Hit ’em Where it Helps

Don’t wait until they die.  While they’re still here… hit ’em where it helps.

There is no better way to send someone to their grave just prior to death than telling them, years before they parish, how much they mean to you. (That is, if the person has affected you positively or even profoundly. Otherwise, you may just let them rest properly and get the hell out of the way.)

We lose many, unexpectedly, without having the chance to outwardly express our appreciation for them.  To me, this isn’t tragic, just a little unfair.  On the same stage, we all wait patiently, or impatiently, for loved ones to pass on to what we wish for them to be a better life.  We then wait until the ashes are distributed, and sadly wish to have said  or written anything to them providing meaning above and beyond their call of beauty on this earth.  Don’t wait.

Even as a young boy, I recall attending funerals when the eulogy was provided with terrific passion and respect, only for the widow or widower to have stated, following the procession, “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have been present to hear that”, or “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have heard those beautiful words commemorating such a graceful life.”

Don’t wait.  It’s not too late.  Hit ’em where it helps.

Hey, Bartender…..Thanks.

As a very fortunate person, I have an enormous amount with which to be thankful.  When possible, I enjoy giving thanks in person.  It seems less contrived. When I text someone an apology or a thank you, it usually requires many edits.  Most thank you letters or texts seem to be preceded with or followed by an apology and an unreasonable excuse.  This makes giving thanks at the dinner table on Thanksgiving a little uncomfortable, if you wish to be sincere.

Some people don’t like, in the least, being forced to give specific thanks around a table of friends and family on Thanksgiving, and I believe holding hands around said table should be, in a written invitational agreement, optional.  I’d prefer to just say thank you and be on my eating way.  (I do understand these requests won’t get me invited to Thanksgiving dinner, and I’m ok with that.) However,  I will be forthcoming in giving thanks to someone through a blog.  It’s genuinely peaceful not being forced to do something against one’s wishes.

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I’d like to give thanks to the bartender who kicked me, along with three of my brothers out of another one of my brother’s tavern years ago.

Dear Bartender,

Sorry you had to kick us out of our brother’s tavern the night before Thanksgiving.  I am additionally sorry if the owner wrongly terminated you because of the unfortunate turkey wrestling incident.   We deserved to be thrown out and had no idea you were placing the stuffing inside the turkey precisely when the incident transpired.  We thought it was dressing you were carrying out to the table, commonly mistaken for turkey stuffing.  Never will we make this mistake again.  Thank you for teaching us a lesson.  I have not been thrown out of my brother’s tavern since.   By the way, having a bunch of brothers, I will say it was mostly their fault.

Sincerely,

One of their brothers

 

Fantasy Foolsball Lessons (R.I.P.)

If you really want my money, sell me a car or invite me to be in your Fantasy Football League.  In full testosterone gear, the 2014 Fantasy Football Season is in its ninth week, forcing me to recall some of the several thousand silly mistakes I’ve made in my life.

I currently own a car and a fantasy football team.  Each of them cost me money and respect.  They also require maintenance.  The car needs oil, much like I need the money to buy a computer, enter a fantasy league and place my gridiron gladiators in grave positions in which the team will ultimately fail.  The process of selecting a quality fantasy football team or a reliable car, according to your personality, are additionally similar.  My personality maintains an uncommon balance of impatience and abject stupidity.  For example, it took exactly thirty minutes for Carlson the Car Salesman to convince me to roll a particular car off of the lot.  The last fantasy football team I acquired took me a mere thirty minutes to assemble.  With this evidence, one may surmise that I have a tendency to dismiss the detailed research many others find necessary in the decision making process.

Shortly after beginning my first career, I purchased an automobile the very same year I was introduced to fantasy football.  Their demise ended in similar fashion.  Within my budget, the car seemed to be a reasonable deal.  It was advertised as having four wheel drive, power windows, locks, and according to the speedometer, only one hundred and twenty miles on it.  Come to find out, that speedometer was way off.  It only WENT to one hundred and twenty.  The four wheel drive was only two wheel drive, the defrost worked primarily in the summertime, and the air conditioner limited its availability to the winter. To drive a short story an even shorter distance, the truck ended up in the valley of misfit automobiles.

FFImage-NewspaperAs a first time owner of a fantasy football team in 1996,  I thought I could choose a team wisely and with terrific courage.  To help the process of developing a formidable team, I used a Fantasy Football cheat sheet I found in a nationally recognized sports periodical. That’s also where I thought I found my wisdom.  On draft night, while swilling beer and after choosing my number one pick, a running back, I learned a quick fantasy league lesson.  This lesson was much quicker than any running back in this draft…..especially mine. Once you choose your player, under no circumstance are you allowed to reconsider your pick.  No matter what the scenario, you are stuck.  After making my decision, one of the more competitive assholes participating in the draft let me in on an important detail regarding my player’s success.  He was dead.  Evidently, one month prior to this draft, he had been shot and killed in a nightclub.  The periodical I was using had been available in print one week before the player’s last rights were given.  Some of the competitors thought this was hilarious….. not the man’s death, of course, but over the notion I would make such a colossally horrific choice.  Personally, much like holding on to a live hand grenade, I found it quite courageous.

Here’s a tip:  Don’t take any of my advice……about anything…….ever.

What Did We Do? (At the Coffee Shop)

Sometimes, the encounters we dread the most turn out to be easier than anticipated….with the right attitude.

Although a dubious honor, I have been deemed by some as the most impatient man in the world. (my wife crowned me with this honor, and her mother agreed so the winner of the prize was unanimously settled.  I even have a plaque with an inscription of my title on our mantle.) That being written, coffee shops are a terrific place for an impatient to man to become annoyed.  On the contrary, they can also be a place of comfort as well as being therapeutic if your stress is managed properly.  Now, being impatient in a coffee shop is almost as dreadful as being impatient in a Department of Motor Vehicle’s Outlet Store when tabs are going on sale for half price.  Therefore, one must generate the nerve to tolerate even the most simple of inconveniences.

Coffee shops offer a variety of reasons to squat or stand as patrons.  If you are a caffeine crackpot, you run in, run out, even if it means pushing aside a senior citizen or two while trying to successfully get to your car before you are ticketed for using a handicapped parking spot.   You may also get your breakfast in a convenient flash while ordering the Pastry a la Punctual.  This danish is always available (a.k.a., yesterday’s danish) therefore, you can receive it even before the sun comes up.  An additional attraction most coffee shops offer is free wi-fi and a safe, quiet, comfortable environment with which to work. Usually writing from my computer lab at home, I need a daily break from the dogs begging me to take them for a walk.  I need an hourly break from continuously entering the kitchen looking for a snack when writer’s blog block is bellyaching for food.  So, I pack up the computer and head for a coffee shop.  Basically, I need a break from taking breaks. Although I do order a drip coffee, I only take advantage of the latter of the attractions normally maintaining few distractions.

While entering one of the billions of coffee shops in Seattle, I find the last empty available table equipped to uncomfortably sit three.  Two tables directly to my right hold the same occupancy level and are comfortably occupied by one person each.  Perfect.  I order a cup of coffee and set up computer camp: backpack, laptop, notebook, pens and cellphone (for emergency purposes only).

Fifteen minutes pass and the words I am forming into complete sentences may be the beginning of a nice anecdote….and I believe the conclusion just walked through the door.  It is a man in his mid to late sixties, well dressed, probably successfully retired, and bored with laptop in tow.  The two strangers, let’s say in laptop stations one and two, also analyze the situation.  Collectively, we share a glance and read each others’ minds.  Which station will he choose to share?  Station one sits a young lady looking like she is probably armed with mace, although her broad shoulders tell me she wouldn’t require it with this new patron.  Station two holds a middle aged techno servant to the corporate Gods who doesn’t even smell the least bit friendly. Or,  Station three, me……a person making eye contact with a smile too often with strangers leading them to believe I am as harmless as they come.  Station one and two don’t even flinch.  They think I’m doomed, and they are correct.

Sure as Seattle has Starbucks, this gentleman asks me if he may share my table.  With a semi-phony smile, I say, “of course” and make ample room.  (Working on patience also breeds kindness.)  Indeed, there is plenty of room, but he strikes me as a man seeking conversation which is the very last thing I am seeking.  To convince him I’m busy, I began writing sentences making no sense at all just to keep him from saying or asking anything.  My fingers begin bouncing off the keyboard like tiny kangaroos in heat.  I can’t afford to pause, yawn, sneeze, cough or even clear my throat.  Feeling him staring at me searching for the right time to squeeze into my life makes me so self conscience I begin to sweat, and I know he can see the drips forming on my receding hairline like a Scottish army of nervous souls.  While fidgeting with his laptop, I flash a glance at him wondering if he knows the shop’s wi-fi password.  Certainly, I would offer it to him for no charge.  Again, working on my patience breeds kindness, but unfortunately, too much kindness.  If taken advantage of, kindness can manifest into anger.  Responding to my glance, he busts in with his first question: “What did we do without computers?”  Pompously grinning, Stations one and two knew I’d take the bait.  Since the question can be construed as rhetorical, I can take advantage of the option to ignore it, but don’t.   Rather than smiling and shaking my head in response with an incredulous “Duh, I don’t know” look on my face, I answer his question as though I could see it coming on the AARP express lane of rhetorical questions.  My thoughts weave concise statements of what it was like for me before computers.  “We played outside.  We played kick the can in our backyard. We had disorganized rock fights and rotten potato fights in neutral fighting fields.  We competed in wiffleball, baseball, and football in our yards, and played basketball at any park with a hoop.  We boxed and played hockey in our basement and ate dinner as a family.  We walked through wooded hills where hobos made their camps, and when forced to, we read books.  When one random trail in the hills grew tiresome or monotonous, we’d find a different one to blaze on the way to a seven eleven where they’d be giving away day old donuts.  We built tree forts, snow forts, walked throughout our neighborhood on Halloween and weren’t afraid the neighbors would poison us.  Ya know, that sort of stuff.”

I thought it provided a definitive answer to his fairly easy question. Chuckling, he adds, “Yes, those were the days.”  At that point, I believed the conversation began with his introduction, proceeded with my body of evidence convincing him there was life before computers, and ended with his conclusion.  Not so fast.  His eyes slide from mine to my shirt.  “Are you from Spokane?”  Ahhhhh!  I look down at the shirt I’m wearing and notice it is adorned with a caption reading, “Spokane Sasquatch”.  This is a college in Spokane and its mascot is the Sasquatch.  (I did grow up in Spokane and teach middle school there for upwards to fifteen years before moving to Seattle.  My wife thought the shirt would be  a nice gift and a friendly reminder for me to never return to Spokane unless they actually found a sasquatch roaming the hills I used to climb as a child.)  “Yeah.  I was born and raised there.”  That’s all it took.  Quickly, he proceeds, “I was born and raised their too!” Of COURSE, he was born and raised there as well!  This is perfect!  We will have so much to talk about!  We can share so many stories of our old crapping grounds.   Now, it is all Station one and two can do to keep from falling off their high chairs laughing at the uncivilized knucklehead from Spokane entertaining this man’s wish to commiserate.  Placing my normally impatient pistols down on the floor, I wave my white flag and surrender.  Very kindly, with terrific patience and a semi genuine grin, I respond, “What a coincidence.”  Growing up a few blocks from me, he remembers the hills we roamed as children.  He attended the same church as our family.   According to him, his father or his father’s best friend, both well respected physicians in Spokane, may have delivered me and another one of my siblings into this world.  Graduating from Gonzaga University in Spokane, he raised an eyebrow when I told him I graduated from Washington State University.  His raised eyebrow seemed more like an “I’m so sorry” than an “Oh, what an interesting school to choose, and what led you from Pullman to Seattle?”  You see, once you begin and accidentally encourage conversation with many people like this very kind man, the questions coming your way usually cease to exist.  Notoriously, this is when I begin twitching and feeling uncomfortable, because knowing then, I must find a way to put out the conversational fire before it gets out of hand or the coffee shop closes.  However, I find a way to relax and remembered moving to Seattle, thinking how very busy everyone seemed to be, making many of them extremely impatient and extraordinarily rude.  That could have rubbed off on me that very day.  It didn’t.

I didn’t fabricate a story of how my wife was 9 and a half months pregnant and I should probably get a move on to the delivery room.  I didn’t send a text to a friend, requesting he call in a bomb threat to our coffee shop of horrors.  Rather, I merely enjoyed listening to this man find pleasure in talking about his memories of a hometown revisited with a common stranger.  Before the shop closed, the gentleman and I shook hands, and he made his exit before I did.  Perhaps, he was tired of me asking so many questions when fully engaged.

Ultimately, I engaged in friendly fire, and not a soul was harmed.  It didn’t feel charitable, and I didn’t walk away thinking, “well, I’ve done my civic duty today.”  In fact, it turned out to be a pleasure.  Patience and kindness are virtues we almost, at times, try to avoid.  I’ve been guilty of it.  But, when you look upon such terms, try to recognize them as honorable traits instead of obstacles of displeasure.  I guess you could ultimately say, even when busy,”sometimes, ya gotta stop and smell the strangers.”

 

 

 

Jeter’s Choice

With Derek Jeter’s spiritual passing from the New York Yankees, he will be resurrected in Boston’s Fenway Park on Saturday to play the Red Sox but refuses to play his once chosen position of shortstop out respect for his twenty year spot at sacred Yankee Stadium.  Instead, he has chosen to be their pitcher.  With his moxy and flavor for the dramatic, he will probably throw a no hitter.

I’ve never liked the Yankees, but in the world of baseball, and the way it’s meant to be played, you couldn’t help but like and respect him.  He did it the right way.

 

Memorial Day Weekend Fallout (It’s Inevitable)

Rain and a three day weekend.  Those are the two inevitable forces we can’t avoid on Memorial Day Weekend.  We must embrace, accept, honor, respect, and remember these weekends……even if some turn out to be just plain silly.

The 2014 Memorial Day has passed, and I can truly say I will remember the rain outside and the soup I made inside.  Other than that, it was uneventful.  No doubt about it, this holiday is a melancholy one for many, but it is also a time to embrace the family members and friends you may only see one time a year on this weekend of remembrance. For me, every Memorial Day seemed to bring some form of peaceful happiness.  It also delivered an element of absurdity only a mother of thirteen can create.

Living in Spokane, Washington at the time, we were experiencing a terrible drought the week before one specific Memorial Day.  This was disconcerting, because we had grown accustom to that annual deluge keeping us indoors.  However, my brother, Tom, his son, Quinn, and I made an easy decision.  We decided, after an invitation from our sister, Anne, to travel five hours or so to the Mecca of rain, Seattle, Washington. We had visited Anne before, but having never driven there ourselves, we required directions.  My mother, choosing not to attend, provided my sister’s address.  Easy enough.  We get into the car with my brother, Tom, driving.   His son, Quinn, all of about four years old, would be the navigator, (so to speak) and I, just along for the ride.  My simple request was that we arrive safely at Anne and her husband, Minh’s house for a family rendezvous which included the best egg rolls west of Viet Nam.  Estimated time of travel: Depending on Quinn’s overactive bladder and Seattle traffic, four and a half to five hours.

Heading west on Interstate 90,  Quinn did a gallant job of keeping his Johnny in his jeans for the majority of the trip.  Only two rest stops were required, and one was a bluff.  After the first legitimate stop, he recognized even dilapidated rest areas maintained their vending machines.  Yes, his second reason for stopping was shrewd, but it would be his last.  We left him at the rest area.  (O.k., that’s not true at all)  Soon, we were over Snoqualmie Pass with no further delays, and we could almost hear the egg rolls cooking in Minh’s mid-day oil. Now, with the directions and address gripped firmly in his confident and sticky paws, we merely needed to let Quinn lead us to Anne and Minh’s.  (Readers may ask why a four year old is navigating the car instead of me, a twenty two year old.  That’s a legitimate question.  As the eldest, and the driver, Tom required someone other than him to navigate.  I was once lost in my own kitchen, and that was before we purchased a larger home.  Does that answer your question?)

After passing through the city limits, Quinn communicated, with a slight lisp, the directions precisely as written.  However, Tom and I both sensed something strange going on…….something was wrong.  Tom looked at me and asked if the area looked at all familiar.  He knew the thought had been crossing my mind when we entered the city of Redmond instead of Kent, Anne and Minh’s city of residence.

(as a disclaimer, I must admit only part of this next conversation properly took place. Although the subject, or meat and potatoes of the narrative is quite consistent, Quinn’s dialogue was the added gravy to an otherwise true story)

Me:  Where the hell are we?

Tom:  Quinn, where the hell are we?

Quinn:  (almost offended) Exactly where the directions say we are supposed to be!

Tom: (using the same tact and delicate diplomacy I’d grown accustom to over the years) See, Ben, you idiot!  My four year old son even knows where we are!

Me:  Tom, do you even know where we are?

Tom:  No.

Quinn:  Alright, knuckleheads, shut up and turn left here and follow the street to this address…..you two do know how to count, don’t you?

From years of playing cribbage, I had learned addition.  Therefore, I could provide some assistance.  Sure enough, we landed in the driveway with the proper numbers listed on its porch.  However, although many of the neighborhood’s houses were quite similar, something appeared odd as we stared at the house for a minute before Quinn piped up again.  “What are we waiting for?!” With squinted eyes and twisted upper lips, Tom and I looked at one another with abject puzzlement.  Without saying anything, upon Quinn’s orders, we exited the Ford Ranger and slowly walked to the door.  As if we were about to enter a haunted house, Tom looked at me and said, “Well?  Are you going to ring the doorbell or not?” Shrugging my shoulders, I stated with some confidence, “I don’t think this is the right house.”  But, I rang the doorbell anyway, and after five or so seconds, someone answered the door.  Yes, we did indeed find my sister’s house.  However, (and a big freaking however) it was the wrong house with the wrong sister.  Our dear old mother, after lovingly giving birth to six girls and seven boys, steered us to the wrong daughter’s home.  This was Patricia’s house.

Patricia:  Ben, Tom! What the heck are you doing here?

Tom:  Happy Memorial Day?

With a laugh, we cleared it up.  Fortunately, Patricia and Anne only lived about a half hour apart.  And, luckily for us, mom didn’t send us to see Teresa who was living in Spain or Dorothy who was living in California.  Maggie was in Florida, and Mary was living in a motorhome down by some river.   So, it definitely could have been worse.

When we finally arrived at Anne’s, she was merely shaking her head and laughing.  (Notice, I didn’t say in disbelief.  Stuff like this happens to our family all the time.  It’s just usually not mom’s fault.)  Before we could properly explain our Laurel and Hardy routine, we wished to get out of the inevitable rain, and stuff our mouths with a few hundred of Minh’s Memorial Day Weekend Egg Rolls, which were well worth the chaos.

Massage Hilarity and Facebook

My wife’s massage therapist is a short, 25 year old, misguided man.  I don’t care much for massages, but I am interested in her stories upon the return.

Her massage therapist asked for her approval of his mustache.  I believe my wife to be a woman of  integrity, honor, and honesty.  Her response was, “Get rid of it.”

This man then transitioned to speaking of his love for riding horses while on vacation in Ocean Shores, “Just like a disc jockey”.  Since he is four feet tall, my wife asked him if he meant a jockey, as opposed to a disc jockey.  He responded by saying, “The ones that ride horses.”

My wife, discerning as she is, responded, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

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Embarrassingly and honestly, the man said “No. I don’t have any intention of riding it.  I just want my picture taken on one so I can put it on my Facebook page.”

Sometimes, Facebook and horses can make you laugh.

Olympics in Scotlandia

At the age of seven, I was hooked on the Olympics even if I had to watch it on a black and white television set.  This year, I had a rough time enjoying it because I don’t have a love for Curling. My wife and I were forced to watch the Olympics in Scotland. We weren’t kidnapped, but customs made us feel as though we were.

I’d prefer curling the lack of my hair as opposed to watching it in the Olympics.  However, the Scottish announcers were downright funny, which, in the middle of the night, provided entertainment. The announcers were relentless with their observations taking it to a point where at times thought we were watching Saturday Night Live.   I will provide some quotes which I noted.

This was downhill skiing : “That guy looked like he was getting on a new bike with no pedals on Christmas.”

Seriously, it felt as if you were watching commentating from two guys at a Scottish pub.

Snowboarding:  There was a crash, and rather than wondering if their health was intact, they stated, laughing and quite loudly I might add, “These are two birds well crushed out”.

 

An additional snow skiing moment: We witnessed a crash that looked as if someone could have been critically injured.  The drunken commentators screamed with excitement.  “Oh wow! (laughing and slapping themselves on the shoulders). “That looked  like Evil Kenieval, Mate”.

Ski cross in Sochi

Hilarious photo finish for ski cross event, per the BBC One Scotland commentators. It really was hilarious if you think breaking legs and ribs is funny.

Snowboarding again and another crash:  “Those snow boarders crossed flailing like a cat of nine tails.”

After an Olympic athlete’s dream was demolished, they would stagger down and ask, “What were you thinking?”

My wife and I would look at each other laughing and wonder what the hell they meant and then wondered how many pints they had absorbed before this magnificent event.  Since nobody died, it was good to be in  the magically goofy land of Scotland.

 

 

 

 
 

Scotlandia

Traveling to Scotland is like wearing a kilt you don’t want to adorn and can’t pry off.  It’s like listening to bagpipes for nine and a half hours with the most surly, agitated, and angry flight attendants my wife and I have ever witnessed.

After surviving the flight to Amsterdam, we only had a four hour layover which included going through four hours of customs.  My wife claims I am the most impatient man in the world.  I would have to agree, yet I was given a bit of a pass when people were not only rude to me, but when they were additionally rude to her.  I used some adult language of which I don’t wish to abuse on my blog.  Therefore, you will, if you properly know me, be forced to only imagine the friendly obscenities used to describe certain members of our unfriendly world.  Ten miserable days were starring me in the face.

Upon arrival, quite the contrary.  It was as if we landed on a different planet. Simply stated, these Scottish blokes are bloody friendly.  If you open a door for someone in Scotland, they genuinely say, “Cheers Mate”.  If they hold the door open for you, and you say thank you, which I was happily taught to do, they reply, “no worries, mate”.  It’s a different world from the Slapshot fast paced world in Seattle where manners don’t apply, even if you are at a Cost Co.  The waitresses smile and give you hugs upon dismissal.  They try to refuse tips, but of course, I toss the tips at them and run.  It is cold as a wind whipped winter outside, but when you enter the very friendly and warm confines of a pub in Scotland, well, that’s just what you feel: warm, and amongst friends.  It’s lovely.