Month: July 2018

At what point do the adult children in your house stop being welcome guests and start being squatters?  I would really like to know the answer to this question because I believe my children are coming dangerously close to this break point.

My youngest, EM2, recently turned 18 years old, and she will be moving into a dorm room to attend college next month.  She is by all legal accounts an adult, and yet this is the same child that will set her alarm clock for 11 o’clock in the morning so she does not “oversleep” and miss lunch.  This is the same kid who, last week, wandered into my bedroom in the middle of the night to wake me up and tell me that there was a large bug in her bathroom and I needed to go kill it.

Of course, to be fair, my wife does that to me, too.  But, I digress.

Last month, when we bought a new television set for the living room.  EM2 asked me if she could have the old set in her bedroom.  I told her, “No, you can’t.  The only time you ever come out of your room is to grab food or watch tv.  If you had a set in your room, I would never see you.”  Before the words were completely out of my mouth, she was dragging the tv into her room.  Of course, I let her do it, because … I’m not an idiot.

I haven’t been able to get my hands on the tv remote for the last five years.  Finally, I can go an entire day without having to watch K-Pop videos.  I’m going to call that a win.

Recently, my wife left on a work trip to Texas.  She left me alone with the kids and the dog for five days.  Before she left, she told the girls that they were responsible for taking care of the dog; feeding her, letting her outside to go to the bathroom, and just generally paying attention to her.  Of course, we all knew how that was going to turn out.

The first morning, EM1 and EM2 got up and went to the State Fair to hang out with friends.  I decided to sleep in since I had nowhere I needed to be that day.  When I woke up, I wandered out to the kitchen to make some breakfast and I noticed the dog was still in her kennel crate.  She was staring at me with a look that very clearly stated, “What the hell, man?  Am I really supposed to be in here?”

I texted my daughters and asked if they had fed the dog.  They texted back, “Sorry, we forgot.”  Then I asked them if they had at least let the dog outside to go to the bathroom.  They said – to absolutely nobody’s surprise – “Sorry, we forgot.”

I opened the back door and let the dog out of her crate.  The draft from the dog running past me almost sucked the couch right out of the living room and into the back yard.  When the dog squatted on the lawn to pee, she continued sliding across the grass for about twenty feet from her own momentum.  About five minutes later, still squatting, she looked over her shoulder at me and said, “You gotta talk to those kids about this, man.”  (I don’t know why the dog talks like she was raised in the 1970’s.  She just does.  Get over it.)

As the girls have gotten older, I have asked them to take on a little more responsibility around the house.  I asked them if they would like to start helping with fixing meals at dinner time.  They both said that they would, but apparently their idea of “helping” is to go hide in their bedrooms until food is already hitting the table.  The same is true with cleaning up afterwards.  As soon as they have finished eating, they are back in their rooms and I have dirty dishes to gather up and wash.  And that is assuming that they bothered to hang out with the family while they ate rather than just take everything with them into their bedrooms.  On a good day, those dishes might make it back to the sink.  On a bad one, they will disappear altogether, and I won’t find them again until a week later when they start to smell.

I don’t want anybody who reads this to get the impression that my children are completely useless.  I mean … they are completely useless.  I just don’t want anyone to have that impression.

My hope is that by the time EM1 and EM2 have finished college, they will be able to get jobs, find their own places to live, and become productive members of society.  If not, then my hope is that I will be able to throw them out of the house without involving the police.

I am trying to keep my expectations realistic.

Last week, I went camping with the family along the shores of Lake Don Pedro in Northern California.  It sounded like a great idea while we were planning it: enjoy the scenery, eat some junk food, hang out on the shoreline with our feet in the water and watch the water skiers and fishing boats go by.  Unfortunately, the reality of the trip was something quite a bit different.

When we arrived at our campsite, it was early afternoon and it was already a hundred degrees outside.  I stepped out of the truck and I noticed a small bird sitting in a tree branch nearby.  It opened its beak as if to warn me about something, but then burst into flame.  I should have taken the hint and just climbed back into my vehicle and driven home.  But we had only just arrived, and I am by nature far too stubborn to admit a mistake.

And it was a mistake.

By the time I had unhooked the trailer and set up our camp, I was dripping with sweat, panting to catch my breath, and about three seconds away from heatstroke.  For the first few hours that we were there, all I was capable of doing was lying down on the trailer’s linoleum floor and trying to die.  However, despite my best efforts to end my misery by melting into a primordial puddle of ooze, I reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going to survive.  When it became clear that the cool release of death was not in my immediate future, I decided I should get up and fix some dinner.

Not wanting to use the small stove in the trailer (because the last thing I wanted to do in an already miserably hot trailer is light a fire) I stepped outside and set up the tiny portable grill I had purchased a few days before our trip.  I attached to the grill one of the two propane cylinders I had packed, then pressed the ignition button.

Nothing.

After a little bit of fiddling with various knobs and dials, I realized that the propane canister was completely empty.  I unscrewed the cannister from the grill and grabbed the second propane tank.  I attached it, turned on the grill and….

Nothing.

It too was completely empty.

Here is a little tip to all the people out there that like to camp.  If you have been storing cylinders of propane in your garage for three years without checking them, you probably shouldn’t get your hopes too high about still having any propane in them.  Over long periods of time, they leak.  Who knew?

With no way to cook our meal that evening, and not relishing the idea of eating raw hamburger, I suggested a short field trip.  Not too far from our campsite was one of the lakeside marinas.  The faded copy of the campground map I had received when we arrived advised that the marina had a small store and café that provided ice, propane, and food.  These items seemed the perfect solution to our current dilemma.

The map showed that the marina was only a five-minute walk from where we were currently situated, so, of course, we all piled into the truck.  If God had meant for me to walk in ridiculously hot weather, he would not have put air conditioning in automobiles.

At the marina, we found the general store and café and tried to go inside.  Tried.  We did not succeed.  It was only six o’clock in the evening, but there was already a large red and white sign on the side of the building announcing that the store was closed.

Strike three.

There was nothing left for us to do but to go back to our trailer and break into our emergency supplies; and by emergency supplies I mean several bottles of wine.  In all honesty, I do not recall much more of that first day, and I am thinking that is probably for the best.

My next conscious memory of the trip was staggering down to the campground bathrooms the next morning.  The bathrooms had running water toilets (which was surprising) and they were absolutely filthy (which was not).  As I stood in the bathroom looking around, something banged on the tin ceiling overhead and then skittered along the roof before falling to the ground somewhere outside the building.  I like to think it was a pine cone falling out of one of the trees growing nearby, but I couldn’t help feeling like I had just walked into a scene from every horror movie I had ever watched in the 1980’s.  All that was missing was some dude wearing a hockey mask and carrying a machete.

What I recall most vividly about that bathroom, however, was a cloud of the most aggressive flies I have ever had the misfortune of running into.  They were everywhere, and it was clear that they considered me to be the intruder in this scenario.  Fortunately, they seemed to have more pressing concerns than me at that moment.

The flies and the spiders in the building seemed to be engaged in some kind of active dispute, like miniature gang members involved in a violent turf war.  I watched three flies rush at a spider who had made the mistake of hanging out alone in his web.  I can’t be sure, but I think I saw the glint of a tiny knife.  They all suddenly scattered and the spider fell limp onto the floor clutching its chest.  I thought about calling the police, but the flies were still somewhere in the area and I figured the smartest thing I could do was just get the hell out of there.

Snitches get stitches.

I retreated to the shelter of my trailer, grateful to have survived such a harrowing ordeal.

Still with no way to cook meals, temperatures climbing back into the hundreds, and the wine supply growing desperately low, I decided that, as the man in charge, I needed to find a way to provide for my family.  I mentally reviewed all the survival training I had ever undergone and then made the tough decision.  If we were going to make it through the week, there was only one way it was going to happen.

After a leisurely lunch in the nearby town of Sonora, we did some shopping at Walmart then caught a movie.  Theatres have amazing air conditioning and Walmart has ice and quite an extensive assortment of junk food.

Dad: 1

Wilderness: 0

Apparently, some of the best camping trips involve very little actual camping.

I was out of town all week so was unable to find the time to write a new blog.  Fortunately for me (and all of you) Wes Blalock agreed to step in and take care of this week’s blog post.  I am one of Wes’ biggest fans and also fortunate enough to be able to call him my friend.  So without further ado….

G.-

 Wes Blalock, Author

CHINESE LINE DANCING

A while back, my best friend and fellow author, G, asked if I could write a guest blog for his webpage. Being the dinosaur that I am, I asked what does it need to be about? Are there any criteria? What are my boundaries? Deadlines? G refused to give me a straight answer on anything. Whatever you want it to be, he said, casually, like that meant something. No boundaries and no deadlines. Perfect. Six months later, here we are. But I have a story to tell. An absolutely true story. Believe it or don’t.

Many years ago, I was providing a police presence at a sporting event on the University where I worked. I know that it was a Pan-Pacific tournament between the USA and China, and I remember it being a women’s volleyball event, mostly because my memory of the time is filled with young women in shorts and kneepads; I don’t really know what that says about me. Anyway, this was a day-long event with multiple games on multiple courts; I couldn’t begin to tell you how many games were actually played, but it seemed like a lot.

In between each set of games, the arena floor was cleared, country music would play, and a group of middle-aged, Chinese women in jeans and yellow T-shirts walked out onto the hardwood floor and began line dancing. I heard Achy-Breaky Heart way too many times (two?). After the second or third time they appeared, I moved close enough to read the red lettering on the shirts and was not significantly surprised to see Chinese Line Dancing Association of San Francisco. I asked one of my co-workers if line dancing was a fad in China and this was some way of honoring them for their appearance at our campus.

My co-worker simply replied, “Wes, I’m Korean. Why are you asking me about Chinese culture.”

I tried to explain that I wasn’t asking her as an expert on all things Asian, but I gave up, recognizing the playful dig for what it was, albeit a little late. We actually engaged in conversation with many other employees in the arena that day about the oddity that was the Chinese Line Dancing Association and why they were appearing at this particular, University hosted sporting event. Was it a fad (already discussed)? Was someone in the Association related to someone producing the event? Was it an organized crime thing (you want the event to be safe, you take my mother-in-law’s dance group)?

Finally, near the end of the day, I happened across the University building manager who worked directly with the production company managing this Volleyball Tournament.

“Hey, so why is the Chinese Line Dancing Association of San Francisco performing between each match? Is it a fad or does someone in production owe money to a loan shark?”

The building manager looked me in the eye and said, “The production manager told his assistant to find Chinese Lion Dancers.”

Thank you and enjoy.

  San Francisco Chinese Line Dance Association

 Chinese Lion Dancers

I have started running recently.  I realize to the casual observer that it may appear that I am merely walking at a faster than usual pace while bouncing up and down a little bit, but in my mind at least … I am running!

I don’t go very fast, and I certainly don’t go very far.  I would use a tortoise vs. the hare analogy, except to be completely honest, this is more of a tortoise vs. a fatter, less motivated, much slower tortoise.

With asthma.

I started running because I wanted to lose some weight, build a little muscle, and get a bit healthier.  Although, the more I run, the more I believe that running to get healthy is a bit of an oxymoron.  Running hurts.  Plain and simple.  Every time I do it, I feel like I got run over by a truck and I want nothing more than to just lie down in the middle of the street and let the buzzards finish the job.

How is this healthy?

If seems to be on the same level as saying I hit my hand with a hammer for an hour every day so I have stronger hands.  Or maybe: I bang my head on the wall to get smarter.

But still I do it.

I have talked to friends about running, and I asked them how they find the will power to get up every morning, crawl out of a comfortable bed, and punish themselves like the masochists I know them to be.  They responded by telling me about something called a “runner’s high.”  They described this condition as a feeling of euphoria that suddenly comes over them just as their body begins to fail and they believe that they could not possibly take one more step.

One moment, they feel like they are going to collapse, then the next they are ready to run another ten miles.

I think they are insane.

I have never felt this “runner’s high,” and I am strongly beginning to suspect that it doesn’t actually exist.  When I run and push myself as hard as I can, I also reach that point of absolute exhaustion.  However, it is usually followed by a brief period of blackout and waking up a few moments later with bits of asphalt and gravel embedded in my palms and knees.  I wouldn’t exactly call that a “high.”

I have started to suspect that runner’s high is not a possessive statement (as in the high belongs to the runner).  I think it is a contraction of “runner is high,” because I think you have to be crazy or doped up to submit yourself to that torture day after day.  That feeling of euphoria that has been described to me is actually nothing more than the mind-altering cocktail of psychotropic and hallucinogenic drugs bathing my friends’ brains before they ever leave the house.  Running simply circulates the blood and pumps those pharmaceuticals through their heads faster.

Maybe I am pursuing the wrong activity.  Some people are built to run; they just have the right body type for it.  I am not one of those people.  I was clearly built for other purposes.  My body type is ideal for events that involve prolonged periods of inactivity and motionlessness, followed by additional periods of inactivity.  Marathon television binging and napping would be good examples.

Swimming might work for me.  Exercising in the water puts very little stress on the joints and is much less likely to cause injury.  Besides, my kids have told me that I have the ideal physique for swimming.  That wasn’t a compliment, by the way.  What they meant was that I was too fat to sink.  It’s tough to drown when you’re bobbing on the surface of the water like a cork.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.  I don’t have a pool, so swimming is not an option.  At the moment, my choices are keep running or do absolutely nothing.  While doing nothing is tempting (after all I am really good at it) I think I will do the running thing just a bit longer.  And to be honest, I do think I am seeing a little bit of progress.  This week I managed to run a tiny bit further than I did last week, and I find those results promising.  Next week I am hoping to do even better.

So, if you are out driving around and happen to notice me wheezing and sweating on the roadway while trudging along at a blistering three mile-per-hour pace, give me a wave and say hello.  If I have enough strength left in me, I might even wave back.

If, however, you come across me lying motionless in a ditch by the side of the road, keep driving.  Leave me where I am.

I am probably just enjoying my runner’s high.