliable car it’s not my favorite for styling and it only gets 12/18 in the two-wheel drive version and 12/17 in the four. It was also requested that I not include mini vans in my research which leads me to the Denali Hybrid.

As a general rule I don’t recommend American made cars because I think they lack heavily in the styling department and don’t seem as reliable. But when it comes to the larger truck class, I think American manufacturers lead the pack. The Denali Hybrid is well styled and well equipped with 12 way heated and cooled front seats, standard Bose® sound system and a multimedia navigation system. The big news though is the hybrid factor which pulls in an impressive 21 city/ 22 hwy mpg. And apparently if you’re so inclined, you can fold both rows of back seats down flat and pack your entire patio in the back. I’d suggest a test drive.

I give the GMC Yukon Denali Hybrid 4 out of 5 stars

Changing

2009-08-27T07:17:00.000-07:00

As a clothing designer I spend about 70% of my time in meetings. Linda often wonders as we catch up at the end of the day, “What can you possibly meet about all day long? And how are you supposed to design if you’re stuck in meetings that much?” I spend half of the remaining 30% of my workday wondering the same thing.

Today I attended a meeting called by a woman I’ve met with several times before, but not recently. Her name is Sue and the last time I saw her she had long brown hair worn down in a sort of uncontrolled mess. It seemed to fit her valley-girl accent and loose fitting, earthy style clothing. I actually found myself looking to see if she wore shoes the first time we were introduced. She did.

Today, though in our meeting I didn’t recognize Sue right away. She still wore her hair down, long and messy. And she still wore the earthy styled look, though this time rather than hanging slack and wrinkled, her clothes were drawn tight against her now bulging frame. It has only been 4 months or so since I last saw this woman and I was caught off guard by such a dramatic change.

My design work is seasonal, requiring me to work feverishly four times a year producing four collections. We’ve recently kicked off a new season meaning I should be taking advantage of every spare minute and working my way through the collection. Seeing Sue in such a state of change threw me off and has me distracted. I’ve been there before, or at least felt that way until I found the ultimate solutions.

I’ve decided beginning Tuesday I’ll post a selection from my journal documenting my discovery of this little weight loss miracle and how it impacted my life.

Remember - tomorrow is Research & Review Friday.

Garage Sale

2009-08-26T06:50:00.000-07:00

We found a plain white paper flyer in our mailbox today reading, “Ready. . .? Set. . .? To join in the fun?” Our neighbor Chris, who lives across the street, has been planning a street wide garage sale for weeks and must have decided these catchy flyers were all that was left to draw us in. He’s 60-ish and tends to blurt out demands in place of conversation. Socially we’re not horribly close but like catch up with one another a few times a week from across the street, which is how the garage sale invitation first arrived. I was emptying the trash when he shouted to me, “Christian, we’re doing a garage sale. It’ll probably be next week so make sure you’re ready.” It was clear he meant the “we” as in you and I.

Chris means well and is a fantastic neighbor but tends to forget simple boundaries, like a shut door. We first learned this a summer or two ago when it seemed he needed to borrow a tool. In his defense, he did give a quick knock before letting himself in while frantically shouting my name, “Christian, Christian, I need to borrow a pipe wrench.” When he didn’t find me in the living room he moved to the dining room followed by the kitchen, which was where Linda met him. Caught him, really. I would have liked to see the look on her face but was in the basement and missed the entire thing.

With the arrival of today’s flyer I’m worried if we don’t participate he’ll come knocking again. And we all know what that means.

Keep Portland Weird

2009-08-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

When driving around Portland it’s common to see a bumper sticker reading ‘Keep Portland Weird’. They’re always printed in the same bold black letters on the same bright yellow background and I usually see a few each week. While Portland does have its fair share of odd people, it’s generally assumed they stick to downtown or congregate on the east side of town. I live in what would be considered the “Westside” and work in Beaverton, which is further west still. If Portland can be considered kitschy and eclectic then Beaverton is just the opposite.

The other day I was in the Costco across the street from my office grabbing lunch when someone caught my eye. This person was driving around in one of those electric convenience trikes that beep when they back up and are generally reserved for the very old or very, very heavy. Neither old nor heavy, what first caught my eye was this person’s hair, which was an unnatural brown and sat motionless atop its owner’s head in big loopy curls. It reminded me of Dustin Hoffman in ‘Tootsie’ which brings me to the owner’s face which had a heavy 5 o’clock shadow set against long angular features. In and of itself no big deal, right? Before me was simply a man who could use a shave while wearing a wig meant for a woman and riding around in the bright red trike meant for the handicapped.

This particular man, though, was wearing a dress printed with brightly colored flowers and he had on long white gloves running up each arm. “Hmm, driving gloves,” I thought to myself. Because he was seated I couldn’t get an accurate gauge on his height but if I had to guess, I’d say he was well over 6 feet. Maybe something like 6 foot 5; his gangly legs stuck out so far from the ill-fitting dress he was forced to rest them awkwardly to one side of the steering column. What I liked best though, was the knee high nylons he wore which barely made it halfway up his calves. Slack and lifeless, they were nude in color and and painted a stark contrast against his paper white skin and the thick dark hair that covered his legs. Here was a guy who liked wearing women’s clothing but wasn’t trying to hide a thing. It seems Portland’s Westside will not be unnoticed when it comes to bringing the weird.

Massage Therapy?

2009-08-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

I threw my back out the other day and could hardly stand up straight. It’s something I do about 2 to 3 times a year then suffer through a week or so long recovery. It’s always the same spot along my spine, always about the same amount of pain, and it nearly always takes the same amount of time to recover. “You should stretch more often mister,” my wife Linda will tell me. And she’s right, I should, but like most men the pain associated with stretching is worse than anything my back can throw at me in the course of a week. “Besides,” I think, “It really doesn’t hurt that much the first day or two. And by the last couple of days, I’m pretty much better. So, really, that only leaves me 3 days of real agony.” And then I hobble off to the couch where I sit propped up by a pillow or two, one leg outstretched and try my best to find a comfortable position where Linda and I might watch a show before bed.

A few years ago we were visiting family in Utah when my back went out. I blamed it on the long drive and might have mentioned my pain a few hundred times. And I might have said it in front of enough people that my mother-in-law decided on an early birthday present. “Christian, I know your birthday isn’t for a few months but I think I’ll give you this years gift a bit early,” she said.

“Oh, I couldn’t accept that,” I complained. “It just wouldn’t seem right.”

She pressed on, though. “I thought I’d treat you to a massage.” Maybe I’d whined a bit too much about but my back, really gone on about it to the point my in-laws didn’t know how else to shut me up, but at the mention of massage my head spun and I forgot about anything else.

“Well,. . . if you insist.”

“I do. Go. Now. I’ll call ahead and have it arranged.”

I’d never had a massage before and wasn’t sure what to expect. After checking in with the receptionist, I was led back to a dimly lit room where it was suggested I remove my clothing, dress in a heavy cotton robe, then wait in a room they referred to as the “meditation” room. This was a room filled with wicker furniture and a single coffee table that had one of those Zen sand gardens. The ones filled with powder white sand and a little rake and a big rock glued down at one end. Apparently raking patterns in a tiny sand pile helps some people relax but this was my first time sitting in a public room dressed in nothing but a robe and I was too worried the flimsy tie might come undone. I think the knot in my neck actually cinched up a bit while I waited. “Should I cross my legs,” I wondered, “or recline a bit and act casual.”

When the masseuse arrived to invite me back to my private massage room I noticed she was petite and had long blond hair. She was dressed in black and wore small black satin slippers that padded as I followed her down the hall. She spoke in whispers and mentioned her name was Brittany, I think. I also noticed she was pregnant. Very pregnant.

The actual massage room was so dimply lit I could hardly see the table where I was asked to lay between two sheets. There was some new age music playing in the background and a scented candle, coconut as I remember. Brittany went right to work and within a few minutes I slipped into a relaxed sleep. Almost. I say almost because just above the background noise of the music and the sound of Brittany’s hands as they worked the knot in my lower back, I heard a small but distinct ‘pfffffttttt’. “Did I just hear what I think I heard,” I wondered. And then, over the smell of coconut came confirmation.

Brittany sensed the proof too and whispered, “Excuse me,” but I just couldn’t get past the moment.

Research & Review - The Pen is mightier when it's MINE

2009-08-21T07:21:00.000-07:00

My wife Linda has got this thing for pens. Well, pen anyway and until recently it had me worked into a jealous fit. She formed this little love affair about a year and a half ago with a pen called the ‘Sarasa’ which is made by a company called ‘Zebra’. She likes hers in the 0.7 size and they come in every color under the sun of which she owns at least two per color. I find them piled 12 deep in our junk drawer, next to the phone, and stuffed chock full into the pencil can sitting by the family computer. Each a little reminder that I myself don’t have my own special pen. Well, didn’t until recently when I laid claim to my own personal little gem.

I’ve been secretly on the hunt for months now all the while thinking, “I’m the one who should have my own signature writing tool not her. I mean, I’m the designer, right? I make my living sketching clothing and with what, the scraps I find laying around the office?” I was motivated.

I’m picky though and so my research took some time. A pen is something you have to hold in your hand and feel how it writes, you know, take it for a test drive. I had to put feet on the ground for this research project while all the while keeping it a secret from Linda. She might call during my lunch hour wondering how I was doing, find out what I was up to. “Oh nothing,” I’d say with a sly grin. “Just, you know, grabbing a bite.”

The pen I decided to call my very own is the ‘Itoya Finepoint System’ in a .4 just like in the picture. It writes nice enough but what really spoke to me was the name, “Now this is the pen for me, I mean it’s a ‘System’ for crying out loud. I deserve the complete package and not some simple click pen, don’t I,” I wondered?

My new writing system also has a really cool micro-texture which gives it a great feel in my hand and I’m really into grey right now so that’s a nice bonus. Pick one up for yourself.

I give this pen a 4.5 out of 5

Spend, spend, spend

2009-08-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

If I plan on spending more than a couple bucks on something I tend to do a bit of research. And by a bit I mean a lot. I can squirrel away 73 hours simply in the weed out process while I determine if an object in question even merits serious consideration.

A year or so ago I was toying with the idea of selling my car which in turn meant I’d need a new one; which in turn lead to a little research. One night Linda interrupted my process with a question, “Are you looking up cars on the internet. . . again?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously? Do you realize we’re on vacation?”

I did, which is precisely why I felt entitled to a bit of relaxation - and research. While others may catch a television show or knit a baby cap to relieve stress, I do research. I find it’s a great way to relax and get a bit of work done at the same time. To most this may seem an oxymoron but to me it’s the bees knees. “And while I’ve got the search engine open,” I think, “why not check into a few future purchases as well. I know at some point I’ll be in the market for a new power tool and figure why not do a little checking while it’s convenient. Just scratch the surface you know. After all, I have the time, I’m on vacation.”

My siblings know about my knack for price/product exploration and tend to call me before making purchases of their own. Video cameras, lawn mowers, or kitchen appliances - they call me first. Conversations open with things like, “I’m looking for a new cell phone, what do you recommend?” and “My toaster just broke, do you know anything about a new one?” Recently my sister Stephanie called asking, “I can’t imagine you’ve been looking for a new washer and dryer but would you mind. . .?”

And I cut her off, “Look into some recommendations? I’m on it.” She knows as well as anybody that I deliver results.

On this note I’ve decided to add a weekly feature to my blog. I’m going to post it each Friday and I think I’ll call it ‘Research & Review’. I’ll just post a little piece about something I’m researching so we can all enjoy the benefits of useless knowledge about something you nor I will ever buy.

Crack and Crunch

2009-08-19T07:01:00.000-07:00

My older brother Cameron has been injured. He called to tell me about it on Saturday while driving home, a bit loopy from the meds he was on. It seems he was backpacking with a group of kids from church and decided it was a good idea to jump down a waterfall. When his foot found the jagged rocks below he heard the crack. “Christian, it hurt so bad. I actually heard my foot snap,” he said. “In fact, I think it cracked and crunched - and I heard both.”

It was at this point in his story that I thought to myself, “Ha, it serves you right for being out of shape.” I quickly followed this thought up with another, “How does one get in shape for jumping down a waterfall and into perilously jagged rocks below?” And besides, I can’t really talk as the title holder in the ‘Broken Parts Olympics' competing in a family of 7 children. Wrists, feet, ribs and face - I’ve broken more things than anyone I know. Sure we’ve all heard of the guy who’s broken every bone in his body in a motorcycle accident, but really, has anyone ever met that guy? Seen him with their own two eyes? I sure haven’t.

Cameron had the fortune of having a doctor in his camp and after examining the injury the doctor decided he’d suffered a broken foot. “Possibly in two places,” is what my brother reported in a floating around in the clouds sort of voice which, in turn, lead me wonder about Cameron’s claim of hearing both the “crack and crunch.” As a brother of pain, quite literally, I can relate though. Drugs or no drugs, he was hurting.

“Did you throw up dude,” I asked? “Because that’s the litmus test - you break a bone, nine times out of ten you throw up.” I won’t go into the one time it wasn’t true, which happened to my wife Linda in a bicycle accident. I insisted though, stuck with my theory, you know, and to this day I’m still paying for it. How was I to know flying over the handlebars could snap a wrist? I don’t really have any experience with delicate injuries.

Following a visit to the hospital, a two-man tug-of-war to straighten things out, a cast and x-rays it turns out there was no broken bones. He did suffer multiple torn ligaments and tendons and whatnot, which in my opinion is far worse. Once again, I know, I speak from experience.

A few years ago I tore my achilles tendon, which is the worst thing I’ve ever suffered through. I did it on the basketball court and to this day like to include when I recount the incident, “I heard it tear, in fact, everyone on the court heard it. And most of the guys were on the far end of the court.”

True story.

I don’t envy my brother Cameron; he’s got a lot of hard work ahead of himself. I’ve never met a harder worker in my life though, and that’s a fact. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.

- Good Luck Cameron.

Da Bomb?

2009-08-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago while traveling for work I had dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Tacos Rancheros or something and it came highly recommended by our hotel concierge. Patti, the woman I was traveling with backed this recommendation up with an online review. She carries an iphone and read about it on the way over. I’ve noticed people who carry the iphone tend to whip them out a couple thousand times a day while exclaiming things like, “I just don’t know how I lived without this,” or “You should get one of these, they make my life so easy.”

I never know how to respond when it comes to the iphone. I’ve owned Apple computers most of my life and I love them and I’m fiercely loyal to them. When it comes to the iphone, though, I haven’t been converted. I like the idea of it but hear mixed reviews. “The gadgets part is great, the phone part sucks,” or “This would be perfect except AT&T’s service is crap.” To me it feels like the dirty bridge between PC people and Apple people and I’m not sure I want any part of it.

Tacos Rancheros turned out to be horrible with the staff being even worse. At least the woman serving us was. There were two other servers and I noticed they spent the evening sprinting from table to table, causing them to sweat profusely but it did allow them to cover all but a single table - ours. I wondered who had it worse as our server stood chatting up the bartender leaving us unattended for long periods of time.

Our waitress was named Rosa, I think, and she seemed burdened by our presence. More interested in maintaining her love life at the bar, she had long black hair and a casual swagger suggesting she had all the time in the world. Prior to taking our order, Rosa asked if we’d like anything to drink. I don’t drink and ordered a Diet Coke but Patti had questions. “What do you recommend,” she asked? “I was thinking about a martini but don’t like anything too sweet. How’s the pepper martini?”

“Oh that one’s da bomb,” said Rosa.

Da bomb? Our server was hispanic with a thick accent and her response caught me off guard. Patti found the martini extremely sweet finishing only half. We paid at the door after growing tired of waiting for Rosa to return from chatting up the bartender. It turned out ‘da bomb’ must have been a reference to what was happening in my stomach on the drive home.

Security Briefs creator missing. . .

2009-08-14T07:20:00.001-07:00

We've all heard that good things come in pairs and I wonder if the flip side is true as well. On the heels of yesterdays security tip I stepped into the elevator at work and was welcomed with the nastiest smell. Not so much like someone had farted but more like it's last occupant had horrific B.O. I was on my way down from the 3rd floor giving my mind just enough time to wander. "What if there's someone waiting at the bottom," I thought?

There was.

I wanted to say, "Hi, it smelled like this when I got on so don't be thinking I'm the culprit." What I got out, though, was only the "Hi" which I followed with a guilty sounding stutter. Rather than quit while I looked only slightly guilty, I continued babbling incoherently, blundering the rest and probably cementing my reputation as the stinky guy who farts when he's alone on the elevator.

Security streak

2009-08-13T06:02:00.000-07:00

The other day my brother Trevor sent me a link to a website that sells a pair of men’s underwear which have been modified into a secret stash container. It seems construction workers the world over have been looking for just the right camouflage to contain their valuables. The ‘Westminster Security Brief’ is the perfect answer. “Hide your money and small items in the specially-designed shorts with the secret pouch. The front pouch looks like it has the standard flap but seals with a sturdy velcro fastener. Realistic "skid mark" will keep others from touching them.”

And why not? It’s such a small creative leap from ‘Family Jewels’ to ‘families jewels’ and the realistic “skid mark” is a touch of genius. I’m just wondering how they researched the difference between authentic and almost - and than my mind wanders to the question of what my brother was looking for when he found them.

Table knives, they can't cut - right?

2009-08-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

As boys my brothers and I would often play a game called splits. We’d play on our front lawn, standing a yard or so apart, feet together we'd take turns throwing a knife into the grass near the other's feet. If the knife stuck and was within a blade length of your opponent’s foot then he’d move his foot to that point and then take his turn. The game would continue until one of us couldn’t spread our legs any further. It was good clean 1970’s fun. The other day I was comparing knife game notes with a friend, Jeff, who played a similar game as a boy. He had a different name for it, something light and girly as I recall, but the game was basically the same.

One afternoon my brother Trevor and I had become bored with “traditional” splits and decided on a variation. You know, add some excitement to a game in which opponents throw knives at one another. Guy stuff. I was 11 and he was 9 and we were playing with table knives so really, what’s the big deal? I mean they can’t even cut anything, right? Our yard was about 40 feet across so naturally we decided on a game of distance rather than accuracy. It was agreed that a single knife stick, regardless of distance, would be an immediate win.

As the older brother, I threw first. Christian - 1, Trevor - 0. Then he took his turn - he was 9. The knife stuck in my skull then did this vibrating thing completely hollywood style. Christian - 1, Trevor - DEAD MEAT!

Oddly, Trevor now sells knives for a living and I have a small blade shaped dent in my head. Check out his website at BladeOps.com

Hump found - anxiously looking for original owner

2009-08-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

“You eat like a bird, Christian.” This was what my grandmother said to me nearly every time I visited her. Her cooking wasn’t so bad but it was her tendency to break out a smorgasbord of leftovers when my brothers and I visited. A dozen or so tinfoil balls pulled from the freezer and defrosted for our dining pleasure. Mystery meals, we called them. I was in college at the time and generally saw my grandmother a few times a month. I lived across the way from my younger brother Trevor and he followed her statement with, “Christian is a camel for food. He’ll go forever without eating then every so often really fill up for another long haul.”

It’s true. Back in college I seemed to make the long haul more often than not. A couple of yogurts for lunch after skipping breakfast and I’d be good for the day. Should something convenient come up for dinner, great. If not, no problem. It was this feast or famine eating habit that contributed to my 3% body fat at the time. I had a roommate working on his masters of exercise physiology and for part of his thesis he needed a guinea pig to succumb to daily measurements for two weeks. I’m quick to bring up my scores, especially with Linda.

Just yesterday, in fact, I worked it into our conversation. It was a high point of my life and I like to remind her of it, “I was in really good shape back then, huh? 3% body fat, Linda, 3%.”

I was changing at the time, providing her with a nice profile angle and she answered, “Yeah, well you’re not 3% anymore!”

I looked down at my protruding belly sadly. The problem is I still eat like a camel, it just seems I’ve finally grown a hump.

I need a diet.

Cruiser Lady

2009-08-04T21:17:00.000-07:00

Some of my favorite encounters happen at 7-11. You’ve met my friend the freezie queen and today I ran across a woman who might be her relation. Sure I’m in San Clemente for a few days which is over 1,000 miles from the freezie queen’s home in Portland but still, I think they may share a parent. The Clemente cruiser, I’ll call her, and she pulled up outside 7-11 just as I was starting my car. Riding a beach cruiser bike, rusted and squeaking she wore her hair in long delicate ringlets held back with a plastic tortiose shell banana clip. Her skin was tan and leathery making a stark contrast between the silk flowery top she wore. “Oh the life down here,” I thought. “Sun, sand, and everyone is riding around on bikes feeling relaxed and mellow. This lady might be homeless but still, her life seemed pretty good.”

As she approached the front of the store she did this fantastic dismount hopping off the the back of the bike just in time for it to come to rest gently against one of those steel parking barriers. And then she threw her hands in the air and whooped like an olympic champion. Her triumph was short lived though, lasting only a few seconds before the bike fell to the ground. Cruiser lady did a 180 going from cheering to swearing in about 1/2 a second. She let out a stream of language reserved for sailors and construction sites then picked her bike up and slammed it against the yellow post over and over. Not so mellow, I guessed.

Vicodin anyone?

2009-08-03T15:44:00.000-07:00

I flew down to Orange County from Portland this morning. It was an early flight and the airport was busier than I had anticipated. Lines were long and the help was slow making for a really sweet atmosphere. I travel to Asia a couple times a year and for big international trips my company springs for business class. The seats are large and comfortable but more importantly to me, there is plenty of space between the seats. I don’t mind the legroom typical to most coach class flights but the lack of elbow room drives me crazy.

I tend to book my travel early so I can arrange for an aisle seat. This at least gives me an open armrest and the freedom to get up whenever I choose. Today I was in seat 8D, an aisle seat on the left side of the plane as you enter. I boarded shortly before the flight took off and the gentleman seated next to me was already asleep. He had a bushy mustache and reminded me of a cop. A fat one. He was spilling generously over my armrest and into my seat and I thought, “Time to wake up, buddy.” His polo shirt had some company logo embroidered on the chest and he had bright yellow earphones stuck in his ears. He also had a sling on his right arm. Since I’ve suffered more than my share of injuries I decided to squeeze into my seat without waking him. You know, not make a fuss because he was taking up a third of my seat. “That’s my style,” I thought congratulating myself, “I hope he’s comfortable.”

About half way through the flight my seat mate woke up, groggy and maybe even a bit grumpy but who could blame him, right? It seems he was spending a hot afternoon on his motorcycle last week when the back tire blew and he was thrown a dozen or so yards before tumbling end over end breaking his collar bone. “I’m amazed that’s all you broke,” I said.

“Yeah, and I picked up a lot of road rash. Could you open my peanuts? My right arm still doesn’t have any strength.” He practically inhaled the nuts and then, before dozing off again said, “I took a couple of vicodin so I’d be comfortable on this flight.” He said it casually, as though throwing back a couple of vicodin was standard pre-flight protocol. A few years ago I tore my achilles tendon and didn’t “take a couple of vicodin.” I’ve broken bones, cracked cartilage, and mangled flesh and didn’t take a couple of vicodin.

Then he began to snore.

And then, apparently he got really, really comfortable. And began to fart. It was at this point I felt I needed a vicodin and wondered if my smelly companion would wake up if I patted him down for a fix.

Freezies

2009-07-31T11:10:00.001-07:00

We’ve been experiencing record heat this past week with a few days at 107º+. I was in 7-11 the other day trying my best to stay hydrated when I was startled by the most curious creature I’ve seen in awhile. She appeared out of nowhere and was no more than 4 foot something and equally wide - the human equivalent to a 4X4 post, I thought. I’m usually pretty observant and wondered how she got in the door and all the way to the back of the store without my noticing. Her hair was unkempt, the surface dyed a golden yellow leaving a dark undercoat that suggested the mess might have been intentional. Her t-shirt hung to mid-thigh drawing my eyes past her miniature face and down to a pair of pasty legs so skinny I worried they’d buckle. I couldn’t tell if she had pants on and was afraid to look too closely. On her feet she wore ratty, flesh toned crocs so dirty I initially mistook them for some kind of human hooves.

We were at the drink station and she caught me staring. “What are you lookin’ at,” she asked?

“Uh, your drink?” I was pleased with my quick thinking.

“Oh these? Yeah these are the best,” she said jabbing her tiny fist at the slurpee machine. “I drink these freezies all summer long and like to have a proper mug to drink ‘em from. My name is Gail and I’m particle sensitive so I always rinse ‘em before the first time I use ‘em. You should get one.”

“Nice to meet you Gail, I’m Christian and I think that’s called dust.”

“Dus. . . What?” She motored on, “I buy 3 or 4 new mugs every summer because I know I’ll be drinking a lot of the freezies and having several back-ups just makes sense.”

Apparently she’d tried every insulated drink holder on the market and insisted 7-11’s version was the best. While her test methods might not have been the most scientific they were extensive. “These babies will survive sub zero temperatures and can sit right on your dashboard all summer long, no problem.” Gail paused and my eyes surveyed her mug which was heavily faded and slightly misshapen. She watched me then gave a half cocked smile and continued, undaunted. “I don’t think they like the dishwasher but I’m not sure on that one - haven’t tried it. I just don’t dare. I freeze ‘em all the time though. Even keep a couple in the freezer for back-ups. Nothing can hurt these babies and you should buy one.” And then she just stared me down expectantly.

I told her I didn’t drink the freezies and things got awkward. Gail stared up at me squinting her beady eyes and I looked down at my feet uncomfortably. When I looked up all I caught was her backside, her tiny arm cradling the oversized mug while muttering, “doesn’t like freezies? They just make sense.”

Cheshire Tech?

2009-07-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people look to me like they’d be more comfortable as the animated version of themselves. Like that guy that played Newman on Seinfeld, Wayne Knight, when I see him I always imagine he’d fit much better in an animated world rather that here in reality with regular humans. Funny oversized body, his stubby fingers knitted together, I picture him as the diabolical idiot sneering while his dastardly plan falls apart around him.

At other times people don’t really look like comic book characters to me but their behavior is just off enough they remind me of some popular animated figure. Nothing dramatic or outlandish just the simple oddities that beg the question, “You’re not from around here are you?”

I’m a huge fan of Costco, the warehouse super store with everything from cheap lunch to 57 choices of flat screen TVs and case sized pickles side by side with freshly roasted chickens. With this kind of selection and rock bottom prices who doesn’t love it? The other day I was in the market for a new wireless router and decided to check for one at Costco. I’m mildly aware of tech stuff and usually know what questions to ask and though I don’t generally associate the Costco shopping experience with expertly informed retail help I was surprised when I ran into Evan.

He didn’t so much as look like the Cheshire Cat with his thin rimmed glasses and oversized hawaiian shirt faded and threadbare, but his behavior immediately made me think of the pink and purple striped feline. Even before I got my first question out he began nodding while slowly closing his eyes as if to suggest, “I’m special, blessed with a gift you know, and am willing to share with the common folk in exchange for their adoration.

I played along.

I asked Evan his opinion on the router in question and spent the next 15 minutes discovering the back alleys of wireless hacking and computer fraud. Apparently if a person is armed with a few over the counter computer “systems” and has a bit of time, the average home network is far from secure. “I’m talking about urban areas, though, and you’re obviously more of a suburban type,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” and then he grinned. I ignored the slight and pressed on.

“So for someone like me, someone who isn’t hacking into the neighbors family computer and doesn’t think his neighborhood is particularly tech savvy, would this be a good router?”

“Well,” he nodded slowly and touched his fingertips together, “If we can establish that your network is going to read like an open book to someone like me - and you’re fine with that, then yes, this is an acceptable router.” Then he added, “There is the ventilation problem though.”

“Uh, ventilation,” I asked?

“Do you see any ventilation? These things get hot and if it were me I’d crack the case and strap a massive heat sink to the back of this puppy. But that’s just me and I like to run my routers hot. And then I fry ‘em,. . . within the warranty period, of course,” and he did his Cheshire Cat grin again. “Those are always fun visits from the tech support staff.” Evan pumped his arms making air quotes, “No, it just started smoking. I don’t have any idea what went wrong. Is this normal?” This seemed to really please him and he chuckled for a minute before coming back to the conversation. “You should be fine though, for what you’re going to do with it.” He was going to add something else but when he closed his eyes and grinned I ran.