And how was your week?

Audrey is on a five day roll of epic proportions.  Witness:

Thursday, May 17th - Audrey gets selected to the National Honor Society.  A magnificent accomplishment, especially considering her parental influence.  I didn't get bad grades, necessarily, but the closest I got to the NHS was when Apple Valley High School accidentally sent Brian an application two years after he had already been accepted as a member.  My logical deduction was that they had simply mixed up the names and this was meant for me.  I diligently began filling it out, even starting the "you're not so damn smart now, are ya?" taunt to Brian.  A quick phone call to Marilyn (my aunt), who was a secretary at the school, cleared matters up, however.  I definitely was not being invited to apply.  And KT...well, we love KT.  Audrey, however, is a completely different story.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have had to tell her to do her homework since she began school.  She just does it.  And she does it well.  

She got the letter inviting her to apply about 10 days before the application was due.  We congratulated her and told her we would look over the application with her later.  We then filed it within our 43" inch (and growing) stack of "important stuff we really gotta take care of".  And there it sat.  Fast forward nine days, 8 hours.  Audrey calls me at 10:35 at night.  I'm in bed and she is upstairs in her room.  This isn't an unusual call as she knew I was still awake and often times I will call her and ask her to let the dog out when I'm too pathetically lazy to get out of bed.  I answer and Audrey says, "Hi.  Franny just reminded me the NHS application is due tomorrow.  Don't freak out."  Right.  We look over the four page application and talk about it for 15 minutes the next morning while shoveling down oatmeal.  Turns out that in addition to the many short answer questions on the application, she also must submit a one page (typed) essay demonstrating a time she showed leadership.  She must also collect signatures from several different people and have the whole thing turned in by 3:00.  I drop her off at school convinced it's a lost cause.  For Audrey, not a problem.  She cranks it out and gets accepted two days later.

Friday, May 18th - Synchronized Swimming Sectionals.  The first day of Sectionals is the "boring" (Audrey's words) part where all the swimmers dress up in identical black suits, white swim caps and goggles and perform different "figures" for the judges.  All the swimmers do the same figures.  They aren't even announced by name, just as "Swimmer #92".  It's kind of creepy actually.  There is no talking, no cheering and no music.  Just a bunch of drones.  Audrey had 51 swimmers in her division.   I asked her how she thought she did on Friday night and she said "feh".  I pushed for details and she said "it wasn't my best and it wasn't my worst".  She finished second (!), but wasn't aware of this until they did the awards Saturday.

Saturday, May 19th - Synchronized Swimming Sectionals.  The second day of the event is the fun one where the girls swim their routines.  It is an incredibly loooong day, however.  Audrey had to catch a bus at 6:45 Saturday morning.  It was nearly 7:00 PM when we got home.  Audrey swam three different events: a short solo, a trio and a team.  The results?  1st place, 5th place, 2nd place, respectively.  The top four places qualified for the State Tournament.  However, because her trio team scored high enough, they get to participate in state as a "pre-swim".  What that means is they get to participate in the State Tournament, but won't be scored.  Only one team is allowed to do this.  Despite how proud I am of her first place and second place finishes, it's the trio finish that stunned me the most.  Audrey is teamed up with a 7th and an 8th grader, both who had never done synchronized swimming before practice began in March.  Two months later, they are going to state.  The 7th grader started balling on the award stand when she realized she would be going to state.  It was pretty cool.  So, on to state we go on Thursday and Friday, where Audrey will be competing in two events and participating in a third (plus the "boring" figures).

Sunday, May 20th - A day of rest.  Well, not really.  Audrey had a houseful of guests Saturday night and KT heard them in the kitchen at 3:30 in the morning scrounging for food.  When Audrey rolled out of bed about noon, she made breakfast for her friends and then she and I went out to practice for her drivers license test on Monday.  Audrey didn't feel at all ready.  She had been bugging us to make an appointment for about a week because everyone had told her that you have to schedule your test three months in advance.  So, last Thursday, KT went online to schedule her appointment.  Turns out they had a cancellation and there was an opening Monday at 3:00.  Naturally, she took it.  Audrey went into full-on panic mode.  We spent the rest of the day Sunday driving around.  After taking Al and I to our basketball game near the U of M, she drove down to Lake Street so we could have a few post game beers with Brian at a bar down there, then drove home through downtown.  I thought she did just fine driving, but she wasn't too convinced.  When we got home we spent a few terse hours in the church parking lot practicing backing into parking spots and parallel parking.  She wasn't doing too badly, but not well enough to pass her test (or so she thought and I silently somewhat agreed).  KT and I finally made her stop when we noticed she was tearing up out of frustration as she tried parallel parking for the 30th time, using her parents as cones.  I even tried doing a little preventative damage control, saying "Audrey, focus on all the good things that have happened the past few days.  Who cares if you don't pass?".  It didn't work - she was terrified, exhausted and stressed.  We went home and she was asleep within an hour.

Monday, May 21st - Drivers Test.  I couldn't get out of work today, so KT took Audrey.  She got out of school 10 minutes early at 2:30 to give them plenty of time to get up to Arden Hills for the test.  At 2:50 I got a call from KT.  She had printed out the directions on how to get to the Exam Station, but forgot them at work.  So, to compound Audrey's frayed nerves, they had now missed their exit and were in danger of being late.  I talked them through directions, however, and they made it just in time.  A side story here, but bear with me, it ties in: 

 KT has a friend named Ann from work.  Ann is Swedish, only moving to Minnesota after getting married to a guy from here.  She returns to Sweden frequently to visit friends and families.  Lucky for me, Ann usually returns from Sweden with a little gift for me (or maybe for KT, but I usually benefit from it).  She brings back aquavit or other Swedish liquors that you can't find her.  It's awesome.  This time, she brought back a little bottle of Punsch, which is a liquer - kind of like a schnapps.  It has a really strange taste - I can't really describe it - but it is delicious.  Ann gave KT the bottle today and KT brought it home, knowing how excited I was.  Only, she didn't go straight home - she went to pick up Audrey to bring her to her test.  Ok, back to the story... 

When you get to the license station, you have to pull up to an info booth to sign in and get instructions.  As she is pulling up, KT realizes there is a bottle of booze in the car and that probably wouldn't look great as a sixteen year old takes her license test.  So, she determines the best possible solution is to quickly hide it out of view, get past the info booth, then put it in the trunk for the test.  A solid plan in theory, but in the chaos (or KTaos) that sometimes seems to follow her, that isn't how it played out.  While reaching for the bottle, KT ran up onto the curb while pulling up to the info booth window.  So, now she is on the curb and really close to the window.  Then, while reaching into the back seat to stash the bottle, she leans against the horn and begins blaring the horn at the attendant in the booth.  The attendant said to Audrey - and I'm not making this up - "Are you sure we don't want to give mom a test while we are here, too?".

After that fiasco, they pull up to wait their turn and Audrey instructs KT to get out of the car, but not wait outside.  She wanted her to wait inside so Audrey wouldn't be able to see her.  Turns out the only place for waiting inside was in a narrow hallway right next to the bathrooms.  Also, there wasn't really a chance to open the trunk, so KT stashed to bottle of liquor in her purse.  So, while the daughter is out beginning her test, the. mother is standing outside the bathrooms with a bottle of booze in her purse.  Audrey goes through the course, pulling back into the lot after about thirty minutes.  As Audrey tells it, "the examiner began telling me all the things I did wrong.  Then she said, 'But, you passed'."  KT texted me and told me she passed.  I texted back, "you have to be f***ing kidding me" (sorry mom).  Then I thought about the past few days and texted her again, "actually, why should that surprise me at all?"

This evening Audrey drove alone for the first time as she drove to the school for the Carnival that she was obligated to host as a member of Student Council.

I'll update this email tomorrow when she cures cancer and solves world hunger.

So, how was your week?

Job Searching Chronicles, Part One

A variety of reasons, including:

1.  The fact that my company has filed bankruptcy for the second time in five years
2.  The fact that the Teamsters have authorized a strike
3.  The fact that I am tired of falling asleep before 7:00 PM
and
4.  The fact that I really, really (really) miss weekends more than I thought I would

have me back in the job market.  Job searching is exhausting, most often discouraging, sometimes exciting and usually monotonous.  Today, I came across a posting that was too good not to apply for.  The posting read like this:

Swedish Speaking Baker
We need a swedish speaking baker who would be able to read swedish recipes for part time baking. Please respond through email. Thank you. 


Here is the email I sent them:

I em fery interested in thees jub yuoo hefe-a edferteesed fur a Svedeesh beker. I hefe-a ixtenseefe-a ixpereeence-a in Svedeesh bekeeng und em eble-a tu reed und vreete-a Svedeesh flooently. I veell nut, hooefer, vurk veet zee cheeckens oor zee lubsters, es I hefe-a bed pest ixpereeences veet zeem. I hefe-a etteched a phutu fur yuoor refference-a und hupe-a tu heer frum yuoo suun. Thunk yuoo. Bork Bork Bork!

Amazingly, I haven't been offered the position yet.  I'll let you know when I get it, however.

What Al Taught Me About Non-Violent Protest

From the earliest age, Al was a master of the non-violent protest.  He was a good kid - incredibly laid back and easy-going.  We didn't have a problem bringing him anywhere because we was very go-with-the-flow and loved hanging out with adults.  Despite this, for reasons I can't remember, we bought one of those child leash things that you attach to your wrist and your child's so that they can never get more than three feet away from you.  Al hated it.  I don't know if it made him claustrophobic or he felt we were infringing on his personal rights, but he absolutely loathed it.  

When you picture a two year-old rebelling against something he hates, you envision screaming fits,arms and legs flailing everywhere, a red face and a snotty nose.  Not Al.  I have no idea where he learned it or how he managed to perfect it at such an early age, but Al was a master of the non-violent protest.  Without fail, as soon as the leash was snapped on his wrist, he would silently slump down to the floor in a giant boneless mass.  It looked like we were trying to walk a jellyfish.  He would make no sound and not move a muscle, but just lie there.  Picking him up was impossible.  If he would of fought, it would have been easier as we could have at least used his flailing leverage against him.  Instead, he would remain a silent shapeless mass.  It was like trying to pick up a 25 pound lump of oatmeal.  It was incredibly effective.  KT and I soon realized we couldn't fight this.  You can't yell and scream at a child that, technically, isn't throwing a tantrum.  The best we could do was drag him via his leash for a few feet hoping he would give in and begin walking.  He wouldn't.  So, we would grudgingly pop the leash off and - boom - he would be on his feet and happy as ever.  If we brought the leash back out, it was a repeat performance.  Needless to say, the whole leash experience didn't last long.  It only survived as long as it did because KT and I got such a kick out of watching him go all MLK Jr. on us.

It's a skill that never really left Al.  He simply changed his strategy some.  Throughout his teenage years, the following scene would play out more times than I care to remember.

Paul or KT:  Al, do the dishes please (or pick up poop or clean the kitchen or whatever)

Al:  *no reply*

10 minutes later -

Paul or KT:  AL, did you hear me?  I asked you to do the dishes.

Al: ok

20 minutes later -

Paul or KT:  AL!!! I said -

Al (interrupting): I said OK!

An hour later after KT or I have done the dishes - 

Paul or KT:  Thanks a lot, Al

Al:  What? I said I would do them

He wouldn't yell, he wouldn't scream, he wouldn't thrash or throw things.  It was maddening as hell and incredibly effective.

Flash forward to Friday.  At new job I am a vacation relief guy.  Meaning, I fill in and run routes for whomever may be on vacation or sick that particular week.  This Friday, for the first time, there was nobody out, so there wasn't a route for me to run.  On Saturday, however, I had to cover for a guy at our depot in Sauk Centre.  Being start time is 3:30 AM, they put me up in a hotel room Friday night rather than having me drive up Saturday morning.  So, the plan was for me to head into the depot Friday morning about seven, do "maintenance" around the depot until early afternoon and then drive up to Sauk Centre.  I wasn't thrilled about this, but understood they probably had to have me to do something to justify paying me for the day.

When I arrived Friday morning, however, and learned what "maintenance" was, I was a little less understanding.  As it turns out, maintenance consisted of two tasks: sweeping and mopping the grease stains out of the garage and cleaning the bathrooms.  I won't pretend I'm above either task, but I had used the bathrooms there before and I was not at all interested in having my mouth, nose or any other exposed cavity near that toilet.  Keep in mind that the people that use this toilet have five basic food groups:

1.  Twinkies

2.  Double fiber bread with flax

3.  Raspberry Zingers

4.  Wonder bread

5.  Cigarettes

It's not pretty.  I desperately wanted to avoid the task but knew that throwing a fit would just make me look bad.  Fortunately, as if by divine intervention, I had a flashback of leash boy and the zen of non-violent protest.  I grabbed the broom and started sweeping the garage.  Veeerrrrryyyy sllloooooowwwwllllyyy.  I felt like the Tim Conway old man character from the Carol Burnett Show.  I was working so meticulously and with such thoroughness that after 30 minutes I was not even half-way done with garage.  It looked damn good, however.  Too good, in fact.  Enter divine intervention number two.  I realized that doing too good of a job on this task might give them reason to assign it to me again.  So, the challenge became to both work at a snail's pace and do a shitty job.  As easy as this may sound, it is actually extraordinarily difficult.  Luckily, my manager unwittingly helped out.  The man is the very definition of a chain smoker.  It must have absolutely killed him when laws changed and he could no longer smoke at his desk.  So, every fifteen minutes, he trudges out to the garage, stands under the NO SMOKING sign, lights up and stares at his phone for five minutes.  If nothing else, I'm a quick learner.  After three smoke breaks, I picked up the habit of stopping what I was doing and staring at my phone for five minutes as soon as he would head back inside from his smoke breaks.  I justified it by observing that I shouldn't be punished for not smoking, so I would take breaks like a smoker.  It was brilliant.

I managed to waste four hours in the garage - sweeping, re-sweeping, not smoking, mopping, not smoking some more and re-mopping spots I had conveniently missed the first seven times through.  I could tell my manager was getting a bit exasperated by how long it was taking me from the looks I was getting, but I also knew he wasn't going to say anything about it because, after all, this wasn't really my job and I wasn't technically doing anything wrong.  Finally, about 11:00, he had enough.  On his way back into the office from his 700th smoke break, he stopped and grumbled "why don't you just take off?".  He didn't have to ask twice.

In my victory speech (for not having to clean the bathroom), I made sure to give a shout out to leash boy.  His Gandhi-like protestations may have been maddening, but, in retrospect, they were absolutely brilliant.

Church

I went to church this morning.  Here is what I did:

- got up early because I was awake, not because I had to

- played a game of FIFA while drinking coffee

- giggled my way through an episode of Beavis and Butthead

- researched breakfast options online with KT

- leisurely shoveled the sidewalk

- went for a walk around Kordiak while everything was still clean and beautiful and undisturbed by people and their people-ness

- watched the dog frolic, sniff (total cocaine nose), and act like a pup again and not the senior citizen she is becoming

- went to grocery store wearing my pajamas and my Jason Voorhees coveralls

- listen to KT opine that anyone driving over 20 mph today is a "jackhole"

- had a bloody mary with a PBR chaser

- fulfilled typical male/female stereotypes (I cleaned the kitchen while KT fixed the sink in the laundry room)

- sat down to watch the Vikings with the Sunday paper and the interwebs

Here is what I didn't do:

- shave

- get dressed up (or dressed at all for that matter)

- struggle vainly to hear and comprehend a sermon

- plot an escape route with the least potential of being welcomed as a guest

- feel shame when the offering plate is passed around because i didn't bring cash

Can I get an Amen?

Conversations with Freud during my run today

Before I begin, two disclaimers:

1.  Blogging about running isn't original.  It's not even original amongst my circle of friends.  My friend Carrie has done it a number of times and much wittier and funnier than I could ever hope to.  Do yourself a favor and check it out at www.carriemesrobian.com.  Apologies to Carrie for blatantly stealing a blog subject from her.

2.  I loathe exercise blogs, especially ones written with the intent to motivate.  Just shut up.  You aren't trying to motivate, you are asking everyone to admire how awesome you are.  It's as bad as telling me about how awesome your church is or which way I should vote.  I have serious misgivings about writing this because just reading it over makes me feel I am guilty of doing exactly that and a giant hypocrite.  I feel this way often when I write - egotistical and like a giant blowhard.  My good friend Isaac, among others, told me to "just get over it and write".  So that's what I'm doing - writing.  I happened to be on a run today when the following thoughts pin-balled their way through my brain.  Exercise or don't exercise.  I don't care and I love you either way.

Whew.  Anyways, I usually drown out my thoughts with music while running, but my headphones broke in a particularly spastic bread cart accident, so I was left to fend off my brain alone.  Freud - or any amateur psychiatrist for that matter - would have had a field day with what went through my melon.  Among the diagnoses:

Denial, Rationalization and ultimately Guilt - It had been a while since I had been on a run.  Which is stupid as I have never, ever (ever) regretted going on a run when I was done.  Today I had nothing on my agenda other than a haircut.  I had absolutely no excuse or reason not to.  However, denial and rationalization nearly derailed me before I even left the house.  I get plenty of exercise at work (rationalization).  I exercise with the Schlitz Sporting Club all the time (denial as I do as much beer drinking as exercising in those situations).  I'm in better shape than I was 10 years ago (rationalization).  Finally, however, guilt won out.  I told KT and Audrey I was going on a run today and I have absolutely no legitimate excuse for them why I didn't.  Not that they would care - the guilt will be 100% self-induced. But nobody - not even their mother - can guilt a Lutheran raised boy better than they can guilt themselves.  So jog I did.

Euphoria - The run begins.  This. Is. Awesome.  I am awesome.  I haven't run in over a month and I'm like Zola Fucking Budd.  I see your 3.1 miles and raise you 2 more.  I can't be stopped.  I love the weather.  I love the world.  I love me.

Self Loathing - Early fatigue begins setting in.  I suck.  I look like a drunken hippo and everyone is laughing at me.  That car that pulled over a block after passing me?  It's a doctor convinced he's about to be the latest 11 Who Kare recipient for saving my life when I drop with a heart attack.  I will undoubtedly end up as a photo on countless snarky teenagers' Facebook pages.  Zola Budd?  Try Buddy Hackett.

Narcissism - Second wind kicks in.  I am soooo much fucking better than everybody else.  Look at all the lazy asses in their cars while I run.  They want to be me.  Look at me.  Adore me.  Worship me.

Narcissism and Dementia - Still flying high, feeling like a million bucks, but one-way conversations between myself and imaginary others begin taking hold.  "Ha - you're very kind but, really, I am 40 years old" or, more alarmingly, "How you doin' ladies?...Well, I'm flattered, but after my run I'm going home to do some laundry, cook an organic dinner for my family, build a shelter for the homeless and cure cancer...Yes, I'm married...Really, you're too kind.  You haven't met my wife, I'm the lucky one!"

Self Flagellation - Well into the run, euphoria and narcissism are long gone.  I hurt.  My lungs feel like exploding, my calves are on fire and I'm not having any fun at all.  Stopping and walking, even if just for a bit, would offer immense relief.  Yet I run on as I must punish myself for weighing more than I should, not being in better shape and being a general asshole.  I don't deserve relief, I deserve punishment.

Split Personality - Near the end of the run, a rather large hill looms.  Going up:  I hate going up hills.  You have to change your pace, your stride, your breathing, everything.  It sucks.  I wish my route could be like an M.C. Escher sketch - constant downhills.  Going down:  I hate going down hills.  You have to change your pace, your stride, your breathing, everything.  It sucks.  I wish my route could be like an M.C. Escher sketch - constant uphills.

Manic Depression - The end nears.  Sweet glorious relief, I'm almost done!  This was way more difficult than it should have been.  But I did it!  But I didn't do it very well.  I successfully ran a 5k without stopping today!  But it took me way too long.

I finished my run physically exhausted but able to quickly recover.  The mental exhaustion will take a little longer.

13 Things You Are Better Than Me At (and Five I'm Better Than You At)

Things you are better than me at:

1.  Flipping an egg without breaking the yolk.  Yet another reason I am thankful to be married.

2.  Seeing the 3D image in those stupid effin photos in the mall kiosk where you just need to "relax your eyes".  Utter bullshit.

3.  Gleeking.  I just end up getting saliva in my nasal passage.

4.  Staying awake through the entire movie Amadeus.  I am 0-5 lifetime.

5.  Enjoying Sundays.  Sunday blues hits me about 4:30 Saturday afternoon.

6.  Karaoke.  Good for you.

7.  Packing a tin.  I had to stop chewing when KT refused to do it for me any longer.

8.  Growing a mustache.  Don't matter what sex you are.

9.  Hearing.  What?

10.  Imitating Beavis and Buttheads' laugh.   I simply can't do it.

11.  Ice skating.  I may be the only Minnesotan who has never done it.

12.  Checking tire pressure or any other automotive level that any self-respecting man should be automatically good at.

13.  Keeping my nipples properly moisturized.  As KT says, they are "like scabs".

Congratulations.

Things I am better than you at:

1.  Eating vast amounts of pickles.

2.  Supermarket Sweep.  Also, Wheel of Fortune.

3.  Opening my throat to rapidly consume a beer.  Learned in high school, perfected in college, this skill has never left me.

4.  Bruising.  KT is exempt from this one.

5.  Imitating a loon call using only my hands and lung power.

Correspondence With an Oompa-Loompa

As anyone married to a Middle Age Man Syndrome sufferer will attest, we have mastered the art of complaining.  I sent the following email to Willy Wonka customer service last week after being instructed to do so via their Facebook page.  I have yet to receive a reply.

To:  WillyWonka@casupport.com (yes, that is their actual email)
Subject:  You have made a grown man cry

I posted on your Facebook wall and was instructed to email here and mention Facebook.  So, Facebook.

Here is my tragic tale:

I'm a simple man.  I have a simple life, and find pleasure and happiness in simple things.  One of those things is Runts.  In particular, banana Runts.  Banana Runts are without question the supreme Runt.  Banana Runts are the six-time MVP, all-time leading scorer Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of Runts.  Cherry Runts are more of a Felton Spencer-esque Runt.  (Orange are a Patrick Ewing, but I digress).  I have developed a complex algorithmic formula where I score each box of Runts I purchase.  It's a complex formula, so I won't bore you with the details here.  If you are interested, however, I can send you details (maybe it could become popular and you could put a scorecard on each box!).  The best box of Runts I ever purchased, coming in with a 114.3 score, was in August of 2008, purchased at a Pump 'n Munch in Minneapolis, MN.  Generally, most boxes score in the 87.4 - 96.1 range.  Today, however, I hit a new low. I purchased a box of Runts that scored an embarrassing 47.2! 

I had a fairly miserable day at work, which isn't all that uncommon, but doesn't dull the pain.  On my way home, I stopped by the Super America on East River Road in Fridley, MN.  I can pretend that I stopped for gas, cigarettes, gum - whatever, but that would be untrue.  About noon today, the magical banana Runts began dancing in my brain and I knew it was inevitable - we would be together this evening.  So, I eagerly and happily slapped over $1.49 (+ tax) for a big ol' box of Runts and skipped back to my car.  The horrors of my day were a mere distant memory now as soon banana Runts would be making sweet love to my tongue.  I ripped the box open before even buckling my seat belt and peered inside, excited far more than a grown man should be over candy.  I didn't see any bananas from the view line of the ingenious "pull open/push shut" top, but that was ok.  I have a firm grasp of physics and realize that the aerodynamic build of the bananas often causes them to shimmy there way to the bottom of the box.  I happily chomped on the other flavors, fully confident my patience and perseverance would result in a bananarific bonus at the bottom of the box.

About half way through the box, I began to get anxious, however.  I had uncovered only one banana.  To give proper credit, it was a mind-blowingly delicious banana, but still, I wanted more.  I peered into the box and saw only the butt end of a shattered banana.  Small beads of sweat began appearing at my brow.  I gave the box a hearty shake and looked again (in retrospect, it probably would have been safer to pull over before doing this, but I was a little freaked out and not thinking clearly).  Still nothing.  Having supreme faith in the fairness and goodness of Oompa Loompas, I soldiered on, knowing my payday was coming.

As you have probably guessed by now, payday didn't come.  The entire box contained only four (FOUR!) bananas - I refuse to count the shattered sliver.  I was, and am, heart-broken.  I'm not sure why I am writing to you.  I know Oompa Loompas are magical, but I highly doubt they can turn back time and place more bananas in this particular box.  I'm also not writing to scold you (hey, mistakes happen) or to threaten to discontinue my Runt habit.  Did it hurt?  Sure.  However, I have loved before and I will love again.  Let's grow from this experience and never fight again.  Just talking about it with you has helped immensely.

Thanks for listening.