The Need For Fulfillment

This first part is not part of this post. Just a notification. I've recently discovered that the sidebar doesn't show up when this blog is viewed with Internet Explorer (just one more reason to hate this browser). So those of you who've experienced frustration with leaving comments, following, and so forth should use Mozilla Firefox instead. Now, on to the other non-important stuff.

A couple people have read this thing in the past, and the general consensus is that funny is appreciated. Well here comes disappointment. First of all, I'm too dry to be very funny. Secondly, this post is going to be cathartic if anything. I apologize in advance.

A strange thing has happened with this writing outlet of mine. It has become a focal point itself in many ways. Much like taking pictures or video only to immediately watch what just occurred. I find myself looking at my life through the filter of how I can write about it, and that's not the point. I want to live first, and write in a way that allows me to release the pressure of what's in my head. So I haven't written in a while. I've been to San Diego, Portland, and done numerous entertaining things since then, but I just needed time to live. And some pressure has built up.

I have learned that my life has check-points. I think most people have them. Everyone has heard of a "mid-life crisis." Those who experience only this check-point are probably very happy overall. Some people experience check-points often, and they are generally depressed. They explode upon me once or twice each year. As you may have guessed, I'm in the midst of one now. It's not a pleasant experience, but it is the place where life-altering decisions are made.

In my life there has been much discussion on the topic of "Choose Your Own Adventure" books lately. You know, read a couple paragraphs and then choose from the three options at the bottom of the page. I think this is a rudimentary example of how life works. People live, get all emotional about their personal dramas, and react. But every once in a while a truly important decision arises, the result of which sends that person on a path to experience certain dramas until the next important decision. We set ourselves up to encounter those things that we need the most, and when we don't ignore the lessons we can move on to a different drama.

I am stuck wondering what to do with my life.

As you may know, I love disclaimers. I won't spell them out individually here, but know that I AM happy. I love my wife, I love my son, I love my home, and I am grateful to be employed at a time like this in our history. I have great friends, and I genuinely like spending time with them. But something is missing that none of these factors can fill.

I need to find what makes Matt happy.

I worry so much about the happiness of others that I forget to live. I want Nancy to be pleased with me constantly. And when I feel like (or know) I have failed, I get disoriented. Sorry Nancy that I'm not my best at these times.

I want to be the best Dad possible, but when I feel like doing something that doesn't involve Oliver, I feel guilty. I love you my son, but sometimes daddy needs time to himself. It has nothing to do with you.

I write things about appreciating my father-in-law, and immediately feel guilty that I haven't expressed similar feelings in writing about my own parents. I'm sorry Mom and Dad that I haven't written about you yet. Hopefully you know that I love you because I've actually told you so - many, many times throughout our lives. I don't say things I don't mean.

If a friend gets excited about something, I try to help them achieve their goals if I can. I just feel bad when I can't dedicate myself because I want to spend time with my family.

When I see my work go through a difficult time, I just want to help because I think I can. Plus I feel like I'll feel fulfilled because I could actually use some of the skills I paid thousands of dollars to acquire through school and help someone I care about at the same time. Except I'm not sure I'd actually feel fulfilled or if I'm just imagining things. And I feel bad when I put Deb in the difficult position of telling me I can't help her financially. I understand that everyone there is a family member or a friend or both, and there's potential for weirdness. I'm sorry that I didn't major in marketing.

At the end of the day, I've always known that something good will happen to me. Again, this isn't a family thing. It's most closely a career thing, although I'm not sure it has to be. I just know myself better than anyone else possibly could. A lot of things have happened in my life that have resulted in a lot of soul-searching. And I KNOW that I am honest to my core. I KNOW that I truly care about the happiness of others, and I mean people that I don't know too. I KNOW that I don't have ulterior motives. And so I've been sure that being a good person would bring to me, eventually, something that makes me feel fulfilled. Just typing this makes me feel awful, because Nancy could read this sentence and think that she isn't enough and neither is Oliver. I am glad that Nancy knows what I mean, though. She knows that I mean making a positive impact on the world around me, and being able to make a living in the process.

I'm sorry that being good isn't enough to make me happy. I'm sorry that I am a middle-class, white male who finds room to complain in a world filled with difficulty. But comparisons have never been real enough to remove me from my own emotional body. I am human, and my story is just one of many. But it's very real to me.

At the risk of offending some, the problem is not spiritual either. If anything, this area is one of my strengths. The soul-searching that I've mentioned has led me to an inner peace that can't be summed up by one traditional religion. Nor is it a conglomeration, per se. It is simply what I believe to be true, what I have felt quite deeply at times throughout my life.

Sometimes at the end of the day, I reflect and notice what my motivations have been. They are generally the desires and expectations of others. And then I resist. But not for long. The cycle always starts over again. And I don't necessarily want to stop it. I will always love people, but when will I love myself?

So this is where I shut off my computer, turn off the lights, and hope that tomorrow is the day that the answers come.

Wally

Can you believe this man is 70? Incredible, I know. We were lucky enough to have Wally and his wonderful wife Nancy visit us for his birthday. We managed to sandwich a surprise birthday party at Nib in between many crossword puzzles, jumbles, and a lamb being born. It is always great to see them.

But as I've said many times, this blog is about how I see things, and I have in front of me a wonderful opportunity to talk about my father-in-law. So I will. We should start at the beginning, and by the beginning I mean the year 2000.

I met Nancy at Barnes & Noble. She actually worked there for a while before I talked to her, mostly because she was intimidating. She was tall, beautiful, obviously strong, and gave off the vibe that said "if you are a man, go away." So away I went. Which is why I didn't fully get the message when she started coming on to me. Plus I have self-confidence issues, but that's a subject for another place than this one. Anyhow, once the message became obvious (I mean she was coming over to watch pro-wrestling, for God's sake!) we were inseparable. Then came the fun part.

Yes, meeting the parents. All I really knew was that Nancy yelled at her Mom at least once per phone conversation, and that she always talked to her Dad first. And that she was an only child. A beautiful, wonderful, only daughter of a man who was 41 when she was born. So I expected him to be conservative in just about every way. Just to make things more interesting, when I met him I probably looked something like this:



And I bet when he first laid eyes on me he wished I was in fact walking away with a plastic bag and a blanket or whatever else I needed in order to go in the opposite direction. But he was very nice to me. Why, I'll never know for sure. My best guess is that he could intuitively tell that his daughter, whom he loves as much as a father can love a child, was truly happy. So he gave me a chance. And then Kat and Corey got married and I inexplicably melted down at their wedding. After a (deservedly) firm tongue-lashing from both father and daughter, I was given yet another chance. So of course Nancy and I decided to move to Oregon.

This was scary. I knew it was bad because Nancy was scared. Nancy does not get scared. But she was. So I was. Nancy and I sat down with her parents, and Nancy told them all the logical reasons why we were going to Eugene. She was done with the community college in Tucson, she was sick of the heat in Arizona, California was too expensive, and Eugene (with the University of Oregon) made perfect sense. We knew that no matter what, Nancy's mom would resist, so strangely her resistance did not matter. When Wally asked a question, however, we needed to have a good answer.

Wally asked me this: "With my daughter being so far away from me, how do I know she will be safe and taken care of?" Good question. After I finished resisting the urge to poop my pants, I told him (yes, I was looking him in the eye) that I loved his daughter, for real. Not in a high school crush kind of way, but the real thing. And that if something did happen between us I promised I would make sure she was taken care of before going my separate way. And THAT WAS IT! Good enough!

Basically what I'm trying to say is that Wally is the most tolerant guy I've ever met. He just rolls with what life brings his way. He's obviously been through some ups and downs in his life, but he always seems to take it all in stride. It truly is amazing. If some day I have a daughter and she brings home a guy that looks like I did, is not in school like I wasn't, and has a job that most 20-year-olds could attain, I'd probably challenge him to a duel or arm-wrestling or Jeopardy or something! Wally took us all out to dinner. He is a better person than I am.

And a good thing too. Now Nancy and I are happily married, Oliver is a crowd favorite, and we've built a wonderful group of close friends, all because Wally didn't kick my ass when he probably should have. A lot of people probably think it's amazing that Wally looks like he does at 70 (I mean, his hair is the EXACT same now as it was when he was 8). And it is amazing (must be the Native American genes, eh Wally?). But what I think is amazing is that someone can love their daughter enough to put their opinions aside in deference to that daughter's true happiness. I thank you Wally, very much, for being the man that you are. And Oliver thanks you, too.

We Had It Our Way

Part 2 of a recurring series

This is the first of many disclaimers in this article. Brad Knopp and I were young when we had this job, and therefore did a lot of stupid things. The purpose of this is not to glorify immature behavior. It is simply a documentation of what happened, and most of the things worth writing about from this period are, well, pretty dumb. Are some of the things funny? Yes. Would I do it again? Unfortunately.



Oswego, New York
1993-1994
Booger King*

*For legal reasons, I will not mention the large corporation I worked for by its real name. Perhaps you can put it together yourself?

Strangely, the first job in this series did not involve Brad. Get used to him now. He will be a character that pops up from time to time (Six all together). This story starts with him because he preceded me at Booger King (henceforth BK for short, just thought that sounded good and has nothing to do with the other BK). He got me the job. Sweet Jesus, if only the moron in charge knew what they were getting themselves into! Sadly for said moron, they don't really get to choose from the cream of the crop, so they got Brad and me.

It is time for character development. When I started, I put frozen meat patties on the conveyor belt thing, and their corresponding buns on a lower belt. Yep, that's it. After about 12 seconds, I was ready to move on. I wasn't even particularly driven (I was 16), just not mentally handicapped. However, one person (let's call him John Nettles) was possibly challenged in some way. But he was a genius in school, so it couldn't have been mental. The thing is, he had been there a long time and NEVER moved past the very first job. And he would also call out "sending singles" every time he'd put single hamburgers on. Just in case we didn't see them coming out at 5 feet/hour one minute later. Or needed to warn someone because all of our motor functions suddenly dissipated.

Anyhow, Nettles was an interesting guy. He would talk to me in excruciating detail about the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, even though I told him I'd never seen the movie. It is also possible that we would mock his "sending singles" (his voice was...I can't think of a kind way to describe it - sorry, use your imagination). It is also possible that one time Brad and I teamed up to draw a smiley face in ketchup and mustard on the back of his shirt. He didn't know.

Here comes another disclaimer. One manager, let's call him Paul, was a really cool guy. He was older than us, but cool in his circles which included older brothers of our friends. I appreciate now that he was in a difficult position. He was cool and understood when things were funny, but he was also not 16 and trying to be semi-legitimate.

So it was probably his dilemma that caused him to come out of the office, yell "Knopp, Trent!," only to stifle heavy laughter as he returned to the office. Sorry Paul.

Character development part two. There was a very, very stupid person who worked there. Let's call him Jeff R. Poor Jeff was not smart. Brad convinced him that he was a devil worshiper, to the point of Jeff going out and purchasing some kind of Satanic Bible. Disclaimer: Brad is not particularly proud of this, but insists he was young. Somehow, Jeff was too dumb to balance on one foot. I know, I didn't think that balance and intelligence were related either, but if you knew Jeff you'd know that they are. His lack of balance kept him out of the military. Imagine being rejected by the military?

The best part about Jeff was his gullibility. After he had been at BK for a short period, he asked Brad one day what he was doing. Brad was doing inventory. Jeff wanted to help. Poor Jeff. Brad told him that he needed a count of the ice cubes in the ice cube maker. The mercy killing happened somewhere North of 800. Jeff was not bright.

Employees were not the only victims. Windy's (another burger joint with a similarly spelled name) was next door. They were consistently bombarded with rotten tomatoes. This was especially satisfying in the winter, as entire sheets of snow could be shaken loose, thus plummeting to the sidewalk. Legend also tells of a time that predated me, where an employee went on the roof with a BB gun, and deflated the giant blow-up Windy during Classic Weekend (much more on Classic Weekend later, perhaps even in this post).

And poor customers. There were two particular "favorites" that come to mind. 1. On a Whooper, smashing down the top bun material until it formed a bread bowl. Then filling said bowl with mayonnaise and scraping it level. 2. Injecting the mustard and ketchup bottle tips into the burger, and squeezing. And squeezing. And squeezing some more. Basically, squeezing until the patty itself rose considerably. For both methods, the burger would then be wrapped and served. Somehow, some way, nobody ever complained as far as we know. That is disgusting.

Despite our best efforts, BK was a food establishment. And so we ate there as well. Sometimes we even paid. Most other employees always paid, dearly. If they did not come back to the kitchen and prepare their food themselves, Brad or I would chop the burger, like a pizza, into somewhere between 8 and 32 pieces. Since that wasn't nearly annoying enough, we would then wrap the fragments between 8 and 100 times. We were not interested in reducing, reusing, or recycling at this point in our lives.

We did not pay often (this theme may pop up again at a later job). For example, Brad would build a triple Whooper just the way I liked it. He would then put it in the microwave. Coincidentally, I would happen upon that same microwave moments later. Seeing the ginormous burger inside, I would accidentally drop it down the front of my apron. This really made me have to pee. So I'd go to the bathroom, and while I was already there, I decided that I may as well eat. Another example would involve switching the names Matt and Brad in the above example.

We also quickly learned about shelf-life. Chichen Tenders (perhaps this is normally spelled differently also?) were only good for 2 hours. Hmm...this gave us an idea. If a customer ordered, say, a four-piece, what would happen if we put 50 in the deep-fryer? You guessed it! Forty-six would be "bad" in 2 hours. The rest of this story goes how you might think. Disclaimer: I actually don't feel real bad about this one. I mean, we did this a LOT and no one really noticed? Frankly, that's on management.

BK had microwaves that were not normal. Brad and I are pretty sure that one second of BK microwave equals one minute of any other microwave in the world. And do you know what happens to a burger when it's microwaved for 2 1/2 minutes in a BK microwave? The patty ends up the size of a half-dollar. I know this because I tried messing with the front-end girl by handing her a nuclear hamburger. Sadly for me, the trick didn't work. She must have touched it so briefly that she didn't feel it's burning-emberness, or else she simply deadened her nerve-endings. Either way, that burger went out! Thankfully, it was for a customer who was eating in. So I did the responsible thing and ran to the customer and took his burger away. It was then that the half-dollarness was discovered. Whew!

You must now be wondering how we could have possibly done all this without dying or killing someone else. Sorry to ruin the ending, but neither Brad nor I died. And besides accidentally elbowing a handicapped person in the face (Which instantly caused a yard sale. The items for sale included a hat, bow tie, glasses, burger wrappers, and whatever else she was carrying.), neither of us hurt anyone else, either. But...

When I started, we had a streak of one year without injury. Brad ended that. He was being slightly crazy, jumped up and hit his head on the hood over the oven, and needed to go to the ER for stitches. The next day, I decided to try and start a new streak, and so I sliced my finger half-off cutting a chicken sandwich. Disclaimer: Don't ever go to the Oswego hospital if you're injured. I waited so long that my finger healed before I could get stitches. The doctor even tried opening my cut back up (aggressively), but to no avail. The next day, the streak was extended. But this needs a little set-up.

Greg was our friend, and he was funny. Bud was the Head Manager, and he was lame. Primus had a song called "My Name is Mud" at this time. So of course we would walk around doing the bass part and singing things like: "My name is Bud. I'm the manager at Booger King and I'll be here the rest of my life my name is Bud." And so on. Well, on this fateful day, Greg was performing an especially inspired version of the song, complete with stage moves. Unfortunately for Greg, one of his stage moves was to jump with his "guitar." Remember the hood from Brad's injury? It got Greg, too. Only it knocked him out. Cold. The best part is that he landed propped up against the burger freezer, so he was essentially out sitting straight up. I'm pretty sure that a minute later he asked "what happened," but I was laughing to hard to say with certainty.

Final disclaimer: This is longer than I ever hope to write again. However, there is still more to be told. Brad will insist that I tell the rest. What I really want to know is, are you gonna go my way? No, that's not it. I mean, do you actually want to know more, or are you disgusted by our hi jinks? Let me know, and perhaps the next installment will be about Booger King, as well.

Otherwise, the next installment will be...Little Caesars!

Eugene, Oregon

Looking back, I realize that I must have low self-esteem. Why else would I spend most of my time here justifying what I've done? I have made excuses for why I'm blogging in the first place, why I joined Facebook, even why I'm talking about old jobs. Well, guess what? I am going to justify one more time, only slightly. I have been getting questioned as to why I live in Oregon (you're not the only one, Dave). So now that you know why I'm writing this, we can move on.

Ah, but first. Why Oregon? This is tricky. A friend once talked about an uncle living in Oregon (at that point in my life, everyone pronounced it "Or-ih-gahn," which is WRONG!). That planted a seed. Soon afterward, I was questioning my mom, accusing her of lying to me about where I was born. It must have been Oregon, since I had a rather realistic dream that said I was born there, not Connecticut. But no. So when it came time to leave Oswego, of course I went to...Tucson, Arizona! Not like Oregon at all. However, it was meant to be. That's where I met Nancy, and held three jobs that will be discussed here later. Soon after meeting Nancy, she finished with the community college part of her life, and didn't want to go to the University of Arizona. (Whew!). Plus, it was about 108 degrees everyday. So we decided to move. She wanted to go to San Francisco, but I said it was too expensive. And since both of us are from the East Coast, we knew we didn't want to go back to the humidity. So I said, very quietly, "how 'bout Oregon?"

She said "YES!" (That's what it sounded like in my mind, at least). There are a few schools in Oregon, but it really came down to Portland and Eugene. Portland is a big city, and that's not really my style. The "Welcome to Eugene" sign said (and still says, for some reason) 137,893. Perfecto. Then we visited to make sure, and it was underwhelming and weird. But we moved here anyway, because we are not logical.

Finding work was difficult for me. I had a few jobs before I settled at a shoe store. I also decided to go to school as well (finally). And then I could explore. I discovered all sorts of stuff. Let me start with the things about this place that are not so good:

Downtown. Cool older buildings have been given "modern" facades, government buildings have bars on the outside to look like prisons, and some spots haven't quite filled in yet.



Diversity is an issue. The best description I've ever heard is, "I've never seen so many different kinds of white people." True.



And it rains every once in a while. Big deal. That's why it's so green. It rained in Tucson like twice, ever, and what color do you think it is there, huh? You guessed it, brown. There are a couple green things, but they are all angry and trying to hurt people.

The real question is, why do I LOVE it here? I'm not sure exactly. But I can certainly list things I like and hope they all add up to love in the end. Here we go.

There are always people outside. The weather can be good, bad, or otherwise and it does not matter. We have covers for everything, just so we can keep going outside. We are obsessed with it.

The University of Oregon Ducks are here. Strange football uniforms, but generally good teams, and as a proud Duck that makes me happy. Plus baseball is back this year for the first time since 1981.

It is beautiful, in a way that is understated. There are two rivers (Willamette and McKenzie) that go through town, most of the city is between two buttes, and there are gorgeous trees everywhere. Plus a zillion parks, only a couple streets that are strip mall filled, and Springfield right across the river, so we have a place to put our garbage that is close by. (I have friends in Springtucky, so I must say that I am kidding, only I'm sort of not).

There are ducks and geese that live at the riverbank - which is 1 block from my house - all year round.

I am an hour's drive from the coast, mountains, waterfalls, desert, hot springs, and Corvallis. Well, scratch the Corvallis part. That place makes Springfield look clean. I'm not even sure they have running water yet. Or soap.

Click on this map for another reason why Eugene dominates. If you gaze in the upper left-hand corner long enough, it'll make sense.

We typically vote people into office who actually care about regular folks while trying to promote business at the same time. I know, that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it must be possible. Except downtown is poop. Oh well, at least we still care about people.

There are bike paths all over the place. When I was in school and working full-time, I couldn't go to the gym. So I simply rode my bike to and from school, sometimes twice each day, and never got fat. We drove our car 4,000 miles last year.

And oh yes, the weather. It rains constantly. Every second of every day. Legend has it that it once stopped raining here for a whole hour in 1965, but every single witness of this event has strangely died or vanished. (That is for people who live in California. If you live anywhere else, read on.). It rains a good deal between November and February. There are still stretches of sun, but that makes it colder. As a general rule, cold and precipitation don't occur at the same time, so it snows about once a year. March through June can be spastic, rain one second and 75 degrees and sunny the next. But July through September are perfect. It hardly ever rains, hardly ever gets unbearably hot, and it is not humid. Seriously. It gets cold overnight, so sleeping is possible. I've never been to a place where the weather made me happier, because I get long stretches of great weather and the change in seasons too, all without owning a snow shovel. Na na na na boo boo.

So if you live somewhere else, read this and ask yourself "why do I live here?" Don't think too long, there's no good answer. You might as well start packing.

What Have I Done?

Part 1 of a recurring series

Note: Since joining Facebook, I have realized that there is a main question people ask in order to catch up. It is: "What are you doing?" This is code for, "what is your job, are you a loser or not?" I have decided to answer this question one job at a time. Also, I realize there are people who haven't known me since I was 15, so I may as well go back to the beginning. Well, almost. I'll skip the paper routes, and start with my first hourly job.

Oswego, New York
1991?
Grass cutter

Although I'm not sure the exact year, I know I was young. How do I know this? Well, I was paid $3.80 per hour. Yeah, I know, a long time ago. Not as long as one might think, however. See, the minimum wage was $4.25. $3.80 < $4.25. Since this equation is true, therefore I must have been a child laborer. If I was working as a child laborer, I must have been young. (Remember logic proofs, anyone? Clearly they weren't pointless after all.).

I was not deterred by the fact that I was working (perhaps) illegally. I had a job! I got to be outside in the summer, and I was going to cut grass! How tough could it be? This was 1991(?), after all. We had things like lawn mowers. They looked like this:



And for those tough to reach places, borders, or grass against the wall, we had things called weed whackers. They looked like this:



So life is good. I arrive at the city building to be picked up be my crew leader. As I wait, I realize that other people on my crew are actually some of the cooler kids in school. What a great opportunity for me to learn how to be cool! All while cutting grass. Then another cool kid shows up, and it turns out his dad is our leader. This is going to be great.

But alas, as I pile in to the station wagon, I feel a have a strong sense of foreboding. I can't help but notice some strange tools in the back with me. I can't even find pictures of these tools on the internet, but the closest thing I can think of to describe them is like a sickle with teeth, on a broom handle. My suspicion is confirmed when we arrive at the job site and there is no lawn mower, or weed whacker awaiting any of us. But there are plenty of sickles to go around. Hooray!

So what exactly am I doing for $3.80 per hour? Either going to random places along the road with long grass, or back yards of extremely old people, and hacking away until the grass looks very similar to the way it started. It was like cutting hair with a butter knife. In all honesty, I would've had better luck getting down on all fours with a long spool of weed whacker string, and whipping away for 8 hours. On the bright side we were provided with gloves. Sadly, they were the same thin cloth gloves that old ladies use in the garden to keep their hands clean. But at least I didn't have gigantic blisters until 30 minutes in to my shift. And the crappy gloves kept those blisters from bursting until (sometimes) midday! So that was neat.

On the bright side, we did have some adventures. Like the ancient lady's backyard. Apparently this woman hadn't mowed her lawn in 15 years. Plus, she had the worst collection of neighbors possible, since no one either noticed or cared enough to help out. And why would they, when the city was eventually going to send in a bunch of people who were in utero the last time the old bat made it to the backyard? And do so for wages that Third-World children would scoff at.



So here we are, in this inner, inner city, inner city wilderness (Flight of the Conchords people. Trust me, this is funny. And if you don't believe me, Kira will confirm it in the comment section. Which, by the way, I encourage all of you to take part in. While your at it, become a follower. All you have to do is put in your email address and password. You won't even get emails unless you tell me so!). We have been whacking away for most of the day, and have succeeded in actually knocking some of the taller grass over. And so down a pathway of beat up grass, I see commotion near a fence. A crew member has discovered a toad! You know how 20 Questions always starts with, "Is it bigger than a bread box?" Well, if the answer was this toad, then I would have to say "I don't know." Besides, is there a standard bread box size? Is there a federation who has determined that it is 18x10x8? If so, then I still don't know. What I do know is that when Jeremy picked it up, it took a leak on him that could fill any size bread box. It was amazing.

Sadly, I could not bask in this glory for too much longer. Within minutes, other members of the crew working near the house disturbed a colony of bees. I think they were my age, since they hadn't been disturbed in so long. For some reason, one of these giant teenage bees decided to make its way across the "lawn," land directly between my eyes, and sting me into sleepiness. I went home. Thank you bee.

My favorite adventure was when we were at a park, and knocking over an area underneath some trees. This was very close to Lake Ontario, a place where some people may have partied over the years. And had many, many cheap and disgusting beers confiscated by the police. However, Lady Luck was on our side this day. We unearthed and ancient beer specimen with our (not even close to sharp) sickles. Only the top was above ground. Again, good eye Jeremy! After some frantic digging, the prize was held aloft. It was dirty, and very old, but it was BEER! (We were still 15). So Jeremy did the sensible thing and chugged it.

Stay tuned for the second installment, the Burger King year...

A Momentous Occasion

Yesterday was a momentous day. After much struggle, sacrifice, difficulty, hard work, and perseverance, a milestone was reached. That's right, I had my 100th profile view! Fittingly, it was me who logged that 100th view. But no matter. It is also of little consequence that I probably had about 60% of all views either. The only thing that matters is the big 1-0-0!

What did you expect? Something else? Remember the title of this blog. It's all about me baby! Capital M, capital E!

Just kidding. It's all about what I see, and yesterday truly was a wonderful milestone. Moses turned the big 1.0 (pronounced "one point oh," so it sounds better). Who is Moses, you ask?

Well, he looks like this, when he is cake drunk:



He is Tim and Jen's son. He is the man. He has the largest amount of muscle I've ever seen on a human under the age of 16. He is the kind of baby that makes people make babies, due in large part to the fact that he is so darned cute. He is Mo Mo.

Tim and Jen have been trying to adopt for a long time. The process is not easy (understatement). The process is not fast (huge understatement). And this is if your last name is simple, like Smith. Now imagine if your last name is Rooseboom (pronounced "rose boom"). Look at this line: Tim and Jen Rooseboom. Now get out a piece of paper and something to write with. Now, just try to spell it right. Go ahead, give it a shot. You can't do it, can you? Don't worry, the adoption agency couldn't either. So don't feel too bad. This story has a happy ending.

Here's the mother with the difficult last name:



And the father with the sensational moustache:



But eventually the agency did get it right. And Tim and Jen were off to Ethiopia to meet their son. Moses Daniel. He was waiting for them there, and as you may imagine, the reason why is a sad one. His father died from malaria, and his mother could not support him. It is very difficult to imagine loving your baby and yet being in such a difficult position that giving that baby up is the best option. But this is what happened. As an aside, I loved that Tim and Jen had a candle burning in honor of the birth-mother at the party, encouraging people to send thoughts and love to her on his birthday. Truly touching.

Anyhow, family bonding with the new one was a huge success. Tooth growing has gone well. Smashing food in an iron grip and placing it in the mouth was (and is) no problem. Now it was time to celebrate the fact that little Mo Mo had made it through an entire year. Even Oliver hasn't clawed him to death yet (yes, Oliver is like Freddy Kreuger, especially when tired).

Sweet little Mo Mo. He is deeply loved, well fed (obviously!), and all of our lives are greatly improved as a result of having him in them. We all love you Moses! Happy Birthday!



If you love Moses as much as I do and you want to help people like him, click on the title of this article. Then make a donation to his adoption agency, and tell them it's in honor of Moses Daniel Rooseboom (if you can actually spell that). And if you can't spare any money in these difficult times, I'm sure Tim and Jen would appreciate it if you simply sent some love to Moses' birth-mother. It can't hurt, and it only takes a minute!

Straight Shot to the Face(book)

I am a bad and unclean person. I am a hypocrite. I have a confession to make. I am now on...dum dum dum...FACEBOOK!!! AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHH!

Re-read my first post. Then re-read the above paragraph. Make sure you then pick up again at this sentence, or you may find yourself on an endless loop. Anyhow, forces have collided to make this happen. Kind of like those two satellites that just crashed into each other. Highly unlikely, yet it happened.

Here's the deal; I saw Dan's Facebook profile over his shoulder the other day. I saw people that I haven't seen or thought about in over a decade that I actually really liked. I thought, "I wonder how he's doing?" or something like that. Stupid, innocent satellite #1. The other satellite in this collision? I have a master plan. You don't know it yet, although maybe you do. It depends on who "you" are. I will let you know soon, but here's why I can't: not enough people read these garbage (and so you know, garbage is code for wildly entertaining musings). How do I get more people here? You guessed it - FACEBOOK! Yeah!

So I signed up last night. Then I turned off my computer and the light. It is at this precise moment that I felt (with my entire being) like I had made the biggest mistake of my life. And I forgot to turn off email notification of Facebook activity, so I had 30 new emails this morning. Neato.

The fun was just beginning. Facebook has my favorite feature that I can't seem to turn off. Instant Messaging. People know I'm there, and want to make small talk. (Disclaimer: I really like all of you that want to make small talk. Otherwise, would we be "friends?"). But IM is anything but instant. It's why Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone - waiting for all the dashes and dots was not getting it done anymore. There needs to be a "my turn" feature or something. Because without it, conversations go like the following sample:

Someone else: whats up trent
Me: Not much, how have you been? (An aside: even in IM I prefer proper capitalization, spelling, grammar, and so on. Why? OCD)
Someone else: good ive been maried for a year now
Me: That's great. How'd you meet your wife?
Someone else: and i have a pet alligator
Me: Whoa! Why? Why exactly?
Someone else: working at Vona's
Me: Who is it, do I know her?
Someone else: ive always wanted an alligator for some reason
Me: (Computer is now off, and I'm smashing it with a hammer so I don't ever have to have another circular conversation again as long as I live. I would honestly rather write a letter, put it in an envelope, stamp it, place it on my mailbox, wait 5 days for it to get to New York, wait 3 months for exotic pet guy to get around to responding to me, and the 5 additional days for his letter to arrive in Eugene.)
I've got to go to bed now. Bye.
Someone else: see ya
Me: Good night.

And so on.

And one more thing. I am not afraid to admit that I am overwhelmed. Part of signing up is searching for "friends" as determined by my email contacts. Then I have invited a lot of people to pick me or treat my like the fat kid in a gym class draft. Well, in the world of Facebook I am thin and athletic. They ALL picked me, and then some. Now I have over 40 "friends" and messages from these people and pictures and little chat boxes popping up and I don't even have my blog address on there yet. I want to say "hi" to everyone, but I'm on business people! Let me figure out how this works first. Give me a grace period. But alas, no.

I feel like I'm stranded in the desert, when finally a clear spring appears just over the dune. And as I approach the water (which is real!), I lean down to take a drink. Anticipation makes me salivate for the first time in days as I reach down to scoop up that first glorious handful of water. And then I am hit, square in the face, by a 3-hour locust storm. I cannot move forward to save my life, and my only hope is that a bit of water will remain when this hell is over.

Is there water left? I'm not sure yet. I'm afraid to go back. But please, if you are my "friend," would you tell your other "friends" to check out my blog, enjoy it, "follow" it, and comment frequently. I'm afraid I don't have the heart.

The sooner you visit, the sooner my project will be underway.

A Loved One is a Loved One

Believe it or not, I spend a lot of time trying not to offend people. It just so happens that life presents ample opportunity for me to do so through negligence. For example, whenever I create the Christmas newsletter I am filled with dread as to whom I have left out. (It's only four pages people!). I'd be surprised if I've never upset anyone via exclusion.

That being said, when I wrote about loving each other and how that could help cure the automatic reactions we have toward others, I talked only about people. And I have been slapped in the face by my ignorance today (and it won't be the last time, I'm sure).

Today I found out that both Aunt Maureen's cat Daphne, and Pete and Ali's cat Willie Randolph died. The closest I've ever come to experiencing what they are was when a cat we took in, Frank the Tank, was hit by a train. Seriously, a train. How's that's even possible, I still don't know. We only knew him for two weeks, so honestly I don't know what it feels like to lose a pet that is loved. I KNOW how Aunt Maureen felt about Daphne, and she truly lost a loved one. And as far as I know, my brother and soon to be sister is pretty upset about the early demise of his one-time Mets' manager turned housecat. If you would like to offer words of condolence to either or both (surely more poetic than these), please do so by commenting at the end of this article. They'll be able to see, just so you know (that is for those of you who still hold remote controls with two hands and try to bury your finger with every press of a button [yes, you Mom]).

Congratulations, Kitty Heaven. You just got better today.

P.S. Click on the title to read an interesting article from a cat lover. He's not as good a writer as me, but what can you do. (If you don't understand this is a joke, know now that if it ever seems like ego, it IS a joke).

All the Important F's

This story may ramble a bit. Consider yourself warned.

Shane and Tiffany (Fiona and Gayle too!) are our friends. They own an amazing place called Nib. A large group of us (more on that group later) went there for brunch today, and it got my wheels turning...

But first, Nib is so good it's a joke (click on the title of this post to visit their website). The food is an artistic flavor explosion. And the combinations are unusual to say the least. (As an example, Shane once won first prize at a contest in NYC for a chocolate he made, and it was based around blue cheese!). I'm personally very glad for this because I've become so much less picky as a result. I used to only eat one thing at a time and get angry if my food touched other food, but now I can eat almost anything (except melon, ick).



Food is good. In fact, I love it. I'm not afraid to say it, I LOVE FOOD! Especially when it's good. But this is the part where my wheels turned. A couple weeks ago Nancy and I decided to start eating better. So we did a four-day diet where we stopped consuming foods that typically cause bloating. This means no salt, sugar, caffeine, raw citrus, etc. It was 1,200 calories per day for four days. (Not enough calories, by the way). But by the end we felt great, our stomachs had shrunk, and we are now a lot more conscious of what we're putting in our bodies, and how much. Basically, we are trying to be healthier. After all, I've been going to the gym regularly for about a year, and there's certain stuff around my midsection (fat, possibly?) that is stubborn. Perhaps a healthy lifestyle involves exercise and diet. Possibly.

But it's weird to be "on a diet." What we eat is called a diet, and that is fine with most people. But as soon as "on" is added to "a diet," things get weird. I am 5'10" and 163 pounds (ding!...if you don't get this, don't worry). That is not fat in any way. I know this. But if I talk to anyone about eating less who is heavier than me, even if it's only in their mind, they look at me like I have an eating disorder.

Then there's the other kind of person, who is typically everyone else. When someone quits smoking, their other friends who smoke usually give the quitter a bunch of crap. This crap stems from the (wrong) thought that the quitter thinks they are better than the smoker now. Well, eating crappy can be the same as smoking. Sometimes I feel like I have to justify my eating habits to others. You know what, others, I'm just trying to be healthy, not be better than you. Besides, 1/4 cup of unsalted, raw sunflower seeds is delicious with breakfast. On second thought, no it isn't.

Which brings us back to Nib. Not necessarily a bastion of healthy food. So what do I do? I'm not going to be the weirdo who brings a slice of 47-grain bread to the barbecue and thinks it's OK as long as I grill it. I want to enjoy the social aspect of getting together with others and enjoying food. After all, I'm Italian (just ask my Mom, she'll let you know faster than you can say wooden spoon). So I'll eat less. I don't need to feel like I just finished Thanksgiving dinner after every meal. It only took me 33 years to figure that out.

If you're still reading, you are related to me. Anyhow, I promised some info on the Nib group. Not to ignore some people, but I'd like to concentrate on the Dan/Cortney/Nolan unit and Cortney's Mom and Aunt Kris. It is Cortney's birthday today. We decided that we would celebrate her birthday and Oliver's with a dinner at our house Friday night (Kind of like President's Day. And Oliver was Lincoln, while Cort played the role of Washington. Nice wig and wooden teeth, Cortney.). Little did Cortney know, however, that her Mom and Aunt were already at my house. Now I know that she's used to changing Nolan's diapers, but there is no way to prepare for a #2 in adult pants. And that is what Cortney had to deal with after seeing her Mom and Aunt. It was priceless.



So this afternoon Adam, Kira, Cortney's friend Laura (who brought three more), Nancy/Oliver/Matt, and the Dan/Cortney/Nolan/Mom/Aunt unit enjoyed a wonderful time with great food at a beautiful restaurant. And no one was counting calories.

It's Official - He's Terrible