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Have Pen, Will Travel

  •  There is a strange bond between men and the women who raise them. We are dependent on our mothers for life-sustaining food and shelter as very young children, while they depend on us as part of what defines and deepens their lives and livelihoods. That, and we depend on our mothers as little men to tell us the truth about the ugly, wrong-in-every-way outfits they buy us. They coo over us as children and smooth the wrinkles out of stupid looking short sets and creepy polo shirts. Men know from birth that we were made to wear two things: dirt and animal attraction. We somehow believe mom, however, when she tells us tiny beige leisure suits are adorable. That is the power the women who give birth to us hold. Despite the way they combed our hair constantly with mom spit and called every woman we ever tried to impress our “little girlfriend,” each man feels a mysterious compunction to go and visit mom on Mother’s Day. In my case, it’s because my wife (formerly referred to as “Who’s your little girlfriend?”) makes me visit.

    I try to assuage my bad son guilt feelings by presenting mom with a gift each mother’s day. Much difficulty goes into the choice of gift given. The journey toward redeemed son-hood begins with getting up from my desk at the hospital and going upstairs to the gift shop. Lots of stairs, but the gift is important. Every gift choice comes with hearing mom’s voice. If I choose to give her soap, I distinctly hear “Soap? Do you think I’m dirty?” No good. Maybe some Absinthe, for which I can hear her scolding me with “Absinthe? Do you think I’m Edgar Allen Poe?” I always get her a card, which after a year is still displayed on her piano. No matter what they dressed us in, our moms harbor some secret pride for us. Even if I don’t own a leisure suit.

    #Edgar Allen Poe #Leisure Suits #Mother's Day #Mother's Day 2012 #Motherhood

  • The only thing wrong with dying is that the deceased has no control over choice of obituary photograph used. I can say without any trace of guilt that the sadness I feel when reading about the passing of some stranger is usually related to the picture accompanying that person’s death notice. I was struck by this yesterday while reading about a locally famous soul who’d parted ways with his breathing related obligations.  While the column dedicated to the done-living  was of interest, it was the terrifically bad picture that was upsetting. Had this individual made a miraculous recovery and then decided to purchase a newspaper (because defeating death naturally leads to the question “Well? What now? I guess I could see what’s in today’s paper…”) he would have been upset himself. The poor guy would have had to recall when in life he dressed like a rodeo clown and then posed for photos while smiling like a lobotomy recipient.

    I’m opposed to the “In happier times” photo. There will be instructions for my family not to send the paper any pictures of what I looked like when happy. Not that I’ve spent life unhappy. Most of my existence has been quite amusing, but that could have just been indigestion. In my happier times, though, I never possessed the look of someone surprised by a giant-sized Publisher’s Clearinghouse check shortly after eating pizza from a restaurant on the health department’s watch list. There’s happy, and then there’s unbearably diarrhea stricken. I believe in happiness, but only to a point. When I go to McDonald’s, for instance, I always ask for a Pleasantly Subdued meal, because a Happy Meal is just overkill. Obit photos tend to look like the dearly dead has just eaten the happiest meal of all. Ah, well. Be wary of relatives with cameras and continue living as though you were alive.

    #Happy Meals #Newspaper Obit Photos #Obit Photo Fails #Obituary Photos

  • Yesterday, I happened to see an online teaser for an article detailing the ten things guys want women to know, but won’t tell them. The fact that I was Googling discounted Halloween costumes for ceramic geese should make no difference whatsoever, so I won’t mention it. The 10 Secrets article is website filler, I suppose.  The author could have just easily penned 14 Things Your Cat Might Say If You Shaved His Butt (and He Could Speak), or 22 Pedantic Things to Say To Jennifer Love Hewitt If You Happen To Be Stranded In An Elevator With Her*. I can only guess what ten secrets a normal guy would reveal, but here are my 9.8 Details Guys Want Women To Know:

    9.7 2/3  There is a small difference between the American male and a cactus. If you stare really intently, the difference will reveal itself.

    8. Men are visual creatures. When asking us for something, please use a whiteboard to diagram the issue and the video for California Gurls.

    7. When asked to watch movies based on Nicholas Sparks novels, we are mentally fast forwarding to the good parts. This applies to weepy British movies, except we replace “good parts” with scenes in which weepy hero dies of a flesh-eating disease.

    6. We’d like more waffles.

    5. Men are an advanced race of beings and light years ahead of your small talk about leaving lids down and replacing rolls.

    7. There were no other girlfriends before we met you. We just sat home every night, vowing to propose to the first women to arrive at the door with waffles.

    3. Dancing with the Stars is not an entertaining show, but men will concede that they’ve all thought about throwing Florence Henderson in the air once, or twice.

    2. What are we thinking about when you ask us what we’re thinking about? Nuclear physics.

    1.) When you ask us if some garment makes you fat/old/lumpy/pregnant, the answer is a complicated algorithm processed by our super-computer minds ( part of the formula is π over Kate Upton’s waist size x Ted Williams on base percentage in 1947 +/-4). In other words: shrug.

    *None of which would be “Help! We’re trapped in this elevator!”

    #California Gurls #Dancing With The Stars #Jennifer Love Hewitt #Nicholas Sparks books turned into movies

  • Podcast Episode 3 Confusion Blog

    Special bloggy thanks now and always to the people who read/listen to this thing, as well as Audacity 2.0 software, Blue microphones, Doris Troy, and Paul Anka and Buzzsprout.

    #Amish Romance Novels #Time Magazine Breastfeeding Cover

  • There are a couple of things that frighten me. One is Santa Claus and the other is feeling good. Recently I started feeling slightly good. Not that disconcerting kind of good when you walk home from a night out and the sidewalk continues to come up and meet you. The last time I felt that good was many years ago when I was rolling with Santa Claus (or some big, loud man in a red velvet suit). No, I’m just feeling okay good. This level of goodness causes its own problems. For one thing, I’ve started to voluntarily do housekeeping projects. Pregnant women refer to this as “nesting,” but I call it dangerous. Suddenly, I’m feeling good enough to take an interest in  furniture and appliances. Many days, I pin cloying phrases and pictures of sweaters on Pintarest, too. The worst part is feeling good enough to become a food boy. As a cook in days past, people would make the mistake of asking what my cooking style was. There was no style. My two criteria were that the food was hot and there was a lot of it. Now I want to make tiny little hamburgers on tiny little brioche dotted with tiny little specks of fried eggs. Feeling bad was a much easier life.

    Good can’t last. Mildly amused will make a snarky appearance and take over again. Snark-ily amused is a more familiar state of being. I’ll quit moving furniture around looking for the best vibe and start making fun of things again. For instance, I’ll stop saying kind words about the remaining contestants on American Idol and honestly predict that the judges will enact a rule stating that a hamster of their choosing can be deemed winner. Right now, I’m just placidly watching the singers shill Ford vehicles and clapping as if Santa is on his way. Good times.

    #American Idol #Pinning on Pintarest #Pintarest #Santa Clause

  • Cookie PinToday was my friend’s birthday and she really wanted to celebrate by taking all of her friends bowling. I love going to the bowling alley. Each trip to the alley is like taking a trip back in time. Bowling itself is mysterious. Throwing 14 pounds of glazed pottery at a bunch of overturned clubs is endlessly entertaining. Truthfully, I started out the day with a 14 pound ball and worked my way down the weight scale. Pretty soon I was lobbing a softball at the pins. Kids are fun to watch at the bowling alley. A 35 pound kid sliding down the lane because he can’t dislodge his fingers from the 6 pound ball dragging him along is a little frightening. Then there is the ever-present need to remind teenagers to get their faces out of the ball return.

    Patience, Grasshopper. Though you set it free, the bowling ball will always return to you.

    One of the time warp aspects of going bowling is the fact that nothing has changed since the Reagan administration. I was in my bowling groove today, starting to at least pick up spares when the music switched from Bush I era Vogue-ing to Girls Just Wanna Have Fu(uh-un).  Girls do just want to have fun, but crabby, middle-aged men just need to bowl. I love watching good bowlers. A woman on the next lane threw a turkey like it was nothing. She had this arc on the ball that launched it several feet over the lane. One of the great things about bowling with the onscreen scoring set up by the staff is that they don’t have the proper letters to make up the names of each player. Today I was “Wanda.” Not bad. Last time I played as “Frieda.” The bowling alley also offers mixed drink selections, which I’d hope are not intended for little kids with bowling balls stuck to their hands. The special this time was called a “Dirty Librarian.” We had a librarian in elementary school who never showered. I’ll drink to her, but please let me mix the libations myself.

    #Bowling #Bowling Alleys #Why Haven't Bowling Alleys Changed Since The 70's?

  • Watching tonight’s episode of Downton Abbey, I was reminded of how much it takes for a wedding to actually take place. Don’t worry, I won’t spoil any of the salient plot points. The episode got me thinking about my own wedding day. I remember waking up on the day Lori and I were married and wondering why everything seemed so calm. Almost surreal. I’d stayed the night before in the hotel where we’d spend our wedding night. This added to the unreal quality of the situation. It was a little weird to be alone in a room with a heart-shaped hot tub. Of course, I’d rigorously tested the tub out. You know the drill. Washed my socks in it, made bubbles, pretended to be the captain of a very small, awkwardly designed boat. Getting to the wedding venue was about like driving the hot tub. I really wanted to eat fried chicken. That morning I awoke in a very clear frame of mind. There were two things I wanted for my future. Fried chicken and to pilot the hot tub some more. First, chicken. I got in the car and drove off in the general direction that chicken might be found and purchased. After a nice winding drive  along some tree-lined roads, I noticed that the road narrowed. Eventually the pavement ended and I was just bouncing along a dirt road in the forest. The day was one in which you could positively savor the sunny, early fall weather and not pay any attention to pressing responsibilities. Like getting married.

    The road ended at a padlocked gate and I was forced to quit bouncing along  and turn around. Back then, I drove a vehicle with a sun roof and could climb half-way out of the car and get some perspective on the world. Looking at the world from the top of my Buick, I realized a great truth about my wedding day:  poultry might have to wait. Responsibility kicked into my chicken-fried mind and a second truth occurred to me: my socks were still at the bottom of the hot tub. Now, I’d need to get socks and find chicken. Then I thought about my fiance Lori and reality forced me to sit back down in the driver’s seat and point the car back toward town. I really loved her more than anything in the world and still do to this day. I needed to be at our wedding on time. Love may mean never having to say you’re sorry, at least according to the movies. Arriving late for one’s own wedding is something for which a man will apologize forever. Driving in dust cloud (inside the car, because the roof was open), I made my way to the wedding in time for pictures. On the way I’d found a Popeye’s. When they asked me at the drive-through what I wanted, I was giddy. “You’d better give me two thighs. Today’s my wedding day.”  I don’t know what that means, either.

    #Downton #Downton Abbey #Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry Love Story #Popeye's #Wedding Day #Weddings

  • (Chalk this one up to the naiveté of the long distance runner). One of the signs of becoming a mature runner is the burgeoning ability to not sign up for every interesting race that comes down the pike. I’m not that mature. Long ago, in the sunny, 65° days of October, I was on a sort of runner’s high. Having completed another marathon, I started to build a race schedule for 2012. Not a coordinated training plan, or a sane diet regimen, mind you. Just a schedule. This is how I ended up at the Pro Football Hall of Fame on a winter afternoon, wheezing through 6.2 little miles like Rod Stewart singing at a cigarette company picnic.

    The setting was perfect for me to learn a little runner’s humility. A 10 kilometer race starting just past the doors of the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio on that most hallowed of days marked on the sports calendar: Super Bowl Sunday. I started out too fast and let the hills manage me. Soon I was being passed by all manner of participants. Women dressed like Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders tore past me. Men dressed as Lion’s cheerleaders rushed by, too. On second thought, they may have been women, but I sure wasn’t going to ask. I stomped up the last hill, in what was a cross between running and a 5-year-old-trying-not-to-wet-his-pants dance. The line was crossed in 59:05. Not good, just done. My lesson was learned: Train. Have fun. Train harder. This was my first race of the year and I’m looking forward to the next events. I’m going to have a great time while getting the mark of the beast (4:04:48 pr) off my head and run a sub four-hour marathon. Reality TV actress Kate Gosselin mentioned in a Runner’s World profile that she races wearing a shirt that says “Finishing is Winning.” If you say so, lady. I’d still like to take my chances on winning. It makes for a better car ride home.

    #10K #Big Game 10K #Canton Ohio #Kate Gosselin Running #Pro Football Hall of Fame

  • There are three institutions that I avoid strenuously: dentist’s offices, instant oil change shops and dry cleaners. This might explain why my car smokes like the characters on Mad Men, why my Chiclets are so straight (and horizontal) and my clothes look as if I lent them to Wilfred Brimley during a Hagan-Daz bender. That said, I’d still rather avoid using these services, because the proprietors usually lecture me about my shortcomings. It’s embarrassing to have the guy at Aunt Maude’s Olde Oil Shoppe school me about proper lubrication in between bites of his Whopper with Fleas. The dentist is even more nerve-wracking. During the last visit he fished a bunch of pull tabs and Keno slips out of my gums while lecturing. I never again want to have anyone’s hand in my grill as he turns to his assistant and asks for something serrated.

    Today I went to the cleaners. Dry cleaning clerks are the worst about making me fess up to a life of sin. It starts with how long it’s been between visits. Gosh, I don’t know. When did Hanson break up? Right around that time. They want to know every detail about the stains on my garments too, which leads to lots of tears. The cleaners want specifics. Food? Blood? Was I hunting in my overcoat? What is the exact origin of the smell emanating from my clothes? Have I mucked out stalls or shown 4H animals that day. I broke down today, not able to stand up to the chemical cleaning technician’s scrutiny. “Okay! The stains on my clothes are from eating in the car. I use ketchup packets without wearing a bib!” Actually, I went away feeling better. The counter clerk told me to go and eat fast food no more. Sure. Anything to avoid the confessional.

    #Dry Cleaners #Hagan Daz #Hanson #Keno #Mad Men #Wlfred Brimley

  • GameAlthough I consider myself a reasonably educated man, having attended some of the finest elementary schools that the public school system ever funded, there are certain subjects that have eluded me. One in particular is the Women’s Movement. On this subject, I grabbed whatever self-education was available. My daughter’s American Girl books have a short historical background appendix in each, and I got some useful information from those. I had nightmares about the dolls marching for equal rights out on the front lawn, though, so I quit reading that material. In truth, I’ve always been a daring, ever curious reader. I can remember staying with a host family while on trip when I was 17 years old. The family had an attic library tucked away full of books that were educational, but not meant for me. I spent rainy days reading Pauline Réage and Erica Jong. The trip I was on happened to be church sponsored and the family wasn’t thrilled that my free time had been so eye-opening. There was suddenly a new flow of consciousness within my addled, previously under-stimulated brain.

    Aha! So women think differently than men! This changes everything…

    Okay, I didn’t get anything out of the rainy afternoon reading club other than a smile and some confusing physiology lessons. As I grew, there was a growing awareness of women that I admired. Eleanore Roosevelt, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Maya Angelou, Hilary Clinton, Grete Waitz. The list goes on, but I stopped with the list itself. I knew that they broke through the glass ceiling, but never stopped to consider how they did it. Worse were the women I objectified. I can’t picture Kate Upton, for instance, one day curing cancer unless she’s doing so in a painted on bikini. My thinking is slowly changing, though. Two nights ago I was watching Makers on PBS. I don’t know why I was watching a show about the Women’s Movement. Maybe it was because Everybody Loves Raymond has been in reruns since 2003. The show was great and I got hooked on the stories of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem. What an amazing time it was to be a woman in the early 1970′s, when there were suddenly options beyond throwing away one’s education and taking care of a house. I sat and watched the program with a sort of boggle-eyed wonder, as if I’d lived my life on a deserted island and never met any women. Well, until technical difficulties interrupted the show and it was replaced by Antiques Roadshow after ten minutes of blue screen. I wanted to call the station and protest, or threaten to burn my undergarments if they didn’t bring back the second half of Makers. Women may not dig me, but I realize now how far they’ve had to travel. Call it the education of a middle aged swine.

    #PBS Betty Friedan Eleanor Roosevelt Gloria Steinem Hilary Clinton Kate Upton Makers NOW Women's Liberation Women's Movement
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  • Mostly Teachable February 2013

39.99

I can only concentrate on "right foot up, right foot down. Left foot up, left foot down. Symbolic of life, really. One foot forward. Then the next one.

  • February 19, 2013
  • Andrew Thompson
  • · 2013 Best Year Ever · Family · Give To Something Bigger than Yourself · Health · humor · Nearing Age 40 · Postaday · running · Stubborn Logic
Pictured Rocks

thThe thought of reaching age forty never crossed my mind until the last year. I’d always made certain vague assumptions about how life would progress. As a child, I (wrongly) figured that at 23 years old, vegetarianism would take hold of my lifestyle. It was for that reason I explained to my mother how wrong eating vegetables was. There’d be plenty of time, I reasoned, for vegetable consumption as an adult. In college, I worried about a life of wandering the streets if I failed my classes and never became employable. Of course, I still regularly failed courses. Fear should have probably made me somewhat more fearful.

On the first Thursday in August, I’ll turn forty. A mid-summer, mid-week birthday is usually calm sort of fun. There will be work, followed by the possibility of pie and a walk on the beach. The air is usually pretty heavy at that time of year, but the nights are long and meant for sitting outside doing talking about nothing in particular. I thought of all the things that might be a fun way to exact revenge on a life lived in fits and fights. Maybe some ice cream, dancing monkeys, or some combination of the two. Then I thought about what would make a good memory. I decided to run a marathon at Lake Superior. The idea of running 26.2 miles is a strange way to celebrate any milestone. The body tends to shut down and function on inertia after about the 23, or 24th mile. I start to think about nothing so complicated as dancing primates and quiescent frozen dessert foods. I can only concentrate on “right foot up, right foot down. Left foot up, left foot down. Symbolic of life really. One foot forward. Then the next one. One day you wind up forty just by running and then running some more. I plan to celebrate my last weekend as a 39.99 year-old by running in Michigan’s beautiful “up north” for suicide prevention charities and depression awareness. Now I’m glad I came this far. There’s still even time to become a vegetarian.

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#Marathons #Marathons For Charity #Running #Turning 40 Birthdays
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Comments

  1. kerbey February 19, 2013 · Reply

    I am 40, and I ran over an hour today in my old woman’s creaky, saggy body on the hiking trail, so I feel you. I’d like to say turning 40 was no big deal, but there’s no way around that 30s are still young, and that ship has sailed. Unless you’re Jennifer Aniston, turning half 80 can be harder to swallow than soy links and veggies. I like your running mantras. Mine today was, “You’re 17. You’re 17.” Take heart; at least you’re not turning 41 in three hours like I am.

    • Andrew Thompson February 19, 2013 · Reply

      First of all, congratulations Kerbey and an early Happy Birthday! In my wide eyed youth, I’d tell people “Ah, age is just a number.” Sure it is, but it’s a number applied to creaky bodies and we have to deal with it. The strangest part of running as late 30′s Clydesdale, is that groups of high school track kids will come up and try to be kind. “Are you having a good day, sir?” I’ve learned to be polite. Yelling “get off my sidewalk!” like Clint Eastwood just upsets the kids. The lesson of patience, I suppose. Thanks, and enjoy the day!

  2. Scribelife February 19, 2013 · Reply

    Good luck! I have been playing with the idea of running my first marathon this year, as well. I began running at 30, but now 40 is rushing at me, and maybe it’s time to take it seriously? I will follow you, and maybe you will rub off on me! My name is Christina, it’s a pleasure to meet you.

    • Andrew Thompson February 19, 2013 · Reply

      Hi Christina! I put aside the notion of running a race until 37 and finally started doing half and then a few full marathons. The fun part has been doing scrapbook memory sort of races that are more unique than well known. It’s nice to meet you, as well, and hopefully running (and life) bring you lots of joy!

  3. iswimbikerunstrong February 19, 2013 · Reply

    I ran my first marathon on the weekend of my 50th birthday two weeks ago. I had only been running about 14 month prior. It was an awesome race and I negative split the race. It does not have to be a downward spiral as you get older. Look at the results of your local sprint and Olympic triathlons, some of the fastest dudes there are in their 40′s. They are focused, have more time now that their kids are older, and in great shape. This will be a great decade for you if you just keep moving and put good fuel in your body. Good luck and Happy birthday.

    • Andrew Thompson February 20, 2013 · Reply

      Thanks for the words of inspiration! This will be a great, fit decade and I’m excited for the future. Congratulations on your success and best wishes!

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