Archive for May, 2009
I Can Hardly See the Forest OR the Trees
Every year at about this time I take a moment to appreciate that my home is nestled in a lush grove of hundreds, maybe thousands, of maple trees.
Of course, that statement would be a lot more impressive if the trees didn’t look like this:
And here’s one raging out of control in its natural habitat:
So after I mow my urban yard next time, my maple forest will be reduced to the two full-grown trees that produce thousands of little helicopter seeds every year (maybe a dozen of which are actually sprouting right now in a damp gutter).
Let’s just say if one of these little guys fell in the woods, they wouldn’t make a sound no matter how many people were there to hear it.
Wafer Thin Interest in Mints
I wear as badges of pride most of the ways I am deviant from general society. It probably all goes back to Sesame Street:
One of these things is not like the other
One of these things just doesn’t belong
One of these guys is doing his own thing
And now it’s time for the end of our song
Or something to that effect. The point is that I have a high level of awareness of ways that I am different. (Although I suppose if I am mistaken about my level of self-awareness, by definition I would be incapable of realizing it).
I bring this up because I have learned that lo and behold, I am in the minority on yet a new issue. One on which I previously believed without doubt that I sided with the majority.
I speak of my disdain for mint chocolate.
I know there are many sincere mint chocolate fans out there, including my wife. But I always regarded them as a small, endearing subset of our society like left-handers or Libertarians. I harbor nothing but fondness for you minty types out there.
I just don’t like mint messing up a good piece of chocolate. Those are two worlds that, while perfectly fine on their own merits, should just not collide. Think about those old Reese’s commercials where two nincompoops walk around with chocolate and peanut butter until they strategically run into each other so that the chocolate goes cleanly into the peanut butter jar instead of, say, one of their corneas.
Nincompoop 1: Hey! You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!
Nincompoop 2: What kind of moron walks around in public with an open peanut butter jar?
Now imagine that same commercial but replace the peanut butter jar with a tube of Crest toothpaste.
Nincompoop 1: Hey! You just squirted toothpaste all over my Hershey’s Kiss! And, boy howdy, does it ever taste good!
Nincompoop 2: (Backs away slowly)
It just doesn’t work, does it? Then why, I ask, would you deliberately mix that same taste of toothpaste in with chocolate? I go so far as separating the non-mint Christmas candy so it doesn’t get ruined by marinating in the invisible fog emitted by the mint candy.
Anyway, to each his own. No harm, no foul. You in the mint minority can just knock yourselves out.
And then I heard a statistic I simply did not believe. I even went online and looked it up myself. According to the official website of the Girl Scouts, here is a breakdown of their top-selling cookies by percentage:
25% Thin Mints
19% Samoas®/Caramel deLites®
13% Peanut Butter Patties®/Tagalongs®
11% Peanut Butter Sandwich/Do-si-dos®
9% Shortbread/Trefoils
I was gobsmacked, assuming of course that I am thinking of the right definition of gobsmacked.
The engineer in me made a last-gasp effort to make sense of this. I seized upon the fact that there were in fact TWO entries for peanut butter related cookies. Aha! Thin Mints only won because peanut butter is so popular that it is the main ingredient in TWO cookies, thus splitting the peanut butter vote. Then the engineer in me added up the peanut butter entries and realized that they still lost to Thin Mints by a score of 25% to 24%. A close second for all-types peanut butter, but my worldview held that Thin Mints ranked somewhere behind even the simple but delightful Shortbread.
And also I thought “Trefoils” were some kind of Christmas decoration.
So I am resigned to admitting that perhaps you fans of mint chocolate outnumber the rest of us. Then again, the Girl Scout statistics only add up to 77%, meaning there are a whopping 23% of total cookie sales unaccounted for. If peanut-butter related flavors outsell mint-related flavors by a significant amount among all the cookies comprising the mystery 23%, then my worldview may yet still be sustainable, even if somewhat shaken.
Keep hope alive. And keep your toothpaste off my Hershey’s.
A Bunch of Blobs
I had a high school science teacher who once, in a moment of frustration, famously accused an out-of-control class of running around “like a bunch of blobs.” If Mr. Duncan were to read this post he could accurately claim that I wrote it like a bunch of blobs. If you’re looking for taut, cohesive writing, you probably should go visit some other blog today.
And most of the other days.
Blob One
There is a drink machine in our building where I will occasionally treat myself to a high-quality paper cup of French Vanilla Cappuccino. I’m sure the French are swollen with national pride to know that a guy in Kentucky has such ready access to their Vanilla Cappuccino. I’ve been patronizing this particular machine for years and just today noticed that it features “2” cup sizes. I’d really like to ask the person who designed the machine’s graphics about the quotation marks around the 2. Were they added for effect, and if so, what effect? Or are they trying to hide something? So many questions.
Blob Two
I was reading the headlines on Yahoo News and saw an article titled “How not to be a Bore at Parties.” I’ve already got that licked. I avoid parties.
Blob Three
I was rudely cut off in traffic a couple weeks ago by a guy with one of those Darwin fish the sole purpose of which is to mock the Christian “Ichthus” fish. Thankfully, my faith is strong enough to not be shaken by little metallic legs sticking out the bottom of a peel-and-stick fish. Surely the driver wouldn’t have minded if I had mashed the gas and angrily spun his car into a bridge abutment. Because of all the choices I had at that moment, that would have been my natural selection. “But Officer, I was only augmenting his worldview!”
(And did anybody catch the fish pun I made back there? Sole? Anybody? Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother).
Blob Four
I close today with an embarrassing confession. You know how sometimes parts of your brain will battle one another? One part is totally willing to reach a conclusion and go on its merry way, while some other more grown–up part will pause and advise caution. Last year we got satellite television service (including two DVR’s which I love with such passion that I will reserve comment on them for another time because I think all bloggers are legally required to extol the virtues of their DVR). So I was happily searching the channel listings, excited about what new offerings I might find that I never had with cable. As I’m scrolling along I go past one that is called the “Cocoa Channel.”
So the naïve, happy part of my brain thinks, “Wow! A channel about cocoa!? Must be some spinoff of the Food Network that caters to chocolate enthusiasts. What will they think of next?”
(And did you see that food pun I did right there with the word “cater?” If you people aren’t going to try any harder than this I’m going to go get a pseudonym and blog someplace else).
Let the record show that the duration of such thoughts were no more than a second or two before the wiser part of my brain kicked in and took stock of the situation.
“That’s not a channel. It’s a show. It’s on one of the shopping networks. It doesn’t say ‘Cocoa Channel.’ It says ‘Coco Chanel.’ I think that is some kind of perfume or clothing or something. But it’s certainly not chocolate.”
OK, then.
Hot Dog Challenge 2009
There’s an episode of The Simpsons when Krusty the Clown interacts with a previously unknown child. Krusty warns the child not to get too attached to him, because “I’m not the kind of Dad who, you know, says things, or does stuff, or looks at you.”
This doesn’t apply to me as a dad, but sadly it does apply to me as a person more than it should. I’m just not the kind of guy who says much or does many things. At least not “things” that most people would find entertaining (e.g. going places).
I just think many places are just not worth the trouble of going there. Not an attitude that leads to much adventure, I’ll confess. It’s a personal failing. So it is all the more remarkable that this week I did something that was almost purely social. And I was sort of the ringleader. It all happened so fast.
I am fortunate to work in a building that has a locker room. Several of us take advantage of this by running during our lunch hour. On any given day you’ll see anywhere from three to ten people out for a run. I’ve been part of this informal group for going on ten years. These are my friends. Considering how little “stuff” I do in general, hanging out with these guys and gals (separate locker rooms!) comprises a large percentage of my social time.
Some of these guys used to get together once a year to run downtown, buy a hot dog and an ice cream, eat, and run back to work. Oh, how they love talking about that tradition. A tradition, mind you, that I had seen no part of in the nine plus years of hanging around them. My feeling is that a robust tradition requires activity more than once a decade (excepting I suppose those seventeen-year cicadas).
Maybe a little jealous that I’d never gotten to participate, I fired off an email inviting all the runners I knew at work to join me in a “Hot Dog Challenge” run. I figured a few of us would rekindle the tradition. We’d run two miles downtown, eat two hot dogs and a milkshake, and run back.
Well.
TWENTY-SIX people signed up including some who heard of the event second-hand. Yikes. This was a bona fide event. As Michael Scott suggested on The Office, we should’ve asked YouTube to come down and film it. Makes me wonder how many people we’d get if we doubled the distance and raised the bar to four hot dogs.
Here are most of us before starting our run. Aren’t they a happy bunch?
In twenty-four years of running, here are the first pictures I have ever taken while actually running:
We even encountered unexpected fans along the route. My guess is these ladies either really love or really hate their jobs. I just can’t see a middle ground:
Here’s what we ate. Well, two of these PLUS the milkshake. Avert your eyes ye faint of heart!
Thankfully, everybody made it back safe and sound and nobody needed to flag down this passing vehicle:
or assume this position:
Mother’s Day 2009
For Mother’s Day I could write about what a great mom Laura is to our kids (and she is). I could write about how blessed I am to have the mother-in-law that I have (and I am blessed). Maybe I’ll tell a story about one of them if I’m still doing this in 2010. But this year I’m telling a story about my mom.
I was heading out the door to attend a football game with my dad. Mom stopped us at the door to ask about what I was wearing. She thought I would get too cold dressed like I was.
I was about thirty-two years old at the time.
I recall thinking to myself that maybe mom should accept that I am a fully responsible adult capable of dressing myself. And by thirty-two I had been for many years. Out of respect for her I kept such thoughts to myself and grabbed a heavy coat out of the closet to throw in the car “just in case.” Probably she could tell that I didn’t think I needed the coat. I figured it was best to just take it with me so she wouldn’t worry, but I would just leave it in the car.
Holy frijoles was it cold when Dad and I exited the car in that windswept parking lot.
I wore that coat zipped all the way up to my chin, the entire game, and I still almost froze to death. If I had somehow had access to an unlimited supply of that coat I cannot reliably determine how many coats I would have been wearing by the end of that game. At least one on each leg and maybe three on top.
And to think I almost didn’t even have the one.
So I learned that no matter how old I get, I should always listen to Mom. Love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!
Like a Rolling (Kidney) Stone
Posted by Mark in Current Events, Family, Food, Running on May 8th, 2009
As I write this I am contemplating ways to improve my overall health. I see no irony in the fact that I am contemplating while eating a bag of peanut m&m’s.
The reason that health is on my mind is that this week I passed an important milestone. In the form of a kidney stone. Well, I’m pretty sure I passed a kidney stone. You kidney stone veterans out there are no doubt yelling at your computer screen, “If you passed one you’d surely know about it!”
I’ve come to realize that kidney stone veterans are generally not shy about sharing their experiences. Or in one extreme case the actual stones.
In the interest of personal modesty and general decorum, let’s not review any details. Suffice to say that I was blessed with an extremely mild (and small) kidney stone, or am setting myself up for bitter disappointment when the stone, having now successfully faked me out, begins to move unexpectedly and renders me a quivering heap.
So today I celebrate. I feel like an oyster that has completed a pearl. Although considering oysters are supposed to produce pearls, maybe I’m celebrating like some other sea creature that has unnaturally delivered a pearl. Maybe I’m celebrating like a clam.
And this is probably as good a time as any to mention that I think “Kidney Stone” sounds like a mysterious, wealthy, British heiress in a soap opera.
So here’s hoping that was the end of that and we will never speak of it again. I should give thanks that besides the pain, I also avoided a second fear with this stone. I recently mentioned the half-marathon that I ran in Louisville. I feared that the stone would shake loose somewhere so close to the end that I’d feel compelled to try and finish anyway. I imagined the crowd as I struggled toward the finish line:
“Mommy, why does that man sound like a can of spray paint?”
I Dreamed a Dream
So it’s been a week since I last posted on this blog? Yikes. I like to think that rather than throwing out mediocre fare every day like many bloggers, I focus more on quality. Today’s entry notwithstanding.
Over the weekend I had one of the stranger dreams I’ve ever had. It was one of those dreams where even in the dream you’re not sure exactly what is going on. This dream was like a cheesy movie. What was unclear in the dream was whether the dream was simply like a cheesy movie, or whether I was dreaming about being in a cheesy movie. If you think such nuance is irrelevant here, you’re pretty much correct.
I have had at least one other ambiguous dream. I was a teenager and dreamed that I accidentally woke up at 4am and thought it was time to get ready for school. I groggily took a shower and then realized it actually wasn’t morning, so I sheepishly went back to bed. When I awoke at the proper time I was confused. Because that dream ended with me going back to bed, I wasn’t sure if it was really a dream. Maybe I really did take a shower in the middle of the night. For several years I thought it would remain a mystery forever. Finally I realized that if I had really done something that dumb I would have no doubt about it being real. Teenagers are just gullible.
(Side note. I recently heard about a few kids strategizing their tattoos for when they turn eighteen in a few weeks. Let me stop and thank God this very moment that I did not permanently brand my body with anything that I thought was cool when I was eighteen. I might have a tattoo of ZZ Top’s logo or, heaven forbid, Alf).
So in this cheesy movie I was among a group of friends in their freshmen year of college. I was the mature, quiet guy in the group. There was the gregarious, fast-talking, talented-but-always-on-the-edge-of-throwing-it-away guy. There was the talented singer with a self-confidence problem guy. Then there was a girl who was some kind of musician who was supposedly unattractive, but the movie people had obviously gone out of their way to try and hide that she was beautiful by dressing her up in frumpy, out-of-style clothes.
(Side note. Clearly I would be one of the last people to accurately identify a woman’s clothing as either in or out of style. The dream’s narrative simply told me that this was so. Trust me).
The only real scene I remember in the dream involved preparations for some kind of talent show or concert. The “evil” promoter was trying to exclude whatever band some of these kids (not me) were in. I went to bat for them and in an emotional moment, challenged the promoter to turn the event into a competition wherein “our” band would have to get voted on by the audience in order to keep playing.
The promoter, confident that he would show us who was boss, took the challenge. It was a momentous, tension-filled scene.
And then my subconscious threw a flag on the play.
I don’t remember the speech verbatim, but my character basically stood up and said, “This is stupid! What are we doing here? Isn’t it obvious what’s about to happen? This lame band is going to show up and wow everybody and win the contest. The promoter is going to get his comeuppance. That girl over there is only dressed up to look unattractive and at some point soon is going to show up and be all pretty and we’re supposed to “ooh” and “ah” at her transformation because the only limitations that stopped her from being pretty were the ones she placed on herself. I’m going to end up managing the college radio station until I graduate and the fast-talking guy is going to be the host of a popular radio show. Seriously, is this the best dream we can come up with here?”
And then I woke up in bitterness and disappointment. Not about having such a dumb dream. I was disappointed that in my own wildest dreams, couldn’t I at least be the lead singer? Just one time?
