The Husband: Too manly to blog.
Photo Credit: Travis Johnson
You might be wondering why I haven’t posted something to this blog in a few months. Perhaps you were among the thousands of people who wrote to me, begging me to return to my keyboard. (I am, of course, joking. The only the fan mail I have received is from my six-year old – a picture of a guy with green eyes and a dagger in his head that said, “I love you dad.”)
The answer to my absence on dreadlock girl’s blog in the recent past is that I have been out doing incredibly manly things. When I haven’t been out conquering the great outdoors, I have been recovering from the incredibly manly injuries that I received while conquering aforementioned outdoors.
The truth is that I almost died in the wilderness twice this summer.
The first near-death experience happened when the Canfield family took a wrong road on the way to a camping trip in July. We found ourselves careening down an unmaintaned forest service road, and let me tell you, it was hairy. There was even a sign that read “Warning: this road not intended for passenger vehicles” – but did I let that stop me? No way, I charged forward in our station wagon with a furious battle cry. I believe the exact words that I screamed were something like, “We’re all going to DIE! Where ARE we!? WHO wrote these directions down!?”
I distinctly remember passing the skeletons of several large animals on the side of the road – animals who had perished for lack of food or water in this barren wilderness. (There were not actually any skeletons, I just like to distinctly remember that there were.) Eventually, after swerving around potholes the size of our car and screaming out a few more battle cries like the one mentioned above, we suddenly emerged at a busy intersection with a light and, I believe, a store. I stopped screaming and we continued on our way without further incident, but I did not fail to remind my family several more times that COULD have died.
My second near-death experience was even more exciting, if you can believe it. If you need to take a break to calm down a little, now would be the time to do so.
In August, I climbed Diamond Peak with some friends. This mighty precipice, believe it or not, is similar in height to Mount Everest, give or take 40,000 feet or something like that – so you can imagine how much manliness it took to climb it. It took the better part of three hours to get to the top. Once there, my unbelievably macho climbing party decided the best way to get back down the mountain would not be to go the way we came, to but to slide down a nearby snowfield. This decision caused me to give a battle cry not too different from the one I uttered in the station wagon. I believe the words this time were something along the lines of, “Are you KIDDING me!? If we do that we’re going to DIE! Can’t we call a HELICOPTER or something!?”
But down the snowfield we went. The first couple of guys did fine. The third guy to go down lost control, hit a patch of rocks, and flipped twice before landing on his back (I’m not exaggerating that detail at all). Then it was my turn. Apparenrly the idea when executing this kind of mountainerring maneuver is to dig your heels in to the snow if you start to slide too fast. Well, I started to slide, and then I started to slide faster. So I dug my heals in. Nothing happened. I dug my heals in harder. Nothing happened. In fact, if anything I was gaining speed. So then I started to claw at the snow with my hands, to no avail. At that point I started to blubber and scream the loudest battle cries I have ever screamed in my life.
If you happened to be in the Diamond Peak wilderness area that day, or any of the major cities in the vicinity, you probably have heard some bloodcurdiling screams coming from the mountain – something resembling “HELP ME! I’m going to DIE. I AM digging my heals in!!!”
Well, I didn’t exactly die at the bottom of the snowfield, but I did get a MAJOR flesh wound. A HUGE one – the kind that you have to cover with one of those gigantic bandaids. A picture of that booboo is included in this blog – courtesy of my friend Travis Johnson, who I hold personally responsible.
So there you have it. I think you’ll see why I haven’t been able to write much lately. But that what happens when you live on the edge like I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put some more Neosporin on my booboo.
Photo Credit: Travis Johnson
The Husband: I Think I Might be a Soccer Fan
Those of you who read the dreadlock girl's blog on a regular basis know that she is not, in fact, an American. Now wait, wait, hold on. Before anyone goes calling Immigration Services, let me clarify. Bethany is, of course, a U.S. citizen, but her heart belongs to Spain, where she grew up. And because of this, she has a tendency to display some very un-American characteristics at times, one of the most prominent being a rabid passion for a strange sport called football. We call it soccer here in the U.S so that we don't get it confused with another sport involving big beefy guys in tights throwing a ball around and wrestling with each other. But if you try to call football soccer in just about any other country, you will get your face kicked in.
Yes, football is a very, very big deal in many other countries that are not America. I mean, they are really serious about it. Deadly serious. The last time we were in Spain I tried to joke with Bethany that I was going to walk around downtown Madrid wearing a jersey for the Barcelona football team (Madrid and Barcelona being arch rivals). Bethany gave me the look the she reserves for when I am being dumb and explained that if I did that, I would be dragged into a back alley and beaten to a pulp. I laughed. Bethany did not laugh, because she wasn't joking.
By simple virtue of the fact that no one cares about soccer in America, I had not, until recently, ever really watched an entire soccer game. All of that changed a few weeks ago, however, when the 2010 World Cup started. I watched almost every single game up to and including Spain's victory over Holland in the final. Hours and hours and hours of soccer. I have watched this much soccer because my wife wants to watch it and I love her and also because I want to eat and wear clean clothes, and I won't get to do either of those things if my wife is not happy with me.
But having watched this much soccer over the last several weeks, I have developed a certain appreciation for it. Following is a list of three things that I find particularly endearing about this strange sport. At first glance, these may seem like criticisms. But they aren't; they are merely appreciations for some of its wonderful oddities. Because if soccer is anything, it is most certainly odd.
Three reasons I think I might like soccer:
1. No one ever has any idea what's going on. Soccer has no instant replay rules and no time outs. When the ref doesn't like something, well, that's all there is to it. He pulls out a little card or waves a little flag and whatever he says goes. He doesn't have to give any reasons for the calls he makes. He could be running down the field and think to himself, "You know, I really don't like that guy's hair. I mean, who wears a hair band these days? What is this, the 70s? That's it, I'm giving him a yellow card." And bam - yellow card. No explanation. No arguing. You'll notice that after the majority of calls in a soccer game, everyone looks confused. All of the players on both sides, the coaches, the fans. Even the refs. They don't know why they made the call half the time either.
Stoppage time is even better. Theoretically the refs are keeping track of how much time is wasted during the game on account of substitutions, injuries, the players styling each other's hair, etc. Then, at the end of each half, an appropriate amount of time is added to the game to make up the difference. But anyone who watches more than a couple of games quickly realizes that the refs are not really keeping track of anything. When the end of a half is approaching, they pull some random number out of the air and slap it on. As a result, no one ever has any idea when the game is going to end.
I like all of this ambiguity because it is so contrary to the razor-sharp preciseness of American sports, in which games times are counted in milliseconds and every inch of the field is measured with microscopic accuracy. If the typical American sporting event is a timed game of chess, an international soccer match is a fist fight in the back room of Biffy's Tavern.
2. Everyone is always falling down. Apparently one of the most important skills that a professional soccer player can posses is the ability, when touched in any way by another player, to convincingly make it appear as if he has just been creamed in the head with a baseball bat. This is so that the ref will call a foul on the other player, resulting in valuable safety and penalty kicks and yellow cards against the other team.
Soccer players have really transformed flopping, as it is commonly called, into an art form. It's always fun to watch a player throw his arms up in the air, scream like he's been shot, do three somersaults and sprawl on the ground clutching his leg and then, when looking at the replay, realize that no one actually touched him. After the ref issues the opposing team a yellow card, the player, who has been lying on the ground writhing in apparent agony, will suddenly hop up, dust himself off and continue playing as if nothing happened (and nothing, in fact, did).
Flopping is a great way to liven up otherwise long and uneventful stretches of a soccer match, which leads to my final point . . .
3. No one ever scores. This is one of the most incredible things to me about soccer. The players run their guts out for more than 90 minutes, and one team wins because their striker kicks the ball at exactly right second, usually when the opposing goalie has just taken a quick break to pick his nose or something. And that's it - the score is 1-0 and the game is over. All that effort for one point.
Now what makes the almost non-existent scoring in soccer fun is that when someone does score, people get really, really excited. I mean, they get so excited that their eyeballs explode out of their heads. Take all of the excitement that has been expressed over every single baseball World Series in history and you will have about two thirds of the emotion expressed over one goal in the World Cup. You can pretty much justify anything - setting cars on fire; throwing hand grenades; dumping cans of paint on people - if it's in the name of celebrating a goal. (Just to clarify, I do not do a majority of the things on that list when I am celebrating a goal).
And in the end, I think that's probably why I am at, at least nominally, a soccer fan. It's such a passionate sport, and it's hard not to get caught up in that passion. Watching the World Cup final the other day, I actually did feel like a part of huge global community - a very loud, rowdy and belligerent global community. So, there's a good chance that I will keep watching soccer - to stay a part of that community. And also so that my wife will keep making me food and washing my clothes.
The Husband: Thank you, donut farmers
On June 4 2010, something incredible happened, though you may not have realized it. First of all, it was my birthday, which is pretty incredible by itself. But not only that, my birthday this year fell on a Friday, which happens to be my favorite day of the week. I know what you're thinking - Whoa, this is getting freaky - but wait, it gets even more amazing. This year my birthday also occurred on NATIONAL DONUT DAY. No I am not joking. I would not joke about something like this. And as if all that was not unbelievable enough, this was also my 29th birthday, which is PRECISELY the number of donuts I could eat in a row without throwing up. The last time this many numbers matched up on the same day, all of the world's computers crashed from the Y2K bug.
Okay, let me back up. Probably like you, I did not realize that the first Friday of every June is officially designated as a day of honor for the most perfect food that Mother Nature ever produced. But it's true. A friend sent me a message on Facebook and then I looked it up on Wikipedia, so the facts here are full proof. Apparently this special day was created in 1938 by the Salvation Army as a fundraiser to help feed the hungry during the Great Depression and as a way to recognize the hundreds of Salvation Army volunteers who served food (mostly donuts) to US soldiers during World War I. I also think it's a perfect day to offer gratitude to the many fine donut farmers who grow this magnificent crop.
I was essentially raised on donuts during my childhood. My dad often took me to work with him, and just down the street from his office was an oasis of deep-fried goodness - a Dunkin Donuts. I recall being six years old or so and sauntering into the sweet-smelling shop with my dad early in the morning to order up a bag of bear claws and maple bars. Then the two of us would sit at the Formica counter, staring blearily out the window, sipping black coffee until our brains started to function. I am, of course, kidding about me being six years old and drinking black coffee. I took a little bit of cream in it.
What is it about donuts that makes them such a perfect food, worthy of their own day? I suggest a few things. First, they are round, and a circle is a perfect shape, so that's a pretty good start right there. But when you add that hole in the middle, things start to get mind-blowing pretty quickly. The hole, of course, allows one to grip the donut in a firm manner and thus consume the donut more rapidly, which is important because, if you are doing things right, there are more donuts waiting to be consumed and you need to get to them before some other guy does.
I challenge you to think of another food that has the unique hole feature. Go ahead, I'll give you three seconds. Time's up. If you said "bagel," I'm sorry but you gave a terrible answer because a bagel is, in fact, nothing more than a failed attempt at a donut. It's a donut that never got sweetened and deep fried and instead had to settle for sesame seeds and some cream cheese. People who eat bagels don't even use the hole feature; they use little plastic knives and nibble delicately about the edges like squirrels.
Finally, donuts have a spiritual quality to them. They are literally good for your soul, in the same way that really good drum solos and movies featuring Rusell Crowe are good for your soul. This is why so many churches have donuts in the foyer after Sunday morning services.
I've examined a calendar (actually I didn't, I'm just guessing) and the next time my birthday will fall on a National Donut Day will be something like 2030, when I will be 49 years old, which is going to be another astounding alignment of numbers because 49 is the number of donuts I could eat in a row with the help of a stomach pump and an IV.
In the meantime I will continue to celebrate many days, even days that are not Friday, by visiting my local bakery and consuming various kinds of donuts. And if I see anyone buying a bagel I will make little squirrel noises at them and challenge them to man up and order a bear claw or six. Because as far as I'm concerned, every day is National Donut Day.
The Husband: Some Thoughts on Joy
One of my favorite sermon quotes come from Emerson Eggerich (yes, he of the "Love and Respect" cheesiness): "I don't care if you're an incredibly successful multimillionaire with every expensive toy imaginable. My question is, who's sitting down to dinner with their family at night full of joy?"
I like this quote because I've lived both sides of it. A few years ago, I was the guy working his tail off to climb the corporate ladder, hoping that it ended in an affluent lifestyle. I told others (and myself) that I was doing it for my family, to make sure that they were well-provided for. In truth, I was doing it in large part for me, to satisfy a craving in my ego and a desire for nice things.
What I ultimately realized was that my workaholic attitude was actually damaging my family. It was robbing us of joy. I was always coming home late from the office and spending weekends at conferences and meetings, which brought tension into my marriage. If you want a surefire way to kill the joy in your marriage, bring in some tension.
This tension, of course, turned into arguing, and the arguing became impossible to hide from our kids. If you want to rob your kids of joy, make it clear to them that mommy and daddy aren't happy with each other.
Fortunately for me, God gently corrected my thinking without having to use any drastic measures. I began to think about myself and my family ten years down the road, and I didn't like where we were headed. What difference would a Mercedes and a huge house make if my wife and kids despised me? I realized that I was draining our family of joy, and I wanted it back. I wanted to sit down to dinner at night and be filled with it.
I think most of us, whether we recognize it or not, are extremely interested in joy. We want it so bad we can taste it. When we have it, our hearts glow. When we're missing it, our souls ache to get it back.
Joy is fascinating to me, partly for its unique qualities of possession. The criteria that you must meet in order to own it are different from anything else in the world. You don't need to have money, looks, charisma or authority to have joy. In fact, it's quite possible for some of those things to drive joy away.
Instead, it seems like joy is often present when many other things are absent, especially for people who have a genuine relationship with God. A few years ago a coworker of mine lost her husband to a heart attack while on vacation in England. She was suddenly alone with three kids to take care of. It was incredibly stressful for her. But I remember her saying the following about two weeks after the death: "I am so surprised by how much joy I have right now. I'm sad and upset, but at the same time I have a new understanding that God is taking care of me, that He is incredibly close to me."
When we lose things in our lives, I think it can drive us closer to God (because we realize how badly we need Him), and my perception is that the closer you get to God, the more joy you have.
So, over the last few years, I've developed a new standard for success in my life. The measurement has nothing to do with how much money, education, esteem or possessions I've accumulated. When I sit down to eat with Bethany, Jackson and Oliver each evening, it doesn't matter how nice the plates are, how big the roof over our heads is, or what kind of car is in the garage. Instead, what matters is whether or not joy has a place at the table.
The Husband: Leave Some Skin on the Pavement
Our six year-old son Jackson received a fantastic birthday present this year: his very first skateboard. And of course his parents, being the incredibly responsible individuals they are, outfitted him with an impressive array of protective gear to go along with said skateboard. The poor boy, when he wants to ride the skateboard, has to go through a 15-minute ritual in which he dawns a space-age helmet and more pads than an NHL goalie. When he's finished, he looks like he's ready to go on American Gladiators.
Jackson has to wear all of this body armor because his skateboard is, in fact, specifically designed to maim him when tries to ride it. The skateboard fulfills its purpose each time it flings Jackson wildly into the air and sends him crashing to the concrete on our back patio.
Think about it: a skateboard is a flat, narrow piece of wood bolted to four small wheels, highly greased so that when force is applied it shoots incredibly fast in whatever direction happens to be convenient. As an illustration for this argument, let's say you're having a friend over for dinner and you want to break his leg when he arrives. I challenge you to find a more efficient way of accomplishing this than simply placing a skateboard right inside the front door and turning the lights out.
Yes indeed, skateboards are dangerous things. Which is why I was so pleased to give one to my son in the hope that he will acquire some truly memorable battle scars this summer. Few things are more important to building a young boy's self confidence than gnarly scabs he can show off to his friends. We didn't just give Jackson a skateboard, we gave him bragging rights.
In these days of rubber-padded playgrounds, class-action lawsuits and safety warnings voluminous enough to fill the Library of Congress, every healthy child should be afforded the opportunity to pick up some good old-fashioned scrapes, bruises, cuts, sprains and minor bodily disfigurements. It's good for them.
My own childhood would have been considerably less satisfying if I had not tried to crack my head open a few times (okay, more than a few times). The street in front of the house I grew up in is probably still marked with a healthy smattering of my flesh and blood. I remember one birthday on which I too opened brightly colored wrapping paper to reveal a four-wheeled death trap and, with a dozen of my friends watching, lugged it to the top of a nearby hill. I placed my foot on the board, took a deep breath, and prepared for my descent into glory. I was planning to swoosh down the hill making long, graceful S-curves, knees bent perfectly, arms casually at my side like a pro. I would then be greeted by the congratulatory shouts of my friends and hearty slaps on the back.
Unfortunately, when I arrived at the bottom of the hill I was no longer on the skateboard. In fact, by the time my limp, battered body tumbled to a stop, the skateboard was on top of me. Behind me, stretching for 20 feet or so on the pavement, was a streak of skin taken from the entire left side of 
my body. I stood up, dusted myself off, and basked in a different kind of glory: the glory of a man who has just given himself a flesh wound while doing something stupid.
And that's only one example. A few feet away from the scene of my first downhill skateboarding attempt is a curb that permanently bears the indentation of my front teeth. I can still remember that moment, suspended in time, as I went flying over the handle bars of my bicycle with the words "I AM GOING TO DIE" flashing in my brain like a bright yellow neon sign. When I came to, I was slightly disappointed not to find myself standing at the pearly gates with Peter looking down at me and saying in a deep, booming voice, "Well son, you're dead. But that was such an awesome crash, we're going to send you back down again. Props to you."
I'm thinking I might take Jackson to my old street sometime and show him the faded evidence of my past attempts to place myself permanently on a liquid diet. It would probably make him feel a little better about his own gruesome wrecks on our back patio. And it would also emphasize an important lesson that I want both my kids to learn (a lesson I'm struggling to remember in adulthood): life is much more fun, interesting and fulfilling when you're willing to leave some skin on the pavement.
The Husband: She Excels Them All
In a previous post about how my wife and I first met, I mentioned that before she was dreadlock girl, Bethany was punk girl - spikey hair and face piercings included - and a few of you commented that you'd like to see photos of my lovely bride when she was in her punk phase.
Well, I am pleased to share a wonderful development. We have a good friend named Phil Cacka who is a professional photographer and owner of Hawthorn Photography in Portland. Bethany and I went to college with Phil and his wife Michelle "back in the day" when both Bethany and Michelle were classic punk queens.
The four of us once took a trip to Seattle with our college church group, and Phil snapped some absolutely fantastic pictures of Bethany walking around downtown, wearing a ratty old fur coat. Several days ago I emailed Phil to see if there was any chance he still had these pictures, which are now ten years old. And miracle of miracles, he did.
These pictures still make me weak in the knees, just like they did a decade ago. There's just something about them that makes me want to go out in the street, do a little soft shoe and croon in a deep voice at the moon (which for obvious reasons I will not actually do).
I think my favorite thing about them is that they capture something important about Bethany's personality: she's just a little bit insane. You have to look closely at her face, but you can tell - there's a bolt loose in her brain somewhere. To quote Stephen the Mad Irishman from Braveheart, she "isn't quite right in the head." And that is a very happy thing. I'm so glad I didn't marry a normal person.
I'm not sure why, but for some reason these pictures bring to my mind one of my favorite passages of scripture: Proverbs 31. Now, a college professor once warned me never to end a piece of writing by quoting someone else, admonishing me that to do so is to "surrender the key rhetorical space" or something like that. But in celebration of finding these pictures (thank you Phil!) and as a late tribute to Mother's Day, I think ceding the key rhetorical space to King Lemuel is entirely appropriate:
but you excel them all."
The Husband: Watch Out, He’s On A Mission
I would like to devote today's post to exploring an issue that affects millions of marriages in our country: what exactly goes through a guy's head when his wife sends him to the grocery store. Ladies - a whole lot more is happening in our brains than you think when you ask us to run down the street for paprika, red potatoes and bowtie pasta. Understanding how a typical man approaches a trip to the store is, I believe, critical to marital success.
If your marriage is anything like mine, here's how the situation usually unfolds. It's about 8:30 at night. The husband, tired after a day of conquering the office, is stretched out on the couch doing whatever he likes to do - watching TV; reading; knitting, etc. The wife, who has been practicing what she's about to say for the last five minutes, walks sweetly into the room and bursts out in a sing song voice, "Oh fiddlesticks, I'm out of butter."
The husband instantly realizes what this means, but he tries to act like he doesn't. In fact, he tries to act like he hasn't heard what his wife just said. Which is, of course, very stupid. Seeing that she hasn't gotten the desired reaction, the wife brings out the big guns.
"I'd go to the store myself," she says in that same sugary, innocent voice. "But I was just about to start making cookies."
Now the husband is paying attention. He is forced to engage in the conversation because cookies are at stake.
'Would you like me to go to the store for you?" the husband asks in the same tone of voice that he would use to ask "Would you like me to give you my liver?" The implication is that he is willing to do it, but that it is an effort requiring an incredible amount of bravery and soul searching on his part.
This is where many women fail to understand what their husbands are thinking as they ponder a trip to Safeway. You see, when you ask your husband to go grocery shopping for you, you are sending him on a SERIOUS MISSION. It's a dark, dangerous world out there. He is reclined comfortably in his warm house. If you are going to send him on a mission for food rations, you had better take it SERIOUSLY.
It starts with the shopping list. When you wander into the living room batting your eye lashes and talking about baking cookies, you had better already have the list written. You see, the minute that we commit to making the trip, we are in mission mode. Our heart rate increases, our eyes dilate, and our adrenaline kicks in. We are thinking about vast, crowded parking lots, rows and rows of confusing vegetables that all look the same, and crabby old ladies who want the last can of spaghetti sauce. If you make us wait and peer over your shoulder while you slowly scrawl out a list, deciding whether you want three yellow onions or four, you are wasting precious resources. Mission mode only lasts for so long. If we have to wait before diving into the fray we are likely to tire ourselves out just thinking about the shopping trip before we have even left the house.
Once you have sent us on our way with a well-written list, a reassuring squeeze and a promise of baked confections, the next thing you need to focus on is MAINTAINING CONSTANT RADIO CONTACT. Do not turn off the ringer on your cell phone and take a bubble bath. Do not call your friend Susie and talk about your next book club meeting. Stay at your post and get ready - because we are going to call you. We are going to call you when we can't find the eggplant. Then we are going to call you to ask if you wanted the "lavender" dish soap or the "lavender peach" dish soap. Then we are going to call you to say that not only are we unable to find the ground beef you want - we can't find the meat section of the store at all. Finally, we will call to ask if you wanted a half dozen bear claw donuts or a half dozen cinnamon twists. The appropriate response is not to yell that donuts are not on the list. The appropriate response is "both."
The important thing to remember is that you are our lifeline during the shopping trip. If you don't answer when we call, we are alone in a big, scary world with no option but to seek refuge in the bakery and sample cookies.
Finally, the way that you treat us upon our successful completion of the mission is incredibly important to our fragile egos. Notice that I automatically assume that the mission has been successful. That's because if we manage to return with food in bags for you, the mission HAS been successful. Rejoice over the bounty we've brought you. If you pull out a jar of green olives that should have been black, don't nitpick over the color. Simply exclaim in a joyous voice, "Oh good, you found the olives! And all by yourself!" Try to use the same tone of voice you would with a toddler who has just cleaned his room.
And of course, if any kind of salty snacks in bags were procured during the mission, it is absolutely wonderful when you let us open these bags and sample the contents. This tends to have a Pavlov effect that will encourage us to react positively to the next mission you send us on.
Now, about those cookies you were going to make . . .
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