My Nose, Part 4

True story - My nose and I have always had an adversarial relationship, part four in a four part eye-blackening melodrama.

Incident #4 - Age 33, Central Middle School, Columbia Heights, Minnesota

**Note I'm missing from the team photo as it was taken the day of my surgery. I was going to show a picture of the actual nose, but couldn't find it, which is probably for the best**

It had been 10 years since my last nose-altering experience. I'd like to say that the gap was caused by my being more careful and being smarter, but it can more accurately be credited to the fact that I was now doing a lot more coaching of basketball and a lot less playing. Even when I was playing now, it was usually in tandem with coaching. It's pretty difficult to be elbowed in the nose by a bunch of kids that can barely reach that high (getting hit below the belt is another matter). My nose was still only semi-functional due to the incident explained in the last post, but I was accustomed to it and seldom even remembered I was breathing a bit different than most other people.

Al was now in sixth grade and his first year of traveling basketball. I happily volunteered to coach the team and enthusiastically dove into the job, determined to have the smartest - if not most naturally athletic - team around. The team was stacked with legendary talents such as Al, Cole Holmes, Aaron Crosby, James Ericson and Samuel Paulson, names widely known now, but at the time nothing more than lumps of clay waiting to be molded by my great basketball mind. I was dead set on teaching this team the wonders of a back-door screen. For those not up to speed on basketball terminology, a back-door screen is a set play where a player will come up behind an opponent and set a stationary "screen" so that his teammate will be able to streak to the basket wide-open for a lay up while the person assigned to guard him turns around and is hopelessly stuck behind the screen which has been set. This may still not make sense, but trust me it is awesome when executed correctly. It is especially awesome when a group of sixth graders learns how to successfully execute the play as we could easily get several open lay-ups in a row before the other team would figure out how to stop it. So, a good portion of our practices were set up drilling the back door screen play over and over again until it became second nature. The kids, to their credit, did learn the play, but their sixth grade patience levels quickly tired of having to repeat it over and over again as I would stop and correct them and make them start it from the beginning.

One practice in particular we were drilling the play really hard. We had a poor showing in a tournament the previous weekend and looked completely out-of-sync so I was devoting our entire 90 minute practice to boring, monotonous fundamental drills. With about 20 minutes left in practice it was obvious I had lost their attention. Their eyes were glazing over, they demanded water every three minutes and they would not stop chit-chatting and focus on basketball. Knowing that continued drilling was futile, I promised them that if we could run our back-door screen flawlessly just one time, we would spend the rest of the practice scrimmaging, which was far and away their favorite portion of practice. I even volunteered to play the role of point guard to make sure the play started properly. I split the team offensively and defensively, took the ball and called out the play. Because we were focusing on offensive execution, the defense was supposed to be simply going through the motions, making their presence on the court known but not giving 100% effort to stop the offense from scoring. I had assigned Al to play defense on me and was paying little attention to him while I waited for my teammates to get in position and run the play yet one more time. Al, sensing my distraction and his opportunity, jumped in, cleanly stole the ball away from me and headed the other way for an uncontested lay-up.

Oh. Hell. No. There wasn't a chance in hell I was going to let some little sixth grade shit - let alone my own son - show me up by stealing the ball from me and coasting the length of the court for a lay up. I quickly (quickly for me is a relative term, but you get the idea) turned around and gave chase determined that Al would not make the basket. To me, at the time (and still now I guess), there was nothing more humiliating than allowing a sixth grader to own me on the basketball court. I simply couldn't let it happen. Al neared the hoop with a shit-eating grin on his face as I quickly closed ground and swooped in behind him, my arm reared back and ready to swat the ball as soon as he released it. Everything played out perfectly - Al, aware I was coming, but not aware how close I was, leisurely lined up his lay up and let the ball fly. Like an NBA highlight reel, I timed my jump magnificently, jumped as high as I possibly could and emphatically spiked his shot out of bounds with an intimidating Kevin Garnett-style scream. It - and I - were spectacular. I was still in the air and already gloating over my magnificent shaming of a sixth grader when I realized I hadn't quite thought this over. Looking down, I realized that now that I was up in the air, gravity was quickly doing what it does and my 220-plus pound frame was about to land on and hopelessly crush Al's scrawny (he took after his father) 95lb. body. Wanting to avoid adding injury to my just unleashed insult, I attempted to shift my momentum in the opposite direction. Fortunately for Al, I was somewhat successful and instead of landing directly on top of him, managed to only land awkwardly on his feet. While this was fortunate for Al, it spelled trouble for me. Our feet got tangled, it tripped me up and my body was now going full speed towards the closely approaching wall. It was beyond negotiation now - a collision was imminent. My best bet was to angle towards the padded mats directly behind the basket, no doubt installed for exactly this kind of scenario. I frantically attempted to push my momentum towards the mats but managed nothing more than further throwing my balance off and putting my arms in a position that made it impossible for them to shield the rest of my body from the wall. Stumbling forward, my nose caught the full impact of the collision, a full 10 inches away from the padded sanctuary of the mat and directly into the brick wall.

I remember two things in the direct aftermath of the collision. First was the sickening (if now somewhat familiar) sound of my nose being pulverized like a fat, juicy bug squished underneath a shoe. The second was the collective gasp of the parents who were seated just a few feet away and had first row seats for the debacle. As was often the case for me, embarrassment was a bigger motivator than pain and I quickly jumped up, hoping nobody had noticed my slightly less than graceful ballet. As is also often the case, everybody noticed. A quick glance in the direction of the parents revealed several looks of horror, as if they had collectively just witnessed a horrifying car crash. At least three parents had their hands covering their agape mouths while two others quite literally covered their eyes when they saw my nose. I quickly spun around to look at my team and noticed the ball rolling slowly away while every pair of sixth grade eyes were twice their normal size and transfixed on me. I had their full attention now! Like my previous break, very little blood came out of my nose. Despite what I had heard and the pain I was feeling, I interpreted the lack of blood as a sign that I was fine and others were simply momentarily shocked at the sight of a large man essentially running full speed, nose first, into a brick wall. My eyes were full of tears, making my vision limited, but I was determined to persevere. "Let's scrimmage!", I bellowed, expecting the team to erupt in satisfied cheers now that the fun part of practice was beginning. Nobody cheered, however. In fact, nobody moved. They all stood slack-jawed staring at what used to be my nose.

After a few minutes, Sarah Crosby, who is a friend and a parent of one of the players, slowly stepped onto the court and said, "Ahhhh...Paul? Do you maybe want me to drive you to the hospital?" I was confused and determined to finish practice with my fast dwindling pride intact so I said, "No, thanks - I'm fine". Sarah, bless her honesty, said, "You haven't seen your nose - you are not fine." At this point I grudgingly admitted that perhaps I shouldn't continue and although I still refused a trip to the emergency room, I ended practice a few minutes early. Driving home from practice, I made Al swear secrecy as I plotted whether or not to tell Katethat I had once again made mincemeat of my sniffer. Al mentioned I did have a noticeable gash on the outside so I knew I wouldn't be able to hide it and decided to come clean, but to minimize the impact. When I entered the house, KT's back was turned to me and she asked how practice went as she had a hundred times before. "Good", I replied, "But I bumped my nose a little bit. Can you take a look to see if you think it's broken?". She turned around, let out a slow, sad chuckle and begin slowly shaking her head side-to-side and burying her face in her hands. From experience, I knew this meant only bad things. Coincidentally, KT had been playing around with our new digital camera when I arrived home. Without saying a word, she motioned me closer, snapped a few photos and, still silently shaking her head, showed me the indisputable evidence that my nose was indeed severely and savagely broken.

Although it wouldn't be my last break, this one was definitely my most severe. My beak was pointing in all sorts of different directions and was crushed to the point that I abandoned my deeply ingrained "no doctors" policy and made an appointment for the next day. A week after that appointment, I was on the operating table for my second septorhinoplasty. And, like a broken record, it was a few weeks after I was fully recovered and no longer wearing a brace that I unceremoniously snapped my septum sideways once again during a basketball game. That's where my septum sits today - fully blocking one nostril and causing all sorts of interesting night breathing noises. Someday, when my feet, knees or back finally and definitively tell me my basketball career is over I may have it straightened out again. I'll just need someone to drive me home from the surgery as KT has made it quite clear she isn't interested.

True story: Bats!

The list of animals I'm terrorized by and avoid at all costs isn't long - it basically consist of snakes, chickens and moths. Snakes is pretty self-explanatory as lots of people are afraid of snakes (Incidentally, I'm afraid of eels as well, but they are basically water snakes so I don't give them their own category). I can't really explain my chicken phobia, but a lot of it has to do with my cousin Mark. Feel free to ask him for details. Moths, quite simply, have it out for me. The only plausible reason I have been able to come up with is I secrete a moth drawing pheromone. Rarely a day goes by from April until October that I have not been the victim of an unprovoked moth attack. A lone moth would seek me out of a stadium full of people for attack. It happens far too often to be coincidence. Kate will verify this - she has witnessed countless attacks. Two days ago, while cleaning out an old backpack of mine - one that I hadn't used for months - she opened a zippered pocket and out flew a moth ready to attack. Realizing it was Kate and not me, however, the moth flew off and is undoubtedly hiding somewhere else in the house waiting for me to let my guard down. There are other animals I'm not really a fan of - centipedes, maggots, and other gag reflex inducing animals are on this list, but I don't scream and run upon encountering them. Bats were also one of these "second tier fear" animals. An encounter last week, however, promoted them to the esteemed ranks of snakes, chickens and moths.

I had some vacation time to burn and a fat stack of books to read so Carson and I took off for what is becoming our annual week-long retreat to the woods. Our days are spent lounging on the deck reading and napping and having some much cherished alone time. There were other campers, but our spot is secluded enough that seeing others is rare and interaction is non-existent. It was just Carson and I for a full week - or so we thought. On Tuesday morning, while I was sitting on the deck enjoying coffee and the cool morning air, my attention was drawn to the tarp covering the wooden frame over the deck. More specifically, it was drawn to two tiny triangular ears that were situated between the tarp and the frame.

It's impossible to discern what the object is from the picture, but I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking at and wasn't really interested in moving in for a closer shot. As I said, I considered bats in that second tier of frightening animals - not exactly terrifying but not something I want to cuddle up with either. After pondering for a while, I decided to leave it be. Bats have it bad enough these days with the terrible and mysterious white nose syndrome that is decimating their population. I certainly didn't need to be responsible for further killing off the species. So, I picked up my book and began reading, determined to ignore the uninvited guest. I read about half a page before quickly glancing up to make sure the bat hadn't moved. It hadn't. Good, no reason to be alarmed, and I could return to my book. This time I read a full three sentences before checking on the bat again. It still hadn't moved. After about 10 minutes of repeating the process of reading increasingly smaller amounts before having an irresistible urge to make sure the bat hadn't moved, I came to the realization that this wasn't going to work. If I wanted to relax and get some reading done, the bat had to go.

I was still determined to remove the bat humanely, so I decided that if I simply lifted the tarp off of the frame, the bat would most likely harmlessly fly away into the woods and the problem would be solved. So, I grabbed a stick and headed to the opposite corner of the tarp from the bat and began lifting the canvas off the frame, keeping one eye on my beady-eyed intruder. I almost had my corner of the tarp removed when I saw a movement close to where I was poking my stick. Startled, I jumped back and gave a small squeal as I saw a second set of tiny triangular ears scurrying to get back under the cover of the tarp. Well, shit, now I had a problem. There were not one but two bats I had to humanely remove before I could resume enjoying my vacation. Pausing to assess the situation, I poured a little bit of Jameson into my coffee to steel my nerves. I then went to a third corner of the tarp, inspected it carefully to assure there weren't any bats hiding (there weren't) and began using my stick to remove the tarp again. As the tarp slid up over the wooden frame, something dropped down, bouncing off my arm before hitting the ground. I let out a yelp and took off running. Carson, convinced we were playing some sort of new game that he didn't yet understand the rules of, chased after me. I stopped about 10 feet away, hid behind a tree and courageously looked back towards the desk. There was no sign of movement so, stick at the ready, I crept forward to determine if the coast was clear. It wasn't. The two bats were still watching me (can bats see?) from their perches. Additionally, a frog had apparently decided to join the party in the tarp and it was he (or she) that had tumbled down on top of me while I was trying to free the bats.

Shaken, but still determined, I poured more Jameson into my coffee. I took a nice long sip and poured in a little more. I determined the only way to make this happen was to rip off the proverbial band-aid. Instead of inching the tarp off, I would grab a corner and just give it a quick tug, pulling it all off at once. It was a risky plan, but I wasn't interested in prolonging this exercise any more than I already had. So, I poured a little coffee into my Jameson, slammed it down, and took a firm grip of the tarp. After counting down from ten, I gave the tarp a strong jerk and it slid off of the frame, exposing the bats. In the scenario I had mapped out in my head, the bats, once exposed, would quickly dash off into the woods and my problems would be solved. The bats, however, weren't interested in following my script. Once exposed, the began furiously swooping and circling around the deck over and over again. I screamed, quite loudly this time, and (literally) hit the deck. For what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than 10 seconds, I lay flat on the deck as the bats continued to swoop around in circles above my head. Carson, meanwhile, still not understanding the rules of this game, began prancing around me, oblivious to the horror just inches above him. Trapped, I began desperately searching for an escape, eventually settling on the car parked about 20 feet away. I let out a scream and began running while staying as low to the ground as possible. Thankfully, the car was unlocked and I dove in, slamming the door immediately behind me. Safe now, I looked back at the scene of the carnage, letting out another yelp as Carson joyfully jumped up and looked in the window, obviously enjoying this awesome new game.

The bats circled for at least three more minutes before finally taking off for the woods. Once they left, I waited another full five minutes before exiting the car and shamefully apologizing to the dog for deserting him in the face of danger. The ordeal over, I steadied myself with a Jameson (hold the coffee, please) and replaced the tarp. After a few hours, I was finally able to relax again and resume my vacation.

The next morning the temperature and humidity dramatically spiked upward and over coffee Carson and I debated whether we should stay in our introvert paradise and deal with the heat or stealthily sneak home to air-conditioning. As we were discussing, I happened to glance upwards and noticed the horrifying little brown bump wedged firmly under the tarp again. I was out of Jameson, so we quickly packed the car and headed for home.

My Nose, Part 3

True story - My nose and I have always had an adversarial relationship, part three in a four part nose flattening thriller.

Incident #3 - Age 23, Linden Hills Park, Minneapolis, Minnesota

This story isn't so much an "incident" as redemption gone terribly wrong.  I had broken my nose a couple more times between seventh grade and age 23, all basketball related and none particularly noteworthy.  None of the breaks were serious enough that I sought more in-depth medical attention than having an overworked school nurse stuff some gauze up my nostrils and placing an ice pack on my nose.  Doctors generally weren't used in my household growing up.  My mom was an X-Ray Technician and had seen a career full of people coming into the emergency room for the most ridiculous of reasons.  Her reasoning, which makes perfect sense, was why pay an exorbitant fee and wait several hours in an emergency room for a doctor to simply verify something you already knew was broken was broken?  So, unless it needed a cast, we simply dealt with it.  Fingers, toes and noses weren't serious enough to require a doctor's visit.  (Side story:  One time in high school when my parents were on a fishing trip in Canada, I had pushed Brian a little too far and he was chasing me around the house in a violent rage.  I, as was my protocol, ran into the bathroom and locked the door.  Safely behind a locked door, I heard a loud thud followed by Brian screaming he had stubbed and broken his toe and I needed to drive him to the emergency room.  I called bullshit for a good 10 minutes before finally opening the door a crack so he could prove it to me.  He wasn't lying - his little toe was pointed at a macabre 90 degree angle from the rest of his foot.  We called a temporary truce to our hostilities and I drove him to the emergency room, where it played out exactly as my mom told us it would.  We waited for a few hours, the doctor looked at his toe, said, "Yep, it's broken.  You should probably stay off it a while."  He then gave Brian some ibuprofen and a hefty bill.  When my parents called the next day to check in on us, we explained what happened and were lectured for the rest of the call for making the egregious error of racking up a hospital tab for a measly broken toe, and the littlest toe at that).

In November of 1993, Kate became tired of my constant snoring, choking and gagging every night as my natural instinct would kick in after I fell asleep and I would attempt to breathe through my nose.  While conscious, I was aware of the futility of nose breathing and would intake my oxygen through my ever agape mouth, but as soon as I fell asleep I would start (trying) to breathe through my nose again.  I was aware I had broken my nose in the past, but attributed my breathing issues more to ever present allergies than a badly aligned nose.  So, I made an appointment and went and saw an allergist.  He gave me a thorough examination, poking and prodding my skin testing for various allergic reactions.  After about an hour, he informed me that I did indeed have a few different mild allergies that could be contributing to my difficulty breathing.  What was a bigger culprit, however, was the fact that my septum had deviated to the point that one of my nostrils was entirely blocked off, allowing no air in or out of half of my nose.  He could prescribe allergy medicines, but it would probably make more sense to have my nose fixed first and see how much of a difference that made.

So, after spending a few weeks convincing my insurance company that this was not a cosmetic procedure (I'm vain, but not vain enough for a nose job), I scheduled the surgery.  It was perfect timing as we were getting married the following July and I would have a nice, new, beautifully straight beak for the event.  The surgery was a same day procedure, meaning KT dropped me off in the morning and came back several hours later to bring me home.  It went off without a hitch, although I don't remember any of it (and never did) as I was put under for the surgery and then kept full of pain killers for the next few days.  To this day, KT doesn't hesitate to remind me that I was a complete unbearable asshole during my recovery period, going so far as throwing a petulant childish tantrum in the middle of a Snyder's Drug on the way home from the hospital because they were unable to fill my pain killer prescription.  Two days after the surgery, I returned to the doctor for a follow up appointment.  My eyes were both extremely blackened, I had a brace protecting my nose from any inadvertent bumping and I had small barely noticeable strings hanging from each nostril.  The doctor said my appointment would be a short one, so KT and Al, who was two at the time, decided to just wait in the lobby for me.  Thirty minutes passed.  Then sixty.  Then ninety.  Finally, after two hours, a nurse informed KT that I could be taken home, but would probably need assistance walking to the car.  KT and Al went back into my exam room to find me an unnerving shade of gray, sitting motionless in a chair in the middle of what looked to be a crime scene.

Unbeknownst to me, the two "little strings" that were barely hanging out of my nose were attached to two much larger tampon-type devices which were crammed into my nasal cavity so far that I wasn't even aware they were there.  When I sat down on the table for my follow up appointment, the doctor casually asked me how I was feeling.  Before I got a chance to answer, he gripped the two little strings and with a quick snap of the wrist, ripped the "tampons" out of my nose.  I was caught totally unaware and gasped as I saw the size of the objects that had previously been shoved up my nose.  Then, I briefly noticed the blood flowing out of my nose like a wide open tap before blacking out.  When I woke up, I was lying on a table surrounded by a few agitated orderlies attempting to clean up more blood than I had ever seen before in my life.  The doctor, noticing I was conscious, chuckled softly and said something along the lines of "Well, that was a bit more blood than I was anticipating".  He proceeded to tell me that despite being covered in blood, I looked great and the surgery had been a success.

He was right.  A few months after the surgery, I was able to take the brace off and was dumbstruck by how beautiful my nose looked.  It no longer took a curving "S" route down my face but instead was a straight line top to bottom.  KT marveled at how wonderfully silently I was sleeping and I had to admit I was waking up feeling more refreshed than previously.  We were now into Spring, which meant the outdoor basketball courts were up and running nightly.  I was itching to start playing again as between the surgery and not being able to afford a gym membership, it had been several months since I played last.  My brother, cousin Todd and his friend Matt all lived nearby and we had made a habit of going to Linden Hills Park in Southwest Minneapolis three to four nights a week to play.  We were young, tall and in shape at the time so we put together a pretty formidable team and more often than not got to keep playing until we decided we were finished (winner's always stayed on the court until they were beaten).  My nose was still a little tender to the touch, so I put my nose brace on before the first game of the season and hit the court, excited to get back to my pre-surgery routine.

The nose brace lasted a half a game.  It was bulky, uncomfortable and blocking my vision.  Additionally, I was (am) superstitious, so when my first several shots clanked off the rim rather than going through the net, I whipped of the brace and threw it to the sidelines.  I vowed to be careful, settling for jump shots and keeping out of the lane where elbows flew.  The only was I was (am) a terrible outside shooter.  My basketball skills were centered around patrolling the lane, throwing my weight around (I was no longer scrawny) and grabbing rebounds.  So, before I knew it, I was mixing it up in the paint, we were winning games and all was right with the world - until it wasn't.  On about our fourth game of the night, I was matched up against a giant of a man whom I had battled many times before.  He was a very friendly guy and we got along great, but on the court we absolutely pounded on each other.  He had not been playing basketball for long - and never more organized games than playground ball - and thus wasn't fully aware of some of the do's and don'ts on the court.  One of the big don'ts, especially in playground ball, is throw your elbows around.  Unaware of the unwritten rule, however, this guy would leap for rebounds and come down with his elbows fully extended and swinging.  He wasn't doing it maliciously, he just didn't realize the peril he was putting everyone else (including his own teammates) in.  As I'm sure is apparent by now, I caught one his monstrous elbows, square on the bridge of my nose.  It made a sickening squishing sound and game stopped as my teammates were immediately aware of the gravity of what just happened.  I grabbed my nose, expecting blood to be rushing out and was stunned to find only a small drop or two leaking out.  I let out a big sigh of relief, thinking I had avoided a catastrophe.  I looked over at Todd to show him I was ok and saw his jaw drop and face turn white.  Even though my nose wasn't gushing blood, it was pointing slightly towards my ear rather than straight down to my chin.  I excused myself from the game and rushed home the few blocks to our apartment to see the damage for myself.  When I arrived home, I told KT that "I might have broken my nose again" and asked her to take a glance.  She looked up at me, slowly shook her head and covered her face with her hands.  It was an action I would see her repeat a few more times over the years.  

My septum was once again blocking an air passage and my picture perfect wedding nose was ruined. Neither insurance nor KT were going to allow me to have the procedure again so I was back to the mouth-breathing snorer I was destined to be.

Next time - Broken ego or broken nose - which would I choose?

My Nose, Part 2

True story - My nose and I have always had an adversarial relationship, part two in a four part septum shattering drama.

Incident #2 - Age 13, Valley Middle School, Apple Valley, Minnesota

One year later, my nose had fully recovered from the "shallow end of the pool" incident.  I was now a year older and in seventh grade, but physically nothing had changed.  I was still a runt, the proverbial 100lbs. soaking wet.  The photo is from my 12th birthday, but it gives an idea of my less than imposing physique (Side note - this photo could be a story in itself from the Old Style Light in the corner to the wallpaper clearly identifying where in the house you were to the "Grace" painting that every good Minnesotan Lutheran family had hanging in their house, but I digress).  Although my body hadn't changed much, my mind certainly had.  I had morphed from a (mostly) sweet, innocent kid into a complete insufferable asshole.  I didn't realize it at the time, of course, but having had experience later in life with kids that age, including my own, I can comfortably state that all 7th graders, particularly those with "outdoor plumbing" are complete assholes.  Most grow out of it, thankfully (I like to think I did), but at that age they are completely unbearable.

As a seventh grader, it is incumbent upon you to make others miserable.  It is as naturally instinctive as eating boogers as a toddler or cracking open a beer at 12:01PM on a Saturday for a middle age man.  Because of my size, I couldn't use my new found assholism to physically make other people miserable.  The only person I dared get physical with was my brother who was either too patient (possibly) or as physically unimposing as me (more likely) and didn't give me the proper pummeling I so richly deserved.  Our "fights" usually consisted of me sneaking up on him while he was reading a book (Brian was always reading a book, so this wasn't difficult), delivering a few quick blows to his stomach or trick knee (a blow to the right spot on his knee left him howling in pain for a good 30 minutes) and then quickly locking myself in the bathroom until he became too bored for retribution.   On the rare occasions he was able to retaliate, to his credit he always abided by the unwritten rule that no punches were allowed above the neck.

So, unable to physically torture others, I instead turned to verbal torture.  I'm unable to give examples of the acerbic wit I unleashed on others (this was more than 30 years ago), but I can imagine they were about as clever as you would expect from an asshole seventh grader.  One person in particular received an pretty hefty share of my verbal assholism.  I can't remember his name - even scouring through my old yearbook wasn't able to bring it back - so will call him "Scott".  Scott was a year older, in eighth grade, but wasn't much bigger than I was.  I don't know why I chose Scott to unleash my assholism on, but can only guess it was because I didn't see him as much of a physical threat, which was rare for me.  I do remember going out of my way to insult, tease, pester and generally torture the poor kid though.  I also remember that I was smart enough (or, more appropriately, cowardly enough) to only unleash my verbal torment when I had a full backing band of friends who would laugh each time I let my inner asshole shine.  Scott may not have been bigger than me physically, but mentally and emotionally couldn't have been more different.  Rather than lob insults back my direction or ask a teacher to intervene, he silently took it without reacting.  Which, of course, I took as an invitation to continue my behavior (remember, I was in seventh grade and seventh graders are assholes).  For weeks on end, I was an unrelenting dick to this poor kid - until the day Scott had finally had enough.

We were in shop class together (excuse me, Industrial Arts), which allowed a loose enough class structure that the students were able to interact with one another without being told to shut up and pay attention.  I had been bugging Scott since the opening bell and was still unleashing insults when the final bell rang.  I was so deeply involved in being an asshole that I took no notice that my supporting group of friends had become bored with my game and were already out the door on the way to their next class.  It was then that I noticed a not so subtle change in Scott.  Instead of just shrugging off my words, he turned and stared at me with a seething hatred in his eyes that I hadn't ever seen before.  I was shocked and frightened and became more so when I realized that apart from Scott and I, the classroom was completely empty.  My bravado gone, I gathered my items and headed for the exit.  Scott, undoubtedly seeing his opportunity, blocked my way.  Before I knew what had happened, Scott delivered a beautiful round house punch square to the bridge of my nose that sent me sprawling across the room.  I blacked out briefly and then pretended that I was dead in the hopes that he wouldn't continue my much deserved ass-whooping.  When I dared open my eyes again, Scott was gone and I was alone with my pain, blood and humiliation.

As mentioned in the "shallow end" incident, I was pretty good about keeping things from my parents.  This time, however, that was impossible.  I arrived home from school with a gash on my nose and two black eyes.  My mom noticed immediately and asked what had happened.  There wasn't a chance in hell I was going to explain that I had been a mouthy little shit and gotten what I deserved, so I explained it away to an errant elbow at a playground basketball game.  I'm not sure if she bought the story or not, but let it slide either way.  Scott, to his credit, never spoke to me or even looked at me again.  The momentum was undeniably all his and I was completely terrified of him. He could have easily spent the rest of the year forcing me to turn tail every time I saw him.  Instead, he acted as if he had never seen me before.  I never thanked him at the time, of course, because I was too afraid to come within 100 yards of him.  As I have grown older and my assholism has faded, however, I think often of the debt I owe this kid.  Not only did he teach me a valuable lesson about the consequences of being an asshole, he let the lesson speak for itself and didn't continue to make my life miserable, as easy as that would have been for him.  So, Scott, wherever you are, thank you for breaking my nose. 

Next time - Wedding Day Blues

My Nose

True story - My nose and I have always had an adversarial relationship 

I have, in the course of my 45 years, managed to break my nose as many as seven times.  I say "as many as" because I've only endeavored to see a doctor about it twice.  Two incredibly expensive and draining septorhinoplasty surgeries have convinced me that perhaps my nose is just meant to be perpetually broken and I shouldn't fight nature.  Kate has actually forbidden me to have the surgery again unless I a) sign a waiver guaranteeing to never play basketball again and b) find someone else to transport my impossibly cranky ass home from the surgery and to my follow up appointments.  So, instead, I have learned to live life with my mouth slightly ajar as my septum is deviated to the point that one side of my nose is completely blocked, making the intake of oxygen through my mouth a requirement.

I don't remember the details of each break, but I'll share a few of the more memorable ones.  In the interest of keeping the stories shorter and Facebook friendly, I'll separate them in different posts.

Incident #1 - Age 12, Valley Middle School, Apple Valley, Minnesota.

As a sixth grader, I was a scrawny child.  Not just skinny, but scrawny.  Those who have known me only as an adult may (justifiably) be skeptical, but it's true.  I was the kid in gym class who was struggling bench pressing the bar only while the other kids - boys and girls - were pushing up twice the weight I was.  It was one of those humiliating experiences unique to the awful middle school years.  I was always relieved when gym class moved out of the weight room and into the swimming pool.  Swimming was the great equalizer for me.  I was still awkwardly skinny in my suit, but I had grown up in the water.  I was an excellent swimmer and eagerly used every opportunity to show it.  Swim the length of the pool?  No problem.  Do it entirely underwater?  Sure.  Use the diving board?  A perfect opportunity to show off my perfect diving form.  The pool - and to a lesser extent the basketball court - was where I was able to feel like I was not only not the worst in the class, but one of the better ones.

At the end of each class session, we were usually given 10 to 15 minutes for "free swim".  For most kids, this meant hanging out in the shallow end and splashing each other.  I, however, was determined to use this time to impress upon everyone exactly how talented a swimmer I was.  I headed to the deep end of the pool with the few other brave souls and dove in time after time.  As exhilarating as this was, it didn't take long for me to become aware that my extraordinary diving feats weren't being given the attention they were due.  The majority of the kids were still down in the shallow end, oblivious to the mastery being exhibited.  This would not do.  If they wouldn't acknowledge me in the deep end, I was bringing my talents to the shallow end.  Diving was (with good reason) strictly forbidden in the shallow end, but I had done it several times before and know how to "shallow" dive.  I lined up at the shallow end of the pool, performed a series of exaggerated stretches to draw attention to myself and dived gracefully in.  Gracefully, that is, until I smacked my nose square on the bottom of the pool.

Immediately I knew I had messed up. Big time.  I surfaced and through eyes quickly clouding over with tears, looked around to see who had witnessed my humiliation.  Amazingly (although in retrospect, maybe not so amazingly) nobody seemed to notice.  All the other kids were going about their business.  I had escaped the ordeal without embarrassment.  Relieved and determined not to break down in tears, I decided to head to side of the pool and regain my composure.  My brilliant stealthy getaway was quickly blown, however, by a scream of the incredible decibel level and pitch that only middle school girls are capable of.  In my dazed and embarrassed state, I had failed to notice a small but quickly growing pool of bright red water surrounding me.  Unfortunately, the macabre scene didn't go unnoticed by others.  The first scream was followed by several more and soon after by the shriek of our teacher's whistle and shouted instructions that everyone must exit the pool immediately.  I held on to the last shreds of my dignity, hoping that I was far enough away from the mess that it couldn't be traced back to me.  The horrified looks of my classmates as they saw my flattened and slightly bent beak spewing blood quickly ended all hope of evading notice.

Class was called early and the other kids were sent to the locker rooms to get changed.  I, on the other hand, was afforded to opportunity to add insult to my injury as I was paraded through the hallways to the nurses office wearing only my swimsuit and with half a box of Kleenex stuffed in my nasal cavity.  Needless to say, I wasn't allowed to participate in the rest of our swimming unit and was stuck on the sidelines until the class was on to a much more humiliating exercise, like pull-ups (my record was one).  Looking back, I was fortunate to only injure my nose considering the horror stories that exist with diving accidents.  I'm not sure if my nose was actually broken as - once the bleeding stopped - the only visible sign of my youthful indiscretion was a small bump, but I can distinctly remember the pain that would resurface far too many times later in life.  I'm pretty sure I even successfully hid this incident from parents (I was pretty adept at selective sharing of what I was up to when I was younger) as my mom has no recollection of it.  I didn't know it at the time, but I had only scratched the surface of my nasal adventures.

Next time - The Punch!

The Time I Threw Myself into Traffic

True Story: I was once flattened by a car while walking.

I was born blessed with the ability to be a good test taker.  From my kindergarten placement test all the way through my ACT and SAT tests, I was fortunate to score high enough to open doors for me that wouldn't have otherwise been opened.  I was "that guy" who loved taking tests (I still do - I can't pass up a test of any sort that pops up on my timeline). Be it a multiple choice test or an essay (as most of you reading this know, I've proven I can scribble on for pages about virtually nothing), I was always happy to take tests.  I would like to credit a strong work ethic and a dogged determination to be the best, but the reality is it is just something that I was lucky enough to be born with.  

As good as I was at test taking, I was equally awful about homework and studying.  I didn't have the time or the patience for these trivialities.  There were video games to play, baskets to shoot and as I entered college, beer to drink.  Besides, why study or turn in assignments when I knew I could do well enough on the tests to get through my courses with acceptable grades.  And so, for the first 13 years of my schooling career, I coasted through with average grades but great test scores.

My easy ride came to a screeching halt my first year at the University of Minnesota.  I had managed to survive Apple Valley High School and two years of Gustavus with acceptable - but not great - grades without a ton of effort.  Now that I was at the U and declared myself as a Geography and Urban Planning major, however, I learned that I needed to be proficient in a foreign language in order to graduate.  I had taken four years of German in High School and so figured this was going to be my easiest path to fulfilling the requirement.  I took a placement test (yay!), did well on it and was advised to take Level 3 German, meaning I would only need a few classes before my requirement was satisfied. So, I signed up for the class and arrived for my first day convinced I could slack and fake my way through this class and simply test my way out at the end.  Five minutes into the first class I realized I had made a pretty major miscalculation.  The professor, along with the 10 or so other students in the class, spoke nothing but German for the entire 75 minute class.  I slumped lower and lower in my seat trying to avoid being noticed and dragged into a conversation that I was only comprehending a small amount of.  When the lecture mercifully ended, I immediately went to the registar's office and dropped the class.

My German career was over, but now I needed a different path to fill my foreign language requirement.  I flipped through the course catalog and discovered that beginning Latin was the only other language course that fit into my schedule.  I wasn't thrilled about the choice, but decided to give it a shot.  After the first three or four classes, I was convinced I had made a brilliant decision.  We were learning nothing but simple vocabulary and I aced my first two quizzes and test.  It was at this point that I determined that this class was large enough that my absence wouldn't be noticed if I were to miss an occasional class.  I also realized that if I continued to breeze through the tests, I didn't really have to turn in the tedious homework assignments.  After all, tests were 80% of my grade.  If I did well enough on them and turned in a half of my assignments, I could probably pull out a "B" without really giving much of an effort.  So, accordingly, I began to attend class less and less and turn in fewer and fewer assignments.  By the time the final came around, my grade had dropped to a C-.  I wasn't worried, however, as the final exam was 50% of my grade and I would be easily able to pull up to an acceptable "B" by doing well on the test.  So, as was my ritual, I spent about 30 minutes flipping through my text book and showed up to take the final.

Things went south in a hurry.  Two questions into the test I realized I had gravely misjudged how "simple" the class was.  As it turns out, there are much deeper levels to learning Latin (and any language, I'm sure) than simply translating the rough meaning of words.  There are suffixes and declensions and conjugations and tenses - future, perfect, imperfect, and future perfect among them.  I was totally and completely lost.  Question after question and page after page I sunk deeper into despair as it became perfectly obvious that for the first time in my life I was going fail this class in spectacular fashion.  After about 20 minutes, while my disposition morphed from confident to confused to utter despair, I gave up, turned in my barely filled in exam and sheepishly headed for the exit.

I began walking across campus in a complete daze.  At least I think I began walking across campus in a complete daze - the entire experience had so discombobulated and rattled me that I remember very little of my actual actions.  My entire concept of what was required of me to excel, get a college degree, get a great job and live my dream middle class life had gone up in flames in 20 short minutes, reducing me to a confused, depressed and extremely panicked mess of emotions.  I wanted nothing more than to hop on a bus, go home and wallow in my misery.  And so, with my mind in million places except on where I was going, I stepped out into the road to cross and was immediately slammed into by a car exiting the interstate.

Thankfully, excepting a slight bump and scrape on my knee where I hit the license plate (or where it hit me, depending on how you look at it), I was unhurt.  The collision had knocked me first onto the hood and then back onto the street.  More embarrassed than anything (the first thing I did while still on the ground was check the crossing light which indeed confirmed that I had stepped out against a red light) and still dizzy from the epic failure I had just submitted, I got up and limped to curb.  The poor woman who slammed into me was beside herself, wailing and convinced she had most certainly killed me.  Several other cars screeched to a halt and jumped out to assist the tragedy as well, all of which just added to my growing sense of embarrassment.  It took several minutes for me to convince the poor lady and the other witnesses that 1) I was alive and 2) she did not need to call 911 and 3) she had done nothing wrong and the accident was my fault.  I felt bad for it later (and still kind of do), but I finally sternly said, "I"M OK!!! AND I'M SORRY!!!" before leaving the well intentioned driver and concerned witnesses in the street while I gimped on my slightly injured knee across the intersection and hobbled onto the bus which was now stuck in the traffic problems I created by throwing myself into traffic.  I slunk into an empty seat and silently urged the bus to begin moving before an ambulance or police arrived and I would be forced to recount the whole embarrassing ordeal again in excruciating detail.  Fortunately, my pleas were answered and after about five minutes traffic began moving and I safely exited the scene of the accident.

A good moral of the story would be that I learned how important hard work, attendance and studying are and changed my slothful ways.  My lesson learned, I buckled down, studied hard and received nothing but "A"s going forward.  When this story is made into an ABC Afterschool Special, that's how it will end.  It's a much more fulfilling message than the reality.  So, yeah, let's go with that.

True Story - I met my Spirit Guide Animal in Mexico

KT and I were on vacation in Mexico the past week with our good friends Mike and Jessica. While there, I had an experience that I can't stop thinking about. I can't explain it and I'm not sure I want to be able to. I fiercely debated sharing it as it sounds so implausible that I fully expect most people to call bullshit and can't blame anyone for doing so. But it happened and those few I shared it with have encouraged me to write it up. So I will.

First, a word about our destination. We were on the Pacific Coast in a town called Zihuatanejo. Mike and Jessica have been visiting annually for nearly 20 years. This was the our second trip and we plan on going back every year until we are no longer able to walk it's amazing hills and beaches. It's stunningly beautiful (see photo), incredibly friendly and dirty in all the right ways.

No trip to Mexico would be complete, however, without the clichéd sickness. On the Saturday morning of our trip, I broke down with a pretty significant fever. It started coming on - along with some stomach discomfort - at breakfast. I knew something wasn't right when I started slightly shivering in 80 degree humid heat. If I were smart, I would have gone back to the room at this point. However, I am stubborn - and stubborn and smart are often not on the same team. So, I trekked with the rest of the gang to the beach. After a few hours of laying on the beach, my fever had gotten to the point where I was miserable. I was unbearably hot except for the times I was freezing cold. I didn't have the energy to even read. I simply laid there begging for sleep. Sleep finally came, but left soon after arriving. The short nap gave me a little burst of energy, however, and I decided to head back to the hotel.

I didn't want everyone to have to leave so I insisted on going back alone. To get to the beach we were on, you can either take a water taxi or walk over a rocky stretch that is mostly easy terrain, but has a few areas that are a little more difficult to navigate. We chose to walk over as it's a beautiful hike and a lot of fun, provided you don't have a raging fever. I did, however, having a raging fever, and was having a taxing time getting over the path on the way back. I stopped to rest for a second when a big black dog walked up to me. It looked something like a Great Dane, but wasn't quite as large. It was obviously a stray, which are fairly common in Zihuatanejo, but just keep to themselves and don't bother anyone. It had a torn up muzzle, like it recently had been in a fight. It walked past me, stopped, stared at me for a few seconds and then slowly started walking again. I followed it.

It walked unusually slow for an unleashed dog, always staying about 10 feet in front of me, the entire length of the path. At the toughest point of the journey, where it is necessary to climb and over a short crag, I met up with a family of locals coming the other way. The path wasn't wide enough to get by one another, so I moved off to the side to let them pass. The dog slipped by them and disappeared over the rocks out of my view. It took a while for the family to get through as there were six of them, including one who I assume to be the abuela who was being mostly carried over this part. After about five minutes of waiting, I slowly labored over the rocks. When I got to the other side, the dog was sitting on the path a little ways up. As I neared him, he got up and slowly led me the remaining way down the path, which opens up to another beach and a place I could grab a cab back to our hotel. Once the cabs were in view, the dog turned around and left back down the path the way he had came.

I jumped in a cab, went back to the hotel and spent the next 10 hours sleeping in five minute shifts, alternating between freezing cold and sweating profusely. KT came and checked on me for a few hours and then went to dinner about 8:00 with Mike and Jessica, getting back to the room around 11:00 or so. At what I think must have been around 2:00 or 3:00, I had a very brief dream. In the dream, everything was exactly like things were in our hotel room except the sliding door to our little balcony was open and the curtains were different. I would have thought I was awake and not dreaming but I knew the balcony door was closed. I was looking at the door and the same dog (torn muzzle and all) that walked me down the path walked in. He came to the foot of the bed, calmly looked at me for just a few seconds and then walked back out the door in his same slow gait. I woke up slightly freaked out but quickly fell back asleep - and slept for a solid, glorious, seven hours. My fever had broken.

I woke up feeling way better but still had stomach issues, of which I'll spare you the details. KT and I played it safe and stayed near the hotel while Mike and Jessica went back to our favorite beach. We met up again that evening and walked to dinner in town, but my stomach punished my indiscretion and I excused myself early and hightailed back to the hotel, leaving the Kellys to babysit KT once again. I went to bed early, moaning and groaning. At about 3:00, while up using the facilities again, I decided I wasn't going to be able to go the beach again the next day which was a major bummer as it was our last full day. Then, at what I believe was 4:00 or 5:00, I had another 30-second dream.

In this dream, the scene was our favorite beach and it looked exactly like it does in reality, right down to the color and placement of our favorite loungers under a shady tree but only a few feet from the water. There are four chairs there and the host always had them ready for us in the morning with a stocked cooler of cervezas. The chairs were all empty except for the chair which I always grabbed. In the chair, as you have no doubt guessed by now, sat the exact same dog. I woke up immediately as this time I was definitely freaked out. I fell back asleep after a while and slept until 7:30. The plan (for those healthy enough to do it) was to leave the hotel at 8:30 and walk over to our beach, grabbing breakfast somewhere on the way. I got up, had another small "event" and still felt not so great - a little better - but not so great. Because of the dream, however, I decided to give the beach a shot.

By the time we got to the beach, I felt like a million bucks. I made up for all the beer I had missed the previous days, ate anything and everything, skipped the afternoon siesta and partied straight through until we went to bed at 11:00 or so. It was a fantastic day of fun and friends that I'm certain I'll never forget. The Spirit Guide dog had shown me which decision to make and I can't thank him enough.

I tried for a while to come up with a suitable name for the dog, but have come to the realization that I like it better that he doesn't have one. I can't adequately describe how confusing and yet how real this was for me, so it only seems fitting that my dog hero doesn't have a name. After all, I'm not even sure he exists.

NyQuil has Nothing on Sandra Bullock

True Story: Sandra Bullock has superpowers.

Over the course of our marriage, Kate and I have learned the essential art of compromise regarding many things large and small. Nowhere has compromise been more essential and more difficult to achieve than in our television viewing. With a few rare exceptions, we are on completely opposite ends of the entire television viewing process. Some examples:

1) Content. I like basketball, KT does not. We experimented last Winter with cutting the cord on cable, meaning I was out of luck for basketball content sparing the few games on network television. KT would undoubtedly call the experiment a success as basketball was on our television a full 90% less than normal. For me, it was an abject failure. I didn't fully realize the extent I missed watching the beautiful game until I re-upped basic cable for this season (because, holy cow, have you seen the Timberwolves?!?!) Given the option, I would gladly sit back, watch and analyze a 7th grade B-Squad basketball game from start to finish if it were televised. KT, on the other hand, would happily ignore the NCAA Championship game even if the Gophers made a miraculous run to the final. Our compromise is this: Basketball is allowed on our television provided it is either A) The Minnesota Timberwolves, B) The Minnesota Gophers or C) The month of March. Apart from this, basketball is allowed until KT has said any combination of the following comments three times: "I'm bored", "Snore", "Enough fucking basketball already". At this point, the channel must be turned. Which brings us to example two.

2) The remote. I like to think of myself as a pretty adept remote user. I have memorized where the essential buttons are (Last/Guide/Info) and what channel number the stations I am interested in are. KT, for all her many talents, seriously sucks at using the remote. After she has made her three qualifying comments (see above), I am obliged to hand the remote over to her. For KT, it seems the remote exists of only one button: channel up. Once she commandeers the remote, she methodically presses channel up to scan through the channels until she finds something she is interested in. Considering that television was most likely tuned to basketball and the cable company tends to lump the sports channels together, this is an incredibly long and boring process. Basketball, *click*, more basketball, *click*, SportsCenter, *click*, hockey, *click*, blacked out game, *click*, blacked out game (repeat about 20 times). Usually, she becomes frustrated and loses interest after about 20 minutes and the TV ends up tuned to the Home Shopping Network or C-Span. KT has no interest in the Home Shopping Network or C-Span, but her attention span has reached it's limit (shiny things!) and so there the TV remains. If she does manage to find a show she wants to watch, she usually has somehow managed to change the settings so that everything is in Spanish. If I were a better person, I would simply take over the remote duties and flip between Bravo, E!, MTV and the other channels she is actually interested in, but I'm not a good person and I've learned that if I sit still and quiet for long enough, she eventually forgets that she has remote privileges and I can sneak the channel back to basketball for a good 20 minutes before she realizes what I've done.

3) Television while sleeping. KT must have the television on all night in order to sleep. I fought this for a few years as I prefer a pitch black room when I sleep. We tried a sleep timer, a sleeping mask to cover my eyes and even separate sleeping quarters. Over time, I came to accept that the television will be on all night and have learned to sleep through it. The only time we have a conflict is on the rare occasions that I wake up in the middle of the night with a touch of insomnia and change the channel. Even in the deepest stages of sleep, KT will groggily mutter "I was watching that" before the television has even fully tuned in a new channel. I've tried reasoning with her, explaining that no, she wasn't watching as her glasses were several inches away from her face and she was facing away from the television and she had a six inch line of drool trailing from her mouth to her pillow, but she insists that I have rudely interrupted a show she was intimately involved in and demands I immediately turn back. I can't argue what I don't understand, so turn it back I do.

4) Taking a nap in front of the television. KT absolutely insists that in order to successfully fall asleep, the television must be tuned to a program which she finds interesting. She claims that if the TV is tuned to something she finds boring (basketball, for example) she cannot fall asleep. It's an absolutely absurd concept which flies in the face of one the most universal tenets of mankind: If you are bored, you become sleepy. If you are captivated by something, you remain alert. Each time I've tried to drop this universal truth on her, however, she counters by excruciating example. She will stubbornly sit through a three hour basketball game during her nap time, neither watching the game nor falling asleep (but complaining plenty). Give her five minutes with The Real Housewives of the Kardashians, however, and she is sound asleep. It doesn't make any sense and I have abandoned all hope of understanding it. It would be impossible for us to take a nap at the same time in the same room if were not for the phenomenon more commonly known as Sandra Bullock.

5). Sandra Bullock. Both KT and I like Sandra Bullock. She is a fine actor, has roles is several good movies and seems like an all-around pleasant person. Neither of us would consider her our "favorite" performer, but we both appreciate her craft and have positive feelings about her. That being said, neither one of us has ever been able to stay awake for an entire Sandra Bullock movie. We joked about it for years, but as the evidence continued (and continues) to mount, it can no longer be ignored. Irregardless of the time of day or the particular movie, it has been proven with 100% accuracy that both of us will fall asleep before the movie has ended. I have consciously attempted to prove the theory false, failing each time. More alarmingly, we have mentioned this phenomenon to others (Greta and Audrey in particular) who, after reflection, are unable to tell us the ending of any Sandra Bullock movie either. It's eerie and a little unsettling. What kind of powers does this woman possess that allows her to lull us so quickly to sleep? Do other suffer from Sandra Bullock Induced Sleep Syndrome (S.B.I.S.S.) or is it unique to our family? Please, share. It would be comforting to know we aren't alone.

Soap Opera Parents

True story - Kate and I have become soap opera parents.

Audrey turned 20 yesterday which triggered some pretty eye-opening realities for KT and I. First, we realized that we are officially no longer the parents of teenagers (gulp). Second, we realized that Audrey is now the same age as we were when Al was born (double gulp). Finally, and most shocking, we realized that we have become "soap opera parents". Let me explain.

KT and I have always gotten a kick out of "soap opera kids". These are the kids that are seen infrequently and ever so briefly on soap operas. One of the main characters has gotten pregnant and so, as nature inevitably dictates, must have a child. This makes for a juicy plot line (who's the father? but her doctor told her getting pregnant was impossible!, etc.) and keeps audiences riveted for a good nine months (or the equivalent in TV time). After a huge buildup, the baby is finally born on a "very special" episode. It's an emotional and exciting conclusion to the pregnancy plot. After the baby is born, however, the baby needs to go away. Because, as it turns out, babies are boring. The writers can't ignore the fact that a baby was born - after all, millions of people witnessed the miraculous birth - but nobody wants to watch a little tub of goo spit up on itself and shit it's pants. So, they become "soap opera kids". A scene will open with the new parent or parents gently cooing over their new arrival. Once the baby has been acknowledged, someone will quickly and unceremoniously swoop in, grab the kid and exit stage left to allow the adults to get into the juicy stuff without a screaming brat interfering. The "soap opera kids" have made their appearance and now will disappear for several episodes before making another brief appearance to assure us they still exist.

KT and I became "soap opera parents" on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We were attending a Gopher football game that afternoon, as was Audrey. We weren't sitting together, as Audrey was going with a big group of friends, but she was nice enough to invite us to stop by her place near campus for a little pre-game (translation: alcohol) if we were interested as she and her roommates were having a tailgating party. It sounded like a good plan as I am far too cheap to pay for parking so we normally park near her place for games anyways and trek the mile or so to the stadium. It was a casual invite (or so we thought) with no real time restrictions (or so we thought) and so KT and I were in no rush to head out into the cold (or so we thought). A flurry of text messages from Audrey quickly changed everything.

12:40 - "what's ur plan?"
- (me) "Probably park at your place and walk to the game"
- "what time?"

12:49 - "you guys have to come shotgun a PBR"

12:55 - "Get over here!!! The Swansons (Audrey's roommates' parents) will shotgun with you!"

12:59 - "The Swansons are coming so giiiiitt here!"

1:10 - "Jimbo (a Swanson) is here!!!"

1:12 - "Stop ignoring me"

1:13 - "He's playing Flip Cup!!!"
- (me) "We are getting ready!"

1:14 - "ETA?"

1:15 - "You guys are terrible friends"

Our "casual" invitation had become not so casual in a head-spinning 35 minutes. KT and I were rushed, but admittedly a little excited. Be the cool parents at a college party? Hell, yeah! We can do this! I hadn't shotgunned a beer in years, but I used to "open the throat" and pour down beers as a party trick and I'm sure I still can because it's like riding a bike, right? And KT has the innate gift of tip-toeing the line between hilarious and inappropriate without ever crossing it or at least without going too far over it. We. Are. Awesome! Our presence is not just requested, but demanded! We quickly threw on our Gopher gear (sidebar and probably the subject of another true story: KT and I have very different definitions of "Gopher gear". For me, it was several layers of Maroon and Gold t-shirts, sweatshirts, pants, hats, and even socks. For KT, it was a giant fur coat and a hat that looks like a strawberry) and headed out the door. It was time to get our party on and show these college kids how it's done.

We arrived at Audrey's to a party in full swing. It was a little intimidating as good golly these kids were young and doing shots and slamming beers and singing and laughing and being alive and I had just slightly injured my back bending over to tie my shoe. We were bound and determined to be the life of the party, however (it was expected - no, demanded - of us!) so we found Audrey across the crowded room and said hello. Audrey quickly ran over to us with a couple of people, said "Hi, this is (I don't remember his name) and this is (I couldn't hear what she said)" She then turned around, grabbed two beers out of the fridge, shoved them in our hands and said, "OK, you guys should probably be going now." She guided us to the door, shooed us out and returned to her party. KT and I stood in stunned silence for a bit, looking in the window at the party raging inside. Then it hit us: we were "soap opera parents". We made our appearance for the sake of plot continuity and were quickly ushered away so the young beautiful people could return their focus to one another without the depressing reminder that age happens.

KT and I weren't insulted. We were happy to have been invited in the first place. We reminded ourselves how many of our college parties we had invited our parents to (somewhere between zero and none) and realized that Audrey was probably actually saving us from seeing things we didn't want to see. The only problem was we now had quite a bit of time to kill before kick off and only one beer to get us there. KT decided that her fur coat made her look remarkably Gopher-like and we should pass the time by taking a video of her pretending to be a Gopher scurrying from bush to bush outside the stadium. I agreed to film her as I knew saying no was fruitless. It was at this point I showed my true age by somehow managing to take a burst of 94 still photos rather than an actual moving video. I really can't blame Audrey for showing us the door.

Carson's Long Strange Trip

True story: Carson was tripping balls this weekend.

Much as other people might treat a new car, KT and I have been adamant about bringing Carson in for all his "routine scheduled maintenance" since adopting him almost nine months ago. He's a member of a wellness plan (a more palatable way of saying "we make exorbitant monthly payments whether we use the vet or not, so we might as well go"), he is up to date on all his inoculations and he gets regular tick control medication. We've even adjusted his caloric intake after sufficient shaming about how his 92.5lbs is "four to five pounds more than it should be". In short, we've been what could be called "good pet owners". Audrey observed this weekend that Carson has been to the doctor more in nine months that she has been in the past nine years. I said we were good pet owners, not good parents.

We started out as responsible pet owners with Maggie, too. We were even good about bringing Uma in for visits when she first entered our lives. Maggie, however, would spiral into the most sadly pathetic victim that we stopped taking her after a few years because we couldn't handle the intense guilt trip she would lay on us every time. Uma, on the other hand, was/is just an asshole. Whenever brought her to the vet, she would immediately hiss, drop a turd on the scale during weigh in and repeatedly attempt to bite/scratch anyone who approached her. We stopped taking her altogether when the vet told us that maybe we should only bring her in if we thought something was wrong because "cats don't have a propensity for forgiveness".

With Carson, however, we have vowed to be good and responsible pet owners. That meant dropping him off at the vet early Saturday morning for a teeth-cleaning, ear cleaning and nail trim. The procedures meant that he would be put under general anesthesia and need to stay at the vet until afternoon. KT and I weren't excited about leaving him, but remembered our vow to be good pet owners and proceeded with the appointment.

The issues began the night before. We were given strict instructions that Carson was to have no food after 7:00pm Friday, which wasn't a problem that night as he normally eats his (calorie counted!) dinner around 6:00. It became a problem at 3:00, 3:15, 3:40, 4:05, 4:30, 4:55, 5:20 and 5:45 the next morning, however. When we adopted Carson, he came pre-wired with the insane notion that anytime after 3:00am is fair game to start insisting on breakfast. He lays in bed with us waiting for the slightest sign of movement. Should one of us cough, roll over or show any signs of life, Carson will jump up and start an intricate tap dance routine on the bed until I get up and feed him. Try as we might, we have been unable to break him of the habit. Most nights it is not a big deal as I can stumble out of bed, feed him and grab a few hours more sleep. As feeding him was not an option, however, KT and I were treated to several repeat performances of the "Feed Me" song and dance routine.

Groggy and more than a little crabby, I brought Carson in bright and early on Saturday. He loves going places, so had no problem running into the vet's office, jumping on the scale and happily greeting anyone within reach. I filled out the paperwork, handed over his leash and headed for the door. As I was about to exit, the veterinarian's assistant began frantically waving me down asking me to return. Apparently, Carson determined he wasn't so excited about this appointment after all. When the poor girl (who probably weighed 10 pounds more than Carson) tried to lead him into the back, he promptly sat down and refused to budge. It was a highly effective and almost inspirational moment of passive resistance. I watched with a guilty sense of bemusement as she pulled, pushed and pleaded with Carson to come with her to no avail. Carson pulls this trick often, putting the brakes on when asked to go a direction he isn't interested in going. We once spent nearly 30 minutes in a stand -off when, in the middle of a walk, Carson determined we had gone far enough and was ready to head home. Problem was, we were walking in a new area and he had become completely confused over which direction home was. So there we sat, me pulling, begging, reasoning and chastising him to go the direction I wanted him to go (towards home) and Carson determined to go the exact opposite way. I was relieved the scene we caused didn't draw a call to the police as I dragged him nearly a block and a half (imagine driving a car with the emergency brake on) before he gave in. Anyways, back to Saturday - I watched for a few seconds before tricking Carson into thinking I would indeed be going into the back with him and leading him back there. I felt guilty about the deception, but didn't see a choice.

I got the call that he was ready to return home at 1:30. I quickly drove down to get him, planning a nice, long walk and ball-playing session for the afternoon to reward Carson for making it through to the other side. The vet greeted me when I arrived and warned that Carson was probably still a "little groggy" and should be taken home for a nap before going on a walk or playing ball. No problem, I was eager for a nap myself after the four hour tap dance performance of the night before. I signed the paperwork and the vet went back to grab my puppy. As soon as Carson came out from the back, I could tell he was completely, thoroughly stoned. He bumped into a door and then barreled right past me, completely oblivious to my (or anybody's) presence. I quickly caught up to him and knelt down to say hello. His barely opened eyes looked right through me, not only not recognizing me but I'm quite certain not even seeing me. I grabbed his leash, said our goodbyes and started out the door. Holiday shopping had the parking lot packed, so we had quite a walk to get to the car. Carson began the trek by completely spacing out that we needed to take a step down off the sidewalk curb to reach the parking lot. Instead, he barreled straight forward and gravity did the rest, toppling him over in front of confused but somewhat entertained holiday shoppers. I quickly bent down and helped him to his feet (no easy task). We gathered ourselves and continued the arduous journey, stopping frequently so Carson could gather his thoughts while people, cars and shopping carts whizzed by completely blowing his drug addled mind. Finally, we reached the car, whereupon I heaved his mostly shapeless mass into the backseat and he promptly fell asleep.

I took him home immediately, where I was forced to wake him, guide/carry him into the house and onto the couch where he immediately fell back asleep. We sat there for the next eight hours, with Carson alternating between a sleep so deep I often checked to make sure he was breathing and an episode every twenty minutes or so where he would bolt upright as if shocked back to life by CPR paddles. He would glance around with a "where in the hell am I and how in the hell did I get here?" look as I gently brought him back to a prone position with gentle petting and he would pass out again. Like a spirit guide leading someone through a bad acid trip, I slowly brought him back to reality. By the time KT got home from work early that evening, he was cognizant enough to wag his tail a few times before the exertion necessitated another four hour nap.

We were actually relieved when the 3:00am breakfast dance routine began Sunday morning. Carson had successfully made it to the other side and was himself again. We celebrated by giving him an extra 15 nuggets of dog food. Please don't tell his vet.