Sales - Worth More Than Money

I work in sales.

I think I have discussed the slightly pathetic ramifications of my insignificant role at a major telecommunications provider in previous essays, but in case it was not well known, I work in business sales. I call on a panoply of industries across the Chicagoland area. My clients range from downtown Chicago consulting firms who peer down on the world from steel girded high rises and demand three piece suits and flashy gadgets all the way to blue collar trucking companies who operate out of cigarette-smoke engulfed trailers on the south side, nestled under the jet fumes of Midway airport.

Next of Kin - A Family Rivalry

Ever since I was a small child my cousin Adam and I have seen each other as adversaries. Not enemies. Not nemesi. But always aware of the others achievements and always trying to stay one step ahead.

We are virtually identical. Some have even mistaken us for brothers. Both standing over six feet, two inches (I'm a few inches taller) and weighing around one hundred seventy pounds (he's a few pounds heavier), the only real distinction is that Adam has sandy blonde hair, whereas a dark brown mop covers my head.

We both played the trombone in high school and college. Both sing and act. Both attended the same college, and now live in the same city. And the rivalry continues.


Sitting at the Kids Table

My grandparents came into town this week, so those of us who were able met at my aunt Monica's for dinner. Just as in the elementary days at family holidays, the kids were banished to a flimsy card table in the room adjacent to the dining room. Only this time the people filling the seats at the kids table ranged in age from twenty three to twenty six. As Adam and I sat there, I with my wife, he with his girlfriend, the age old picking and teasing came out in full force. When he asserted that he could beat me up, the gauntlet had been thrown. I scoffed a retort,

"You cannot. I'm made of Titanium." This was my go to response to his overinflated feather-ruffling. He couldn't argue. It was true.

"So! Kelsey and I have been working out. How much do you weigh?"

"One hundred sixty two pounds." I'd weighed myself that morning.

"Ha! Monica? Do you have a scale?"

I scarfed another hamburger while the scale was retrieved.

A few moments later we were standing in front of an electric bathroom scale in the kitchen. I stepped on the white surface first. The digital readout paused a moment, then reported,

"168.5 lbs."

I knew the number was inflated by my full stomach and my fully clothed condition. I normally stepped on the scale right before showering.

Adam stepped onto the scale and waited for a response. the digits read,

"175 lbs."

Foiled! We returned to the gray card table, Adam glib with his small victory. As we pushed the sparse remains of our delicious dinner around our plates, my grandfather bellowed across the room,

"Adam! Chris! You boys listen up. Your mom was..."

"Grandpa, we don't have the same mom." Adam interjected wryly.

"Oh that's right. you don't. Thank God for that." He went on to recount a story of my grandmother and a speeding ticket. He often refers to grandma as mom. An acceptable mistake for a man approaching seventy six years of life on this earth. But his misnomer left me thinking -- what if Adam and I had been brothers?

He'd be Ken. I'd be Ryu. It'd be epic. For those of you who don't get that reference, go look up Street Fighter on Wikipedia.

And one of us would be dead by now. That's for sure.

The Gaunlet Thrown

So Adam wanted to boast about the six and one half pounds that he had over me. That's fine. I'll succumb to the challenge, and I'll succeed. I've made it my earnest goal to outweigh my blonde brother by my twenty sixth birthday. That gives me two and one half months to pack on the pounds, bulk up, and show my dear cousin that he's got a force to recon with.

Anyone got any tips for bulking up? I sense an inspirational montage coming up...

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

I almost got into a fight this weekend. I say almost with just a hint of sadness.

To put it more accurately, the fight almost got into me.

On Saturday, Annie and I drove out to Kewanee, Illinois to have dinner and drinks with our friends Brian and Kimi. The town of Kewanee is not more than a blip on the radar, known for a monstrous furniture store that encompasses close to half of the downtown. It also has the only remaining Pabst Blue Ribbon franchised bar in the United States. So when we want something cool to drink, we go to Cerno's.

Walking into Cerno's, there is a frosted filigree with the letters PBR ornately emblazoned on the door of glass and heavy, dark wood. To your left is an old bank tellers booth where, in the early days of its existence, the tavern offered a check cashing service to its thirsty patrons. The floor below is a mosaic of stone squares and fifteen feet above it is a baroque display of tin and dusty chandeliers.

The bar is guarded by massive mahogany pillars, each bearing a carved angel. The cherubim wield trumpets, heralding the cold, refreshing beer that won the blue ribbon at the 1893 Worlds Fair. Back lit logos depicting the Pabst hop leaf remind you of the beer you should be drinking.

Things Were Going So Well

The night was going swimmingly, with vigorous chatter about weddings, school, work, and various other endeavors. Annie and Kimi were on one side of the booth, Brian and I on the other, shouting above the din that enveloped our ears. The bar was not full, but it had a half dozen imbibing patrons.

Brian was recounting a story he'd recently heard of Kurt Cobain's early years when Annie grabbed my arm from across the table.

“Chris. Chris! CHRIS!” Her voice escalated as her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder at some unknown danger. As I turned to see what had riled her, a tornado of women came plowing through the narrow bar, aimed directly at our booth.

The four women were drunkenly attempting to exact vengeance for some undisclosed insult by pulling hair, shoving bodies, and slapping whatever they could make contact with. They bounced through the aisle like a pinball of human destruction, inadvertently dragging others into their fray. By the time the brawl reached our unassuming location, there were four or five other people involved.

As I laid eyes on this mess of arms, hair, and insults, I realized that while these men and women were passionately defending themselves and their loved ones, they were not willing to put down their beverages. This made for a messy component of the quarrel that had found itself to our doorstep. Bottles of domestic beer spewed forth like dark amber volcanoes. Their golden, foamy magma erupted across the tumultuous terrain of the bar, falling to rest on our table, our pizza, and yes, on all of us. Unsure of how to proceed, Brian and I stood there, passively ensuring that no physical presence enter our little corner of the bar.

With the beer bottles emptied on our table, someone decided that the only use left for these glass carafes was for bludgeoning. In a high, overarm swing, we saw a man slam the base of a beer bottle into the back of another man's skull. With such force, I'd imagine that one or the other would have caved, but neither object seemed phased. Another bottle flew through the air, landing at my feet in tiny pieces. Imagining the damage that could be done with the dagger-like shards that remained, I slid the broken pieces under the booth and hoped no one would notice. The storm of drunken emotion seemed stalled in front of our table when the Kewanee police force arrived.

That's Our Cue, Exit Stage Left

Judging by the size of the town, I would argue that the majority of the police officers of the self appointed “Hog Capital of the World” were present. They began breaking up the fight, questioning people, and issuing citations. At that point, we decided to take our leave of our beloved Cerno's.

As we walked out, Brian leaned over and said,

“You always say you want to get into a fight. That was your chance.” A true statement, but I think I made the right choice. There were only a few probable outcomes to me joining that fray, and none looked promising:

1. I beat up a girl. I look like a jackass who hits women because he can't take on a real man. Some beefcake seeks retribution and I end up dying in the hog capital of the world.
2. I get my cranium crushed by a bottle of crappy, St. Louis brewed beer. At least if I am going to die at the hands of a beer, I want it to be a good one.
3. I survive the fray, only to be arrested for disturbing the peace, assault, or improper use of beer bottles. I spend a night in the Kewanee clink, next to a man charged with defacing a giant swine statue.

No matter how you cut it, this was not the fight I wanted to partake in. Not that I can really determine what an ideal fight would look like. I'd probably have ten of my biggest and closest friends with me, and I'd be hiding behind them yelling things like,

“Yeah, kick his ass!”

“Take that, punk!”

“That'll teach you!”

Until that day, I'll continue standing strong, ready to defend my family and friends from assault, but none-to-eager to dive into fisticuffs.

Finding Inspiration in Altercation

I have now started four different posts in the last week. They are all in various forms of completed, yet I am completely incapable of finishing a single one.

This may be writers-block. It may be Seasonal Affect Syndrome. It may be my own mental degradation leading to an eventual psychotic break down where I lose all ability to think function or use punctuation whatsoever

But I doubt it.

This is a basic mind-over-matter situation. Or is it matter-over-mind? My mind is saying,

“No! Your ideas suck. Your abilities suck, Your ability to drive and automobile sucks!”

Even when the universe is against me, I am determined to prove myself wrong.

When the World is Against You, Drive a Big Truck

I got home today a little before 6pm. Annie had class late, so I was excited to change out of my dress digs, leash up Ellie for a brisk walk in the frigid night air, and then settle in for some literary grunt work. I pulled into the lot, trekked up to my second level apartment, and expected to find a little dog, anxiously awaiting my arrival in the kitchen, where I'd left her. I fumbled for the keys, turned the lock, and flipped the switch in the kitchen. As I looked around the room, I found my dog nowhere in sight. I did, however, find the barricade blocking her into the kitchen pushed open. My dog was laying comfortably on my bed.

What a rascal.

After our walk, I decided that it was time for a new gate for the kitchen doorway. I loaded the pooch into the truck, and headed to the store. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Walmart ended with no baby gate. They had ultra-amazing, state-of-the-art, laser-sighted baby gates. They had extra-tall gates for your behemoth babies. But they had no regular old safety gates – the wooden kind that slides back and forth along the notched wood and inevitably gets stuck two inches short of the length you want it to be. So I left Walmart empty handed.

On the way back to the apartment, I pondered where else I might get a gate. I could always go across town to the other Walmart, or Target or Kmart or any of the other department stores in town. As I was weighing those options, I saw Walgreens up ahead. Now there's a novel idea. Walgreens has a bit of everything. They may just have what I'm looking for.

I pulled in and put the truck in park. Commanding Ellie to stay, I dismounted, and headed into the store. Moments later, I exited, sans gate. I clambered back into the truck, resolving to find my dog gate another day. I had writing to do, so I needed to get home. I glanced over my shoulder and began backing out of the spot, cranking the steering wheel to the right. Suddenly I felt a jolt through my system as the truck impacted something behind me. I slammed on the brake, threw the transmission into park, and jumped out to assess the situation.

As I rounded the back of the truck, I was met by a frantic woman pacing back and forth as if bouncing off of imaginary walls.

“I can't believe this! I can't believe this! I know I should have gotten the rental insurance. My car's in the shop, so this is a rental...It's not even mine! I can't believe this!”

As I looked the two cars over, I found the truck unscathed. The back bumper of the woman's Dodge Charger however, did not fare so well. The rear driver side corner was shattered where it had made contact with the truck. She'd pulled her car back into the space she was back from, allowing room to walk between the vehicles. In an effort to calm her down, I said,

“Well, it seems as though we both are at fault here...seeming as though we were both backing out at the same time. There isn't any damage on my vehicle, so I'll leave it up to you – do you want to call the police, exchange insurance?”

She opted for all of the above. I called 911 and explained the situation. Then we sat in our vehicles and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I could feel my writing time disappearing as I sat, listening to underground musicians on Iowa Public Radio. The longer I waited, the more irritated I got. Irritated at the police for their tardiness. Irritated at the woman for not seeing my truck. Irritated at the dog for breaking out of the kitchen, prompting this whole endeavor in the first place. I was just irritated in general.

To Swerve and Protect

Finally the police arrived. I hopped out and approached the car. Upon request, I began proffering up the details of the incident. As I began explaining how we were both backing up and collided, the woman from the car piped up,

“Hey wait a second. No, no, no. That ain't how it happened.” I was just parked here, and he backed into me. I hadn't moved from my spot.”

The irritation that had been simmering in me flashed into unbridled aggression as I processed what she was attempting. The two sides of my brain grappled between my desire to explode in a flourish of epithets about the low-lifed, underhanded, nefarious nature of her snake like words and the more logical side that realized a public outburst such as the one I wanted to perform would lead to more serious police involvement. In the split second I took to weigh my options, the public servant in the car before me interjected,

“It doesn't matter what happened. Your on private property, so we will not be determining fault. Give me your insurance cards and licenses and I'll issue an exchange of information report.”

I was relieved that the officer had stepped in to quell the brewing discourse. But I was also terribly agog. I could not believe that this woman was trying to pin this thing on me! I went back to my car and sat, broiling in the frigid night air. I cranked the heater of the truck, and stared at the red car in my rear-view mirror. As I sat and went over the details again and again in my mind, I began analyzing the scene from every angle, every perspective. I would be damned if this woman tries to throw me under the bus on this. It was her fault for not looking before backing out of the space!

Eventually the officer came to my truck, gave me the report, and wished me luck with the insurance companies.

I finally staggered into my apartment around 8:30pm. After three wasted hours of gate-less gallivanting, I'd made it home. I didn't even feel like writing. Curse you, powers that be! You've sucked all the desire to create from my body! I just wanted to watch syndicated Seinfeld while dissolving into my lumpy futon. Against all desire, I opened my computer.

As I sat, exhausted, staring at the blank screen of my computer, I tried to write. I opened all of the half written blogs that had been swirling around my brain. I typed a word here, a paragraph there. But I had nothing. The universe had sucked me into another doldrum of creative drought. But then I realized it. In stopping me from writing, the universe failed to realize that it'd given me something better. It gave me fodder.

It was hard at first, convincing my brain, rusted with exhaustion, to began cranking again. But as I slogged through the first few paragraphs, it became easier. And soon enough, I'd retold the whole story.

So next time you get writers-block, for God's sake, stay in the house. It's much safer that way.

Battle With the Biddy - Grandmas and Groundrules

Opal Mills is a cantankerous octogenarian who's inhabited the apartment below mine since at least the Reagan administration. As far as I can tell, the building has been remodeled around her existence multiple times over, fusing her decor, noises, and even her smell into the very soul of the brick and timber that make up the walls of the structure.

Long before I met Opal, before I'd even moved into apartment 5, her presence bellowed at me in alpha-numeric form. Pulling up to the parking lot, a small metal sign was planted in the frozen ground. On the aluminum was reflective vinyl, coldly pronouncing,

RESERVED FOR APARTMENT 4. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.

There were no other signs in the lot. No similar reservations for units 3, 5, or 6. Only this singular privileged position. As I approached the building, I noticed a lone piece of lawn furniture sitting next to the door. Upon closer inspection, I found an address label applied neatly to the top of the chair. It was the type of label you receive complimentary for donating to the World Wildlife Fund or the Salesian Missions. Next to an ambiguous floral pattern, in Times New Roman, was a name, address, and phone number. The label shared an apartment number with the aluminum placard. The name?

OPAL MILLS

Knit Like a Grandma, Swear like a Sailor

We inspected the apartment, approved of the ambiance, and signed the lease. In conversation with our landlord, I mentioned the peculiar tendencies of our sub-level neighbor to label everything in sight. He replied with a sigh.

“Yeah, she has trouble walking, so she insists that no one park in that spot. She only leaves the apartment a couple times a week, but I wouldn't worry about it. She can't enforce the sign. But if possible, try to park somewhere else. I've explained to her that she can't have people towed, but she keeps tryin' anyway.”

I shrugged, made a mental note to comply, and began unloading boxes.

A few weeks later, I pulled into the lot. It was around seven at night, and I had to leave again early in the morning, so I parked in the spot directly in front of the sidewalk. The sign met my license plate, ringing dully as I walked briskly toward the brick building. As I entered the building and began my ascent to domestic reprieve, my ears were greeted with a sound to which I was unaccustomed. From somewhere above me, a cadence of profanity flowed from a geriatric mouth. The denunciation flowed with a lyrical coarseness, like Mrs. Miller in a meat grinder. I rounded the corner on the first landing, and realized that the flurry of epithets was coming from apartment 4. The door was ajar, held fast by the three inch security chain moored to the frame. As I glanced through the crack, I saw faded linoleum and yellow pleather chairs. Beyond the chairs, I saw a crouched frame, leaning on a matte gray walker for support. From the stooped body that inhabited apartment 4 came more slurs and insults than I've heard in any barroom or mechanics shop.

“Goddammitsonsofbitchesthinktheycanparkinmyspotfuckingsignisthereplainasmother-fuckingdaycan'ttheydamnwellreadI'mgonnacallthepoliceifthatcarsstillthereinthemorning...”

The voice trailed off as I continued up the stairs to my door. I glanced warily out the window off and on for the next few hours, but saw no tow-truck arrive. In the morning, I was relieved to find my car in the exact same place I'd found it.

Smells Like Teen Spirit, Circa 1947

Over the course of the seasons, I came to know Opal through other interactions. Crossing her path on the way out the door, I'd find her sitting in her self-claimed and labeled chair. She'd wail from her chair,

“Don't let that door latch! Prop it open, like I had it. If you don't, I'll never get back in. I'll be out here all night. I can't handle that door on my own, you know. I fell the other week – It almost did me in! I can't handle much more of that...”

I'd prop the door and be on my way. I never really knew what to say to the woman's distressful tales. I'd smile, gesture to the door, and murmur something about having a good day. One day, I met her in the hallway, on the way down for a morning walk with Ellie. She bemoaned the presence of the boisterous canine with exacerbated emotion,

“Oh no! I can't handle falling down again! Don't let him jump on me, I'll topple right over! I just need to get to my apartment. No, you go ahead and go, I'll hold on here. Don't try to help, you just go on...”

Her voice kept going as I hurried out the door. While I was certainly sensitive to her fears of falling, it seemed a little extreme to be that shaken by a dog. Ellie wasn't even jumping.

Just a few month ago, I pulled into the driveway to find another car in the coveted Apartment 4 space. I knew I'd hear her venomous cursing as I passed her door, as I'd heard so many times before. As I made my way to the first landing, I was greeted, not by an auditory assault, but by an olfactory offensive.

Opal's door was thrown wide. I could see her entire kitchen, resplendent with nicknacks, inspirational plaques from the seventies, and her bent skeleton in the doorway. The smell that wafted from her dwelling was a mixture of several odors. Some of them were once intended for pleasure, but all had since turned, creating a rancid combination of baby powder, eau de Phyllis Diller, and a scent that can only be described as coming from a shut-in that owns too many cats. Not only had Opal not been out for a few days, evidently she had not opened a window since the Armstrong walked on the moon.

She locked eyes with me on the stairs. Her drawn-on eyebrows sat motionless, frozen in a raised position, looking slightly frightened, but also inquisitive. I wondered if she'd chosen that emotional expression when applying the faux-brows, or if it'd happened incidentally. Perhaps she'd painted them on for The Price is Right, and now was committed to this eternal surprise. Her skin seemed as if it'd been draped loosely over her structure, after sitting in a heap for ages. The crevasses of her wrinkles mirrored that of a piece of abandoned fruit in the autumnal sun. It melted away from her hands and arms, appearing to be dripping from her body as we spoke.

“Do you know who's red car that is? My daughter is coming to pick me up, but I can't make it past that sidewalk! I fell once earlier this year. If I fall again, I'm done for! You need to figure out who's car that is! I'll have it towed...”

“I don't know whose car that is. I'm sorry, I can't help. I think you could probably get around the car...I know you need to get by, maybe they'll move soon. Sorry again...” This time I trailed off as I continued up the stairs to my domicile.

While empathetic toward the elderly woman, I was also slightly miffed at her brazen sense of entitlement. She must think that simply because she has trouble getting around, no one should ever park in that spot. When someone does park in that spot, she expects everyone to drop what they are doing, call the President of the United States of America, and declare a national state of emergency. Not only that, but she also feels the need to share more details about her life than ever necessary in an attempt to draw empathy and action.

I am sure that I sound like an insensitive jerk, but, in my opinion, she is completely overstepping her bounds. If she'd created a sign that stated,

TEN MINUTE PARKING. PLEASE KEEP THIS SPACE FREE FOR LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY.

or

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM PARKING BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8AM AND 6PM.

I could live with the concession of not parking in the spot. But there is no reason that I should have to park down the street rather than in my parking lot. I refuse to acquiesce to her heinous demands. It's the principle of the matter.

Equal Opportunity Parking

One day I had parked in the taboo space overnight, fully intending to remove my car before 8am. In my mind, there was no way that this woman would be leaving the building before me. For good measure, I stopped my car a few feet from the sidewalk, allowing ample room for the most feeble of pedestrians.

When I strolled out the door, treading briskly toward my car, I was enraged by what I saw. Someone, in an attempt to send a message, had taken the sign, and placed it haphazardly on my windshield. The act was simple, but I was furious that someone would take a metal sign and chance damaging my car, to convey a senseless and unfounded message. Irritated by the gesture, I flung the sign across the yard. For good measure, I jerked the post that normally housed the sign from its home beside the sidewalk, and pitched it into the yard as well. Enough was enough. I was not going to stand the nonsense any longer.

I am not overly protective of my vehicles. I do not spend hours polishing the paint of my Toyota. I rarely even have my car washed. But that is my prerogative, and that does not give anyone else the right to abuse my transportation.

A few weeks later, the sign had been returned to its home. But this time, a new message was on the aluminum placard. Two sheets of loose-leaf, wide-ruled paper, were taped to the sign with sepia masking tape. The rag-tag message was scrawled in black marker, bubble letters shaded carelessly to drive home the message:

PLEASE DO NOT BLOCK THE SIDEWALK. THANK YOU.

And that is all it took. A simply 'thank you'. I haven't had the slightest desire to park there since the advent of the new sign. I've even parked on the road, a block away from my building, rather than taking that spot. A little compromise and appreciation goes a long way.

I cannot say that I handled this situation the most admirable way possible, but it's hard to confront a woman who is four times your age, especially when she's cursing like Bobby Knight on April 5^th. But in the end, I learned a great deal about respect, compromise, and giving. Now, when I am stopped dead by the pungent presence of Opal, I pause, listen to her, and offer some suggestions to help relieve her anxiety. My consolations generally fall on deaf ears, but when you're talking to someone that old, it's to be expected.

The names in this essay have been changed to protect the curmudgeonly. No old ladies were harmed in the making of this post.

Confrontation Consternation

Confrontation – A face to face meeting. The clashing of forces or ideas.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Growing up, I watched my father haggle with car dealers. I watched my mother engage door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. I saw my grandfathers verbally combat arrogant landowners and indignant baler-buyers. And as I ventured out from behind the towering figures of my elder role models, I began to realize how important it was to stand strong against opposition. Whether that consternation is caused by a smarmy salesman, licentious landlord, or berating boss, I've found it eternally difficult to absorb the abuse, stand my ground and give a concise, firm response that protects and respects.

Baler Bullshit

There seems to be a vengeful pleasure found in some established professionals. As if some form of initiation into the adult cohorts, these seasons businessmen and women take pride in looking down their noses at perfectly competent, incredibly intelligent, young professionals. This phenomenon first happened to me in college, working on my grandfathers farm.

A commercial hay man, probably in his mid-forties, brought in his Model XL baler for repairs. The baler looked like crap. It was full of dents, had rust showing around the edges, and was in general disrepair. I took notes on the main concerns for the equipment, and was preparing the paperwork, when the man made some snide remark about my hair.

To provide some context, when I was working for my grandfather, I had stick-straight hair that fell to my shoulders. I generally kept it under a hat and behind my ears, out of sight and mind. This man decided that, rather than assuming that I was a competent employee, it'd be better to make assumptions about my masculinity, penchant for illicit drug use, and overall lack of usefulness, based on my hair.

I brushed off the mans jeers, and cordially sent him on his way, pretending that his remarks didn't bother me.

That day still brings back feelings of rage. I wanted to sock the man in the jaw. I wanted to do what I'd seen my grandfather do many times before to this same farmer – I wanted to zing him with a one liner that would put him in his place and shut him up tighter than an oil drum. But instead, I balked. I clenched my jaw, and let him pummel me with insults that I'd done nothing to deserve.

At what age do you gain the ability to retort? At what level can you successfully return the bullshit and retain your dignity in these situations? A few years later, I had a memorable experience that spoke to this question.

Finding Problems and Fixing Problems

I worked at a Boy Scout camp for a month or two every summer. These are mostly happy memories of swimming, boating, building monstrous fires and playing pranks on others. But one memory stands out as not so positive.

I was a member of an honor society through the boy scouts and, after a few years of membership, had climbed the ranks and was one of the leaders of the organization. Along with that privilege came great responsibility. With that responsibility came a great potential to screw up, and one week, that is what I did.

We were at an event that was far removed from the main part of camp, at a ceremony for the new members. It was a fairly stressful day, with little sleep and a lot of work, and I had neglected to bring a crucial element for the ceremony. Upon realizing this, one of the adult volunteers pulled me aside, mid-ceremony, and began berating me about this slip up. This man was a well-liked member of the organization, fairly influential, and physically commanding to boot. He towered over me, his temples turning crimson with fury.

I listened to the man go on about my incompetency and inabilities for about a minute, all the while glancing back at the ceremony still in progress. Finally, I had to stop the abuse. I looked the red faced buffoon in the eyes and said,

“Listen, I realize that I screwed this up. I am going to go fix the problem, so that we can have a successful event. When we get back to camp, you can rip me a new asshole. Until then, don't talk to me.”

With that, I stormed off, bent on fixing the error and completing the ceremony. We did and, as I recall, I didn't hear anymore on the subject. In retrospect, I did exactly what I'd seen my father and grandfathers do before me. But not all of my attempts at confrontation have been so positive.

Once You Pop, You Can't Stop

Flash back to the man with the hay baler. We repaired the dilapidated machine, replace the abused parts, and gave it the best face-lift possible. The work was not egregious, but the man had definitely not followed the common sense recommendations for caring for a machine worth more than the truck he drove.

He came by the shop about a week after the initial confrontation. I steeled my nerves as I saw the portly, pompous man approach the shop. He strode into the office and declared,

“So, ya figger out what was wrong with that damned piece of machinery, hippie?”

Without blinking an eye, I glanced up from the manual I was consulting on the desk, adjusted my hat, and just as I'd heard my grandfather retort, I flung the following phrase from the corner of my mouth:

“You ever heard of operator error?”

The man turned seven shades of red under his tanned skin. At first I thought he would jump over the counter and wring my neck. Then I realized that he physically could not jump over the counter, so I was probably safe.

I thought that, as in the movies, my amazing one-liner would shut him up like a steel trap. Unfortunately, my insolence only embroiled his rage, and made his comments worse. After that one moment of shining glory, I closed back up, shut my mouth, and went back to deflecting his jeers with a closed mouth and a determined look.

Lesson learned? Confrontation is more than having the gall to take the petulant route. It's taking that course, then stick with it till the end.

Sales = Constant Confrontation

In my current job, I deal with confrontation every day. It seems that when a 25 year old walks in the door to talk to you about your marketing strategies, it is open season. People have a difficult time looking past my age and my job title to see that I am a person trying to not only further the newspaper I work for, but also help their business succeed.

I walked into a restaurant a few weeks ago, and was met by a business owner who was not only crass, but referred to me by the disdain laden moniker,

“salesman”

The man thought he was a big deal. He dressed snappy, sported designer glasses, and had obviously colored hair. He owned a swanky establishment and knew that, while I was on his turf, I was his mouse. I don't know why, but on that day, I wasn't in the mood to put my head down and wade through the guff. I listened to him talk about his business for a while, listened to his gripes about my paper, and gave him some poignant rebuttals to the scoffs and dismissals he threw my way. At the end of the meeting, he grinned and asked me a heavily baited question,

“So what's your favorite restaurant, salesman?”

I looked him square in his smug grin, and told him about Antonella's Trattoria, a little whole in the wall Italian joint in Davenport. I raved about the authenticity, the service, and the wine. I gave him the address and told him to check it out. It was priceless to watch his face go from smarm to startled in seconds. He actually believed that I would kiss his ass and say that I love his restaurant! As I walked to the door, I turned back to Mr. Bag-o-chips and said,

“You want a salesman response to that question? Ask me again after you advertise with us for awhile. I'll probably say the same thing.”

Just because I sell things, doesn't mean I have no integrity.

So maybe I am learning a little about handling confrontation. I still have times when I fold like a bad poker hand, but I also am getting better at playing it cool, choosing my words, and standing up for myself. I guess it comes with age. To quote a song that resonates with this issue nicely,

"Stand your ground, don't back down, it's the only way to win. And when life throws a punch, son, you've got to take it on the chin."

William Elliot Whitmore, Take it on the Chin

The Exorcism of Volvo

I believe in the possibility of demons.

I'm a natural skeptic. I hear stories of ghosts, demons, and possession, and I raise an eyebrow. Ouija boards, in my opinion, are bogus. Horoscopes and fortune tellers are so vague and generic that they get it right most of the time.

But something inside me still believes that there is a possibility that the supernatural world is real. That there is validity to some of the paranormal things going on in this world.

A priest once told me that we have a Diocesan Exorcist. One priest is appointed as the exorcist for the entire Diocese, which is a large region, geographically. If another priest is faced with a possessed soul, they call the exorcist, who will come and pray over them, performing rites in an attempt to remove the demonic presence. This happens! The Linda Blair, split pea soup-spewing, spider-walking, head-spinning images of the 70's are still happening today.

It's kind of hard to believe. That being said, I do have a personal story of exorcism. The tale is true, although the demon is questionable.

Foreign Cars are the Devil

Growing up, I was a member of St. Boniface Catholic Church in Farmington, Iowa. It was a quaint church in a town of 750. A few times each week, we'd travel highway 2, through the stoic evergreens of Shimek forest, from Donnellson to Farmington. The town was tired and dilapidated. Once a vibrant river town that took advantage of the commerce that traveled the shallow waters of the Des Moines River, Farmington had begun to dry up when the railroads and highways began etching their way into the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa.

The church was a potpourri of families that lived in and around the dirty little town. Some older couples, tottering in on canes and replaced knees. A nice man named Gerhardt, who was missing one hand, everything from the forearm down. A few of my classmates' families, although none the really cared to associate with me. One woman distinctly stands out in my mind. No one knew how to take her. Her name was Christie.

Christie was around my moms age. Sandy brown hair laid plainly on her head. She was extremely tan, with wrinkly-leather skin pulled across her petite frame. Christie dressed plainly, with white canvas shoes and smudged khaki pants that were too short for her wiry legs. She often wore some type of button down shirt or sweater that seemed as thought someone thrown it out. Christie believed in demons.

The story goes that Christie moved to Iowa from Washington state, to attend the Maharishi School of Enlightenment in Fairfield, Iowa. Something happened while she was there, and she left the school to live in Farmington. Again, I do not know what the incident was, but the Christie I knew was both physically shaken and mentally distraught.

She walked with a timidity that reminded me of a nervous rabbit, arms pulled in tight and eyes nervously glancing back and forth. When she prayed in church, she folded her hands beside her head and laid her cheek against them. Her face was wrought with distress over silent pleas that no one else knew. Every time she spoke, it was with a whispered cadence that sounded as if she was trying to sing, but afraid of how it might sound. The result was a haunting voice that hung in the air like a fog, settling on your memory and turning to dust.

Christie was the point of much pity in our church and my mother made a point to make her welcomed at every opportunity. We had dinner with her, sat with her at church functions, and helped out with things she had trouble handling on her own. That's where this story picks up.

It was a brisk October day, not over 40^o Fahrenheit, when my mother got a call. The voice on the other end was breathy and sing-song. When she hung up, my mom turned to me,

“Christie called. She said she needs her car cleaned. I guess she drove through something.” There was more to the story than this, but my mother wasn't divulging any other details.

“Isn't it a little cold for a car wash?” I asked. I was not looking forward to any part of this mandatory charity event.

“Just go out there and help her.” She commanded with a roll of her eyes. After some cajoling, I got the truth out of her.

“Her car is possessed.”

“What?”

“I guess she drove through...something, and now her car is possessed.”

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THAT!?! I don't know how to cleanse demons! I am not an exorcist! Come on, mom!”

My pleas for reason fell on deaf ears. Begrudgingly, I set out to deal with the demonic Volvo.

The Tools of the Trade -- Lime Away and Carpet Cleaner

When I got to Christie's house, she was waiting for me at the door. She led me to the dingy silver Volvo wagon and explained to me the process that I was to follow:

Step 1 - Pour Lime Away pipe cleaner onto floors, seats, and any other surface, until thoroughly soaked with green goop.

Step 2 – Vainly attempt to soak up the verdant, viscous liquid with old towels.

Step 3 – Pray to God that Christie is satisfied before my hands freeze off.

When I opened the driver door, I was greeted with the project already in progress. Christie had unloaded two bottles of Lime Away onto the floor of the car. It seemed that this had happened some time earlier in the day, as the liquid was a semi-frozen slush. As the mid afternoon sun started lowering itself behind the scraggly trees, I began the process of exorcising the demons.

The first step was to remove the icy liquid from the floor. I checked the back for an ice scraper. No such luck. I attempted to chisel the corrosive liquid from its hold on the carpeted floor with a pen, but got nowhere. Then I got smart. Requesting a bucket of the hottest water available, I proceeded to besiege the Lime Away with scalding water, thus successfully liquifying the frozen cleaner. Objective completed. As I looked down triumphantly at the floor boards of the vehicle, my mood quickly changed from triumphant to disparaged. While I had melted the frozen muck, the car was now even swampier and, with the sun going down, the potential for another frozen floor was imminent. So I began bailing out.

After the majority of the liquid was removed from the floor, I was able to soak up the remainder with some old towels that Christie had provided. About the time I was finished with that project, Christie came out with a Shop-Vac and a can of carpet cleaner.

“Spray this on the seats. We need to get rid of it all.”

Ignoring the fact that a vacuum would have made the floor job much easier, I tried to think of a response to her request. Finding none that would meet Christie's irregular logic, I sighed and proceeded to coat the seats with an expanding white foam that smelled of old rubber. After vacuuming the upholstery, I returned triumphantly to Christie's door.

“All finished!” I proclaimed with vigor and chattering teeth.

Christie sidled up to the car with some trepidation. She peeked into the backseat, opened the hatchback, and seemed to be satisfied with the job I'd done. But then she sat in the drivers seat.

Immediately, she turned and looked me straight in the eye.

“You need to do the dashboard.”

“Christie, what do you mean? How do I do the dashboard?” I responded reluctantly. The methods used thus far were not utilizing electronics friendly cleaning agents, and this worried me.

She looked around a moment, then reached down for a bottle of Lime Away. Handing me the bottle, she pointed at the electronic panel of dormant meters and lights.

“If I put this stuff on the dash, It could ruin the car. There are electronic controls up there that – ” She cut me off,

“You need to do the dashboard. That's where they are. Please just do the dashboard.” She was adamant, but I realized the implication of this decision. I tried one more time,

“Why don't I just put it on like this?” I squirted the liquid onto one of the towels and began rubbing it into the vinyl.

In a surprisingly quick motion, she snatched the bottle from my hands and pushed me aside. As she sporadically squirted the cleaner onto the control panel, she ordered,

“Like this! You need to do it like this!” then she darted away and disappeared into the darkened doorway of the house. As I assessed the situation, I noticed her silhouette in the kitchen window, watching me as I stood in the frosty dusk. And so I began to dump the remainder of the bottle onto the dashboard.

The green liquid poured into the defrost vents. It seeped into cracks and ran over the edge, dripping onto the steering column. I did my best to mop up the goo, all the while my stomach sank lower and lower with the realization that I may be destroying a perfectly good vehicle. A perfectly good, potentially possessed vehicle, but none-the-less, a perfectly good vehicle.

I finished mopping up the mess I'd made, collected all the empty bottles, rags, buckets, and left them with the vacuum by the front door. Christie didn't come to the door when I knocked, so I closed up the soggy car and drove home, reflecting upon the task I'd just completed.

I don't know if the car was possessed. I don't know what Christie thought she'd caught in the engine of her Swiss-made hatchback. I do know that she had the entire dash replaced a few days later, due to an unknown failure in the electronic systems. But of some things, I can be certain.

Something had affected Christie. Whether it was in her car, in her house, or in her head, something had definitely upset her.

And that is real.

Drilling Down - What it Means to Be Renaissance Man

"If you want to know how big of a douche you are, Google yourself."


Luke Burbank, of Too beautiful to Live said something to this affect a few weeks ago on an episode of Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!. I didn't think to write it down, but you get the gist of the statement. Sometimes you don't realize how people see you until you do a little introspection or, internet-spection.


So, In what is potentially a self-serving curiousity, I've been looking up what the phrase Renaissance Man means to the rest of the world. I've got a very specific idea of the concept, but I'm not sure that this definition is shared by the masses out their on the interwebs. This is my attempt to distill the term for the good of all.

Wiki-Pedantics


I was always taught that Wikipedia is an unacceptable source for academic research. That being said, I've found that it is an ideal starting point for basic information. You want to know the average population of Green Bay? How about the entire discography of Wilco? I would recommend you vet the information through other, more reliable sources, but the overarching disdain of Wikipedia among academics does seem to be a bit more hype than reality.


When I plugged Renaissance Man into the Wiki, I got a much shorter answer than I anticipated:

• Polymath, a person whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas
• Renaissance Man (film), a 1994 comedy-drama film directed by Penny Marshall, starring Danny DeVito and Gregory Hines
• "Renaissance Man" (Star Trek: Voyager), the penultimate episode of the TV series Star Trek: Voyager 

As much as I love Danny DeVito and Star Trek, neither of the latter entries were the answer to my query. The top link, however, was intriguing. So I probed further:


"A polymath (Greek: πολυμαθής, polymathēs, "having learned much")^[1] is a person whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas. In less formal terms, a polymath (or polymathic person) may simply be someone who is very knowledgeable. Most ancient scientists were polymaths by today's standards."

Entry for Polymath, Wikipedia

This definition also describes my understanding of Renaissance man - A person who knows a great deal about a variety of subjects. But I don't think this explanation fully embodies what I imagine a renaissance man to be. Isn't a renaissance man more than just a thinker? I believe there is more to the story here.

So on to the next modern-day reference point we go.

Stop Googling yourself - You'll Go Blind!

After wading through more Wikipedia entries, Danny DeVito references, and other semi-redundant links about 15th century Italians and Polymaths, I found a couple of perspectives that stood out.

The blog entitled The Rawness has a series called Becoming a Renaissance Man. This seven part series is the authors thoughts on virility and true manhood in the 21st century. As I parsed the message of the series, I noticed an aggressive voice, seemingly shouting

"Grow a pair, men of the world!"

The author speaks to the emasculation of our society, offering life changing tips such as,

Be Willing to Throw or Take a Punch if Needed

Control your Apologies and Gratitude

Grasp any Opportunity to Make Decisions

Raise Your Bragging Threshold and Stop Fishing for Compliments

I'll admit that this series comes across as terse, combative, and at times even misogynistic. Coupled with other series' on The Rawness, such as The Guide to Becoming the Perfect Woman, The Myth of The Middle-Class Alpha Male Series, this site comes across as down-right offensive at times. But it makes some very valid points. Some of the other tips for Renaissance status include,

Become an Expert on Your City

Find Good Role Models and Study Them

Avoid Screening Your Calls

Understand and Merge Your Three Faces

Procrastinate on Things You Enjoy

Don't Purchase a Prepackaged Identity

Although he claims to be prescribing the elements of a renaissance man, none of these entries explicitly pinpoint what it is to be such a character. They seem to lift up chivalry and an antiquated type of masculinity that I appreciate, but do not fully buy into. the borderline sexism of The Rawness can be a dangerous thing, if read by the naive viewer.

But these entries do touch upon an idea that isn't explored in the polymath description. What appeals to me in The Rawness' perspective is the call to action. The need to be a decisive, forward thinking, self assured character. A renaissance man looks at the world differently. Going with the flow is not in the vocabulary of the such an entity.

The renaissance man is a doer.

Be a Thinker and a Doer

In my mind, a renaissance man is not only a person that has amassed a great wealth of knowledge. They also use that knowledge to make a mark on society. They build things. They create things. A renaissance man is one who observes, collects, and then processes that knowledge to create something new. They are doers. They contribute to society. And that is what is missing from the polymath description.

Combining the two ideas is what I want to do. I thrive on collecting knowledge, and cannot help but apply that knowledge to everything I see. Adapt, transform, and reinvent. Isaac Newton once said,

"If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants."

Merely knowing the giants is not enough. Taking the experiences of others and building upon them to contribute new ideas to the world is the true definition of a renaissance man.

And I'll keep training.

A Natural Selection

I love going back home. I especially love taking my dog, a two year old Basset Hound, to my grandfathers farm. Although she is a hunting dog by breed, Ellie has long since left her tracking skills with her more aggressive forebears.

On a weekend in Lee county a few weeks ago, Ellie and I were staying at my grandparents. We got in late Friday night and, after a late night snack with my mothers parents, we retired to one of the now spare bedrooms. The room has lovingly been deemed “the boys room” as it once belonged to my uncles. With its wood-paneled walls, olive green carpet, and NFL curtains that may include the 70's expansion teams, this room remains virtually untouched from the days that my uncles slept in it.

One of the best things about going home? The blackness of the night. Once the switch is flicked, the room is pitched into inky darkness. I slept deeper than I'd slept in months that night. The next morning, I rose early and dressed. Ellie was already awake and stared at me with mild interest as I threw a pair of old shoes on and bundled against the impending November air. I attached Ellie's leash, and out the door we went.

When we are in a new place, Ellie will normally proceed with her nose to the ground, fervently exploring every scent that wisps by her whiskers. It's a tedious way to proceed, dashing forward four feet, then slamming to a halt as she smells the remnant odor of some ground squirrel or field mouse. I dropped the leash to prevent the jerking stops and starts of the little hound, and began to plug in my mp3 player. In our normal morning routine, I listen to NPR podcasts while Ellie does her business. Just as I was scrolling to find the next episode of All Things Considered, I looked up to find Ellie in a dead sprint across my grandfather's gravel lot.

The burst of energy sent her brown ears flapping in the breeze. Her leash skittered across the drive, trying desperately to catch up to the little dog's fiercely pounding paws. She ran across the drive way, past the old summer kitchen, the barn, the grain bins, the hog shed, and into the barren field at the bottom of this hill. At this point, I assumed she would pause and renew her exploration. Ellie is not what you'd consider a long distance runner. She's more of a long distance eater.

But the feisty little hound didn't slow when she reached the black topsoil of the field. She gave chase through the silage and crashed into the underbrush at the bottom of the hill. When I caught up to her I found her sniffing intensely through the prairie grass that grows along the creek that cuts the property down the middle.

I stood there panting as she sniffed and explored. As my heart rate returned to normal, I looked around. Over my left shoulder, the sun was sending shards of light through naked trees. The steam from my mouth was cold and wet as it dissipated into the cold, dry atmosphere. I crunched through the weeds, following my dog as she tracked some mythical creature in her mind.

As we trekked about the creek's floodplain, Ellie stopped short. Before I realized what she was doing, she began rubbing her ears, face, and neck in the brush. I was curious as to what she was doing, and caught up with her, only to find that she'd found a steaming pile of raccoon poop, and was circling the dung, rubbing her body on the surrounding ground. Every so often she'd stop and lift her nose to the sky, trying to pick up on the smell she was inundating herself with, but after a few moments, she'd go back to rubbing.

I soon realized that my dog, the domesticated diva of Davenport, was using deep bred instincts in an attempt to track this animal! Hounds are bred for their elastic faces and ears, as the folds in their skin trap the scent they are tracking, making them more likely to find their mark. Although Ellie had had no formal training, she new that this was what she was supposed to do!

My dog is a genius.

Labor of Love - A Work Study

It's long been instilled in me the idea that you've got to earn your lot in life. My parents, grandparents, and teachers have imbued this boot-strap pulling, make-your-own-luck mentality since I was in grade school.

In 6th grade I began a paper route. After a few years, I took on my sisters route as well, soon delivering the Ft. Madison Daily Democrat and Bonny Buyer to half of Donnellson. Although I was only receiving six cents for each paper delivered, My mother diligently guided almost all of that revenue into savings accounts, then high interest certificates so that, when it came time for college, I had enough money to pay for a large portion of college.

I think that this "no such thing as a free lunch" mentality is why I am so incensed by television programs such as The Real Housewives of Orange County. These people haven't had to work a day in their lives! I guess I shouldn't judge, but why does America care about these people? It honestly makes me want to vomit all over my 20" television set.

Aside from the idea that you have to work for your bread, I feel that working gives you an interesting insight into the world, if you're willing to open your eyes to the experience. Because of that, even the most mundane jobs can be fascinating experiences.


Would You Like Fries with That?

In high school, I shrugged the paper route for a slightly more refined career path -- McDonalds. Under the golden arches, I learned how to crack two eggs at the same time as I whipped up die-cut eggs for McMuffins and McHeartburn. I could prepare as many as sixteen paper thin pieces of beef product in approximately seven minutes. After the first day of working at Ronald's place, I never wanted to see another chicken McNugget again.

The people I worked with were interesting. My boss, Tom, bore a striking resemblance to Jessie Ventura, the pro wrestler-turned Minnesota governor. When he was irritated by the inefficiencies of his teenage employees and early 20's dropout managers, a purple vein would pop out of his turtle waxed head. If you dared to look hard enough, you could actually see the visions of rage flow through that vein, rippling torrents of blood traveling back and forth across his barren wasteland of scalp. Tom scared the tar out of me. I avoided contact with him at every turn.

The managers at my McDonald's were all very interesting characters as well. One man, probably in his early 20's, was an emaciated, skulking shell of a human, with sunken eye sockets that were always shrouded by twitching brows. To instill fear and demand respect, he'd often emerge from the break room removing his 5 o'clock shadow with a cheap disposable razor - no water, no shaving cream. The sickening scrape of metal against flesh haunts me to this day. He'd stare you down with his scornful blue retinas daring you to comment on his disgustingly terse behavior.

Another man in his mid 20's was Wally. Wally drove a white 1968 corvette stingray to work everyday. I always made an effort to park my junker next to this beautiful car, in an effort to attract some mechanical juju from this immaculately restored automobile.

Wally was much more of a fun loving manager. He had platinum blonde hair that fell stick straight down to his shoulders, was a bit more portly than the earlier described leader, and enjoyed conducting bizarre research in the workplace. One particularly slow night, I remember experimenting with a variety of viscous restaurant fluids, from ketchup to ice cream to orange juice. We'd fill a rubber glove to its brink, then launch it out the drive through window, measuring for distance, splash diameter, and decibel of explosion.

The results were inconclusive.

What did I learn from my year at McDonald's? Go to college.

They're Called Odd Jobs for a Reason

During my four years of undergraduate academia, my schedule prevented any traditional job off campus. Once I was ineligible for work study after my sophomore year, I was faced with a challenging predicament. How was I to pay for the extraneous expenses associated with college?

The solution, in my opinion, was both ingenious and entertaining. At the beginning of each semester, I'd send an email to the faculty server list. In this correspondence, I'd offer my services for any odd job needed. Childcare, lawn maintenance, Snow removal, basic construction, cooking, cleaning, Animal removal, plant sculpture, and more. If you have a project, let me know and I'll either take the job or find someone who can.

In my two years of odd job's at Monmouth College, I completed the following tasks:

Shoveled snow
Raked leaves
Observed professorial children
Medicated sheep
Trimmed shrubbery
Cut down trees
Supervised cats
Cleaned abandoned houses
Painted houses, both interior and exterior
Acted as a professional chauffeur, errand boy, and lackey

With each job, I'd negotiate the price, at either an hourly rate or a flat fee. Some were one time deals, some lasted for multiple semesters. Many of these jobs were small and uneventful, but a few are worth noting.


Old McMonmouth had a Farm

One of the business professors at Monmouth College is a past National president of the Future Farmers of America. He owned a modest farm outside of town, and solicited my help for a few jobs around the property. At first, it was simple tasks - trimming trees, cleaning up scrap metal, nothing outlandish. The caveat was the time. I would arrive at the professors house at 6am, to complete two hours of work before my 9am course. To the chagrin of my roommates, this meant that I would be awake and traversing the house around 5am, clad in work boots and a complete lack of empathy for their beauty rest. Maybe if they wanted me to be quieter, they'd go to bed before 3am. Just a thought.

One morning, I get to the house, and the professor is in the sheep lot. He calls me over and explains the days task.

"Here's the objective. You grab the ewe, put her in a tight headlock, and I'll administer the medicine. Hold her steady - this stuff isn't cheap."

I proceeded to wrangle disgruntled lamb chops for the next two hours of my life. When we'd finally finished the task, I looked at my watch. the sheep shanking had taken longer than we'd anticipated - it was 8:30am.

I hastily scraped the mud and sheep shit from my boots, jeans, hands, and any other spot it'd latched to, then jumped in my truck, flying towards Austin Hall. I made it to class on time, but was kindly asked, both by teacher and fellow student, to never show up to class smelling like that again. EVER.

There are several other jobs that warrant a tale, but I'll save those for other musings. The odd jobs that lined my pockets during college definitely taught me a few things about professionalism, career paths, and sheep. They were invaluable, not only for financial reasons, but also for life skills. For that, I'll always have fond memories of those jobs.

And they sure make for good stories.

(No children, cats, or sheep were harmed in the making of this blog. A few trees were, but at the bequest of academic officials. I claim no responsibility for their demise.)

In Sickness and In Health

My wife is sick.

It may have come from the 20+ degree fluctuations in temperature this last week. I blame El Nino for the bi-polar weather that has dumped close to two feet of snow on our heads, then jumps to a balmy 40^o Fahrenheit, inspiring shorts and flip-flops to fly out of drawers and everyone to think we're living in the Bahamas.

It may have come from extended contact with any of her 30 cousins over the Christmas holiday. Lord knows what bacterial, viral, or homicidal specimens creepy-crawled their way from those cute little elementary school hands into my wife's ears, nose, or throat.

Regardless of the source, she is officially sick. The doctors have deemed it,

“SINUSITIS”

Evidently she's been infected by sinuses. I hope I don't catch the little buggers. I've gone my whole life without a single sinus, and I don't plan on catching one now.

Nursemaid to the Stars

I don't know if you realize this, but as a husband, it is your duty to care for your ailing wife in times of suffering. The clause “In sickness and in health” includes sinusitis.

It all began with a tickle, located somewhere in the back of her throat. Annie's voice sounded a little raspy, but we chocked it up to talking over the ravenous din of ecstatic cousins and exuberant aunts. But then, the aches and pains started. The soreness led to an all out whine of despair that bore a striking resemblance to Randy from A Christmas Story. Instead of,

“I can't put my arms down!”, her wails of despair were saying,

“My whole body hurts!”.

After a healthy regimen of over the counter pharmacological cocktails, cold washcloths, and love, it was obvious that I was losing the war against this vehement virus. I admitted defeat and she went to the doctor. She waited two hours for five minutes of face time with a physician who didn't have time for bedside niceties. A few routine pokes and prods and the verdict was in: SINUSITIS.

Pharmacists Don't Smile

Out the door she went, sinusitis in one lobe, prescription in the other. I got a phone call about an hour later.

“They said I have to wait 25 minutes for the prescription. Will you pick it up for me?”

“Of course. Go home and rest. I'll bring it by in a bit.”

A half an hour later, I head to the pharmacy. The lady at the counter retrieves my white bag from the sea of bins behind her.

“There's a five dollar charge for flavoring.”

“She got flavoring? What kind of flavoring?”

“Watermelon. It's out of season, so there's a five dollar charge. Is that OK?”

“Well, you can't remove the flavoring now, can you?” I joked. Anything to help get this Codeine infused swill down.

“Have you ever taken these medicines before?” she responded with deathly seriousness.

“They're not for me...My wife – I'm not Ann, I'm Chris.”

“Have you taken them or not?” Her tone was tinged with an irritation you might find in someone surrounded by sick people all day.

“No. No ma'am.”

“I'll have a pharmacist explain them to you. CONSULTATION!” she bellowed into the shelves behind her. I didn't think such a small woman could contain such a deafening roar. Soon a pharmacist was before me, rattling off the specificity of each elixir and pill.

“Quaff one teaspoon every 4 hours...

...Two pills the first day, one the next four, unless your a Capricorn on Thursday...

...Don't take if you are operating a forklift...

...Don't forklift if you are operating a tank...

...And that is all there is to it. I hope you feel better Mrs. Jasper!”

Bewildered, I proceeded to the exit and delivered the narcotics to my withering wife. I tried my best to impart the instructions to her and, in a semi-conscious state, she understood fairly well. We administered the first dose of antibiotics without a hitch. Attempting to deliver the Codeine proved more difficult.

The top was not only childproofed, it was adult proofed and possibly bear proofed as well. After a solid three minutes of prying, twisting, and biting, I successfully loosed the cap from it's mooring.

“Is it flavored? I asked them to add a flavor.”

“For five dollars, it better taste like prime rib.” I muttered. “It smells kind of spicy...”

An unsteady hand wielding a teaspoon of medicinal magic was soon in route for my wife's mouth. A squeamish face greeted the utensil and swallowed the medicine with reluctant force.

“Eeeeuuuggghhhhh!!!!! Get me some water!” Evidently the spicy watermelon didn't help much. So much for that investment.

I Feel My Temperature Rising

When I got home from work, It didn't seem as though Annie had moved more than a few inches from the spot I'd left her in.

“I threw up.” She greeted me with a dilapidated groan.

“So you're feeling better! Swell.” I changed out of my work clothes and tried to assess the situation. She was very warm, so I got her a cool washcloth and laid it on her head.

The rest of the evening, we had the thermostat set at a balmy 55^o. As we went to bed, Annie was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. I cloaked myself in a hoodie, sweatpants, socks, and mittens. About four hours later, all that was about to change.

I woke up at 2:30am in a pool of sweat. My mittens were strewn across the bed, the blankets were no where to be found, and I had no clue what was going on. But it was hot. Annie was barely awake and, upon hearing my rouse, she asked,

“I'm freezing. Can you turn up the heat?”

I begrudgingly obliged, peeling off layers as I stumbled through the house. I got back to bed, laid back, and heard,

“Can you get the thermometer? I think I have a fever.”

Another blind stumble to the bathroom found me back at the bed, thermometer in hand. A few moments later, the digital read out stated,

“99.4^o”

“Great. I'm glad we solved that mystery.” I returned to bed, pulled up the covers, and was met with a meek,

“Can you get me a box Kleenex?”

At 3am I was finally reunited with my REM cycle. The next morning was a slow one, but I made it to work. Annie had borrowed my car for the day, and about 11:30, she shows up at my office, bearing SUBWAY.

“This is for taking such good care of me. Thank you.”

And that makes it all worth it. I love my wife, even when she's feeling like death, and just as fun to be around.

About five minutes later, I get a text from the woman of my dreams:

“I almost just barfed in your car.”

That's what love is all about.