Note? What note?

Twenty-six years of marriage bliss.  So much bliss that I've been known to make up rhymes like, "She's so cool she makes me drool" and "I love my life with my wife" ... I could probably keep going, but you get the idea.  This sorta romantic stuff just oozes out of me.  For guys, I think the creative expression of these or similar knee bucking poems, combined with a fairly consistent pattern of lowering the toilet seat when finished, can only help to cultivate a long marriage.  You see, it's building a foundation with a balance of words and action.

Knowing some of this neat-o stuff abut me, I ask then ... why, when I saw my mother-in-law last weekend, did she attempt to undermine the happily-ever-after dream marriage of her daughter?  For twenty-six years, we've received thoughtful wedding anniversary cards, Merry Christmas cards, and a stockpile of birthdays cards.  These greeting card communications from the in-laws led me to believe that ... well, that I was an acceptable enough selection for their beautiful daughter.  And that acceptance was in writing.  It left no doubt that I had my mother-in-law's blessing.

That is, until the dreaded note that was delivered last weekend ...

When my mother-in-law was performing a modern-day makeover of Carrie's old room, a 7th grade handwritten letter from one of Carrie's old boyfriends was found (Rats, and I was certain  that I burned them all).  For some reason, my mother-in-law decided she needed to return this good for only toilet paper document to my wife.  What?  Did this once pimple faced, Junior High punk just get paroled or something and he's recently single?  I mean come on now; of course that loser is still single, but was it really necessary to deliver to Carrie his poorly written, spelling error prone letter where he was attempting to win over her 7th grade affection?  And today, he's no doubt shower-less and living under a bridge somewhere.  He's a LOSER!  LOSER!  LOSER!

All kidding aside, the above is presented as extreme and is certainly not based in reality.  Yes, there was a note from an old flame delivered, but what is also true is that Carrie and I remain secure in our healthy marriage.  We can't help but grow more and more in love with each other every day.  And to set the record straight, I continue to get along just fine with my in-laws.  We had a fun time laughing and joking about this preposterous undermining scenario.  It was all very funny.  But he's still a LOSER!  ha!  Got you ... just kidding again.

Seriously though, you know what else?  if I can find that note (it got misplaced somewhere in our house), I'd be glad to show it to you.  It's really not a big deal ... and it's just silly to pretend that it's anything more than just an old piece of paper with some meaningless words on it.  That's all.  Besides, it didn't even have any rhyming words in it ... weak.

Soon after Carrie's parents left, we relaxed together and enjoyed our first wood burning fire of the season.  I'm not sure why, but seeing that fire transfer all the wood and paper products into an unrecognizable heap of ash ... so effortlessly, brought me inexplicable happiness.

And all is well in the world now.

Note?  What note?  Not sure what you're talking about.

Confessions of an Idiot

Dear Private Journal,

I did a stupid thing last night. You see, I’ve always been aware of my idiot-ness, but I’ve tried to keep it pretty close to the vest ... and I’ve been somewhat successful at it I might add. But last night, I fear that the world may soon know what my older brothers and sister have told me since birth … that I am an idiot (Fact: All youngest birth order children receive this unbiased assessment from their older siblings). I tell you for sure, it’ll start with my neighbors and then my idiot-ness legend is destined to go viral throughout the world. So, the days of my being an anonymous idiot are indeed numbered. It’s over, private journal. It’s over.

Although difficult to write, here’s how the tragic events of yesterday unfolded. I left work early because I wanted to talk with the road construction crew that was swarming our neighborhood. They were sealing the asphalt of our mile long private drive. I parked my car at the top of the hill and walked the long mile down to our house. I could not help but notice that their work was progressing quite well and that it all looked good ... really good. After our brief chat, these professionals counseled me to stay off the asphalt sealant. Excellent advice that I noted and would abide by, but I did have a simple follow up question. I had plans to go out later that night so I asked the pros if I could walk on the freshly laid sealant at that later time. They seemed overly cheerful as they granted me permission for my walk and then proceeded to pat me on the back. Friendly workers, yet in hindsight, I truly believe that this is how the “Kick Me” sign ended up on my back. That sort of stuff happens to me all the time.

My noble plan was to escort my wife down the hill when she got off of work at 10:00 PM. Sounds good, right? I figured we could enjoy a moonlight stroll together. I envisioned that we would descend the mile journey hand in hand, still in love after 26 years of marriage … and, of course, pausing from time to time for a romantic smooch or two. So, at 9:45, I grabbed a flashlight and headed out the door in all my nerdy, yet sexy accountant-ness. My pace was a bit slow as I soon noticed that my flip-flops wanted to remain on the fresh sealant surface instead of following the commands of my feet. It was getting worse. I began to wonder if those construction dudes had set me up. I got off the road where I could, but there were several stretches that would not allow relief. Onward I traveled to rescue my wife. I would not give up. I was comforted knowing that I could easily follow my footprints home should we become disoriented in the harsh 70 degree weather and clear night sky.

The damage of my wake was bad. I left one set of footprints going up the hill, and we had two sets of footprints going down the hill. I am so embarrassed. The only thing I did not do was to lie flat on my back and create a beautiful tar angel … ok, I sorta regret not doing that actually. (Yet I wonder if my neighbors will conspire together in mob like fashion to tar and feather me in tribute to my angelic actions. Let’s see here … tar angel / tar and feather … although similar, both are decidedly different.)

My fate awaits me as I write this private journal. I’m resigned to the fact that the end may be very near. In my recent Craig’s List search, I was unable to locate a viable time machine on such short notice. If I am reported as missing in the coming days, my only hope is that someone, someway and somehow, will discover this private journal and provide it to the local authorities. (Note to local authorities: You still have to find me even though I’m an idiot. It’s your job so stop reading this and find me!) Well, should my remaining time on earth come to an abrupt end and I have that glorious opportunity to meet all those for-real winged Angels in the sky, at least I will have left behind a part of me as a permanent reminder that Kevin Monroe was here.

He left his mark for all to see.  A left and a right mark ... and it’s a manly size 9.

Left, right, left, right, left …

Was a Good Friend of Mine

“Joy to the world” is a song also popularly known by its opening words, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog”.  The song, which has been described by members of Three Dog Night as a “kid’s song” and a “silly song”, topped the main singles charts in North America, was certified gold by the RIAA, and has since been covered by multiple artists.  It was Billboard Hot 100 number-one single for six weeks in 1971.  Wikipedia (must be true)

======================

I don’t use the land line at the house.  Haven’t for years.  The land line seems to exist only to capture those inconsequential solicitation messages from annoying call centers.  I just wish the calls were at least interesting ... sorta like my junk e-mails where I inherit millions of dollars every day from African relatives that I never knew I had.  Those annoying phone messages tend to consume my time as I listen to voices droning on while they read their annoying, well-rehearsed sales scripts in either a depressing, monotone voice or the extereme caffeine voice.  It’s all very annoying … have I said that yet?  Well, not enough times for sure.  I am willing to take the bullet for our family by being the one who does the message listening and erasing … all the while asking myself to recurring question of, “Why do I continue to pay a monthly bill for this joy?”  Clearly, I’m twice tortured.  Next month I’m gonna cancel the land line … no, really, this time I will.  (Next month never seems to come.)

Last week the pattern changed.  A different sounding voice was on the recorder.  Could it be my African relative?  No, it was not.  Although I was disappointed at first, it was much better than inheriting millions and millions of dollars ... I guess.  You see, I was listening to a voice from the past … way, way back, as in 1975.  And in 1975, that voice was from a fellow ten year old buddy of mine.  Of course his voice sounded unfamiliar on the recorder.  I’m just glad that my own voice sounds the same as it did when I was a ten year old.  I know this because when I was around three years old, my adolescent voice changed to the hairy-chested tone that you are all familiar with today.  I’m really not sure what a hairy-chested tone is, but it sure sounds manly.  (Beg your pardon?  Why yes, I have always been this manly … and hairy.)  So, the voice I heard on our recorder was not a polished sales pitch, but more of an impromptu stammering from a stranger inquiring if I was the Kevin Monroe that used to reside in Antioch, California.  I quickly tried to think of all the kids I borrowed lunch money from and failed to repay.  Whoa, that list was way too long.  He then provided the clue I needed … his name and his cell number.  He did not offer a land line.  I was really intrigued now.

I definitely knew his name when he said it and was relieved that I didn’t owe him any money.  The following day we talked on the phone … uh, our cell phones that is.  (As you are well aware, people in their 40’s are always so in tune with the latest technology.)   He said that what prompted him to call me was that he was reminiscing about his youth and recalled a time when we were sitting on the school bus together singing Three Dog Night’s, “Joy to the World.”  To this day, I think anytime I choose to sing in public, it marks a memorable event in people’s lives … not sure why.  That memory set the stage for our private, two-person Mission Elementary School Reunion.  We had a great time reliving memories and catching up on our missing 36 years.  I think Russell from the movie UP summed up our memory lane trip when Russell said, “I know this may seem boring, but I think the boring stuff is what I remember the most.”

Now I find myself trying to figure out if my recent phone call from “the friend from season’s past” was a friendship that was cherished and that the silly singing just happened to be part of it … or, could it be that my rendition of “Joy to the World” was the critical element to retaining our friendship memory all these years?  I’m not sure, so in an abundance of caution, and not wanting to risk any friendship memory lapse, I hereby pledge to relentlessly build existing friendships and passionately seek new ones.  Sounds good so far, right?  But also, I promise to tirelessly pursue you in an uncomfortable, boarder-line stalking manner.  When I catch you, I will bellow out the soothing words of “Joy to the World” directly at you.  Our friendship is just too important not to do this.  I hope you understand.  I’m coming after you.

The good news is … I will find you.  After I belt out the first few words of the song, the memory of our friendship will be indelibly lodged in your head in such a way that it will never escape.  Oh, and I plan on adding some breathtaking choreography moves to my performance.  So, I’ll see you soon … and probably sooner than you think.

Wait, wait … scratch that stalking part.  On second thought, let’s just go out for ice cream instead.  It’s probably better for everyone that way.

Say, mind if I borrow some ice cream money.  I promise to pay you back.  I'm expecting some of that African inheritance money any day now.

Call me.

Where Going Green Does Not Belong

WARNING!  The following contains graphic and disturbing mental images.  Reader discretion is advised.

An overweight, middle aged guy with hairy feet has a severe case of unsightly fungus.  The fungus is invading, overwhelming, and conquering his toes and he's wearing green toenail polish for St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m sorry you had to read that last sentence.  Although I didn't see it, I’m sure that’s what it had to look like.  A guy with a hairy foot or athlete's foot?  No problem.  But a dude with green toenail polish?  Now we've got a problem.

It all started when I was at the copy machine at work yesterday … uh, you know, working.  Well, the lid on the copier was open while I was making my copies and I mentioned to a co-worker that I was getting a nice tan.  I only received a courtesy laugh for that comment so I decided to up the ante.  I told her that the reason I have six toes is from leaving the lid open while I make copies.  Now that line got the intended response and an outbreak of laughter ensued.

I only wish the conversation had ended there.  Unfortunately, my co-worker decided to invite me into her personal life.  Scary.  I wondered if perhaps she too had six toes and was offended with my comment.  I think if she did have six toes it would’ve been easier for me to accept then what she was about to tell me.  And I suppose it was my fault for looking like I cared when I really just wanted to finish my copies and get outta there.  I mean, I’m a guy … and guys don’t care.  (Man code #32)

I know I screamed in terror on the inside and may have even let out an audible gasp as she proceeded to rat out her husband and what he did for St. Patrick’s day … he painted his toenails green.  (I actually had trouble typing that last sentence because it’s so disturbing.)  I froze motionless at the copier wanting to miraculously teleport back to the sanctuary of my office.  Sadly, when I opened my eyes, I was still standing at the copy machine and still listening to the now awkward silence.

Look, I’m not judging … wait, who am I kidding?  Yes, I am judging.  No man should ever wear toenail polish.  EVER!  And St. Patrick’s Day is no excuse.  Gentlemen, I will state the obvious, on St. Patrick’s Day you wear a green shirt or man-up to the consequences be they a punch, a pinch, or even water boarding.

Give me unpolished toenails ... or give me death.  (Man code #19)

Shaving Cream Madness

Mind if I lie on the couch here and tell you all about it?  It was humiliating and I am ashamed.  Yesterday morning I ran out of shaving cream.  Carrie kindly offered one of her twenty-three shaving cream containers that she keeps on hand for … well, I actually don’t know why she has that many.  Some people hoard food for the end of the world as we know it, but Carrie, evidently, stocks up on shaving cream.

Her first attempt to help me with my shaving cream crisis was to hand me a pink colored, estrogen reeking, floral printed, girl power contraption.  NO WAY TO THAT!  I coiled back refusing to even touch it.  As one would expect, I think my hairy chest became even hairier with my defiance.  What was unexpected, was my loving wife’s clearly offended reaction to my extremely reasonable, yet firm, dude of all dude’s position on this critical matter.

Carrie was relentless (Kevin’s quick note:  To be clear, it was definitely relentless and not nagging.  Yeah, never nagging.)  So, she returned to her inventory stockpile and, moments later, charged back to the battle armed with a baby blue colored shaving cream container.  Her eyes looked to be welling up as she presented me with her gift.  It was extremely thoughtful and caring.  She did go through a lot of trouble.  And, it was blue.  Baby blue, but still, it had blue and therefore can pass for manly, right?

I accepted her gift yesterday, but it would be this morning before I put it to use.  Did I mention yet that what I am about to share is humiliating and that I am ashamed?  Oh, and by the way, this couch is very comfortable.

I was home alone with the blue container in my right hand as I began to dispense the foaming content into my left hand.  What I saw next was utterly shocking.  Pink!  The foaming content was pink.  Yes, it was pink.  Pink, pink, pink.  And it was touching my hand.  I just stared at it … helplessly.  I was trapped.  What do I do now?  Well, I did the unthinkable.  I cringed and spread that stuff on my face.  I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw a once proud man wearing pink shaving cream staring back at me.  The trauma I experienced was unbearable.  I had to look in the mirror at my miserable self for 83 seconds while I shaved it away.

It is now over, but that disturbing image of me keeps flashing back in my mind.  It won’t go away.

I will never, never-ever, allow that to happen to me again.  Today, I am buying twenty-four shaving cream containers to keep on hand.  I plan on being at CostCo today when it opens.  Oh, and if I see you there, can we talk about the weather?  I hear it’s supposed to rain.

The Home Invasion Threat

I was home alone and eating brownies for breakfast this morning when I heard a knock on the front window.  When I walked to the front of the house to check it out, there was nobody there.  Strange.  I decided to go back to enjoying my breakfast of champions when the knocking sound happened again.  I placed my brownie down on the kitchen counter so I could get my hands in their proper karate chop position … and woe to any intruder who’d dare to intend me harm.  I completed my crime scene investigation and, to my curious amazement, there was still nobody there.  Really spooky stuff ... am I crazy?  (please don’t answer that.)

So, I placed my hands behind my back, began to whistle a carefree tune, and meandered my way back toward the kitchen.  Suddenly, and without warning, I darted back behind the couch and prepared to await the next haunting sound of knocking.  My heart seemed to pound through my chest as the adrenalin pumped throughout my muscle bound body.  (Hey, this is my story here and I’m sticking with that muscle bound description.)

Sadly, it occurred to me that I left my brownies helplessly unattended.  Could someone or something be stealing my brownies by creating a diversion on the other side of the house?  If so, there’s no telling what kind of karate chop rage I could be forced into.  Using a nearby potted plant as camouflage, I peered over the couch with a renewed and determined focus.  My wide eyed staring contest with the front window had begun.  Not knowing what to expect, I patiently waited on high alert.  During that time, I began to wonder how my wife, Carrie, would be able to handle being thrust into a life as a single mother of two young children that were barely in their twenties.  I knew I had to stay alive ... for them of course … and I could probably even benefit from staying alive too.

What seemed like a lifetime was really only about a minute later when I saw an extremely malnourished, bony, and nicely tanned finger tap the window once and then retreat.  Do I scream?  What’s the number for 9-1-1?  Wait … was that a tan finger … in the Northwest?  The mystery was unraveling fast.  I placed the potted plant down and bravely walked toward the front window.  Yep, it was just as I thought all along.  It was only a harmless branch periodically tapping the front window at the mercy of the wind’s demand.  The threat of home invasion was over.  I sent a text to Carrie and let her know that she shouldn’t worry because I’m safe ... you know, in case she was wondering.

I was tempted to give the branch a Karate chop, but I chose instead to return to my brownie feast.  All that excitement made me hungry and, besides, it's cold out there.

When I finish off the brownies though, I plan to make a sign to put in the front window, “Karate chopping accounting geek inside.  Branches beware.”  I seriously doubt I’ll be having anymore branch window taping problems ... that is, as long as branches can read … or have fear … or … shoot, I think I’ll skip the sign and just focus on eating the brownies.  Because who knows, someone could actually try to break in and steal them.

I better eat fast.

Screaming Infant

An infant was not happy.  I knew this because of the screams of displeasure filling the airwaves with each exhale (the baby’s screams and not the mother’s).  Looking around, the other passengers on board our plane could not help but reach my same conclusion.  But if I were to smile and tell the mother that her baby was not happy, I do not think I would be alive to write this today.  And there’s not a jury in the world that would convict her of my accidental death.  At a minimum, I’d have severe facial pain and a rapidly flowing bloody nose.

I focused on the pattern.  It was a scream of displeasure followed by a quick inhale to reload.  Then it happened again.  There was a scream of displeasure followed by a quick inhale to reload.  Can you hear it?  That pattern actually sounded beautiful.  Perhaps crazy, but I seriously enjoyed the beauty of that sound.  In fact, I used to hear the beauty of that very familiar sound quite often … not so long ago.

Eventually, the sound in our plane began to diminish.  The outcries of the child soon ceased.  The infant’s outbursts were gone.  They were replaced by the voices of adults.

At this moment, our house is quiet as I write this.  The sounds in our house have diminished.  The outcries of our children have ceased.  Our infant's outbursts have gone.  They are replaced by the voices of adults.

Our twenty-something year old babies have left our nest.  Over the years, we've changed a lot of diapers, we've bandaged a lot of skinned knees, and we've seen countless episodes of Barney the Dinosaur.  And I sorta miss that stuff.

Without warning, our quiet house is disrupted by my sudden scream of displeasure.  Yeah, I thought so … there's no need for me to reload.  I like hearing the sound of an infant scream much better.

Our house is now quiet again.  So, I think I’ll go slouch on the sofa and watch another episode of Barney the Dinosaur.  (Of course I’ll deny it if you tell anybody).

Laundry and Marriage

Whites, colors, plaids, and whatever else I could grab were getting crammed into our washing machine.  I was diggin’ through that hamper like a dog would drill through the earth in search of his bone.  Statistics have shown that whatever I find on the top layer of the hamper has 100% chance of getting soaked whenever I’m on the laundry crew.

I leaned into the door forcing it closed, added detergent, and set the dials to normal and warm.  That’s it … always normal and warm.  It’s a technique I learned in college and I’ve continued it to this day.  On the other hand, my wife, Carrie, does laundry using a much more thought provoking method.  She selects other choices on the menu such as hot, delicate, smellicate, and whatever-else-icate.

We didn’t always have those fancy cycle options.  Our early marriage washing machine was very basic and it lasted us 20 years.  It sure beat the trips to a coin laundry mat or to a nearby river where I could multi-task ... you know, bathe as well as wash my clothes.  I think our current neighbors are especially appreciative that I don’t bathe and launder our clothes in the river … only because of environmental concerns I’m sure.

So our original washing machine eventually wore out.  As I reflect back on our 25 year marriage, most of the things we’ve purchased have eventually worn out.

Thankfully, our marriage is not wearing out.  It seems our marriage, though old, just keeps getting stronger.  Of course, having a wife that’s hot and delicate never hurts.  Uh, I mean, having a wife that does hot and delicate laundry cycles, never hurts.  Yeah, I’m sure that’s what I meant.

(Insert reflective pause ... Pause continues with smile.)

I need to go ... uh, laundry.  No more questions please.

Have You Lost Weight?

We were in Boise, Idaho for the weekend visiting our kids, their friends, and their friend’s parents as nine of us took up a considerable amount of restaurant real estate.  We got our customary hand shakes, hellos, and the how are you sorta stuff out of the way.  Then we sat down to take care of business … indulging in a deep dish combo, Chicago style pizza.

Our daughter’s college roommate’s dad (did you follow that?) asked me if I lost weight recently.  Wow, even with distracting background noise, I had no trouble deciphering that question.  I paused briefly to seriously reconsider pursuing my dream of entering the Mr. Universe competition … as in tomorrow.  That pause was brief as I recalled my vow to keep my shirt on while in public.  (Here’s a morbid thought: if there’s an open casket viewing for me when I die, I’d better be wearing a shirt.  If not, I’m coming back to haunt somebody … and I’ll be shirtless.  Scary!)

He asked me if I lost weight.  What a great question.  I went through the files in my mind … er, well, I really only have one file that I just throw everything into.  So, I went through the one file in my mind and determined that my morning workout could hold the key to my rapid weight loss.

For no extra charge, the following was my morning work out prior to our flight to Boise, Idaho:

• Receive text message from wife, Carrie, asking for me to pack her running shoes that are on the front porch.
• Walk ALL the way across the house to front door.
• Pull open front door and feel those rowing muscles get to work.
• Walk on front porch bending over a few times to check under benches for missing shoes.
• Walk down front stairs.  Confirm no shoes are down there.  Walk back up stairs.
• Walk ALL the way across the house to back deck.
• Pull open back door for another set of rowing muscle workout.
• Walk on back porch bending over a few times to check under patio furniture for missing shoes.
• Return inside house and walk ALL the way over to stairs that descend into garage.
• Walk down garage stairs.  Open garage door (feel the burn).  Confirm that shoes are not in car or by the door.  Walk back up stairs.
• Do not stop, but continue cardio workout by walking up the stairs to the Master Bedroom.
• In the bedroom closet, under a shirt, find one shoe with the shoelace chewed off.  Ask puppy if she knows why the shoe lace is bitten off and ask her if she knows where the other shoe is.  The puppy will not answer which obviously means that she is covering for the cat’s misdeeds.
• Return down stair case to repeat the above workout steps beginning at the front porch.
• Upon returning to the Master Bedroom, locate the missing shoe by the bed and place both shoes in suitcase.
• Text Carrie with an abundance of self praise and hit the shower.

You’re probably exhausted just from reading that.  I realize that there are several steps in the above work out, but it seems effective and has immediate results.  I’m starting to think infomercial here.

To personalize the fun workout plan above, have either your wife or your puppy hide running shoes in separate locations.  Then, have your wife text you with misleading information … and so begins your workout.

Oh, and I almost forgot … I went to The Cheesecake Factory for dessert after eating pizza.  You’ll probably want to include that in your workout plan.  Be sure to repeat often.

Safety First

The guy lives despite a single nail lodged inside his skull.  Ouch!  Do I have your attention yet?  My original plan was to insert the x-ray photo at this point for visual aid, but seeing it creeped me out.  You’ve heard of those stories where some guy accidently gets shot by a nail gun to the head and lives to tell the story, right?  Well, a similar incident happened to me recently.  Please continue reading if you have the stomach for it.  Otherwise, nobody will blame you if you choose to walk away right now and start thinking about cute puppy dogs.  (Wait … did I just say cute?  Now that really creeps me out.)

Lately, I’ve enjoyed watching older couples and how they interact with each other.  I can remember watching an elderly couple at a nice movie theater in Vancouver.  Sure, it was a $3.00 per ticket theater, but that reasonable price did not influence my decision to have a movie date night there … at all.  (Kevin said with a straight face).  I was already seated with my wife and sharing a bag of popcorn when a well dressed, elderly lady made her way down our row.  Her husband was not far behind.  With walking cane in hand, I saw that guy struggling to keep up, yet he would not give up the chase.

I smiled and thought … hey, that’s what I want.  Even with a walking cane in hand, I plan to never tire of chasing my wife, Carrie, the girl of my dreams.  And the good news for me is that she seems to let me catch her, every time.  I’ve even told her that if she ever leaves me … I’m going with her.  (Whoa!  Stalker alert!)

So the elderly couple passed by us and we continued to sit in that crowded movie theater.  We were shoulder to shoulder, lost in love (see Air Supply from the 80’s), and continued eating our non-buttered popcorn.  Little did we know that a tragic accident was a mere moments away.

Making pleasant conversation, I chose to point out the obvious to Carrie that greasy butter is an essential part of any popcorn enjoyment.  I suppose I should have seen the ice burg dead ahead as Carrie replied with an adamant disagreement.  We exchanged words and then our discourse became escalated.  I’m not exactly sure of what happened next, but I may have accidently dropped a very, very, small piece of non-buttered popcorn that somehow fell in the direction of Carrie.  It barely grazed her; however, I am convinced that her disproportionate response was deliberate and far from accidental.  A flurry of popcorn pieces began to fly, mostly in my helpless direction.  Then, by the grace of God, the lights in the theater dimmed, the movie started, and the popcorn throwing madness stopped.  We reached a cease fire agreement.  We went on to share what was left of the popcorn and enjoyed our $3.00 movie … well, actually, I was out six bucks ‘cause I paid for Carrie’s ticket too.  Just thought I’d get that out there.

About a month later, we discovered that our innocent game of popcorn throwing may have gone horribly, horribly wrong.  I mean, what could possibly explain why I forget to pick up milk on my way home from work?  Or how about when I allow the kitchen trash to overflow without taking it outside?  Or then there’s my inexplicable desire to watch sports on television instead of The Martha Stewart Show?  It must be from a piece of popcorn that somehow managed to pierce through my skull and lodge inside my brain.  It’s the only thing that makes sense.

It may be too late for me, friends, but I believe there is hope for others.  I plan to bring to light the dangers of wives throwing popcorn pieces at their husbands.

It is a fact that most wives have more hair covering their heads then their balding husbands.  That excessive hair offers women more natural protection from flying popcorn.  So, unless the husband is wearing a safety helmet, wives should refrain from returning popcorn fire.  Wives, when a flying piece of popcorn careens off your full bodied hair, simply smile and turn the other cheek.  Lowering to your husband’s immaturity level will only increase the risk of a permanent popcorn head injury to the love of your life.

Here’s another interesting fact.  The average life expectancy of men is less than women.  Now I’m not suggesting that popcorn in the brain of husbands is related to life expectancy, but it does make one pause to ponder.  (Insert overwhelming feelings of guilt in wives here.)

Well, since that fateful night at the movies, I have been resting my chiseled body on the couch in the comfort of my boxers, eating candy, and throwing my empties on the carpet below.  And no, I do not blame Carrie for what happened.  I completely forgave her for throwing popcorn at me.  I mean, really, how could she know?

I did go out and purchase a walking cane in anticipation of my deteriorating health.  I realize that my wish from earlier has arrived sooner than I thought.  Please watch for me.  I’m now the old guy you’ll see walking with my new cane in hand.  And this part is especially true; I will never tire of chasing my wife, Carrie, the girl of my dreams.

A Cause for Celebration

Last weekend, a seemingly endless supply of balloons and paper streamers descended effortlessly from our living room ceiling.  The sound of a high school marching band could be heard in the distance.  Their chorus of drums and horn instruments grew louder and louder as they approached our front porch.  Hoards of people, of all ages, began appearing on our lawn with smiles galore.  (I’ll admit that I was a bit concerned that our moss covered, mole infested carpet of lushness could be adversely affected.)  The ever growing flash mob just kept coming.  The late comers found themselves restrained to the back rows as they gathered on our once tranquil street.  Many held only a flicker of hope that their frequent jumping would provide them a cherished glimpse of the festivities taking place inside the Monroe abode.  Last weekend, there was cause for celebration.

You can all imagine my surprise when it was confirmed and announced that on Saturday night my wife, Carrie, had officially viewed the movie Pride and Prejudice starring … uh … what’s her breath … oh yea … Kierra Knightly an impressive one billion times.  It’s true.  I am embarrassed to admit that I had lost track of her viewing count at around the 856 million mark.  I am so proud of her accomplishment.

If you’ve never seen Pride and Prejudice, here’s what happens at the end of the movie.  Caution.  Spoiler warning.  Please close your eyes as you read this:

1. The sun shines between a shadow outline of their noggins as they stand with their foreheads touching ever-so-gently. 

2. The last scene shows them in love as they overlook their vast domain ala happily-ever-after style.

 It is always fun to watch Carrie feed lines to the characters on the screen lest they forget.  We own two DVD’s of the movie because we feared that one was tragically lost.  To our amazement and relief, we discovered our original copy about a week after our replacement purchase.  Merely a coincidence I’m sure.  Besides, Carrie told me that everybody owns two copies of Pride and Prejudice and that it’s not a big deal.

We also own a copy of the Pride and Prejudice book which I read to Carrie from time to time by the glow of firelight.  Our foreheads have been known to touch and we’ve been living our own happily-ever-after love story for over a quarter century.

It’s rather obvious, but I’m sure you’ve already made note of the similarities when comparing Pride and Prejudice to the legendary, awe-inspiring antics of everyone’s favorite, The Three Stooges.  Similarities are as follows:

1. There are an abundance of scenes where noggins and foreheads touch ever-so gently.  Usually two heads are joined together with a little help from Moe.

2. The last scene will show The Three Stooges in determined and unshakable friendship ala happily-ever-after style.

 I know what you’re thinking and that’s exactly what I’m saying ... Pride and Prejudice and The Three Stooges can combine to help inspire a winning, happy marriage with the following two step formula (or one, two punch):

1. Share a few loving head bonks along your marriage journey. 

2. Stay ‘til the last scene in your marriage and live out your own happily-ever-after love story. 

If you’re reading this and are already sharing the joy of love in your marriage by using the above two step formula … well now, that’s cause for a true celebration!  It is, after all, Valentine’s Day.  Go celebrate!

And just so you know … hiring a cool marching band to follow you around is optional.  Just gotta get your own ‘cause I’m using mine.

The Results Are In

(Kevin's note:  Many remember when this shocking event occurred.  I am re-posting as part of my own recovery process as well as to encourage others in their challenging journey of healing.  I think it captures so well the emotions I felt at that moment in time.  Thank you for walking with me.)   

I’m sure you’re already aware of the travesty.  I, however, just found out this weekend.  This is extremely difficult to write, yet I feel as if telling you will in some way help me to work through the physically draining emotions … emotions that I’ve wrestled with since yesterday afternoon.  Please be patient with me as I write these words.  You may have known for some time, but for me, I literally discovered the news only a fresh day ago.

I found that there are five steps to grieving.  I hit the top two simultaneously:  Denial and Anger.  I brushed over the third and forth:  Bargaining and Depression.  This short essay will graduate me past the fifth and final:  Acceptance.

They could’ve told me in person.  I didn’t have to find out the way I did.  Although, if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think there ever is an easy way to find out.  That said, I just think there should’ve been a way other than how it happened for me ... at a crowded supermarket check out stand.

Trying to make sense of it, I whispered under my breath, “No.  It’s not possible.  Why?”  Again I shook my head and perhaps a bit louder uttered the definitive word, “No”.  The word was loud enough that I’m fairly sure the unknown patron standing behind me became aware of my inner struggle.  Admittedly, I was unprepared to handle the initial shock of this information.  It was odd.  I felt the air entering and exiting my lungs become shorter and more frequent.  I began to feel lightheaded.  My body had a sensation that was not enough to call dizzy, but more like a disoriented feeling.  My legs were starting to fold.  Instinctively, my right hand successfully found its way to the stability of the candy rack found often in route to check out registers.  Again I pondered, “How could this happen?”

From this point, I can only remember brief flashes in time.  As if my mind would only allow still pictures and not the luxury of replaying a full motion memory clip.  So, I will try, as best I can, to explain the choppy sequence of events that began to unfold.  My right hand was no longer bracing the candy rack, but now held a Snickers candy bar.  I don’t recall how it got there.  I only know it was there.  Shortly thereafter, I may have blinked.  When my eyes re-opened, I saw an empty Snickers wrapper atop my widely expanded, now sweaty palm.  A hint of chocolate began to linger on my tongue and I felt some recently melted evidence taking hold on the outside, left corner of my mouth.  Like grace filled manna from Heaven, it was truly satisfying.

With the help of the Snickers bar, my mind began to clear.  Looking down at my hand, I saw my fist close tightly around the defenseless wrapper.  I refused to relax my grip.  I instead wanted to hold onto this lifeless object tighter and tighter.  It was an object that provided a predictable response to my unpredictable emotions.  My eyes now shifted focus from my clutched fist to the cold floor.  My mind was reeling.  Do I collapse to the floor in anguish?  NO WAY TO THAT QUESTION!  With my grief stricken body still completely exhausted from yet untold trauma, I was able to gather up enough strength to rip off my shirt, spike it to the ground, pound my bare chest, and passionately yell for all to hear , “WHY?  Why am I not People Magazine’s choice for Sexiest Man Alive?

Go Team!

Who is Zoltan Mesko?  Even now, I’ll bet if I ask my wife, Carrie, to answer that question she’d have trouble coming up with the correct answer.

How ‘bout you?  Do you know who he is?  Need a hint?

Here’s a portion of the Wikipedia run down on Zoltan Mesko – In the mid-1990s, his parents, Michael and Elisabeth Mesko, were highly educated engineers in Romania.  The family supplemented its income selling homemade clothes in the market.  On May 8, 1997, when Zoltan was 11, his family moved from his native Romania after Michael Mesko won a United States Permanent Resident Card (green card) in the Diversity Immigrant Visa lottery for the single child family to move to the United States.

Have the answer yet?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Zoltan Mesko is the punter for the New England Patriots.  Find out more of his story here:  www.thepostgame.com/blog/good-sports/201202/new-england-patriots-punter-zoltan-meskos-long-journey-war-glory

Upon hearing about Zoltan’s background during the Super Bowl pre-game show, Carrie quickly and enthusiastically grabbed the remote and rewound the program that was responsible for revealing that critical information.  It was ALL the information she needed in order for her to pick a team to cheer for during the Super bowl.  She then proceeded to show our daughter Amanda and Amanda’s college roommate the emotional clip again … and again … and again.  She also sent this information via text to our son Kyle attempting to sway his allegiance away from the Giants because of this newfound discovery.  Well, it was “fish on” people.  Carrie found what she needed to gain a hint of interest in the watching THE game.  She finally had a seat on board the Super Bowl train along with the rest of the world … thus beating the long shot Vegas odds that said it couldn’t be done.

It’s always humorous to watch Carrie not watching my sports shows.  I can’t help but smile.  Even during THE game she cannot sit still, choosing instead to gaze out the window for long periods of time … perhaps imagining a meandering boat ride through the canals of Venice, Italy.  Truth be known, she probably gets the same smile watching me struggle to stay awake for an episode of “Little House on the Prairie” as I too dream of that Venice boat ride thingy.  I wisely kept two TV’s fixed on the Super Bowl in case one inadvertently got changed to the Walton’s.

In twenty-five years of marriage, we’ve found areas of common interest and areas of uncommon interest.  And we’re gonna do both together.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.  We’ve decided to live, laugh, and experience life together ... for richer, for poorer, through sickness, health, and even enduring those dreaded Little House on the Prairie episodes.  YIKES!  Can I be water boarded instead?

Even though Carrie may not remember the guy’s name, his team name, or even the final outcome of THE game (it was sooo two days ago), she will never forget that Romanian dude’s life-story and that he happened to be playing during that World Series or whatever.  If you ask her about it, the Vegas odds say she’ll be able to elaborate on Zoltan’s Romanian plight far beyond that wimpy Wikipedia run down.

On Sunday, it seems I got a front row seat to view yet another example of my wife’s compassion for others.  Her unique perspective helped me realize that there were real people inside those clashing helmets … and each helmet on the field carries its own life-story of success and struggle.  That gave me a different view of this Gladiator type sport of football for sure.  Carrie made me smile on Sunday and I again realized that I am grateful for my teammate and her refreshing look at life and sports.  Go Team!

(That last part is where I could’ve contacted my inner Tom Cruise and said something like, “She completes me”.  Although true, I chose to finish this thought with a rousing “Go team!” yell instead.  You’re welcome.)

I Can Explain

It was like a bad 1980’s television episode of Matlock.  What had I gotten myself into?  Matlock, as you are well aware, is perhaps the greatest defense lawyer of all time and arguably in all of lawyerdom.  The typical episode’s opening scene shows a group of people surprising a man who just happens to be hovering over a lifeless, recently stabbed body while he holds a knife dripping with the victim’s blood.  The startled man immediately rises up to proclaim his innocence with a profound, unpredictable declaration, “I know how this looks and I can explain.”  Have you seen that episode before?  If you’ve ever seen Matlock, believe me, you’ve seen that episode.

This time it was all too real.  I recently found myself trapped in the same starring role gazing at a crowd of inquisitive witnesses.  In fact, it was the exact situation … well, except for the dead body and bloody knife part.  So let’s just call it eerily similar, shall we?  I did, of course, bellow those same words to a similarly skeptical crowd.  It was all a misunderstanding and I wondered if even Matlock could get me out of this one.  I was innocent.  I just needed a chance to explain.

The following testimony will set the record straight.  Hear me out.  Don’t judge me for I’ve done nothing wrong.  These are the facts as I remember them.

(Slowly blur image and queue the soundtrack of a harp as we transition to a memory sequence.)

It was a beautiful valentine’s weekend and things were going great.  I had my sweetheart, happily married 22 years, in one arm and our lovely daughter, on earth for 17 years, in the other.  With pride and self-confidence, I paid for our movie tickets and we headed straight for the popcorn stand.  Now armed with a fresh, large bag of popcorn, it was on to our movie destination in theater number six.  We were so close that I could even hear theater number six calling to us at the end of the long hallway.  Unfortunately, between us and the theater, we each had a decision to make.  The girls both expressed a non-negotiable and rather urgent desire to powder their noses.  I don’t question their decision.  I question mine.  You see, that’s when the trouble all started.  They chose to divert to the restroom.  I chose to continue on, alone, to theater number six.

(Perhaps some suspense music could be inserted here.)

The same pride and self-confidence that was with me when I purchased the tickets was present as I crossed the threshold of theater number six.  I was early.  The sneak peak of future movies had not yet started so the room was rather well lit.

OK, freeze the camera frame and let’s recap, shall we?

1. Happy go lucky, overweight, and middle aged guy walks into crowded, well lit theater number six holding a large bag of popcorn.  He is completely alone.  He is by himself.  He has no one to accompany him.  (Yes, the alone part is critical to the plot.)
2. Umm …I really can’t think of a second point so let’s continue with this real life Matlock parody.

And ACTION!

Wait, wait, cut!  Cut the camera!  There is a second point here that’s relevant.  Not sure how I forgot it other than to say that sometimes we tend to block out from our memory things that are traumatic.  So, here’s my second point …

2.      Naive sap carrying the large bag of popcorn walks into a crowded theater of ALL women preparing to enjoy a chick flick.  A chick flick is a … oh, never mind.  Go ask someone else if you don’t know what a chick flick is.

And ACTION!

The sound of murmuring background conversation could be heard as I rounded the corner with my cherished bag of popcorn.  While gazing at the seating and hoping to land a prime viewing location, it occurred to me that the background chatter had ceased.  The room was now silent.  I did a quick visual inventory and immediately saw the pattern.  There were no men in the room which could only mean one thing.  Yep, that meant there were only women in the room.  YIKES!  All eyes were now gazing on the out of place, motionless spectacle standing before them … yes, me.  A dog barked in the distance.  (Not really, but having a dog bark adds to the drama of a suspenseful and awkward moment.)  The sweat began to bead up on my forehead.  (On the bright side, at least I wasn’t carrying my wife’s purse this time … uh, I mean anytime, not carrying my wife’s purse anytime because I don’t carry purses.  Got that?  What?  No I’m not being defensive.  Just drop the whole purse topic, will ya?  Leave it alone because it’s not relevant to the story.)  Now … where was I?  Oh yea, the sweat began to bead up on my forehead.  It was either use my cat like reflexes to exit the theater or drop to the ground and show my dead possum imitation.  I chose a third option.  I came right out and proclaimed my innocence with a profound, unpredictable declaration, “I know how this looks and I can explain.”

Cut to commercial.  Turn off the television and let’s chat.

Yea, I can explain alright.  You know, now that I think about it, I am completely guilty.  I’m guilty of being forever in love with my wife and showing our daughter what love inside of marriage looks like.  We willingly do things together.  We willingly do things for each other.  I’d even carry her purse if she needed my help.  Sure, I’d quickly stuff it under my jacket, but I’d still help.  I pray that each day I may communicate in words and action my love for my wife, Carrie.  I also pray that our daughter, Amanda, could one day find a husband that will honor God, honor her, and willingly share life experiences together with as much joy as Carrie and I have through the years.

Right about now, you’re probably thinking that tonight’s a great night for your date night.  Well, your spouse agrees.  Now, get out there.  Somewhere.  Anywhere.  Laugh, have fun, and I’ll just bet you’ll foster a marriage and a memory that you’ll both cherish.

And ACTION!