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.

KT Does NOT Tolerate Gum

True story: KT got mad last night (and she still is).

KT doesn’t get mad, like really, actually mad, very often so this is noteworthy. KT was in the kitchen hustling about while Audrey and I were in the other room on the laptop and reading, respectively. Without warning, a bellowing “DAMMIT!” thundered from the kitchen. I was only slightly concerned, as I have become accustomed to the “DAMMIT!”. The “DAMMIT!” happens several times daily, usually following one of the several times each day KT spills her coffee/water/beer/wine (in chronological order). This “DAMMIT!” sounded a little more terse than normal, but I determined I would read my way through it. Audrey had her headphones on so remained unaware of the disturbance.

I had just found my place in my book again when a “MOTHER F***ER!” roared from the kitchen. Now this was more serious. KT isn’t shy about using the “F-word” but there was an edge in her voice that isn’t there often. I needed to investigate. I set my book down and started towards the kitchen. I had not quite gotten there when KT screamed “WHO THE F*** CHEWS GUM?”. Oh no. Oh, please God, no. Not gum. KT will pick up the most disgusting, unrecognizable discharges from our cat - regardless of which end they came out of - sometimes with her bare hands. But not gum. Gum KT will not tolerate. I quickly turned around, hoping she hadn’t seen me approaching. No luck. “PAUL! THERE IS GUM IN THE RUG!!! WHO THE F*** CHEWS GUM?!?!” KT was well aware the answer to this question wasn’t her, me, Carson or the cat. That left Audrey. I tried to protect my youngest, offering “I may have accidentally knocked it out of the garbage can when I was throwing the coffee grounds away. I thought I saw something fall, but I looked around and didn’t see anything.” KT wasn’t buying it. “NO! I taught our kids when they were three years old that you DO NOT throw gum away without wrapping it in a tissue!!”. She stormed into the other room. Audrey was beyond helping now. “AUDREY!! DO YOU CHEW GUM?!?!” Audrey removed her headphones and KT repeated the question/accusation. Audrey, knowing things were not going to end well no matter how she answered, dug in and softly said “sometimes”. KT then filled her in on the crime - “THERE IS GUM IN THE MOTHER F***ING RUG!!!” I, meanwhile, was cowering in the doorway. The only thing scarier than KT mad is KT and Audrey both mad and fighting. I silently begged Audrey to de-escalate the situation, offer a meek apology and go attempt to remove the gum from the mother f***ing rug. No luck. Audrey thought a moment before coolly replying “It wasn’t me.”

Shit. Now it was on. The only thing KT hates worse than gum in the mother f***ing rug is gum in the mother f***ing rug when nobody will take responsibility. After a five minute tirade, which I won’t repeat because I’ve used enough capital letters and it would probably get me banned from Facebook, KT threw her arms in the air let out a final “DAMMIT!!!” and went to tackle the problem. I watched silently from the kitchen stool, knowing from experience to neither offer to help or to try to calm her down. She grabbed an anonymous spray bottle from under the sink and violently soaked the heavily embedded gum. Then she took a spoonful of coconut oil and spread it over the offending party before covering it with a napkin. Thirty seconds later she said “DAMMIT!” and removed the napkin. She then took a large scoop of peanut butter, spread it over the gum and called “Carson!”. Carson came over, gingerly licked the peanut butter up and turned his nose up at the gum before walking away. KT said “MOTHER F***ER! I GIVE UP!!!” and stormed out of the room.

That’s where we left it. To her credit, KT didn’t (and never does) let it ruin her evening. She was able to be her normal, friendly cursing self. But the gum is still there, lurking, waiting for round two. There will not be true peace in our home until the gum situation is solved. On the surface, it may seem like she has moved on but 25 years of experience assures me that she does not move on from unresolved gum issues. The best course of action, (dearest Audrey if you are reading this) is to go to Menards and shell out $7.95 for a new one. You needn’t admit guilt - or even say anything - but the gum situation must be resolved. This may seem wasteful and an unnecessary expense, but is far cheaper than therapy. Because, Kate does not tolerate gum.

Carson and Camping

Subject is not as innocent as he seems

True story:  I learned last week that Carson is full of shit.

In the three months that we have had Carson, we've learned that he is exceptionally large and equally as clumsy.  He has refused to go either up or down the stairs in our house, content with just hanging out on the main level of our house.  We've always attributed his reluctance to clumsiness.  Even going up the four stairs to our door from outside, Carson requires backing up a few steps, getting a head of steam and more or less just lunging himself at the stairs and hoping his giant paws find solid ground underneath him.  Things like stairs - or heaven forbid jumping - are definitely not in his arsenal.

Which brings us to last week.  I had some vacation time to burn and KT did not so I decided to take the dog, a stack of books and enough whiskey to fill a small swimming pool and head to the woods for a week.  It was a beautiful vacation of no deadlines and no responsibilities.  I had even constructed a small perimeter fence outside of the camper and deck so that Carson would have a little bit of freedom to wander and use the facilities.  The fence was only a few feet high (see photo), but more than enough to keep the clumsy oaf contained.  The campground was virtually empty and tucked backed into a remote corner as we were, we saw nor heard anyone else.

By Tuesday, I had decided that there really wasn't a point in wearing my hearing aids.  I wasn't talking to anyone, nobody was talking to me and Carson and I learned to communicate non-verbally.  It was also quite warm and so I let my normal self body-shaming slide and was laying reading with a pair of shorts on and nothing more.  I was as content as could be and Carson, although maybe a bit bored, seemed happy laying on the outdoor couch next to me and snoozing the afternoon away.

At some point in the afternoon, Carson lifted his head abruptly and cocked his ears, listening intently.  I heard nothing of course, as my earhorns weren't in but wasn't alarmed as Carson had taken quite an interest in the chipmunks and red squirrels scurrying around.  I glanced at him briefly and went back to my book.  A few seconds later he rose and headed towards the temporary barrier I had erected.  Still not alarmed - this was Carson, after all, who once couldn't make it from one room to another as there was a four-inch tall box blocking his way - I continued to read.  After a bit, I noticed his tail started whipping in counter-clockwise circles at about 400 RPMs.  I couldn't see what he was looking at, as his line of vision was around the corner, but I decided to investigate.  As I approached where he was standing, Carson decided that what he had spied was far too exciting to risk my ruining it.  He put one foot up on the fence and without the slightest hesitation, hurdled the fence with all the grace and agility of an equestrian horse.  Upon landing, he tore off down the small gravel road that led to our site.

I quickly (relative use of the word quickly here as I had been stagnant for several hours and had some whiskey in me) followed him, tripping over the fence he so adroitly scaled just moments before.  Regaining my balance, I turned the corner to see where he had run off to and came face to face with one of my biggest fears.  About 150 yards down the path sat Carson right in the middle of two moms and four or five early teen girls soaking up their love and adoration and endless petting.

I quickly yelled apologies for his intrusion and demanded Carson return at once but there was not a chance in hell he was interested in returning to the soul-crushing boringness I was offering when this all-inclusive fawning was an option.  So, barefoot, shirtless and deaf I started hobbling down the path to retrieve him.  I don't go barefoot often as I have sensitive skin on the bottom of my feet (pussyfoot as KT calls me) so I didn't so much as run to Carson but awkwardly hobble towards him, cussing silently (or maybe not silently, my hearing aids weren't in) each time a rock dug into my precious feet.  After about 45 seconds I finally reached the congregation and got a hold of his collar.  I apologized over and over, realizing that if I stopped talking I would need to explain that I didn't have my ears in and thus couldn't easily respond to anything the by now head-over-heels in love (with the dog, not me, but I probably don't need to elaborate that) group of ladies said.  So, I grabbed him and headed back towards our base.  Carson, as he tends to do when being asked to go somewhere he doesn't want to go, put on the brakes, steadfastly refusing to move.  I offered promises of his ball, bananas and cauliflower, but none were enough to entice him.  Instead, it was 95 pounds of passive resistance flopped down in the middle of a group of females who by this time must have been incredibly confused by the barely clothed man who kept talking and not responding to them.  After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally able to scoop up the shapeless mass and with promises of dinner, drag him back within our confines, where I quickly began constructing a more impenetrable line of defense.  It was only after I had been back for a few minutes when I realized that on top of my other embarrassments, my fly had been down the entire time.

The girls didn't stay at the campground long - only about thirty minutes - but I can only hope their encounter wasn't what kept them away.  We spent the remainder of the week without incident, thankfully, but I will never again believe the sad eyes Carson deals out when we invite him to join us downstairs.