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!