Karma is...

This morning while pedaling to work, I spotted a women's wallet laying in the street just under a car.  At first I kept going, the "none of my business" mantra ringing in my ears.  Soon, however, Lutheran guilt took over and I circled back, picked it up and opened it.  It was the mother lode - debit cards, credit cards, a fistful of cash and a driver's license.  I looked at the license - it was for a woman in her 30's who (certainly not coincidentally) lived right by where I found it.  I shut the wallet, walked my bike up to the door and began knocking (it was before 7:00).  After repeated knockings and doorbell ringings, nobody answered.  So, I wrote a brief note saying "Found this in the street Monday morning at about 7:00.  I tried knocking, but didn't get an answer.  Hope this finds you safely.  Have a nice day."  I then wrapped the note around the wallet and placed it between the screen door and front door and biked off.

My immediate payback came in the form of getting caught in the rain on my way to work.  Ironically, had I not stopped and tried to return the wallet, I would have most likely made it to work before the rain began.  Thanks, karma.

Feet

My feet hate me.

My feet have always been abnormally flat.  I am the poster child for flat feet draft deferment.  When I was a child, my cousins and other various relatives would plead with me to get my feet wet and walk on the pavement so they could marvel and laugh hysterically at the shape of my footprint.  I have, as KT termed it, an "Anti-Arch".  My feet actually bow very slightly outward where an arch should be.  To this day, people who have known me since I was young will occasionally ask me to remove my shoes and socks so they can see the freak show.

A few years back my left foot decided to up the game.  While doing some very mild hiking in non-appropriate footwear (KT has since made the wearing of Chuck Taylors verboten), I felt a twinge in my foot.  It wasn't painful, really, but just felt kind of strange.  Within two days, it was nearly impossible to walk.  I was eventually diagnosed with a stress fracture right at the point where an arch should have been.  Crutches and a walking boot ruled my life for the four six (first follow up appointment showed my feet to heal abnormally slow) weeks.  Fortunately, the pain subsided after the first week and they gave me enough pharmaceutical help to get through it.  The icing on the cake was when my doctor informed me that I have arthritis in my feet, which explained their perpetual soreness.

The latest fun thing my feet are experimenting with is gout.  Also known as gouty arthritis, podagra or the "disease of kings", gout is the build up of uric acid - never mind, just google it.  I have had it now two, possibly three (rethinking an instance way back when my foot gave me a particularly bothersome stretch) times.  It is insanely painful.  It is perhaps best personified in the artist James Gillray's 1799 caricature (thanks Wikipedia!):

I had to shelter my foot last night to ensure the blanket would not touch it and send me writhing in pain.  The pain is ridiculous enough, but the best part about gout is the whole "insult to injury" thing.  There isn't a lot of sympathy for gout.  It's thought to afflict only those whose diet consists of (1) red meat and (2) alcohol.  I may be guilty of one of those, but not both (feel free to judge which one).  The last time I was afflicted, the reactions ranged from irrepressible laughter (KT) to "Jesus, throw in a salad!" (my brother).  The silver lining is it only lasts a few days and when it lifts it feels like when you finally start to feel normal from the world's worst hangover.  I lay in bed as I write this -  my foot propped up and a three foot (no pun intended) "do not enter" radius surrounding it - anxiously waiting for that sweet, glorious relief.

I'm excited to see what step (the puns are just too easy) my feet decide to take next.  I imagine it's going to involve some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.  KT and I have been fretting over our future, when my feet decide to give out entirely.  I am far too large and she is far too small for her to be carrying me around.  So far the only thing we can come up with is sister-wives and we don't feel like moving.

I Sh*t You Not

Because it is both horrifying and fascinating, here, in chronological order, is what KT has ingested since her last documented BM (she not only documents, but rates BMs):

1.  One (1) Large Wendy's Chili, w/everything
2.  One (1) Medium Wendy's fries
3.  One (1) party platter of grocery store sushi, imported from California  **note - this should read minus one piece.  KT arrived home from work Friday with a party platter of sushi, declaring "I got dinner for us!"  I expressed some hesitation over sushi made in California then shipped via (hopefully) refrigerated rail to Hopkins where it was then transferred via a (hopefully) refrigerated truck to our local store where it was (hopefully) immediately placed in a refrigerated area where KT (hopefully) quickly grabbed it and brought it home.  KT took my reservation as an official declaration of my disinterest and proceeded to "annex" the entire platter under KT Kruschkev's control minus one piece I was able to sample.
4.  One (1) Summit Frost Line Rye
5.  One (1) Bottle of Prosecco
6.  Two (2) pieces of white bread, toasted.
7.  Two (2) eggs, fried
8.  One (1) shitload butter
9.  Coffee -  several, several cups
10.  One (1) "taco-in-a-bag" consisting of beef, sour cream, cheddar cheese, salsa, onion, pepper, Cool Ranch Doritos, taco seasoning and shredded lettuce.
11.  One (1) Summit Frost Line Rye
12.  Two (2) Tasty Pizza chicken wings w/blue cheese
13.  One (1) Miller Lite, tap (large)
14.  Pizza, undetermined quantity, featuring Canadian bacon, pineapple and saurkraut
15.  One (1) pear cider (medium)
16.  One (1) red velvet chocolate covered Easter candy egg (purely as research for her yearly "Do They Make Peanut-Butter Meltaway Eggs Anymore?" project)
16a. (see number twenty-six (26) below and repeat)
17.  One (1) glass box wine, chardonnay
18.  Two (2) small bowls taco meat, one (1) including store bought guacamole
19.  Coffee - several, several cups
20.  Pancakes, undetermined quantity
21.  Syrup + Butter, unknown quantity
22.  Two (2) turkey sausage links
23.  (see number ten (10) and repeat)
23a.  One (1) BM - bloody mary, that is
24.  Two (2) Samoa Girl Scout cookies
25.  Six (6) pancakes with fake butter
26.  One (1) spoonful of chicken salad
27.  One (1) slice Muenster cheese
28.  One (1) Harp's lager

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.