Just when you think you know someone

After 11 years of marriage, Lois and I have gotten to know each other pretty well. I know that Lois likes her chocolate dark, her movies romantic, and the heat set to 72 degrees. I also know that when I get home from work, if I sneak up quietly to the room she’s in and then yell, “RAWR!” that it will scare the absolute bejeebers out of her, and I will be in trouble for anywhere from 1-3 hours.

One thing I did not know about Lois, however, something that she definitely did not disclose during our courtship and revealed only recently, was that she is a vegan. This came as quite a surprise to me. She hid it so well over the years, and I don’t know what she did with all that meat and dairy that I was sure she was eating.

Lois claims that she wasn’t a vegan before and only decided recently to try it out for a while. How does that even work? Maybe I’ll “decide” to try out having O positive blood for a while. Or maybe I'll “decide” that my astrological sign will be Virgo instead of Libra. And maybe I could just “decide” that I’m going to be a Democrat instead of a Republican. Balderdash.

Luckily Lois does not insist that the rest of us participate in the odd rituals associated with being a vegan, like the consumption of the green smoothie each morning. I don’t know what all she puts in there, but I know it includes copious amounts of spinach, a frozen banana, and a vile weed called kale. She claims that it is delicious, but she is a vegan after all, so I don’t know why I should believe anything she says.

About a year ago Lois’s sister, Chloe, had her wedding rehearsal dinner at a very nice Thai restaurant. Rather than ordering from a menu, the restaurant staff would regularly bring out various dishes and we would help ourselves. Some of Chloe’s friends from New York had flown in for the occasion, many of whom are vegetarians. They were all sequestered to a specific table so the staff could make sure to get the appropriate dishes to them. I remember how relieved I was not to be sharing the table with them. Not just because I’d have to eat their food, but because vegetarians are just weird, man. What do you even talk about with a vegetarian? And what if they tried to convert me? Would they be offended at how prominent my canine teeth are?

Without being overbearing, Lois has undoubtedly hoped that her new “healthy” lifestyle would rub off on me. On the contrary, however, for each healthy change Lois makes, I find myself needing to keep things balanced. When she ate only a salad for dinner the other night, I was compelled to make a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich to go along with my meatball sub. When she checked out Vegan Planet: 400 irresistible recipes with fantastic flavors from home and around the world from the library, I checked out Man Eats Man: the story of cannibalism. And for every batch of vegan cupcakes Lois makes, I shoot one of the neighborhood cats. Granted, I was going to do that last one anyway, so…

I'm not really sure how long Lois is going to keep this up.  I've been trying to entice her back to carnivorism, but subtlety isn't really my strong point.  If anything, the gusto with which I devoured that brace of pheasants the other night seems to have made her retreat even farther into her devotion to veganism.  In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have butchered them in the kitchen while Lois was hosting her book club in the next room.  And perhaps I should have taken more care to avoid getting blood on her Flirty apron.  On the plus side, as long as she remains vegan, that means more dark chocolate for me. 

The Laws of Gravity and Karma

If you don’t know me and you look over at my photo to the left, you’re probably thinking, “Now there is one good looking guy who is probably awesome at sports.” Well you’re half right, but let’s just say that Lois didn’t marry me for my athletic abilities. Considering the sedentary lifestyle I lead and my special diet of trans fats and red meat, I should weigh 400 pounds and ride a Rascal Scooter to commute from the buffet to the soda fountain. But I don’t. The only plausible explanation I can think of is that I must have two metabolisms. It probably happened during a freak lightning storm sometime in the 80’s. You scientists should really look into that.

When the guys want to get together for some basketball, or football, or volcano boarding, I always have an excuse ready. “Sorry, I gave blood today and they took an extra half-pint.” Or, “I was up all last night writing my thesis.” Or, “I’m allergic to magma.” It’s easy to get out of doing things that will make me not be in a sitting position.

But when my buddies Slim and Chaos asked me if I wanted to go biking down the mountain at Sundance, I didn’t even hesitate to say, “Heck yeah!” This, I thought, was the sport for me. You get to ride up on the ski lift and then ride down the mountain on trails. There is beautiful fall weather and scenery, the lift does all the work getting you up, and gravity does all the work getting you down. What could be easier? I shall now pause here while those of you with at least a Payson education laugh at my naïveté (for those of you from Payson, that means I’m dumb).

Slim is in marketing and Chaos is a corporate attorney. These are guys who spend about as much time sitting at their desks as I do. Surely the HR guy (that’s me) should be able to keep up with them and show them a thing or two.

When we get to the top of the mountain Chaos asks Buff Dude, who is working the lift, which trail is the best. We take Buff Dude’s trail and I quickly learn several things: (1) gravity is quite a powerful force; (2) mountains often have cliffs; (3) I am the slow kid in the group; and (4) when you want to know which is the best trail, instead of asking Buff Dude with the No Fear t-shirt, you might be better off with advice from Skinny Girl with the Justin Bieber t-shirt.

Being the slow kid gave me the advantage of not having my spectacular wipe-out witnessed by my companions. I did, however, perform this feat just as the trail went below the ski lift, and was regaled with the applause of my loving audience. I quickly picked up my bike (originally christened “Silver Bullet,” but now affectionately known as “Mule”), took my bows and then proceeded to fight against Gravity once again as he made his vigorous attempt to catch me up to Slim and Chaos.

The three of us had paid for a full half day of “see if you can hurl yourself down a mountain while balancing on a two-wheeled transport without swearing aloud.” A quarter of the way down on the first ride, I felt as though I had already had more than my money’s worth, so I started to contrive reasons of why I should focus my efforts on conquering the gift shop since Slim and Chaos seemed to have the mountain conquering gig pretty well under control. Somehow I was unable to think of any acceptable excuses, so I found myself back on the lift making the slow, scenic trip to the top of the Mountain of Affliction and Agony. And then, inexplicably, again for the third time.

I have no problem admitting that I gleaned quite a lot of satisfaction when I learned that Slim and Chaos also crashed. Too bad I was too far behind to witness their tumbles, but the scrapes and bruises I could see on them were some comfort.

When I arrived back home, I decided that I would act heroic and not show any signs of having been pummeled. But then I realized that acting tough doesn’t really do anything for you when your audience (Lois, in this case) has no idea that you were pummeled in the first place. As far as she knew, a ride down the mountain was like riding around the park a few times, and why did I come home so sweaty?

In retrospect, I should have known I was out of my element when the Sundance clerk wanted us to sign a release of liability. Chaos had said that the release couldn’t stop us from suing if we were injured. This should have been another red flag for me, but I figured it was just another one of those things lawyers are always saying so that we don’t accidentally forget that they’re lawyers. Plus, I had been a little preoccupied trying to figure out why there was a “karma jar” near the register.

So the next time you find yourself doing something that requires you to sign a release of liability, I highly recommend that you don’t forget to put a little something in the karma jar. And take about 2000mg of ibuprofen.

No Country for Old Rob

Lois and I have been married for just over eleven years now.  We tend to keep to ourselves and spend a lot of time at the house.  It's not that we aren't friendly, it's just that we don't really like people.  Oh, I hope I didn't offend those of you who are people. 

Recently we decided to mix things up a bit and actually got a sitter.  Suddenly the whole world was opened up before us.  We didn't have to worry about selecting a restaurant that offers crayons and a kids meal with sauceless options.  We could choose anything without having to submit a request to Buzz and Rocky. 

It was a difficult decision.  This was luxury we do not often indulge in, so we wanted to make sure we selected the *right* restaurant. I was in the mood for a good steak and Lois was in the mood for non-Shrek themed food, so we settled on Ruby River in South Provo.  We'd been there once or twice early in our marriage and we were pretty sure that it met both of those criteria.

When we arrived we were seated right away, which was a major disappointment because I wanted to eat peanuts in the waiting area.  Luckily the hostess brought a bucket of peanuts to our table, so I was willing to forgive this oversight.  Over the years, I had forgotten about the decor of Ruby River.  As we were being led to our table, the first thing I noticed was all the Country Western paraphernalia.  There were autographed cowboy boots in colors that I didn't know existed.  There were photographs of people with names like Pickler, and Chesnutt [sic], and Rascal Flatts.  I think there was even a rug made from the carcasses of brushpopper shirts. 

The music was a quite surprising, though.  When I go to an Italian restaurant, I want to hear Italian music.  I want my Mexican restaurants to play mariachi music.  And I want my Country Western restaurants to play Def Leppard.  Or U2.  Even Michael Bublé I could tolerate.  But country music?  I cannot abide this.

Here's the thing about music.  Studies have shown that people like music when they can anticipate 51% of the song.  No more and no less.  So smrt people like me find country music boring and stupid.  So if you like country music, well... it's not really your fault that your parents raised you in Payson.  The fact that you still live in Payson might be a little bit your fault. 

I suppose I shouldn't be quite so harsh.  On country music, I mean.  Some of it is rather delightful.  I actually sang "It's Your Love" by Tim McGraw to Lois at our wedding reception.  I got jiggy with it.  I mean, I got twangy with it.  Also, I like "The Joker" by Steve Miller.  And... wait, what?  That's not a country song?  Well, don't some people call him the space cowboy?  Whatever. 

So despite the lack of Counting Crows and the overage of Kenny Rogers (or whoever the popular country singers are these days), Lois and I had a good time.  My steak was done perfectly, with just the right amount of bloodiness, and my cinnamon yam was delicious.  I'm sure the salad or whatever girlie food Lois ordered was good too.  And it's nice to know that no matter where you go, as long as you're with the person you love, you can always count on Dr. Pepper being among the beverage choices.

No Amount of Coffee

My niece, Makayla, upon graduating from high school in Utah County, spent a couple months working in one of the southern states. I think it was the one whose state flower is the tobacco leaf and the state bird is KFC.  No no, not Kentucky.  It's the one whose state quarter shows Foghorn Leghorn eating a bowl of grits.  

Anyway, while she was there Makayla posted her Facebook status as, "Caramel Crème Frappuccinos."  Now, some of you might have picked up on the fact that I am a Latter-day Saint or Mormon, as well as most of my extended family.  Even if you don't know much about Mormons, you probably know that we don't drink coffee.

So naturally I began to fear for my niece's soul.  Those pagan Southerners have corrupted her!  I figured that Makayla was innocently drinking this carnal beverage, completely unaware of the presence of Beelzebub's roasted beans of degradation.  So I commented on her status and said, "You do realize that's coffee, right?"  She confidently explained, "No it isn't," and I countered with, "Yes it is."  She said, "No, it's made with whole milk."  I was beginning to see that Makayla was more than a match for my debate skills, so I appealed to my good friend, Google, to provide the evidence of Juan Valdez's sinful allurement.  Aha!  Um... it turns out that Starbucks has a line of coffee free "Crème" Frappuccinos.  Makayla's soul was safe after all and I, her favorite uncle, had wrongfully accused her of being a doofus.

So I decided that I'd better try one of these Caramel Crème Frappuccinos and see for myself what all the fuss is about.  It pretty much tasted like someone blended ice with milk and put some caramel in there.  I guess it was okay, but I didn't get excited enough about it to make it my Facebook status.

While I was at Starbucks sitting in a comfy chair, sipping my coffeeless frap-based beverage and listening to the frap-based music, I looked around me and began to feel oddly out of place.  No one told me that you were supposed to wear hemp jewelry and at least one article of tie-dyed clothing when you go to Starbucks.  But the hippies were mostly pleasant and only one of them tried to educate me on the virtues of marijuana. 

So while I may not share Makayla's enthusiasm for caramel flavored ice milk, at least she's not committing a grievous sin while she drinks it.  She wouldn't have been the first Mormon I know to inadvertently drink coffee, though.  Before we were married, my dear wife Lois's favorite drink was Ghiradelli Chocolate Mocha hot cocoa.  If you clicked that link you noticed that coffee beans are pictured clearly on the label.  Lois defended herself by explaining that the one she had was part of a holiday sampler and it didn't have coffee beans pictured.  The fact that the name of the drink contains the word mocha didn't clue her in, apparently.  But it's okay, she's been on the wagon for more than 10 years now. 

I'd like to tell you more things about Lois that would embarrass her, but I'm almost out of Dr. Pepper and if I don't go get some now I don't know how I'm going to stay awake during church tomorrow.

Living In a Quaker State

My sister, Carmela, is participating in something her neighborhood has organized called "No Media July."  It is pretty much as horrific as it sounds.  Willing members of the area actually signed a contract stating that during the month of July they will refrain from any "recreational" electronic media.  This includes TV, internet, email, texting, and music.  With regard to internet use, they made a special point of clarifying "especially Facebook."  They have made allowances for email and internet if needed for work or school, and "uplifting" music is okay.  So Bon Jovi is in, but Midnight Oil is definitely out.  

The great thing about this is that Carmela shouldn't see my blog for at least a month, so I can't get in trouble for making fun of her.  Here's the thing.  I can see how it's all noble and great to cut back on the electronic media that we as a society have developed an unhealthy dependency on, yadda yadda yadda.  But what will abstaining for a month really do?  My brother, Sir Pumpkin Longshanks (I feel compelled to remind you that names have been changed), once gave up desserts for a month.  Then at the conclusion he pigged out on chocodiles, Oreo shakes and moon pies.  As the clock strikes midnight on August 1st, I think there is no question that we will find Carmela and her media-abstaining conspirators plugging in for the most epic bender of Twittering, Facebooking, and Lolcatting ever seen. 

Carmela and the Amish are also having non-media activities throughout the month to help stave off the withdrawal effects.  She invited us to tonight's activity which involves a "bike rodeo" for the kids.  Unfortunately, it starts after Buzz and Rocky's bedtime, so we can't go.  The fact that I will be sitting in front of my TV watching Jack Bauer be awesome has nothing whatsoever to do with us not going. 

I was curious how Carmela would handle her text messages.  Does she have the strength not to read them when they come in?  So I sent her a text that said, "If you are reading this, you are BUSTED."  A few minutes later my phone buzzed and I was all excited to shame her for not being able to last even one day.  Her response said, "Hi! This is an auto reply to let you know i am media free for july.  If you want to talk call me!"  A very clever cover up.  

The media fast was originally scheduled a month earlier until the moms and teenage girls freaked out.  They stormed the activities committee meeting and demanded that it be delayed by a month.  Further investigation showed that the opening of "Eclipse" was scheduled for June 29th. 

So while Carmela is Etch-A-Sketching while driving her horse drawn carriage and somehow perfecting Crack's Theorem to the fourteenth decimal, I will be... well, doing normal stuff. 

Also, "Carmela and the Amish" is going to be the name of my band.  It remains to be seen whether or not the music will be "uplifting." 

Father's Day 4.3 of 4.3

The best part of Thursday was having Lois back home with us.  The boys were delighted with the toy cable cars she brought back from San Francisco, and I was delighted with the macarons from Miette.  I was also delighted with the Taza chocolate covered nibs even though I haven't tried them yet.  That kind of chocolate seems like it should be consumed very carefully and with reverence.  

While the house was not a complete disaster, I was careful to keep it at just the right level of disarray.  At the office, if they ever find out you're good at planning events, you'll get suckered into the party committee.  I believe the same principle applies at home.  Plus, I read somewhere that this would be a good way to show Lois that we really missed her.  By the way, whoever wrote that is an idiot. 

So, maybe I lost a few points there.  But I figured I was rich with the points I scored from taking care of the boys for 4.3 days, so I could afford to squander a few.  Chances are I was already hopelessly in dept, but still.  

So life is pretty much back to normal again.  The prospect of a day without crying, whining and playing juvenile games was really appealing, so I went ahead and took the day off work again today and stayed home.  I'll deal with those issues in the office on Monday. 

There are several things I have learned.  If you burn a hotdog on one side, you can hide it by putting that side down on the bun.  But at some point, you have to know when it's just too black.  Also, kids are pretty good at knowing when you're bluffing.  Buzz now owns my car and my vintage collection of Star Wars action figures.  I'm hoping to at least win Boba Fett back at next week's poker night.  

Another thing I learned is that kids aged 6 and 2 don't get tired of spending time with their dad, even when they're together nonstop for 4.3 days straight.  These were definitely the best Father's Days ever. 

Father's Days 2-4 of 4.3

One of my readers who also happens to be my brother, Fritz (names have been changed), has been pelting me with text messages to post more content here.  So if it's not funny, blame Fritz for compelling me to write under duress.  

Day 2 included most of the funny stuff.  Days 3 and 4 were pretty tame by comparison.  

I woke Monday morning around 5:45 AM to the cries of Rocky shouting, "Hey Mommy, hey Mommy!" which is the usual wake up call.  Even though Mommy wasn't here, I figured I'd better take the call anyway.  He seemed mildly surprised to see me and I reminded him that Mommy was on vacation. 

After a simple breakfast I decided that I should take care of the weeds in the vegetable garden, so I slathered sunscreen on the boys and myself and we headed outside.  While the boys drew pictures on the driveway with chalk, I proceeded with an attempt at manual labor.  After about 15 minutes, I remembered that there is absolutely nothing remotely interesting about weeds, so I abandoned my hoe and joined the boys.  I discovered that Buzz had drawn a line down the middle of the driveway and was rebuking Rocky for trespassing on his side.  I decided not to meddle in the boundary dispute, and inquired whether they wanted me to push them on the swings.  They did, and we all failed as usual to make our swings go all the way around.  Maybe next time.  

Back in the house, the boys wanted to watch a cartoon on the computer.  For reasons beyond my comprehension, it was agreed upon that we would watch an old episode of "The Smurfs."  While the smurf village was being burned by an angry dragon, Buzz started freaking out.  While I concur that smurfs are freaky and disturbing, I was puzzled by Buzz's reaction.  After a brief investigation I discovered that the freak out was not a smurfy one, but that he had rubbed his eyes and they were now stinging from the sunscreen.

I procured a turkey baster and attempted to flush Buzz's eyes with water.  For some reason, six-year-olds do not like to have water squirted in their eyes, especially when they're already hysterical.  So I get Buzz to strip off his clothes and I put him in the shower.  This seemed like a novelty to Rocky and he wants to get in too.  I recall that Lois did want me to make sure the kids bathed while she was away, so I get Rocky in the shower with Buzz.  After only a few moments, Rocky is now screaming that his eyes are stinging.  Stupid sunscreen.  I'm already getting wet and water is getting on the floor so I get in the shower, fully clothed, to see if I can do anything to help the kids.  Both boys fail to acknowledge my sacrifice, and neither of them appreciate the humor of the situation either.  After forcing them both in turns to put their faces directly into the stream of water, they eventually calm down. 

Finally, after this ordeal is over, we return to the computer and get to see Hefty Smurf cleverly vanquish the dragon by luring it to the river and getting the other smurfs to open the dam (oh sorry, spoiler alert). 

The next activity we have planned is to make a trip "to town" so that I can pick up a library book I've been waiting for.  After what seems like an unreasonably long time to get the kids to use the bathroom and get their shoes on, I've finally got them both buckled into the van when I remember that I need some spare pants and underwear for Rocky, "just in case."  When I return to the van, Buzz yells that he has a bloody nose.  I look at him accusingly.  "Did you pick it?" I ask.  "No!" is his indignant reply.  I can see that he's telling the truth because there's no blood on any of his fingers.  Stupid dry climate.  I get the kids back in the house, we stop the bleeding, and are finally on our way.  

By the time we've completed our mission at the library and are on our way back home it's right around lunch time and we pass a Wendy's.  Buzz is usually the one to ask whether we can go to a restaurant, but this time it's Rocky.  

Rocky:  Can we go to Wendy's?

Me:  No, not today.

Rocky (in a somewhat aggressive two-year-old voice): Sometimes when the kids say can we go to Wendy's, the mom and dad say yes. 

Well, he got me with logic there.  But by now Wendy's was well behind us, so I suggested IN-N-OUT instead.  Both boys cheered.  While the food was enjoyable, I have concluded that IN-N-OUT is no longer awesome now that it doesn't require a trip to California.  Stupid trendy burger joints and their market saturation.  

Days 3 and 4 were fun, but not nearly as hectic.  I could just make up some stuff, but the laundry needs doing tonight (did I mention that Rocky is in the midst of potty training?), so I'll fabricate something another time.  Lois returns tomorrow evening, but that leaves plenty of time for more mischief.  I'm tempted to test the effects of caffeine on the boys to give me some writing material, but I don't want them to start bogarting my Dr. Pepper.