Valentine's Day

This is what KT and I are getting each other for this most sacred of holidays:

Her to Me -

1)  She has entertained the notion of going to see The Monument Men with me, even going so far as to independently research show times and theaters with captions.  This is huge for her as normally her attention span lasts half way through a trailer, making sitting through a 110 minute movie (she may not realize the length, so shh) quite a sacrifice.  Not to mention she will have to endure nearly two hours of my insatiable man crush on Matt Damon.

2)  She will not, after she has fallen sound asleep tonight and I am still awake, have the following argument when I turn to the Olympics (which she has determined to be A) boring, B) depressing and C) *toss off motion*)

KT - "Don't turn, I was watching that!"
Me - "No you weren't.  Your eyes were closed and there is a line of drool coming out of your mouth"
KT - "But is was listening to it!"

3)  She will trim my eyebrows to make me less Garrison Keillor-ish

Me to Her -

1)  I have paper-clipped the rear bumper of her car back to the rest of it.  Yes, I used a paper clip to secure the bumper to the car so that it no longer drags or nearly drags on the ground when driven.  It is a foolproof fix.  The car still sounds like it is dragging several cats underneath it when you turn, go over a bump, accelerate, run the fan or put the keys in the ignition, but the bumper is firmly secured with a paper clip.  Baby steps.

2)  I will move our sole cable box (and the 13 shitty channels it offers) from the living room into our bedroom so that KT can watch her Bravo shows when she wakes at 12:30, 1:45, 2:20, 3:40, 4:15 and then for good at 6:00.  As I am asleep, she won't have to listen to me childishly bitch and moan about how incredibly offensively moronic I find her Bravo shows.

3)  I will drink.  In an effort to cut calories, I have been avoiding alcohol on "school" nights.  Last night, KT informed me that she likes "Drinking Paul" because then she doesn't feel strange about having a glass of wine alone.  So, honey, tonight, just for you, I will drink.

Romance is alive and well in the Kruse household.

Shut the F Up, Dennis

I attended a seminar for work today.  I wasn't exactly thrilled about the prospect, but realize they are sometimes necessary and I didn't really mind getting out of the office for a day.  Best case scenario I could sit in the back and daydream for seven hours.  I was disappointed upon arriving as I realized there were only three of us and the instructor there and going unnoticed would be impossible.

At 9:00, Kurt (our instructor) got us started.  We made small talk for a while, introduced ourselves and Kurt set the outline for the day, finishing with this bit of good news: "Officially, I say the seminar is over at 4:00, but yesterday I had a group of 24 people and we were done by 2:30.  So, I'll let you guys dictate the pace but we should be wrapped up pretty early today."  Tom, Rebecca (my classmates) and I shot each other conspiratorial grins, flipped open our workbooks and we were off.  Things were flowing at a great pace and I was planning my agenda for an unexpected afternoon off.  Then, at exactly 9:36 AM, Dennis happened.

The warning signs came early.  Dennis burst into the room wearing a leather coat (unzipped), a red and blue denim shirt (right side red, left side blue, divided at the buttons) and a giant (seriously, giant) belt buckle.  Like a dog looking to take a dump, he examined four empty tables before settling on one to sit at.  Once he finally was seated, Kurt welcomed him, introduced himself and casually asked if he was stuck in traffic.  Dennis replied "Nope".  Pause.  Pause.  Uncomfortable silence.  Pause.  Finally, Kurt realized no explanation of the tardiness was forthcoming and began speaking again.  It was the only time all day Dennis was short for words.

We were on page four of our workbook when Dennis arrived.  I was finding the class interesting, the instructor a nice guy and the pace just to my liking.  One hour after Dennis arrived, we were still on page four.  Kurt could not say four sentences before Dennis would interject with a question.  It's ok to ask questions.  After all, that is what these seminars are for.  What Dennis was asking, however, were the most idiotic, mundane, banal questions that Kurt and everyone else in the room assumed Dennis was joking the first few times.  And, in the rare case that Dennis couldn't think of a question, he would interrupt anyways.  At one point he halted Kurt and said, "There is a guy I worked with, who was unemployed before we hired him.  We hired him on the 15th and by the 21st, he quit and was unemployed again."  Pause.  Pause.  Kurt, who by now had learned to not pause quite so long, asked "Is that why you are taking this class today?  You are filling in for the duties he was performing?".  Dennis replied, "No.  I just can't understand how some people will just quit a job before even having another one."  On page six of my workbook is the following scribble:  STFU Dennis

This continued until nearly noon, when Kurt started talking about taking a break for a bit so that people could stretch their legs, have a bite to eat and we would reconvene in 30 minutes.  This was good news as the conference room had a pitcher of water on each table, and as I was alone at my table I made it my personal mission to empty the thing.  I was getting ready to make my exit when Dennis blurted out, "Before we break, can I ask a couple of quick questions?"  Page eight of my workbook has this at the bottom:  D, STFU!

After lunch, Dennis remembered that he had brought his phone with.  He began furiously snapping pictures of the power point presentation on the screen, which - not coincidentally - was exactly the same as the pages of our workbook.  He snapped so many pictures that his battery became drained.  No worries, as Dennis had brought his charger.  Rather than plug his phone into the outlet next to his chair, however, Dennis decided to plug it into the power strip with the projector in the front of the room.  Over the course of the next two hours, class was brought to a screeching halt no less than four times as Dennis would get up, walk to the front of the room, stand directly in front of Kurt and check his phone.  Finally satisfied it had charged sufficiently, he brought it back to his table with him and proceeded to make a phone call.  He didn't leave, he didn't apologize and I'm quite sure he didn't notice that class had - once again - stopped for him.  Ten minutes later, Dennis received a phone call.  His side of the conversation was this:  "Hi.  I can't talk.  I'm in the middle of a conference."  Yet that is exactly what you were doing, Dennis.  You were talking.  In the middle of a fucking conference.  On page 17 of my workbook is this:  DENNIS, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Finally, at 3:55 Kurt began wrapping things up.  My dreams of a half day were crushed, but I still had a jump start on the rest of my day, even considering a longer than normal commute.  When Kurt asked the standard, "Does anyone have any questions?" that all good instructors are required to do before dismissing you, Rebecca, Tom and I quickly looked at the floor and avoided eye contact, as is the only sane thing to do in that situation.  Dennis, however, began rambling once more.  I couldn't take it.  I stood up, grabbed my coat, shook Kurt's hand, said thanks and hightailed it.  Following my lead, Tom and Rebecca made it out as well (I'm pretty sure I am their hero).  Poor Kurt, however, had no escape.  He may still be there.

Profiles in Courage

I was a scrawny kid.  To those who know me in my current form without the benefit of having known me back in the day, this may be somewhat difficult to fathom.  It is true, however, and I have the photos to prove it.

It's okay to be a scrawny kid.  Millions of kids have survived and indeed flourished later in life despite the difficulties being a weakling can cause.  The key to making it through this difficult time is knowing when to shut up.  When just about everybody (both sexes included) could easily whoop your ass, you should instinctively know that it isn't in your best interest to be an asshole.  To point, you don't see a rabbit sassing a wolf - it would be idiotic and suicidal.  Being a human, however, gives you the power to overcome these natural instincts and do the exact opposite of what all logic dictates.  It is an amazing gift that separates humans from other animals.  It can also be a horrific curse in the hands of a scrawny kid with a big mouth.

As a kid, my diminutive size was in direct opposite proportion to the size of my mouth.  I would push, nitpick, tease and aggravate until the only possible course of action for the object of my annoyance was to pummel me.  Rarely did anyone get that pleasure, however, as I had a knack for knowing the right moment to flee to the safety of my house, a teacher or other safe zone.  One memorable instance, however, I was caught.  Two neighborhood kids - who in reality were probably my size, but my memory paints them as giants - had me trapped.  I don't recall if it was a specific transgression that caused them to seek retribution on me or just a culmination of several years of being a chronic asshole, but these two were mad.  They ambushed me, catching me alone in the backyard, undoubtedly throwing my Nerf football in the air repeatedly as I had an OCD tendency to do as a youngster.  I was screwed.  After realizing that apologizing profusely and begging for mercy weren't going to help, I whimpered helplessly and prepared for my beat down.  Before the first punch was thrown, however, a miracle occurred.  My brother, whose presence I was unaware of, stepped out of the house and inserted himself into the melee.

Now, the tables were turned.  It was a fair fight and these two bullies were about to feel the wrath of the Krusey Brothers!  As my brother approached, the kid holding me back released his grip on me to prepare for whatever my brother may have had in store.  Realizing my opportunity, I reacted with adrenaline fueled speed and precision.  I jerked my arms away from my captor and ran like a bat out of hell into the house, locking the door behind me.  Cherishing my good fortune, I made it to my bedroom window just in time to peek under the blinds and watch my brother take the beating that was rightfully mine.

The next day, to thank my brother, I repeatedly threw the aforementioned Nerf football at him while he mowed the lawn.  After finally reaching his boiling point, he calmly looked directly at me, tilted the mower back on two wheels and placed it down on my beloved football, sending a confetti shower of foam over me as I sobbed uncontrollably at the raw injustice of it all.

This has been Profiles in Courage.  Join us next time for the story of the time I hid in my basement closet for six hours after throwing a rock at a car.

Empty Nesters

Last Thursday, we shipped the kids off to Arizona with grandma for the weekend.  Excited to have house to ourselves, KT and I took Friday off work.  We had no plans, no commitments and no itinerary for three days.  It was awesome.  That being said, by Friday at 10:00, we were bored.  Determined to make the most of our time, we hatched the brilliant plant to make grape jelly using the concord grapes that have been growing like Audrey Two from Little Shop of Horrors for a few years in what used to be our garden (we now prefer to call it "native habitat").  We researched recipes and realized we needed a sieve to continue our project.  Determined to do this on the cheap, we set off to the local thrift shop to see if we could score one.  This was convenient, as the liquor store was right next door and I was already several hours late of a buzz considering the whole three day weekend thing.

So, after determining there wasn't a sieve, we decided to make our normal rounds through the store.  KT meanders through clothing, knick-knacks and pillow cases (?) while I flip through the t-shirts and check out the books.  When I was halfway through the book aisle, KT came bounding towards me, heels kicking high and arms flailing.  "OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD!  I found an EMMALJUNGA!  You HAVE to come look at this!!!".  Intrigued, as I had not a clue what an Emmaljunga was, I followed.  Turns out an Emmaljunga is a baby stroller.  KT would have none of my less than enthusiastic reaction.  "You don't understand.  We HAVE to buy this.  You can't even buy these in the United States.  EVERYONE in Sweden has one and it's only $30!  We HAVE to buy this."

"But," I countered, "our children are grown.  We just sent them on a plane to Arizona.  We aren't having more children.  I don't see the need."  KT would not be denied.  "It can be for our grand-babies.  We can lend it to people.  I can clean it up and sell it.  It's Swedish and thus the most awesome baby stroller ever invented and we are buying it."  Case closed.  We loaded the stroller into the car and headed home.

Once home, KT set to work immediately, furiously scrubbing and polishing the stroller, shaping it up to the point that I had to admit it was a fine looking piece of machinery.  She then dove into internet research, proving to me that indeed you can't purchase an Emmaljunga anywhere in the United States and that they do sell for quite a bit more than we paid for it.  Humbled, I apologized for my hesitation in purchasing it and assured KT I would never question her in a thrift store again.  All was well with the world, we were at peace.

Flash forward a few hours.  I was diving into one of my new books while KT was in the other room, still putting the finishing touches on her new investment.  I was absorbed in my book, but became vaguely aware of KT humming or singing.  I wasn't alarmed, but found it peculiar as she isn't normally prone to these habits.  As it continued, getting gradually louder, I recognized the tune.  She was performing the music from the opening credits of Rosemary's Baby.  The creepy "la la laaa la, la la laaa" tune.  I had to investigate.  It was as bad as I thought.  KT was pushing the stroller around the room, eyes glazed over.  She was, of course, doing it merely because she knew I would freak, but it worked.  I asked, begged, pleaded for her to stop, but that only encouraged her.  "I miss my babies, la la laaaa, la la laaa.  Aren't you excited for us to be empty nesters?"  I knew my only hope was to ignore her.  Luckily, I'm pretty good at that. I went back to my book, gritting my teeth and pretending I wasn't disturbed.  In an inspiring display of determination, she continued the act for nearly 20 minutes.

Finally, satisfied the nightmare was behind me as the maniacal la la la had stopped, I ventured back into the room.  This is what greeted me:

Followed immediately by KT whining, "Paul, I miss my baybeeeees!!!!"

I truly fear for our future.  Oh, also, the damn birds ate our grapes, so the great jelly experiment was a flusher.

Naked Feral Cat

It's now been about 18 months since I started wearing hearing aids.  They're great and I wish I would have gotten them much earlier.  They make work, social situations and family life infinitely easier and have been credited with "turning down my asshole factor a bit" (I'll let you guess whom I'm quoting there).  That being said, my favorite moment every day is taking them out at night.  I'm essentially pressing the mute button on the world, and it is wonderful.  This moment usually occurs between 9:30 and 10:00 each night, when I have finally:
a) massaged
b) paid sufficient attention to
c) cuddled
d) liquored up or
e) all of the above
KT enough that she has stopped talking and has a fine line of drool hanging from the corner of her mouth.  Like one becomes dependent on glasses just a month after first getting them - despite not having worn glasses before - I have become dependent on my hearing aids and can hear absolutely nothing without them.  Like I said, this is a peaceful nirvana for me and I cherish the moments.  It can, however, lead to "situations" at times where it is imperative for KT to convey a message to me and my deafness makes it considerably difficult.  I tend to startle easily as I can't hear anyone not in my line of vision.  Additionally, when startled, I tend to jump and flail much like a Looney Tunes character.  KT, in her typical sensitive, loving manner, has likened me to a naked feral cat when I don't have my ears in. She cites the following two examples in justifying my new title:

1)  Last weekend I came down with a nasty head cold.  It timed itself perfectly so that it hit right when I got home from work Friday and proceeded to stay with me through the weekend, lifting just in time so I couldn't justify taking a sick day Monday.  Friday night, Saturday and Sunday, however, I was flat on my back, sniffling, sneezing and dispersing mucus like an oversensitive soft soap dispenser.  Friday night, KT and I had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the TV, as per our normal protocol.  We sleep there for an hour or so until one of us gets uncomfortable enough to make the effort of getting up and heading to bed.  As a courtesy, the one who has gotten up will nudge the other and grunt out the word "bed" before trudging off.  The other will then usually follow suit.  This night KT was the one who woke first and decided to head to bed.  I had my hearing aids out and was soundly sleeping as she nudged me.  Following routine, I began instinctively rising to head to the bedroom.  Rather than sleepily shuffling ahead of me, however, KT immediately jumped into an admirable basketball defensive position and began boxing me out.  Confused and still mostly asleep, I attempted to move around her.  She quickly spun around held up her hand in the classic traffic cop stop position and yelled, "NO!".  "YOU!" (pointing at me now).  "STAY!" (pointing at the couch now).  "STAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY.  YOU STAY!"  I now had stirred sufficiently to understand that my sneezing/snoring/snorting had banished me to the couch for the night.  That was fine, I could understand her reasoning, but thought the theatrics of trying to train a feral cat were a bit excessive.

2)  Al and Audrey are at the stages in their lives where, despite still living at home, are gone often enough that it is not at all uncommon for KT and I to find we have the house to ourselves for the night and the following morning. It allows certain liberties that are convenient and run the risk of years of expensive therapy if the kids witnessed it.  In specifics, I'm referring to walking from the shower (downstairs) to the bedroom (main floor) without first getting dressed.  It's a small convenience, admittedly, but one which I never fail to take advantage of when I can.  A few weeks ago we had one such situation.  The kids were both gone for the night and we didn't expect them home until late the next afternoon.  So, Saturday morning, I got out of bed to shower with the full intent of making a naked journey to the bedroom to get dressed after.  KT was still in bed, drinking coffee and waiting her turn for the shower.  To her mild surprise, she heard the front door open and Audrey walk in with a friend.  As it turns out, they had decided to go shopping and Audrey was swinging by home for a quick change of clothes.  KT went to the kitchen to chat with them as I, oblivious, finished my shower.  When she heard the stairs creaking as I began walking upstairs, she realized the magnitude of the enormous life scarring event that was about to unfold.  She began yelling "PAUL!!!!  STOP!!!!!  DON'T COME UPSTAIRS!!!!"  I, however, didn't have my hearing aids in (they don't work well in showers), and heard nothing more than Charlie Brown's parents yelling "BWAH!!!!  BOP!!!!! MMOMP FLOM ROMMAIRS!!!!" This simply piqued my interest and I picked up my pace.  KT quickly realized the naked feral cat was loose.  Thinking fast, she ran to the top of the stairs where, by divine intervention, a basket of my clean laundry was waiting for me to put away.  She opened the door and began madly flinging whatever clothes she could grab quickest down the stairs, pelting me with a total of two pairs of shorts, thee socks and a flannel shirt.  The message was received, however, and I realized that it was probably a good idea to put some clothes on before going further.

While my natural inclination is to be offended by the comparison, I do have to admit that KT may, once again, be right.

Allegiances

If anyone questions where KT’s allegiances lie, let me offer the following brief story from the other night:

I was telling Audrey an amusing story from a book I am reading about a motorcycle gang in Sweden.  Instead of using the term “motorcycle gang” however, I was referring to them as “bikers”.  Audrey was having a difficult time following my story, but like a true hero, KT jumped in to explain.

“He means BIKERS, like this”, she said.  She then proceeded to straddle an invisible Harley, place her hands above her head (high handlebars apparently), put a “do me” look on her face and purred an engine noise while revving a fake throttle.

“He doesn’t mean bikers like him”  She then pointed at me, crossed her eyes, hung her tongue out of her mouth, shook her head like a bobblehead doll, and began pantomiming pedaling, looking much similar to someone in the first spastic, panicky moments of drowning.

Message received, honey.

Dirt Naps

Today officially marks three weeks since I have been in a car.  Over this time span, I have biked 313.4 miles, bussed 50.4 miles and walked 18.9 miles.  The surprising thing I have learned during the course of this experiment is that it isn't the long trips that turn me into a cranky complaining mess.  Instead, it's the short little errands that are killing me.  I don't have a problem getting up early and riding into work or heading downtown for happy hour, but a quick trip to the liquor store or the bank seems like an incredible hassle.  Most likely it's a matter of perspective.  When going to work, I know I am going to be there for eight hours so an extra 25 minutes getting there isn't a psychological hurdle.  However, a five minute beer run turning into a 30 minute struggle has a tendency to (at best) make me grumble or (at worst) make me convince myself that I don't need beer as I have a five year old bottle of tequila and a nine year old bottle of creme de cacao in the basement and there surely must be a cocktail combining the two (there isn't).

So, anyways, with 10 days left, my biggest internal question is what happens then?  Will I continue to be less reliant on a car or will I slip back into old habits of automatically grabbing the car keys whether I am going to work or to the next door neighbor's house?  I honestly don't know the answer.  I'd like to think I will find a happy, healthy balance between the two, but I tend to work at extremes.  Meanwhile, some random thoughts:

 - SWASS season is most definitely upon us.  I'll let your imagination run wild with that.

 - Last Thursday was nearly a flusher.  I had taken the day off of work as Audrey was swimming in the State Synchro meet.  As she swam at 1:45, my plan was to enjoy my morning farting around at home before pedaling down to the U of M about noon.  A simple plan, but I don't work so well when things are that open-ended.  As I've mentioned before, I thrive on strict, orderly schedules.  I would be an amazing train conductor in Germany.  Occasionally, however, I will try to ease up and let things just happen.  So, I read for a while, watched Troll Hunter on Netflix (highly recommended), made myself some eggs and consciously avoided looking at a clock.  Finally, convinced the time to leave was near, I pedaled to the bank to grab some cash for the day.  It was on this 1.5 mile journey that I realized that I had made a mistake.  The wind was whipping at a good clip straight from the North meaning that the way to the U would be downhill and with the wind at my back but the uphill trek home would be an absolute bitch.  I quickly changed plans and checked a bus schedule.  I had six minutes to make it about 1/2 mile to the bus stop.  I sprinted out the door,  making it to the stop in time.  While catching my breath, however, I reached into my pocket to grab bus fare and quickly realized that I had only $20 bills.  So, I ran across the street to a gas station to get change.  Because I always feel like an ass asking for change without making a purchase, I decided to grab some candy.  I rushed into the candy aisle, picked up my usual Gobstoppers and headed for the register.  At the end of the candy aisle, however, a bright purple pack of Jolly Joes caught my eye.  I froze.  I was hopelessly stuck, unable to make the simplest decision on what kind of candy to buy.  Three minutes later, I let out a small whimper as I saw my bus go by while I was still holding two boxes of candy, completely unable to make a decision.  Now I had to wait for the next bus, arriving in 30 minutes.  I would still make it on time to see Audrey swim, but it would be much closer.

 In the meantime, I texted KT of my fate, whereas she made it a point to drive by the bus stop on her way to the U, honk at me and give me the finger.  I began reading my book while waiting for the bus, and continued to do so once I boarded.  I became so engrossed, in fact, that I completely tuned out where the bus was.  When seemingly everyone began getting off the bus, I naturally assumed I was at my stop (why wouldn't everyone be going the same place as I?) and hopped off the bus, never taking my eyes off my book as I was only two pages from a chapter break.  Once the bus pulled away, I finally checked out my surroundings and realized I had exited the bus several stops early.  Now I was in trouble.  I had a couple of miles to go and not nearly enough time to get there.  Shit.  As I was about to abandon hope and plan my apology/excuse to Audrey, KT and my parents who had come to watch, the heavens finally smiled upon me.  A block away I noticed a Nice Ride bike rental station.  I sprinted over, easily and quickly rented a bike and pedaled like hell towards the U.  As luck would have it, there was another Nice Ride station right outside of the Aquatic Center, meaning I could pedal almost to the front door.  I did so, slipping in to watch Audrey swim with three minutes to spare.  Needless to say, I have become a fan of the Nice Ride program.

 - One of the great things about so much bike riding is the chance to appreciate nature.  Oh Mother Nature, how I love thee

 - As I've mentioned earlier, we ditched cable in our house a few weeks back.  This wasn't an easy decision, as KT has never been shy about proclaiming her one true love to be television.  Regardless, we took the leap and I hauled all of our equipment in.  One day last week, we received a large box in the mail from Comcast.  Perplexed, I opened it to find a cable box.  As we had clearly just canceled our cable and returned our equipment, I was more than a little bit peeved.  I got on the phone ready to raise holy hell.  The very patient and kind representative informed me that because we had kept Comcast for our internet service, we were automatically entitled to one cable box at no additional charge, and that we would receive on demand services and a limited number of channels for free.  I was skeptical, but satisfied.  KT, on the other hand, was over the moon.  As she put it, "I loved cable so hard that I had to set it free.  But like any true love story, it returned to me."  Hard to argue with that logic.  At least until yesterday, when we got a terse letter from Comcast explaining that since we have canceled our cable service, we have exactly 14 days to return all of our cable equipment to them.  I give up.

 - One more bike story:  Wednesday night I went downtown straight from work to meet my brother for his birthday.  We decided to roll the dice with the impending storms and scalp tickets for the Twins game.  It was a good decision as the storms held off and we got quality seats for a great price.  When the game finished, thunder and lightning were getting nearer so I quickly said goodbye and headed for home.  About halfway home, the thunder and lightning was becoming pretty close and was quite spectacular so I decided to stop and try to grab a photo or two as it wasn't raining yet.  In retrospect, I should have heeded the words of the great philosopher Stevie Nicks who penned "Thunder only happens when it's raining".  No sooner had I pulled out my phone to snap some photos when all hell broke loose.  I was instantly drenched and being blown in every direction but home.  After a few seconds of panic, I soldiered on.  By the time I neared home, I actually was able to enjoy the moment, realizing in awe how rare of an occasion it is to be able to have a first hand experience of a powerful storm.  Okay, I'm full of shit.  It sucked.

 - Finally, dear old Maggie, our beloved lab is 12 years old this summer.  She has a giant growth on one side of her body, a mangled pus-ridden leg that she obsessively licks, cloudy eyes and severe flatulence.  And, we love her more than ever.  As walks have become too much of a burden for her, we have substituted simply sitting in the front yard with her as our nightly activity.   Each evening, she picks a spot in our flower bed and digs a little deeper and a little wider into the earth.  When she has worn herself out, she plops down in her ever deepening hole and takes a monster nap.  Maggie has never been an obsessive digger, which makes her behavior all the stranger.  The only logical conclusion KT and I can come up with is she is digging her own grave, preparing to take one final dirt nap.  I guess there are worse ways to go.