Half Empty

I've never wanted to be that guy. The one who can rain on every parade, who can find the cloud that comes with every silver lining, who always sees the glass as half empty. And I'm sure that anyone who knows me well will attest that, ordinarily, I am not. "He has a sunny disposition," they'll say. "He's so pleasant to be around. A real joy. Look up 'good natured' in the dictionary, and you'll see his picture." It's true. Ask my mother. She'll tell you.

But even I have my limits. Lately, I've had quite enough. My patience has run out. I'm up to "here" (please imagine me waving my hand somewhere above my eyeballs). Consider the following image (captured from weather.com a few minutes ago) and I'm sure my problem will be obvious:

That's right. Another week of 65+ degree temperatures in Denver. I think they forgot about winter here because it seems that's all we've been having here for the last two months. And I, for one, am sick and tired of it.

For one thing, there's the skiing--or lack of skiing. Yes, there is still snow in the mountains.* But nothing that makes a ski snob like me want to drive an hour. So, not knowing what else to do with myself on a Monday, I've been forced to ride my bike and to endure sights like this:

Can you see why I've reached my limit?

And that's just the beginning. Because do you know how hard it is to dress for a bike ride on a sunny 65 degree day? Shorts or knickers (yes, I sometimes where "knickers")? Short sleeves or light jacket? Or would short sleeves and a vest be best? And do I need sunscreen? (Don't even get me started on sunscreen. I mean, sunscreen? In March? Seriously?!)

Of course, those things are merely scratching the surface. The real problem is much more fundamental. The real problem is that that I feel compelled to ride my bike in the first place. In my experience, bikes are not meant to be ridden from, say early October to early March. That's the time for packing on a few winter pounds, maybe catching up on some reading. And that's the way I prefer it.

Take today, for example. What I really wanted to do with my Sunday afternoon was sit around in my comfy chair and read my book until I fell asleep. Maybe eat a plate of nachos and an Oreo or seven. But could I do that? Noooooo. That's the kind of thing one does when its twenty-five degrees, overcast, and drizzling (like it probably was in Michigan, or Western New York today). You can't do that when it's 65 degrees in March. They have a word for that: "Sin." So I had to skip my nap. I had to go for a ride.

And what's worse--I'll probably have to tomorrow, too. Oh, the things we endure.

*At least in some places. A couple of weeks ago Jill and I attempted to snowshoe @ 11,000 feet and had to carry our snowshoes. Every once and a while we'd see a little patch or two and strap them on out of principle, but it really wasn't what we had hoped for.

Enhance the Romance

One crisp January night ten years ago, I set my studies aside, walked out of my North Hall dorm room, and made the drive to my parent's house thirty minutes away. There I spent several hours hunched over a cookbook and a counter top, cracking eggs, sifting flour, greasing pans. It was the night before Jill's birthday and I wanted make my new girlfriend feel special. So I made her a three-tiered chocolate cake--frosting and all--from scratch. Even though Jill later noted that the frosting I had so painstakingly made and applied was a little rich for her taste (hard to believe), it was a rather romantic gesture, if I don't say so myself.

But, oh, how the mighty have fallen.

This year I spent the night before and the night of Jill's birthday in meetings. And Jill baked her own cake. I had thoughts of frosting it for her (though I had no intention of making any frosting from scratch), but instead, my secretary did it while she baby-sat Adrian. Some (who are easily impressed) might think that impressive--a sign of my great importance--but I'll admit it's really rather pathetic. So even though we're old codgers who have been married seven and a half years (we're experts now), I probably ought to do something to step it up a notch--some gesture to enhance the romance.

Then again, I managed to sit through two really bad chick-flicks that Jill picked out (Because I Said So and The Holiday) while keeping the my groans and sarcastic comments to a minimum (sleeping through the last half of The Holiday helped in that regard). That has to count for something, doesn't it?

Why I Won't be Blogging Until February 5*

I got an email the other day from my local library notifying me that an item I had placed on hold had arrived. Tonight, I went to pick it up. Much to my delight I discovered not one but six items. And note, dear friends**, what those items include. The complete third season of Arrested Development, the complete second season of The Wire, TWO David Sedaris books, and a John Hodman and Ken Grimwood for good measure. They're due February 2, which means that I should be done with them by February 5 or so (and have them back to the library by February 12). It also means that, if the people here*** are right, I should be in middle-class-nerdy-white-guy heaven.

* I don't really mean that. Please keep checking back and inflating both my counter numbers and my ego.
**Has John McCain faded far enough into the recesses of our memory that I can again use that phrase?
***Do a search if you're really curious. I know they have entries on Arrested Development, David Sedaris, and NPR. Odds are good that they've covered the others as well.

Double Ought Nine

I'm not usually one to make New Year's resolutions. At least not out loud. But since I already resolved to post more on my blog this year, I thought a resolutions post would do well to fill some space.

Or maybe not resolutions, exactly. Resolutions sound so serious. Sin less, pray more, eat less ice-cream, stop wasting time on the Internet--that sort of thing.* Those serious things have their place and I do aspire to them, but I won't include them here since they violate the rather not-so-serious nature of this blog. So let's just say the things listed here are "aspirations"--at most--for the year.

• Bike more miles than last year. I won't say what I'm gunning for since some people (especially those who don't regularly bike) will undoubtedly find it a little obscene and wonder why I'm not using my time to do something more useful (like read to my son, or wash my car, or plant a garden, I suppose) --but I do have a number in mind. I also have an event in mind. I've once again shelled out the big bucks so I can suffer through the Triple Bypass.
• The sub-aspiration that goes along with the Triple Bypass is to get that nice skinny/bobble-headed biker looking going for me so that I can be faster and stronger--but I know that probably won't happen. But even so, I could probably stand to cut down on how many trips I make down the hall to the secretary's candy dish. I'd like to say one a day. But two sounds more reasonable.
• I'd also like to ride my bike more with other people. I rode alone way too much this year and discovered that I'm really not that good of company. I'm hoping to get a weekly tandem ride in with Jill and also to take a day to pull Adrian to the park in his bike trailer (I will be sorely disappointed if he doesn't like his bike trailer). If things go my way, I'd also like to find some fellas to MTB with most weeks (CL--are you listening?).
• Learn to like running. No, I'm not going to run a marathon this year. I pushed things a little too hard last month after spouting off my mouth here and ended up with very sore knees and ankles for about three weeks. More proof that I'm not a kid any more, I guess. But even so, I'd like to work a light jog (or lope) into my weekly exercise schedule.
• Grow a beard. Or at least try. I'll have to see if I can arrange a few weeks away from work so that I can pull it off, but I'm thinking that since my body is no longer putting much energy into growing hair on top of my head, it might have something extra to put into my face. Or maybe that's all going to my nose, ears, and eyebrows. Time will tell.
• Read a classic (or two). Maybe it's finally time to check "Crime and Punishment" off the list.
• Sweep the floors. Someday, I'll have to post on all the things that make me a lousy husband--my regular failure to sweep the floors would have to be on the list. I really hope to rectify that this year.
• Keep a budget. We kind of do this--but I want to be serious about it this year. Get software. Balance the check book. Refrain from buying something that's not in the budget or get stressed when we don't. The works.
• Call my grandmas more.
• Get a news magazine (Newsweek? Time? Any recommendations?) and read it regularly. I know next to nothing about what is going on in the world these days and am tired of faking it.
• Go to a play. I like Shakespeare--and I'm not just saying that. I think it's time to check out another production of the Bard's work. Then I can quote him in sermons and people will think I'm both up to date on current events and cultured. Won't I be impressive?
• Floss. I won't say daily (let's be reasonable here!). But enough so that my dental hygienist doesn't scold me after my next appointment. I just can't stand her scorn any longer.
• Drink less coffee more. What's reasonable? Seven, eight cups a day?
• Find a babysitter we can trust (and not feel guilty about asking). Use this babysitter to go on occasional non-church related dates with my wife.
• Go camping more than last year. That means go camping some. And even if we don't camp, spend more Mondays (my day off) in the mountains with Jill and Adrian. One of those Mondays, I'd like to climb another 14er.

That's probably more than enough--any more and I'll start to sound like Ben Franklin. And besides, there's coffee brewing here that needs drinking, apple crisp that needs eating.

I'll report back in ought ten and see how I did.

*(Good thing I proof read sometimes--I had those first two switched around for a moment making it sound like I aspire to pray less and sin more.)

Keep Yer Nose Clean

It's occurred to me recently that I'm getting older.

Of course, that's true for all of us. Time, like an ever rolling stream, bears all its sons away--and all that. Most days, we overlook it. Yet there are certain moments in a person's life when the truth--I am no longer as young as I once was--becomes inescapably evident. Consider some examples:

• I've gotten into the habit of ordering Diet Coke whenever Jill and I go out to eat (which isn't often).
• I can no longer eat Starbucks Cappuccino Chip ice cream after, say, 7pm* and expect a decent night of sleep. (Although I've had to cut back on ice cream in general lately--for the same reason I've taken to ordering Diet Coke--I'm old, but not quite old enough for comfort fit pants.)
• This morning, when I had the chance to sleep in, I had the coffee pot going at 6:03--a half hour after I woke up.
• While writing a sermon a while back, I wanted to make a pop culture reference to a movie that came out just a few years ago (Enemy of the State)--you know, back when I was in high school (or was it the beginning of college?). When I looked up the release date for the movie, I was rather shocked to discover that it was over ten years old. Needless to say, the reference was completely lost on my high school students (They are equally clueless about any reference to Ferris Bueller's Day Off (Bueller? Bueller?) and Seinfeld. I tell you--kids these days).
• Speaking of high school kids--I've also caught myself saying the following to them: When I was your age (insert story of hardship and suffering here)...These anecdotes are, without fail, met with blank looks and eye rolls.
• Last week when I got my haircut, I noticed that the woman who was to do the deed is no longer shy about asking if I need my eyebrows trimmed. (The answer, of course, is yes.)
• Did I mention I have a child of my own?

I think my case is already quiet solid. I am getting old. But in case there's any doubt, I submit one more piece of evidence--Christmas.

The youngsters these days are asking for all sorts of fun toys. Wiis. Wizbangers. Watchyamakallits. And who knows what else. Of course, when I was a boy I only got sticks and dirt for Christmas. But never mind that. This year, I got a nose hair trimmer.

That's not what it's called on the package, of course. On the package, it's called a "personal groomer" and there's a picture of a man trimming his sideburns. Nothing old about that. But we all know the truth. It's not just for sideburns. It's for nose hair. Okay, and ear hair. And neck hair. And maybe upper back hair. But mainly nose hair.

I suppose there might be some who would be offended to receive such a gift from their spouse. After all, it could be argued that it's not a lot different than a man who gives his wife a Thigh Master. Here you go, honey--I just want to make sure you're not letting yourself go. And while I'm at it, here's some Fen Phen and a six pack of Slim Fast. Yes, some might try to read in a not-so-subtle critique into such a gift. But not me.

I ripped open the package, went straight to the bathroom, and declared war on those nose hairs. And it was even better than I had hoped. There were no cries of agony or tears of anguish (as I experienced when I would try to pull out my those pesky nose hairs with a tweezers--something I'm pretty sure they don't even allow in Gitmo). Instead, there were only shrieks of delight, tears of joy. I was thrilled. Absolutely elated. Because I had gotten exactly what I asked for.

You see, I know that I'm getting older. I realize that my hair is migrating to strange (and useless!) places. But hey--I'm not that old. I have not yet let go of all my vanity. I have not quite accepted fuzzy ears and sprouting nostrils as inevitable. I'm still young enough that I want to keep my nose clean.** And now--thanks to Jill--I can!

*This is further proof that I'm old--but not that old. Certain parents of mine can't eat it after noon.

**I've found this to be especially important for taller folks like myself. You never know who is looking up there!

***PS: That is not a picture of my nose. It was bad, but not that bad.

The Sioux Falls Airport

Sitting here in the Sioux Falls Airport, waiting for our delayed plane to take us “home” to Denver, my mind drifts back to my first time here. It must have been some twenty-two (or so) years ago. I was standing on a window ledge at the end of a long, abandoned hallway (probably the same window ledge I sit near now--near gate 8). I stared out at the tarmac and the runway lights and craned my neck, trying in vain to catch one last glimpse of my Grandpa and Grandma as they boarded their plane. When I began to feel the tears creep up from somewhere deep inside and threaten to spill over my eyelids and down my cheeks, I must have reached up for my father's hand.

On the way home that night, Dad stopped at a truckstop just off I-29 and bought me some Rolos. He handed them to me with a promise that we would see Grandpa and Grandma soon enough.

_____________________________________________

Less than a half hour ago, I removed my contented son from his Grandfather’s (my father's)arms. His little hands made one last exploratory grasp for Grandpa’s earlobes and cheeks and then, with a quick hug, we said our good-byes and headed for airport security. Deep in my gut, it feels a lot like that day some twenty-two years ago. Only this time, we’re the ones leaving. Grandpa and Grandma are the ones staying. And this time, there are no Rolos.

We’re grateful for a good week in Iowa. A good week with Adrian’s Grandpa and Grandma and the rest of the family. But sometimes, it’s hard to be reminded of what we (and Adrian) are missing.

My Big Mouth

Back in Jr. High, when older brother Micah was qualifying for state track meets in high school and brother John was shattering the records in grade school, I decided I wanted to be a runner too. So every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a showed up in the grade school gym with a few dozen of my classmates for track practice. We'd slog out a couple of miles together and then return to the gym, wheezing, to do sit-ups and push ups under the watchful gaze of (my then hero)Coach Landstra . And then, every other week or so (or maybe more often, I've tried hard to blot this time of my life out of my memory) we'd climb on the bus and drive to Orange City or Hull or Rock Valley for a meet.

The meets did not go well for me. Mr. Landstra always put me in the mile (which is not to say I was an actual "miler"). Back then I liked to think it was because my coach/hero saw some potential seeded deep within me--a gift that would blossom at any moment and result in a beautiful bouquet of ribbons and trophies. In retrospect, I've realized that it was most likely because the mile race always had a fountain start. This meant that Mr. Landstra could enter as many runners in the event as he desired--which is really a way of saying that he could have me "participate" in the meet without having to worry about my liability to the team.

I'm not bitter.

At any rate, I donned my blue "SCCS" t-shirt and lined up with the other slow guys (and a few fast guys) for every mile race for two years. As you might have guessed, I did not win any of them. There were, however, personal victories. One of the greatest came that cool spring day in eighth grade when I not only managed to finish without getting lapped (a first)but also came home with a fourth place ribbon. Never mind that there were only three other participants that day. It was still a victory for me.

Some day, I may write about my brief foray into high school track. (Being the brawny fella that I am, I naturally signed up to throw the discus, which really means that I signed up to ride around in the van and hang around in the weight room with my pal, Dave). This lasted for three weeks, until the coaches threatened to make me run. Then I heard other duties calling my name and quit.) But suffice it to say, running and I don't get along well. We never have. Probably never will.

All of which might make you wonder why I'm considering running a marathon.

That's right. I'm considering running a marathon. There are probably a lot of reasons for this (Dealing with my demons? Being white?). I'll leave those for the professionals and say that the the main one is that I told Jill that I would. To be more precise: I told her I would if she would.

This, of course, was a foolish thing to do. Jill has a much better history with running than I do. Not only does she voluntarily run on a regular basis, she's actually finished a marathon, and a half marathon (trail!), and several 25k races. She's reallly quite something.

But back last March, when I heard this sentence coming out of my big mouth, all that seemed like a distant memory. Jill was eight months pregnant and, um, not exactly in peak running form (though she was actually very fit--for a pregnant lady.)In fact, she was wondering if she would ever get back to running again. So, being the loving/encouraging husband that I am (and going through my annual three week flirtation with running, where I pick it up, try to convince myself that I like it, and then drop it again), and being a man with little or no ability to think before I talk, I told her that, if she wanted to get back in shape and needed a training partner, I'd be that guy. I would run a marathon with her. (I don't know why I didn't offer to do something more pleasant with her--like make a practice of climbing mountains on our knees with our hands tied behind our backs, but I digress).

So, long story short, Jill is looking at doing the Ft. Collins Marathon in six and a half months. The question is, should I be true to my word? What if I ran with her for four hours--but only covered a mile or two? Would that honor the sprit of the thing? Is it even physically possible for me to cover marathon distance in less than, say, nine hours?? Or should I say to my beloved wife, in the indelible words of the great Meatloaf, "I would do anything for love, but I won't do that?"

Please tell me what you think. And then go and conduct my pants experiment and report back (you bums).

Pantastic (A Public Service Announcement)

Author's note: Yes, this post is long. As I've noted before,
brevity is not my strong suit. But even if you choose not to read it all
(thats your choice), please catch the last full paragraph and participate in my
little experiment.

_________________________________________________________

I hate shopping. Especially for clothing.

Of course nearly every guy says that. It's one of the requirements for getting your man card.* In fact,I'm told they'll take it away if you don't scratch yourself, spit a lot, and say things like this: Oh, the wife wants to go down to the mall again. You know those broads, always spendin' the money on shoes and fancy purses. Not me. I'd rather hang out in front of the big screen with my Buddy Weiser. I'm just a fine wearin' my blue jeans and an old Metallica t-shirt. That's all I need to work on the truck anyway. At least that's what I've been told (so I do say something like this, at least quarterly.)

So yes, my Y chromosome compels me to declare my disdain for shopping. But it's not just that. I really hate shopping. And not for all the regular reasons (what are the regular reasons?). I hate shopping because I'm tall. As a tall person living in a ground-huggers' world, I can't walk into a store and expect to find, say, a pair of pants that will fit me. Inevitably, I'll end up standing under the florescent dressing room lights in something that resemble Capri's, wondering if I can pull it off in the name of faux Euro styling. (I can't.) Or I'll stand in front of the mirror tugging down some other extra baggy pair as low as I can around my waist to get an extra inch or two (or three or four) of length, all the while wondering what the old ladies will say about this young buck they now have for a pastor.

All that is to say that I don't shop much. At least not in stores. Shopping for me usually involves a half hour in front of the computer (give or take an hour) , clicking through the sale pages of a few select stores that I know stock tall sizes, guessing what I think will fit. It's still not my favorite--but it's a lot better than going through the mall and striking out for three hours.

That's my regular routine. But a couple of weeks ago I decided to depart from it and risk a trip to the mall. A local store was advertising a 40% of sale and I figured it was worth a shot. I wasn't optimistic, but I needed a new pair of jeans and I'll do most anything to save a few bucks.

Upon arrival at said store, I was more than pleasantly surprised. I was elated. I found not one, not two, not three, but four pairs of pants (jeans, actually) in my regular size. Giddy as a school girl, a loaded them into my arms and headed to the dressing rooms. I figured the only question for me that day was How many will I take home?

Well, it took about two minutes for it all to come crashing down. Not one, not two, not three, but four pairs of jeans failed to fit correctly. And this time, they weren't too small. They were too big. I nearly crumpled into a ball in the dressing room with a wail. The humanity of it all! How could it possibly be!

As a shuffled back to the shelves cursing the cruelty of it all and wondering, once again, about size inflation** in the U.S, I was caught by a sales guy in an argyle sweater. Clearly, he read my emotions well. I hate trying on pants, he confided in a hushed tone. But I've found a secret. You don't need to try them on. You simply take a pair of pants and you wrap them around your neck like this. If the two sides meet at the back of your neck with little or no overlap, they'll fit just right. Trust me on this. I never try on pants in the store. And they always fit.

I couldn't help but stare at the sales guy. Then I couldn't help but check out his pants. They did look good. But I was pretty sure he was just screwing with me--that he had some bet with his buddies in the back room about how many people the could get to perform this ridiculous stunt. But nevertheless, I grabbed another pair of the shelf (things were looking up again--they had some a size smaller) and headed back to the dressing room. And, of course, I didn't try them on right away. Instead, I ducked my head low (to make sure no body could see me over the dressing room door--another problem tall folks run into in this short world), held the jeans to my neck, and tested them out. Things looked good (and I felt like a fool). So I whipped off the jeans I was wearing and tugged them on. One leg, then the other. Perfection!***

This is where I need some audience participation. Was the sales guy putting me on? Was this just a fluke? Please, go find your best fitting pair of jeans or pants, wrap them around your neck (see photo), and report back in the comments section. What is the correlation between how they fit around your waist and how they fit around your neck? Please do it! This could be a pants-fitting revolution!

*Along with having propane and propane accessories in your garage

**This is my theory that retailers are catering to the fattening up of America by making their sizes bigger (so a XL today is more like an XXL of fifteen years ago).

*** Or near perfection. They were actually a little long, but since they were only twenty bucks, I figured I could put up with it. Of course, there was a time when I'd have been thrilled to find jeans that were too long (the sheer novelty of it all!). But now I'm not so sure. As I noted to an old friend, while the extra length is clearly deemed fashionable right now, people in my position aren't supposed to be fashionable. We're supposed to sport what I've heard referred to as "Pastor's Pants"--best seen in people in my profession who cross their legs and have their pants pulled up to about mid-calf, exposing their milky white legs and grey socks. With the right length pant, I can pull this off with astounding flare.

The Sitter

It was a Friday night back in the fall of 1993. I was slumped awkwardly in the front seat of an old Buick Century that belonged to a man name Mike. Mike drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he explained bedtime routines and emergency contact information. He rolled through a stop sign and added, "There's pizza in the fridge."

Normally, that news alone would be enough to make me ecstatic. But I hardly heard. I was too busy worrying about what the night would bring.

I was to be the babysitter for the evening. I liked kids, but I had never done any babysitting before (at least not officially). So as we drove down Sioux Center's Main Street--past the recently erected Centre Mall--questions raced through my mind. How was I going to entertain a ten month old child for more than, say, four minutes? And when was the last time I'd ever changed a diaper (if ever)? More importantly, did I really know how to do it?

I was pretty sure I didn't. But I figured I'd try almost anything for a $1.75 an hour.

Things ended up going just fine that night. I put the diaper on frontwards (At leas I assume that I did. The Pooh Bears go in front, right?). I got little Justin to bed on time and without too much crying. And I was extra vigilant. I made sure to stay awake until Mike and Michelle returned home--even if it meant fighting off sleep all the way through Letterman and halfway through O'Brien. Then, sometime before midnight, my eyes heavy with sleep, the couple returned and Mike drove me back home. As I prepared to leave the car, he shook my hand, thanked me, and gave me my paycheck for the night. Seven dollars and fifty cents.

I thought about Mike and Michelle last night while we were doing our last minute search for a babysitter. At first I thought, "Wow, I wish I could find a babysitter for that cheap!" Then I thought, "Wow, what kind of parents were they?! I can't believe they actually allowed me--at the ripe old age of thirteen--to assume responsibility for their child?! Someone should have called social services!"

Needless to say, we have yet to enlist the services of the local jr. high students. And it's not only because they charge much more than $1.75 an hour--though that probably has a little to do with it (we're far too cheap to go out for dinner and pay someone 8+ dollars an hour to watch our child). It has more to do with our own fears and paranoia. Jill's doesn't make a habit of saying things like: "Over my dead body." But I expect she would if I suggested we leave Adrian under the watchful (or not so watchful eye) of a seventh grader.

But that does leave us in something of a bind. Lots of folks from church offer to babysit, of course. But it's one thing for them to offer on a Sunday morning. It's another for us to ask for a Saturday night. If they were family--or family family--we wouldn't hesitate. But they're not. So we do.

Thus far, Jill and I have come up with a fairly simple solution: we don't get out much. At least not together. When we do, it tends to be some church event that we really can't avoid (such was the case last night). But most nights, we end up sitting quietly in our living room. Maybe watching Law and Order (or The Office if it's a good night). Maybe reading a book or writing blog posts. It's a far cry from the wild night life we once new and loved.

Okay, it's really not that at all. But still, it would be nice to have the option from time to time. So--anybody (preferably anybody related) want to move to Denver and be on standby Adrian duty? The pay is not great--but I'm sure the rewards are.

Brevity

When I was in the fourth grade, I wrote a fourteen page book report on George Washington Carver. Title page not included.

I'm not sure what I wrote about for all those fourteen pages (Any chance you still have this Mom? I'm sure it's gold.) Maybe I pontificated a bit about what it would be like to share a name with a president. Or what I would have done with the money Mr. Carver could have made. But I expect it was mostly about peanuts.

I recall thinking that my teacher, Mrs. Andringa, would be delighted to read those fourteen pages--all written out in my careful but cramped cursive. In retrospect, I was probably wrong about that. And wrong abut the teachers who followed in her footsteps--those poor souls who were forced to endure the pages and pages (and pages) of my rambling. Somehow, I doubt my 1.5 spacing, 10.5 font, and .8" margins succeeded in convincing them that my papers were within their assigned page limits.

All that is to say: brevity is not my strong suit. Of course, if you regularly read this blog, or if you took Comm 110 with me in college, or if you've ever heard me preach, you probably know that already. So I was rather impressed with myself for condensing our latest collection of Adrian videos down to a mere five and a half minutes (one minute of which is him sleeping--and I'll understand if you skip that part). I know it's still a little long--unless you are one of his grandparents or a parents--and some of you might want to skip to one of the high point at 4.15 (I won't blame you). But it's the best I could do.*


Adrian, Late Sept 08 from Joel Schreurs on Vimeo.

*I really don't feel that bad because (a) It's my blog and I'll post what I want to (b) my last Adrian video had twice as many hits as the moose video--which was short, and not about Adrian.

Anything for Love

I like Mexican food--a lot. However, I have long been of the opinion that many of the restaurant varieties taste more or less the same. There's not a lot of exceptional Mexican food, no really bad Mexican food. You get some hot sauce, some sour cream and guac, some cheese and you're good to go.

I had this in mind last week as we ventured to one of Denver's classic tourist destination (a favorite for 36 years!)--Casa Bonita. I had heard that the food wasn't great (after I mentioned it in a sermon once, a pimple-faced seventh grader came up and said You'd be better off staying home and eating re fried beans from a can). But I figured, "How bad can it be? It's Mexican!"

It turns out I was wrong. It wasn't just bad. It was really, really, bad.

I thought for a moment that I was being taped on a Fear Factor episode. Or that I had fallen asleep and woken up in, say, Guantanamo Bay (although I think forcing someone to eat this food may violate the Geneva Conventions, so they clearly wouldn't do that there). The tortillas? Slimy. The "cheese"? Fake (generic Velveeta?). Everything else? Unidentifiable. It was an all you can eat affair, but none of us had seconds. Given the heritage and usual "thrifty" behavior of those adults gathered (me and Jill plus both sets of parents) that alone should speak volumes. Oh, the depths of human depravity that could produce such an abomination!

At the end of the meal, Jill said, "Well, on the bright side now we can say we've done it and never have to do it again." (She said something remarkably similar after finishing her Marathon a few years ago.) I heartily agreed.

But today, I realized we probably will do it again. Today, we got a wonderful postcard from my niece and nephew (the guests of honor and our excuse for going) thanking us. "We had a lot of fun", they said. And I suppose that made it all worthwhile. If another niece or nephew comes to visit--or if my own child(ren) just have to go--I suppose I'd do it again.

It's an amazing thing, I'm realizing, the lengths we will go to for those little people that we love!

Going Native

It's Friday night. Jill's at work. There's really no good T.V. on (except the Gypsy Kings on PBS--which I'm watching/listening to so pardon my typos. It's really very distracting). I figured I might as well catch up on my blogging--finish that post I started about a year ago (when I first started this blog, actually) and never got around to wrapping up.

The post (started March 6, 2007) was originally prompted by a comment made by someone at church. I was asking him if it's possible to take one's dog along mountain biking on Front Range Trails when he interrupted me. "Wait a minute", he said. "You got a dog and you mountain bike? Wow, it didn't take you long to go native, did it?!"

I'll get into that in a minute. First a note of explanation.

The state of Colorado has one of the fastest growth rates in the nation. In fact, the growth rate of this great state is actually closer to that of a developing nation (or so the folks at NPR tell me). During the next decade, it's estimated that approximately 1,000,000 people will move to the Front Range area. That's a lot of people. No wonder one of the first questions that comes up in any conversation is "Where are you from?"

So not many of us are natives. But those who are take great pride in their status. They even have bumper stickers that proclaim to all the world their superior birth. The rest of us--well, we can only pretend. We do our best--we try to go go native", as my friend said. But some of us do better than others.

So, how am I doing? Here's what I've managed to come up with:

First, here's what I'm missing:

• An "Impeach Bush" bumper sticker/sign on my front lawn (somehow, I don't think this would be popular with a fair portion of my congregation).


• Single digit body fat percentage. (Denver claims to be the thinnest city in the U.S. I'm solidly in the double digits)


• SUV/Subaru Outback/4 Wheel Drive. (Somewhere, I have a picture of my street early on a Sunday morning--each of the 20-30 vehicles parked on my street fell into this category.


• $2,000 a month mortgage payment.


• Buddhist prayer flags and sense of vague, smorgus board "spirituality". We're down right particular in our spirituality, thank you very much.


• Leathery, Colorado Mountain tan. Still as pasty as ever.


• Large camper/trailer to be used every weekend between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Wow. That's a lot of strikes against me. Come to think of it, the only thing I really have going for me is the previously mentioned dog/mountain bike, my willingness to wear spandex in public places, and my smug attitude about my new lightbulbs/compost bin. Not very impressive at all. I guess I'll have to settle for this bumper sticker f0r now:

PS: If any Coloradians can think of something I'm missing, let me know!

Best. Monday. Ever.

Okay, maybe not the best Monday ever. But top five. Or top ten. I've had some really good Mondays.*

Here are some highlights:

• The French: My parents came out for a quick visit this weekend. We decided to send them off in style with breakfast at a local bakery: Trompeau. Real French folks serving real French pastries. Oiu oiu! I don't care if it's unpatriotic (or unmanly). I love their ham & swiss croissants. The pear/chocolate are also good.

• Hot Deals: We had to go to Runner's Roost to exchange some things for Jill. We were delighted to find a 40% of sale and--best of all--shoes in my size. Apparently, my size is now 14D. I never knew that. They are really, really white--but I'll work on that.

• Smart Barbers: I got my hair cut yesterday. My hairdresser theorized that I spend a lot of time outside. Her reasons? My wild, bushy eyebrows. Apparently, she thinks there's a connection. No longer are they a mark of shame. Now they're a badge of honor declaring to the world that, despite my soft pastor's hands, I am indeed a rugged outdoorsman. Who wouldn't want that?

• Celebrity Sightings: I think I spotted Josh Blue on my bike ride. He was standing shuffling along the Cherry Creek bike trail. Of course, I can't be certain. It may have been a homeless guy who bore a striking resemblance. Do you think Josh Blue spends a lot of time outdoors?


• High Calories: Jill and I finally got her birthday date in. Cheesecake factory! Tiramisu cheesecake is, in fact, very delicious.

• High Culture: We want to Plainsong last night at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. I love legitimate theatre. And it's not just because the theatre crowd makes me feel tough. Great story. Great actors. Great night!



• The Tax Man: We had our taxes done yesterday. In reality, this didn't start out so great. Our accountant--who seemed blissfully incompotent from the start--looked at us at the end of our hour and said, "Uhm, sorry to have to tell you this--but you owe another $2,500. I guess we goofed last year when we estimated your payments." This was not a highlight in our day. In fact it was something of a low point (Despite the fact that it gave me a good sermon illustration for Sunday's message on Matt. 6:24-34). But things got better--both for the reasons mentioned above and because of the phone call we got twelve hours after our appointment. Turns out the tax man goofed. We're getting a refund! Or we think we are. We're trying not to get too overly optomistic in the (likely?) event that he goofed again.

Wow--seven things. It seems biblical to stop there!

*I know people are supposed to hate Mondays. But as they are my day off, I really, really like them.

Nine Years

As some of you may know, Jill and I are doing our level best to live simple, more environmentally ("Creation") friendly lives. We've made some progress, but still have lots to feel guilty about. We still drive the five blocks to the grocery store, buy fruit in January, forget to bring our own mugs to the coffee shop/church, eat red meat and seafood (occasionally), keep the house cozy warm, use a clothes dryer, build fires for the sheer joy of it, shower and flush the toilet daily, water our lawn, reproduce, and on occasion, drink coffee and beer (really, this is bad for the environment).

But we've taken some baby steps. For example, I walk the nine steps to my work (and Jill bikes/buses the seven miles to her work). If it's yellow, we let it mellow (except when we have company, because that seems to gross people out). We cast condescending looks at people who waste energy with their plasma TVs (as we can't afford one) and complain about lawn mowers and all "those people" who clog up the interstate driving into the mountains. We think about unplugging our dvd player when we're not using it. And, above all, we watch--and quote--An Inconvenient Truth.

And the last few weeks, we took two more steps. First, we set up the composter Jill got for Christmas in our backyard. This isn't your grandmother's composter (chicken wire and a pile of manure). This is deluxe. Hard plastic, strategically placed removable vents, a self-opening lid. It's a real hoot. Not only is it good for the environment, it has the added benefits of entertaining us on the nights when NETFLIX won't cut it (yes, watching leaves compost would make an exciting Friday night for us) AND helping us eat healthier (its so much fun it makes me want to eat a banana just so I can toss the peel in).

Jill also replaced many of our light bulbs with the long lasting mini-florescents. The good part is that we don't have change our light bulbs for nine years (I hate changing light bulbs, particularly because people expect me to do it all the time. Tallists.) The bad part is that we accidentally got the wrong ones ("Daylight Bright*") and now our bathroom glows. The yellow that's mellowing looks like nuclear waste. Our humble throne room now radiates like the Throne Room of the Almighty. It's really quite something. And, as I said, we have at least nine years to enjoy it. Lucky us.

*There is one that looks "normal", but "Daylight Bright" is not it.

Overheard

We spent another day at the National Western Stock Show yesterday with the Young-ish Adults from church. We saw a lot of what you'd expect. Livestock, mostly. Also a lot of very large, shiny, belt buckles (Cowboy bling?). We even got to go to a lama show--which was actually less exciting than it sounds (if you can believe that). One of the more droll* events was a conversation I overheard near the RV/Trailer display. A man--clearly not from these parts if I'm allowed to say so--stood there gesturing at one of the dazzling new RVs. Apparently, he was in the midst of lecturing the wide eyed children who huddled around him. The topic? The strange ways of this foreign land. "In America" he said in his thickly accented English (Een Ah-marre-eak-ah), "when you are old, you leave your family, sell your house, and buy one of these."

I only wish I had stuck around to hear the rest of that conversation. And I can't help but chuckle(inside) at the thought of my parents spending their golden years rolling across the U.S. of A at 53 mph. Dad's hunched over the wheel and Mom's playing co-pilot--reminding him of the fast food places with the cleanest restrooms between naps in her captain's chair. When they need a break, they pull into the extra long parking spaces on the "Trucks/RVs Only" side of the rest area and spend some time chatting with the Billy-Bob and the other boys while they stretch their legs (Mom doesn't care for the smoke, but can't get enough of the conversation). They spend their winters sweating in Arizona and their summers swatting mosquitoes in a commercial camp ground in the Wisconsin Dells. To pass the time they tend their portable garden, watch satellite TV, and polish their gnome collection.

Ah, yes. Only een Ah-marre-eak-ah.**

*This word brought to you courtesy of Mr. Bill Elgersma and his sophomore English vocab lists.
**Disclaimer: No offense intended here. I do consider the RV comment a rather humerous example of the the trouble with sterotypes. I'm sure the comment was not intended maliciously or to offend, and do not mean to say anything offesnive myself...

In Case You Missed It.

Obama won for the democrats in Iowa tonight. Maybe Oprah helped.
Mike Huckabee won for the Rupublicans. Undoubtedly, this helped.

I can't decide if I think not taking yourself too seriously is a good trait for a presidential candidate or not.

Computer Geek?

I'm realizing today I may very well be a computer geek--or at least an aspiring one. I don't necessarily consider this a bad thing as long as it doesn't get too out of control In fact, I've attempted to be a computer geek before. It happened in 1995 or so, when I went to Radio Shack spent my heard earned money on an IBM Aptiva--a computer with a whopping 100mb of memory and a 166 mhz (or so?) hard drive.

It didn't really take then. But several interrelated factors have led me to believe that I may be further down the path now.

First, there is the existence of this blog. In some ways, it has nothing to do with the computer. It has more to do finding a diversion and trying to connect with folks I've lost contact with. Yet, since I started blogging a half a year ago, I find myself spending more of my free time in the interweb--both writing, sorting pictures, and fiddlin' with things. And I'll admit, I like it.

Second, there's the fact that I recently signed up for a facebook account. Again, this is partially out of a desire to get connected with folks (there's a theme here). But I also like the fiddlin'. And by the way, the 65 confirmed "friends" I have there suggest that I'm moderately popular, at best. I'm no where near a certain "Riets", who is rapidly approaching a whopping 300.

Third, I find myself frustrated when I can't get an Internet connection at home. As in: swear-under-my-breath-and-say-lots-of-things-pastors-shouldn't type frustrated. This is rather pathetic, I realize. After all, I do have a good book (or two) to read. But regardless, I'm actually thinking about shelling out the cash so that we can get our own service at home.

Finally, I've found myself coveting (yes, I know that's a sin) a new computer for our home use (currently I tote my church lap top back and forth). And not just any computer, but an imac. I've always wanted one--just so I could be like the cool kids. But today, I actually took the time to watch a video tour of the new operating system ("Leopard", grrrr) and was convicted that they really are better. Much, much better. (And soon, when the tour of "ilife" gets downloaded to my humble PC, I'm sure the case will be made again.) I may even be starting to believe that my life will be better if I attain this wonderful piece of technology.* Ooooh, the websites, the photos, the filing systems, the music, the video conferencing. Someday, it will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.**

PS: If you like to read a lot of blogs,"Google Reader" is the greatest thing since bagels .

* That reminds me of something Anne Lamott once wrote. After lamenting with her friend that her friend's husband, Eddie, blew their vacation money on an air conditioner, Lamott confesses: “…I wanted air, too, and believed that if I had it, my house would be perfect. I’ll go to my grave convinced that you can find happiness out there, somewhere, with the right someone or good financing. If you could just get things to line up properly, you could relax, learn to experience life in all its immediacy, reconnect with who you really are, with the soul or spirit, the divine whatchacallit deep inside that sparks when it hears certain music./// We’re not stupid, Eddie and I. We are Americans.”
**That's a Wayne's World reference, in case you missed it.

Rocktober.

In case you haven't heard, it is no longer October. Its ROCKtober. Why? Because the fine folks at 9 News Denver said so (and a few other notable Denver characters, I guess.)

This renaming of months all has to do with the World Series. If you haven't heard, the Rockies are in this particular series (which doesn't really appear to be a World series from what I can tell, but I digress). And in case you don't know, the Rockies are from Denver. And since I'm from Denver (in case you didn't know), I guess that means I'm supposed to root for the Rockies too.

Truth be told, I've resisted hopping on the Rockies band wagon. Like most other Denver residents, three months ago I was fairly apathetic about the fate of the Rockies this year. I don't know all the history--there's a lot of bitterness about the Rockies ownership, from what I understand--apparently they're too intent on making some money, which bothers a lot of people and they've lost a lot of fans in the last ten years. But that's not really my issue--it's more that I'm generally apathetic about all sports. I suspect that has something to do with my being bad at them.

At any rate, I've not been an overly enthusiastic Rockies fan. I've gone to a few games. But I've also enjoyed poking and prodding the real fans. For example, last spring, I put in a bulletin announcement that said, "Young Adults: Come watch the Rockies lose with us" or some other such thing. Perhaps an abuse of power, but I was right (they lost something like 9-2). So given that history, I didn't think it would be right for me to pretend that I'm overly interested in the fate of Denver's new sweethearts.

But I have a confession to make. I've actually watched TV baseball (and am doing it right now, in fact). I want to yell at the screen (and occasionally do). I think I care.

But I still don't think that they're going to win the series.

But oh well. I'll still lay it on the line. For the record: Go Rockies!

Victory or Defeat?

I think I began a new chapter* in my reading life this week--I quit a book. The offending piece of literature was the latest by Jane Smiley, Ten Days in the Hills. I picked it up on a whim at the library (by the way,after 50 weeks in Denver, I finally got a library card). I got it because I remember enjoying A Thousand Acres--it was a great modern version of "King Lear", had an engaging plot, intriguing characters, and even took place in Iowa. What's not to love?

Well, Ten Days was not quite so charming. A bunch folks staying together in a house in Hollywood ranting about the war and talking about the sex. It was boring. If I'm allowed to say such things--even the sex was boring. But I stuck with the book for @160 pages. I really thought I was going to make it to the end (400+ pages), but it was just too much. If it were only 300 pages I might have made it. But not 400. I couldn't bare it. And I gave up.

I'm not sure if that's a victory or a defeat in the reading world. I'm leaning toward the former. After all, I heard a book critic on NPR says she only finishes one out of twelve. And as everybody knows, NPR people are SMRAT. So apparently I'm in good company.

In case you're really interested in my reading life, I should say that the one caveat here is that this was a library book. I'm not sure what I would have done if I owned it. I suspect I would have persevered. Perhaps I would have put it back on my "To Read" shelf for a while, but it certainly wouldn't have gone on my "Books Completed Shelf." Does that sound as OCD as I fear?

In other book news, I read Jodi Picolt's latest novel last weekend (instead of Ten Days). Its called Nineteen Minutes, and I personally like it better than My Sister's Keeper. Less predictable, but still a little "chicky" at times.

Now I'm reading the fifth Harry Potter book. I think there may be something mildly depressing about the fact that, page-wise, this is likey the longest book I've ever read (longer than The Brother's Karamazov!). That J.K. Rowling does spin a great tale, however.


*Yes, that's a terrible pun. But as I may have mentioned to my church golfing buddies today--those are par for the course.
Okay, that's was just an act of desperation.

Jill, Joel, and Jan?

They’d once gone to the woods together, where he tried to enter her world of absorption as she fixed her gaze on lichen—but his mind had wandered like a free-range chicken, and he ended up thinking through a sermon based on Philippians four-thirteen. (From Jan Karon, "Out To Canaan")

Jill and I have been doing some camping the past few weeks. Nothing serious--quick overnighters with our dog, big tent (to accommodate the dog), and shiny new Coleman stove. We sit around some, hike some, read some, and--when Daisy allows--sleep some. It's good.

Two weekends ago Jill's brother Luke joined us on a whim. We camped near the top of Guanella Pass (@10,500 ft). Memorable moments included waking up at 2:30 am and looking at the stars--they were amazing. Like handfuls of salt sprinkled on a dark canvas. The next day, we tested Luke's flat-lander lungs and hiked our first "14er"*--Mt. Bierstadt. Luke was a champ.

Last weekend, Jill's folks were out and we rented a cabin in the mountains. Except for our dog deciding that she had to hunt mice in the middle of the night, it was a good trip. Again-=-hiked some (Rocky Mountain National Park), read some, sat some, slept some. Oh, and we gamed some. I didn't win every game of Settlers, but two out of three isn't bad. (Of course, I'd rather not talk about Ticket to Ride.)


Here are some pics of the past month...


*A "14er" is a mountain that is over 14,000 feet. There are 54 (56?) in Co. Some people make it a goal to climb all of them.