The Thinks I Think
Today is a brand new day. Well, ok, it’s not really brand new, it’s been around for a while as it’s after 2PM. Still, it’s the newest day we have. For me, that means moving past the last 3 months of horrible pain.
Mid June, I was a typical guy, and didn’t wait for any help when it came to loading our moving truck. I was the first to arrive at our rental, and so loaded the entire trailer by myself. Including furniture. This was stupid, and so the following week when I started having really bad pain in my, um, well, down there, I was fairly certain I’d given myself a hernia. Because apparently I’m not a spring chicken anymore.
The short version of the following 3 months is that I saw a doctor, a surgeon, a specialist, and basically no one knows what’s wrong with me. Two of the doctors insist I don’t have a hernia. One thinks I do. None of them can explain why I feel like I just got kicked between the legs by a mule pretty much all day, every day. If you’ve never been kicked between the legs by a mule, let me assure you, it’s something you’d like to move past rather quickly. Three months is not quickly.
So the specialist I saw yesterday told me to just wait and see. He thinks I’ll eventually heal, but doesn’t find anything he can treat. This is a good thing, because it means he didn’t find any cancer, tumors, baby aliens gestating in my groin, or other medically fixable stuff. The bad thing is that he can’t find anything to fix. Double edged sword. BUT, he told me I have no restrictions, and that I should just get on with my life. One doctor talked about pain management drugs, but I don’t want to be that guy if I can avoid it. So, brand new day. As of today, life should be treated as normal. If a decade and a half of migraines have done nothing else, it’s given me a fairly decent pain tolerance, so I’m just going to deal.
So if you ask how I’m doing? I’m fine. No, it doesn’t mean I’m healed, but it means I’m tired of being out of commission. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go for a walk. It’s been 3 months, and I’m overdue.
Due to drastic career changes, our previous relocation to Grand Rapids, MI has been rescinded, and we’re back in our home up in Indian River. Since we were never able to sell our home, moving into the home we still own is actually rather nice. I far prefer one house payment to two.
Now that we’re back up north, permanently as far as we can tell, we need to do something about our landscaping. After our home burned down a few years back, we never landscaped around the replacement home. And while the septic drain field being in the front yard means we have lovely green grass:
We have nothing done to the house itself to make it look nice:
Yes, the deck has a couple of shrubs, and in the summer had some flowers, but let’s face it, this is just sad. Unfortunately, when I had a landscaper come out, he wasn’t help AT ALL. Since he couldn’t fill our yard with trees (drain field, anything other than tiny ornamental trees are right out), he basically told us we were out of luck.
We’ll probably have to find another landscaping company, and see if they are more imaginative. As it is, we know we want flowers and a small tree, with a nice path along the front… but we have no idea how to plan that, much less build it.
Does anyone else have a drain field in their front yard? How do you go about landscaping when trees are out of the realm of possibility? Are we doomed to an ugly front yard with lush, green grass?
Like any fallen-off-the-wagon blogger, I’ve decided to commemorate my intention to return to regular (personal) writing by redesigning my site. I think the last time I redesigned my site, I blogged for a week. Now that we’re back up north, with only one house payment, and only two jobs — perhaps I’ll have some time to brain dump online.
Expect lots of news about BirdCam. It’s my latest obsession.
Here’s to our new life, which is basically a 1 year rewind. Details later…
In an unexpected announcement today, the Plant Kingdom spokesman, Fern Dirtlicker, told press, “providing oxygen free of charge no longer fits into our business plan.”
When asked if the Plant Kingdom will offer a subscription service, or possibly sell the oxygen manufacturing industry to another company, Fern replied, “Nope. We’re just not going to do the whole ‘oxygen’ thing anymore. Users are advised to pick a different breathable gas by July 1st, when PK plans to halt distribution.”
Governments are currently negotiating with the International Clown Federation in attempts to reach an agreement on helium balloon usage, but observers noted that talks aren’t going well. The talks are funny to listen to, but they’re not going well. What will humankind do in light of the Plant Kingdom abruptly canceling their cloud-based oxygen service? Hopefully someone will come up with a viable alternative, but we’re not holding our breath. (Well, actually we are)
I look at the fast paced lives my kids are growing up in, and it makes me sad to realize that not only don’t they have the opportunity to watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, even if they did, they wouldn’t enjoy it. I honestly believe Fred Rogers did for several generations of kids something that parents, doctors, educators, and even PBS can’t seem to do anymore — make kids feel good about themselves. There are plenty of good, moral television shows available for children today, but none of them are capable of doing what Fred Rogers did with a little bit of kindness, a closet full of sweaters, and a whole lot of imagination.
To be honest, I don’t think it’s the fault of current television programs that they can’t accomplish the same thing Mr. Rogers did. Our media-soaked world is a different place, and for better or worse, lifestyles have changed. The thing that worries me, is that in our technology rich world, nothing seems to have taken the place of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Nothing has been able to speak to the past few generations in the same way a simple man with a soft voice and a kind heart did for so many years.
I’m almost 40 years old now, which is the same age Fred Rogers was when he started his television show. Yes, my mother raised me to be a decent young man, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how deeply Mr. Rogers affected the man I grew up to be. Heck, I’m probably a writer today because Mr. Rogers told me I could do it.
It sounds melodramatic, but I seriously worry about the kids who grew up with Power Rangers instead of Mr. McFeely and Queen Sara. Hopefully there is an equivalent positive force in the lives of recent generations that I’m simply not privy to. Hopefully with the speed up of our day to day lives, our youth have been able to slow down enough to care about people. Hopefully, they learned to make believe along the way, too.
Perhaps it’s because I grew up without a real father figure. Perhaps it’s because as a nerdy, introverted kid I spent more time in the land of make believe than other kids. Whatever the reason, Fred Rogers is a man I look up to. I admire what he did, I admire who he was, and in the back of my mind, I always try to live in a way that would make him proud of me. Mr. Rogers, I’ll say back to you your own words, “If only you could sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”
Happy birthday, Mr. Rogers. You’re loved and missed. Thank you for caring about generations of children. You made the world a better place.
The office realm was a happy place. Mondays came, and Mondays went — but the supply of Monday repellant was always plentiful and hot.
But then one foul, foul day, something horrible happened. The Elixir of Promised Fridays disappeared!
Knowing the Office Realm could not survive under such dire circumstances, the king decided to hire a champion to protect his Office from the depression and despair of an empty cup. The volunteers were many, but the king knew Sir Ibuprofen with the Paper Sword was his best bet against Monday’s onslaught. And so the knight was commissioned.
Unfortunately, while Sir Ibuprofen was indeed a valiant fighter, he could only battle evil every 6-8 hours. The king new he needed a champion able to take on enemy after enemy, without the required wait time Sir Ibuprofen demanded. And so, Lord Swingline took the post.
And everyone laughed.
So the king hired a saber toothed stapler, not of noble blood, but far more vicious.
Unfortunately, the villagers called OSHA, and the king was required to post signage warning potential thieves of their certain peril.
Everyone laughed at the poor saber toothed stapler, and all his staples fell out. Now he lives in the kings bedchamber, and guards against slipper thieves and stocking bandits. The king needed a fierce warrior, and so he scoured the kingdom until he found a sword wielding pod person!
While a valiant warrior, Lord Podbiscuits annoyed the entire kingdom with his incessant singing. The king even suspected Podbiscuits of drinking the royal elixir, and so had him removed from office.
Sadly, shortly after the demise of Lord Podbiscuit, all the king’s champions were detained indefinitely by the TSA for attempting to get on a plane with Podbiscuit’s sword. Sir Ibuprofen also insisted he had to be taken on board with 6 ounces of water, and it is suspected the entire group is now in Guantanamo Bay.
Now the king mourns the loss of his champions, and fears for the safety of his realm. Without a hero to protect the Elixir of Promised Fridays, the king fears a curse of Forever Monday. Fearing for himself and his subjects, the king’s only choice is to pray to the chicken gods. (You know, like you do…)
If only there was a chicken strong enough to defend the realm. A chicken whose beak were sharp enough to pierce through the most sinister of evil, yet not be long enough to be considered a weapon by the TSA during kingly jaunts cross country. If such a noble bird existed, one such as Lady Gwenevieve Lockjaw of New Eggland, the realm would once again be safe from the onslaught Monday and all Monday’s henchmen.
The king sent his desperate plea to Queen Klishis of the Metal Birds, and to this day, he awaits her reply…
My family rocks. In fact, they’re the reason I work so hard. These are the people who inspire me to do my best. Heck, I moved my family across the state so these ladies would be guaranteed a university education (free tuition is a perk of my new job).
So is this a post about how important it is to work hard for your family? Not even close. This is a reminder (mostly for myself) that the best thing you can possibly do for your family is be there. Yes, providing is important. Yes, my family is my responsibility to care for. “Providing”, however, means a lot more than “earning money”, and I have to remind myself of that often.
So Moms, Dads, Grandparents and caregivers — don’t miss the goofy smile photos. Don’t miss the board games. Don’t miss singing in the car. And most importantly, don’t miss your kids growing up! It happens fast.
I’m curious, what are some of your favorite things to do with your family?
Let me tell you two different stories:
Greg jerked out of his fitful slumber because a cold draft snuck under the covers when his wife got out of bed. After quickly sealing himself back into his burrito-like cocoon, he realized that warm or not, his aching back wouldn’t allow him to sleep. With all the angst a 40 year old man can muster, Greg swung his feet out of bed and shoved them into his slippers. One of those slippers was soggy and misshapen, thanks to a set of puppy teeth which were obviously thoroughly lubricated with slobber.
Greg plodded into the kitchen, and scooped himself a bowl of scrambled eggs, which were getting cold in a pan on the stove. After eating his eggs, Greg dressed himself and patiently waited for a chance to use the bathroom. Then he waited some more. And more. Finally he used the bathroom, shaved his face, and relinquished control of the bathroom to the waiting hordes of children.
With a quick kiss for his wife, Greg grabbed his briefcase and walked out to his car. He didn’t have gloves, or any motivation to scrape the ice off the windshield, so he sat in his cold car and shivered while he waited for the defrosters to do their work. After a few minutes, he grabbed the still icy steering wheel, and drove across town where he faced 9 hours of waiting to come home. Or “work” as some people called it.
Now let’s listen to Fred’s morning:
Fred felt a cool breeze on his leg, and woke to find his wife had gotten out of bed early to make breakfast. She didn’t purposefully wake him up, but after the fitful night of sleep, getting out of bed was a welcome change. When he slipped his feet into his slippers, he found one had been thoroughly chewed by the puppy, and was much more absorbent than he realized when it came to dog slobber.
Not wanting to let his slipper incident go unnoticed, Fred clopped into the kitchen and proudly announced, “Now presenting, Sir Squishy Toes of Tasty Slipper Lane. You may all bow and slobber your praises.”
The girls eating breakfast around the table giggled, and Fred noticed they left him a sizable amount of scrambled eggs in the pan, where the ambient heat kept them warm. Knowing what happens to the bathroom when 3 girls and a wife get ready for their day, Fred quickly gobbled down his eggs and tried to be first into the bathroom. Unfortunately, his plans were foiled when he went back for seconds. (The eggs were good!)
After his eggs, Fred waited patiently in the queue outside the bathroom door. He challenged his daughters to a “pee pee dance off”, to see whose dance was the most pathetic. The girls let dad go next. After a quick bathroom break, Fred grabbed his electric razor and released the bathroom to the girly inhabitants of Tasty Slipper Lane. He grabbed his coat and his briefcase, and then looked around the house for his wife. She was waiting for him with a smile, happy to see that after all their years of marriage, a goodbye kiss was more than just habit — he wouldn’t leave the house without the brief moment of intimacy.
Fred smiled as he approached his car, because the frosted windows meant he’d get an extra 5 minutes of audiobook listening in before work. He sat in his car, shivering slightly, and with his hands crammed into his coat pocket he dove into the world of his audiobook. In a few minutes, the car had warmed up enough to drive, so he went to work. Fred shut the car off in the office parking lot just before an exciting scene in the book. It would be something to look forward to on the drive home. But first, there was hot office coffee waiting inside, and Fred was excited to warm up his hands with a mug full of it.
The point is probably painfully obvious. I’m both Greg and Fred, and this was my morning. For me, and I suspect many others, simply focusing on the positive instead of the negative can make a situation drastically different. This morning, I chose to be Fred, and my day has been wonderful. More often than not, I choose to be Greg, and it sets the mood for the entire day.
When you wake up tomorrow morning, try to be Fred. Just once. See how it goes.
That’s how long it took before I had to shave my face every day. Since I know guys that had to shave at 12, I refuse to believe this revelation marks me as a “grown up” — I sincerely hope that day never comes.
For the record, I hate shaving. I’ve never really liked it, and apart from a 12 year old boy wanting to be manly, I think I’ve always been perfectly happy with my baby face. But that’s all gone now.
If you aren’t a member of the Hairy Face Cleaving Society, there are basically 3 ways to go:
Truly, the third method is the best, and by far the cheapest. The only problem is that it takes a long time. It’s also difficult to get dressed and let out the dogs while shaving with a double-edged razor blade. Just sayin. Still, if you’ve ever wanted an amazing shave, follow the advice of my cooler-than-me friend Kyle, and try the old fashioned method. You won’t be sorry.
But you might be late for work.
Write a book of fiction, just to see if I can.
I’m making this resolution a year in advance so that perhaps I can get my life in order enough that devoting time to writing fiction might be practical.
I have plenty of ideas for books, but fleshing them into more than napkin-sized scribbles is something beyond my ken. Hopefully reading more books this year (my goal is 24) will help. Hopefully spending this year with the notion of getting my life stabilized a bit will help too. Heck, maybe the boxes in my office will even get unpacked.
Anyway, Dear Next Year Shawn: Write a book man. Quit fantasizing about it, and just do it. Oh, and This Year Shawn? Yeah, help a brother out. You have 12 months.