shortcuts

Hey, we all love shortcuts, don't we? At any rate, I love shortcuts. I love the idea that there's a path, a way--a quicker way--to get from point A to point B than the path that everybody else is taking. Yeah . . . shortcuts are cool. At least, they're cool when they work. When they don't . . . we'll that's another story.

Years ago, I was attending a seminary in Kentucky and for the first time in my entire life (at least since I graduated from elementary school)--for the first time in my entire life since elementary school, I was cool and people actually wanted to be around me--even girls. Of course, it was all because I was one of the few people there who had a car and therefore that meant I could drive them places and drop them off at malls and restaurants and come back and get them later so they wouldn't have to ride the bus or just stay home . . . but hey, like I said, girls wanted to ride in my car with me and whatever their reason, I wasn't arguing.

Well, one particular day--a day I'll never forget--ever--a group of us were driving to a movie theater. My friend Rick from New York was in the passenger seat and our friends Kate, from Australia, and Mallory from somewhere in the deep south were in the back seat. I, of course, was driving. And I was on top of the world. I was driving up and down through the hilly, horse-country of Kentucky. They skies were clear blue--cloudless--and I hung my arm out the window and felt especially suave as the wind whipped through my medium-length brown hair: I was a man with women in my car. And they were going to let me go to the movie theater with them. And actually sit by them when we watched the movie. It was a whole new world. And I was clipping along on the very top of it.

That is, until we crested the top of a hill and looked down on the main road that would lead us to the theater and we saw that there was a huge traffic back-up. We were already pushing the limits for time and with this back up, there was absolutely no chance we'd make the movie. Everybody groaned--of course, we were all seminary students, so nobody said anything bad--though, just to shatter your image of seminary students, nobody said "Praise the Lord" either. The girls were sad, Rick was sad and I was depressed. But then I remembered something. There was a short cut I had taken a few weeks ago when I was by myself and this same thing had happened. I had cut through a Piggly Wiggly parking lot, caught a back road and had discovered, on accident, the back entrance to the theater.

Those memories flashed through my mind in an instant and I quickly looked around as we were approaching the traffic jam--ahhh, there it was, the entrance to the parking lot I had cut through--I still had time to make it--If I acted fast.

I put both hands on the wheel, set my jaw, checked my rearview mirror and jerked the car to the right. One of the girls screamed in a high pitched squeel--"What are you doing?" I turned to answer her when I realized it was Rick screaming. The girls were just white-knuckling it in the back seat. I donned my most action-hero-like voice and grumbled "We're taking a shortcut." And then I looked in the rearview mirror and made eye-contact with Kate--the girl I was rather interested in--and I said (yes, this all happened)--I said, "I'll get you to that movie, Kate--don't you worry." Oh yeah . . . I lived in some sort of bizarre imaginary world back then and you can see why having girls in my car was a new experience for me.

Anyway, like some kind of renegade cowboy, I nosed my little blue cavalier into that parking lot and I hit the gas. In moments, we were rocketing (at what seemed like 40 miles per hour or so) through that empty parking lot. We were driving past that traffic on the main road like it was standing still. When my passengers saw the driveway exit I was heading for and when they saw the movie theater sign, they got over their initial fear and actually cheered. The girls patted me on the back and said things like "good thinking!" Rick quit squeeling and started rubbing his hands together as he estimated that we still had time to get in, get tickets, get popcorn and find good seats before the flick started.

We were riding high. It was moment I'll never forget--I was the hero--I had navigated our vehicle around the gridlock and had brought us--against all odds--successfully and on-time to our destination. The girls were impressed. I was the captain of that vessel and, for that brief second, I was the captain of our destinies.

But then something happened--as usually is the case for me. You see, I made the mistake of looking into the rearview mirror as we were rocketing toward that driveway that would lead us to the theater. For just a second, I locked eyes with Kate and I winked. (Yeah, just call me John Wayne).

I winked to let her know I had done it--that I had known all along that we'd be fine--that I had made good on my promise to get her to that movie. All that in a little wink that lasted just a split second.

However, unfortunately, at the exact moment, I was winking into the rearview mirror, I should have been looking ahead. If I had, I would have seen the parking lot abutment that was approaching my car at a tremendous speed. You know what these things are right? I know you do, I just don't know what to call them--they're the short concrete bumps at the end of each parking space in some parking lots--nothing tall, but definitely something solid.

Anyway, My little blue car hit one of those going . . . I don't know 20 mph . . . 30 mph . . . 10 mph . . . I have no idea . . . all I remember is that one second, I was winking and the next second my head was smashing into the roof of the car as it went airborne--Dukes of Hazzard style--over the abutment.

That moment was chaos in the car--the girls were tossed all over the place in the back seat, Rick started screaming again--squeeling in a high-pitched, annoying scream--and I . . . Dan Hansen, Seminary student . . . child of God . . . hollered out only one thing. It was a loud, long word that started with S and I think I said it 5 times in a row. I'll let you figure it out.

Well, somehow, when the car came down, I managed to get it under control and bring it to a stop. Rick was crying, I was shaking and wondering if I had really said what I thought I said out loud. The girls were shaken up and Kate asked me what the heck I was thinking . . . though, again, to taint your image of seminary students, she didn't use the word "heck."

I tried to regain my composure, but it was impossible. I started edging my car slowly toward the parking lot entrance we had been driving toward before the abutment event, but now the car was making weird thumping and banging sounds. These were not coming from the radio. I checked.

They were coming from somewhere underneath the car. There were problems--big problems with my car and I was all alone in Kentucky and I didn't know where to bring it and my car was the only thing making me cool. I said to Rick that we should probably drop by a shop and see if they can find out what's wrong with the car. The girls asked if we could drop them off at the theater while we did that. And I did. And that was the end of my brief stint as a cool guy on campus. Even after my car was fixed, I never regained cool status--I had been labelled as a moron on the road.

Seminary students can be so cruel.

Anyway, some shortcuts are great. Some really help you get through projects quickly or get to a given location faster than everybody else. Other ones make you look like an idiot, blow your chances with Kate from Australia and cost you about $700 in damage to your car.

Those are the shortcuts I take most often.

i love God more than you

Tonight at dinner, we had a rousing theological discussion. Now, in most cases, you'd probably not associate theological discussions with the word "rousing," but most of you have never had dinner with us.

See, tonight we all settled down to a nice meal after Caleb's baseball practice. Everybody was there and everybody was eager to talk and express many opinions. However, before we let them unleash all their thoughts, I announced that somebody needed to pray.

At the mention of the word "pray" five hands shot up and the kids all hopped up and down on their chairs until I chose Andrew. He cleared his throat and began his prayer:

"Dear Jesus, thank you for our day and our food. I love mommy and daddy and . . . (and on and on and on as he listed everybody and everything he's ever loved or met or seen once on a movie or in a magazine.) 10 minutes later, he wrapped it all up with the phrase "to the Praise of God, Amen."

It was very stirring and thoughtful and most of all, it was very, very long. But it was over. And it was time to eat. So we all piled up our plates and the insanity began.

As the words "Amen" left Andrew's lips, Caleb said, "May I have more goulash?"

And I said, "We're just done praying . . . how did you finish your food already?"

He just said "Dunno," and wiped a slobbery spot of tomato juice off his chin and thrust his plate at me.

Madi looked at him and said, "Caleb didn't pray." And she said it in that sing-songy voice you just know is going to cause trouble.

And it did.

Caleb responded with an angry "I did too," as he stuffed more pasta down his noise hole.

Then Tessa said "mm ha wefcvdw chrus!" (We have no idea what she said, but we know she was mad and ready for a fight). She pounded her meaty fists on the table and glared at Caleb and we thought for a second, she was going to call down fire. Caleb just looked at her and said, "What? What's wrong?"

Tessa pointed at him with her fork and narrowed her eyes. She returned to her meal, but she kept her eyes on Caleb. (Someday, we'll be able to understand Tessa. I'm excited, but a little scared, too).

Anyway, as all that's going on, Andrew's just staring at his glass of milk. I looked at him and amidst all the grumbling and arguing, I asked him what was up.

He looked at me and said, "Do you know how I learned to say 'to the praise of God?'"

"Church?" I guessed.

He shook his head.

"Sunday School?"

"Nope."

"Me? Did you learn it from watching your dad?"

"Nope. I made it up in my own head."

I told him that was very impressive indeed and that I was proud of him. And that was a big mistake because my praise of his prayer went straight to his pointed little head.

"Caleb, I said the best prayer ever--dad said so!"

"Nuh, uh! Dad, did you say Andrew said the best prayer ever?"

I was just getting ready to stop that silly argument when Andrew, apparently the newly appointed Lord Chancellor of Holiness, started polling everybody to find out exactly how much they loved God.

Yes. I'm not joking. He actually polled people to find out who loved God most. Yeah, I just sat there as His Holiness beamed down on his flock and asked them all how much they loved God. And then, when they each answered, he smiled, held up a hand like a picture of a Saint, and gently shook his head before telling each of us in turn that, sadly, none of us loved God as much as him.

Well, that was bad enough--to realize the depth of Andrew's conceit and his "Better-than-Thou" philosophy. But before I could yell at him and take His Holiness down a peg or two, Caleb jumped into the fray with both feet.

In between shovel-fulls of goulash, he glared at Andrew and said "I do too Love God more than you!"

Andrew leaned in, three inches away from Caleb's face and shouted "No! I Love GOD more than YOU!"

Caleb slammed his fork down and started to stand up, his eyes glaring fire back at Andrew as he proclaimed his love for God in no uncertain terms.

Aaaaahh, it went on like that for about 5 minutes, but it seemed longer. Finally I stopped it by raising my voice and loudly proclaiming that "Everybody at this table loves God the same--and by the same, I mean A LOT!"

"But," Andrew chirped in. "But I love . . . ."

"Andrew--you don't own the corner on God-Loving and neither do you, Caleb!"

"Dad, we don't even know what that means."

Heck, neither did I. I wondered How our evening could have been reduced to an argument about who loves God more? Out loud I just said "Everybody shut up and eat your goulash."

Yes, I'm the Spiritual Leader of the family.

52 minutes to go

Well, I'm coaching a little league team and we had our first practice tonight. It's a coach pitch league, so it's not terribly competitive--it's geared more to be a learning experience for the kids than an actual, competitive league--but while it may not be the most competitive league out there, it does look like it's going to be very, very phsyical (and by that, I mean physically painful).

See, this is my first time as a coach and I was honestly a little nervous about the whole thing tonight--nervous about our first practice. I didn't want to look stupid, like I didn't know what I was doing, because looking stupid is one of my least favorite hobbies. Well, being my first time, I decided that as the kids arrived, I needed to take charge immediately. As each one walked up, I greeted him with a nice "Hi, my name is Dan and you're name is...?" When each little boy told me his name, I smiled, repeated his name, promptly forgot his name (except for Mitchell who had his name on his shirt) and told him to grab a ball and a partner and do a little throwing. (I said it in my most manly, John Wayne-ish voice and I even used those words, "do a little throwing," because I thought they sounded cooler and more "coach-ish" than "go play catch.")

Anyway, every time I said that, each little guy would eagerly pull a ball out of the ball bucket and then run off onto the field while I stayed by the bench, talking with the adults and handing out schedules and packets of papers that contained stuff I hadn't read yet but that was in my coach's packet and which was printed on colored papers and therefore had to be immensely important.

Alright, so there I am, the coach--the guy in charge of all those little kids--standing on the bench handing things out to parents and talking and acting cool and in charge--and then I hear a couple parents gasp. I looked up at the little set of bleachers and I actually saw one mom shield her eyes and bury her face in her husband's shoulder. I heard a couple whispered profanities. All of this happened as the parents stared at the field. Every three seconds or less, one of them or more of them would close their eyes, cover their eyes, cover their mouth, turn their head away, or utter what turned out to be an extremely popular curse word. They all reacted differently, but one thing was consistent amongst all of them--they were, each and every one, staring at the field. In fact, I--the coach--was the only one not looking at the field.

Slowly, afraid of what I might see, I turned around and wow! I mean . . . wow. It was like a war zone. You know, this sounds mean and heartless, but man, kids can be so dumb sometimes. I'm sorry, children, but you can be.

See, when I had told them to "do a little throwing", I had envisioned crisp, military lines and synchronized throws. Instead, they were in sort of a weird, misshapen circle. Several unlucky kids--probably the weaker ones (you know how nature will have its way in the end)--were in the middle of the circle, staring into the sun. The other kids, on the outer rim, were throwing balls at them. Or to them. It was hard to tell.

Every couple of seconds, a ball would come whizzing out of the blazing yellow of the sun and some kid or another in the middle would suddenly see it and have exactly 1/3 of 1/4 of a second to react or eat leather. If it wasn't so potentially tragic, it would have been funny. Ahh, heck, if the other parents weren't watching, it would have been funny--watching those little-kid eyes pop out big and their little-kid heads bob this way and that as they hoisted up their little gloves to stop a ball they could barely see. As it was, even with the parents there, it was still kind of funny, but I realized it couldn't go on like this. At this rate, I'd be picking their overly large adult teeth out of the infield gravel and putting them in little baggies so they could go to the hospital and see what the doctors could do to put them right again.

So I walked into the swirling, buzzing circle of chaos and I whistled. Unfortunately, I'm a pansy when it comes to whistling. Nobody heard a thing. It was just a sputtering, windy sound over my flapping lips accompanied by a little bit of spit that flew out of my mouth. When whistling proved ineffectual, I decided to shout. I was the coach afterall and I needed to take charge and control. So I hollered, loud and clear, "everybody line up!"

Being children, they all, of course, remained in their blobby semi-circle and continued to throw balls at other kids' heads. I stepped into the line of fire and hollered again and was immediately hit in the shoulder and then the leg by a couple of balls. Suddenly, horrible visions of all those Funniest Home Videos shows came to mind and I imagined myself curled up in a fetal position, rolling on the infield gravel. I didn't want that. For any number of reasons. So I hollered once more, using what I lovingly refer to as my "dog-yellin' voice", and finally the kids filtered into lines.

It took some work, but eventually, I had them in two nice lines and I almost achieved my vision of perfection. The only problem was that, now that they were all in lines--one kid directly opposite another kid--once they were finally like that--finally ordered--nobody had any idea who was throwing to them. I still don't know what their little brains were thinking, but there was no denying it--they were more confused now than they were when everybody was in the blobby circle. Balls of death filled the air like angry bees and children started dropping like flies. It was kind of like a scene from a movie depicting a firing range. You know, one side had the balls, the other side just stood there. I said "throw" like a soldier might yell "fire" and the balls filled the air and collided with the children on the other side. Only two or three raised their gloves to protect themselves. The rest just ate the leather and collapsed in little freckle-faced heaps on the ground.

The dust swirled when they hit the ground and I chanced a glance over at the bleachers. Many parents were shaking their heads and a couple had their eyes completely covered. I looked back at the field and surveyed my troops. Eight, no nine were still standing. Nine out of fourteen. That's not terrible. Then I looked at my watch: 5:38. Hmmmmm. We still had 52 minutes to go.

BREAKING NEWS: mom's asleep. again.

Caleb really made my night last night.

He's in this stage where he's writing all the time--writing stories about me and Tam and Andrew and Madi and Tess and Hannah. Stories about all of us.

Well, sometimes he writes the stories based on ideas he comes up with--things that happened in the day--and sometimes he interviews us and writes something based on the findings of that interview.

Last night, I took him out to a baseball field and we played catch and practiced hitting. He had a great time and shortly after we got back home there was a paragraph story waiting for me to read.

It told all about how we played catch, just him and I, and how he hit the balls I pitched and how he learned so much about baseball and how, when it started to rain, we had to run to the car and hurry home to pick up the junk we left laying on the yard before it got ruined.

It wasn't so much a story as a chronicle of our day. But it was still nice to read--nice to read how I'm the "greatest dad in the world."

But while that was all very nice and very heartfelt and made me feel good, he actually made my night when he interviewed Tami for the story he was going to write about her.

She was laying on the couch, holding Hannah and I was working on the computer when he walked over to her.

"Mom, I'm gonna write a story about you . . . ."

"Oh, that's great, Caleb."

"Yeah, but first I got to figure out the things you like to do . . . ." He scratched his head and sat down on the floor by the couch. The pen flipped back and forth in his hand as he tapped it against his chin. His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling and you could tell, just by looking at him, that he was thinking . . . and thinking hard.

Finally, he stood up and said, "I know!" And the way he said it made it clear that he had spent a long while struggling to come up with something. But now he was excited--now he had something to work with.

He looked at Tami, his pen poised to record every word, and said, "I know what you love to do, mom. You love to lay on the couch a lot, don't you?"

Well, my head snapped up from the computer and Tami's head snapped up from the pillow it had been resting on.

"What? I like to what?" She asked, absently wiping away a thin string of sleepy-time drool that had been creeping down her chin.

"You like to lay around on the couch a lot--you know, resting, taking it easy. That's pretty much your favorite thing to do in the whole world, isn't it?" The boy was deadly serious. And that's what made the whole thing hilarious. He had no intention of embarrassing or teasing Tami. He was the consummate, un-biased reporter, digging for details and recording the hard, gritty truth.

Tami's mouth fell open and she looked around the room to see if I had heard (I had) and then she tried to convince Caleb that she had many other interests. But he wasn't buying it.

"No . . . " he said after weighing some of her quickly suggested likes and hobbies. "No, I think the thing you love best is laying around. That's what you do most. Now . . . how do I make up a story about that?"

Caleb wandered away scribbling in his notebook as Tami hollered all sorts of things at his back.

"I love taking care of babies! I love, um, cooking! I love . . . I love . . . oh, I don't know . . . I love . . ." She fell silent and I thought she gave up because Caleb wasn't listening. I looked over at her to say something witty, but she was laying on the couch with her mouth hanging open and her arm hanging limply toward the floor. A silvery string of sleepy-time drool descended casually from the corner of her mouth. I don't know if she was asleep or just really, really relaxed.

my bright new world

Well, now that I'm fat, (see suddenly pudgy, my previous post) I've been trying to think of things I can do and, you know what? Just as I was sitting in my living room, eating one of those little snack pies--(don't worry, the pastry crust was made with whole wheat, so it's definitely healthy)--anyway, as I was sitting around, munching and thinking about things that the new Fat Dan could do, a commercial comes on tv for something called the LapBand system.

Yeah, it's some sort of surgical device/system that will tie off a section of your stomach so you don't have this big bottomless pit down there anymore. Anyway, the people on tv were going on and on singing the LapBand's praises and telling us how they were going to do all sorts of new things when they got thin. One lady was going to visit her sister more often (apparently her sister has very narrow doors that only thin people can squeeze through). Another man was going to feel better about himself and was going to have a good life again. Even when the quick-talking announcer made us aware in a whispery voice that a few minor side effects like "uncontrollable bodily functions, fevers, rashes in unusual places, heart problems, breathing difficulties, immobilization, paralyzation, unification of the symbosial unit (whatever that is), and, in some extreme cases, death may occur"--even when the announcer told us all of that, these people still boldly proclaimed that they were ready. Ready for whatever happened. They were so brave, these fat people on the commercial . . . .

Well, I watched them all and one single, clear thought filled my head like an answer from heaven: I had my answer!

If I continue on this path to obesity, I'm going to become an actor in commercials that sell things to or for fat people.

Now, you may not think I have it in me to pull that off, but I would disagree. I think if I packed on maybe 20 or 30 more pounds, I'd be very believable in those roles. And, don't think for a minute, there's not plenty of work for someone like me. I could star in commercials for new diets, commercials for the LapBand 2 (the new lapband that has ironed out some of the original failings of the first one--you know, less uncontrollable bodily function side effects, less dying--a lapband with the kinks worked out). I could even branch out and star in commercials for people who need to ride scooters in order to get around anymore.

Maybe I could pull a "Jared" and find some fast food restaurant that will help me lose weight and will then pay me to tell my story to the world.... There's a bright new world opening up for someone willing to make the most of their...situation.

However, excited as I am about my new potential career, there is one thing I won't do: I won't be the poster fat boy for those video exposes that news channels always do--you know, the ones that start with a tag line like "America: Fatter than Ever" or "The Obese in America: Eating Our Way to the Grave" or other catchy titles that are guaranteed to help people feel good about themselves.

No sir. I've got to draw the line somewhere. You see, I've always felt bad for the people who get caught on videotape and then used as fodder on the broadcast. I've always wondered what it must be like to tune into a news show and hear the thin, chiselled anchor say, "We'll be right back with Suzie Gibbons' report, 'America: The Fattest Nation on Earth." And then, while he's sending it over to equally thin Suzie, you see video of all these overweight people milling about a mall or something. I've always wondered what it was like to be sitting in one of those few living rooms throughout America where some kid stares at the screen and says "Hey mom, were you at the mall today, wearing a . . . green sweatsuit . . . carrying a bag from Godiva's? 'Cause there's a fat lady on tv that sure looks a lot like you from behind." Yeah, those people have to feel like a million bucks.

And it's funny--whenever they show those videos, they always try to be "kind" to the fat people they're filming: they only film from the waist down. All I know is that if I'm ever at the mall and I see a bunch of camera people with cameras set at waist level or below, I'm heading the other way.

suddenly pudgy

I'm Pudgy. I don't know when it happened (possibly last night while I was sleeping), but all of a sudden, I'm chunky. Doughy. You know . . . fat.

See, my wife and I and our kids--all five of them--walked to the library this afternoon. Now, normally, this would be fun. You know, the weather was nice-ish and the kids weren't trying to kill each other and everybody was excited to get out of the house for a while after another great Spring Break filled with rainy weather.

Well, that is, I was excited until I found myself sweating profusely and short of breath. And that was just after getting out of the chair and slipping my crocs on. Yeah. Crocs. Not lace-up shoes. Not even velcro. They were slip on shoes. Slip on shoes. And I was still winded.

Anyway, with my crocs on, I shuffled and wheezed my way to our little storage barn, dragged the strollers out and struggled to open them. By the time they stood open on the yard, waiting for children to fill them, sweat was pouring off my body in tiny rivers and I was panting like I'd just run a marathon. Not too long after that, my wife bustled outside in her little "exercise suit" and announced she was ready for our walk. Well, my little heart was thumping away in my chest and I thought maybe I was having a heart attack, but I put on a good face and we all started walking to the library.

As we walked, I started to feel a little better, but I noticed an odd sensation around my stomach area. I couldn't quite explain it--it was a weird pressing feeling--and my mind instantly hearkened back to the notion that I was having a heart attack or, at the very least, experiencing strange, inexplicable internal problems (probably cancer or something). Just as I was about ready to tell Tami (my wife) to make sure to get remarried after my imminent passing, I figured out what was causing the weird pressing sensation. It wasn't an internal problem afterall. My belly was rubbing against the handle of the stroller as I walked.

I looked down and saw my stomach resting firmly on the handle, bouncing up and down as the stroller moved, and I nearly recoiled in disgust. How had this happened? I've pushed this stroller hundreds of times and my stomach has never rested on the handle before . . . . I closed my eyes, counted to three and opened them again. Dang. Still there, blobbing along on the handle bar, jiggling at me and wiggling like it was some sort of living entity.

I wanted to cry. Now, it's not that I don't like fat people. I do. Honest, I do. I just didn't ever plan on being one. But the facts were indisputable. There it was, my belly, being rubbed raw against the handle of the stroller. Solid proof of one thing: I'm fat.

Well, we walked a little longer and I laughed to myself--at least my sudden obesity explained the heavy breathing I experience during meals as well as the constant sweating and the heart attack symptoms. Then, I realized that the heart attack symptoms could actually be real. Now that I'm fat, that's probably going to be the way of it for me--struck down dead at a young age while trying to carry a bag of Double Cheeseburgers back to my table at McDonald's. Yeah, that's what I want--to go like that.

I can just hear the people at the funeral now:

"He was so young."

"Yes, he was. But he was also sooooooo fat. Just look at him. Look. If you poke him in the stomach, it still jiggles, see? Wow, I mean, come on . . . he's been gone for what, 3 days now? 3 days gone and still jiggling . . . that's fat . . . ."

I snapped out of my thoughts when we reached the library and I laughed. I started to feel better--I couldn't really have become this obese overnight--maybe I was just unusually bloated today. Yeah . . . that had to be it--it had to be a severe case of bloat.

I was telling myself those hopeful lies when I walked past a window. The sun popped out from behind some clouds at that precise moment (thanks, God) and I saw myself displayed in horrendous form--reflected perfectly in the glass. It looked at first like circus glass--you know, fun house mirrors or something--but sadly, no. Real glass. Regular glass.

The vision of my pudginess so surprised (and horrified) me that I stopped the stroller, pulled the handle out from the flab that had wrapped around it as we walked (I think it even made a slurpy, sucking sound like you'd hear when you pull a stick out of mud) and I stood in front of that window and admired (if that's the right word) myself.

I was standing kind of slumped over (I'm supposing this is due to the weight of my gut), my hair was shaggy and wild, and no matter how hard I sucked my gut in, it still looked like I was wearing a life jacket. And then . . . no, can it be? It can't. It can't. It has to be the glass--a trick of the light. I looked again, but there was no denying it.

I had man bosoms.

Yes. Man bosoms.

Do you know how difficult that is to write? Thankfully, nobody reads this blog anyway.

Well, we wandered through the library and when we were done, my wife said, "Shall we go to the bakery?"

The bakery? Is she insane? The last thing I need is deep fried, sugary anything. I need to eat lettuce leaves for 6 months or get lost in a Rain Forest or go on Survivor or something. I don't need donuts or cookies or . . . but oh, they do sound good . . . maybe just a small one . . . maybe just a . . . . NO! Be strong. You need lettuce, fat boy, not sugary, tasty icing on one of those Apple Slice things that are so good . . . . NO! NO! Be strong.

In the end, I was strong. I told my wife "no bakery today," and I steered the strollers toward home. All the way, I thought about my sudden obesity and my man bosoms . . . and baked goods. And I made plans to exercise and treat my body better and to lose weight and look good in a swimsuit and not to have man bosoms or to get the stroller handle stuck in my stomach or to have it make squishy, sucking sounds when I pull it out. I made plans to be a new person. I made plans to get fit and stay fit. I made plans to have abs (or whatever they're called).

Yeah . . . we'll see. This blog's name isn't what it is for no reason.

going to the hardware store

I had a wonderful outing with my sons yesterday. And, of course, by "wonderful" I mean horribly, gut-wrenchingly painful.

See, it all started because Andrew, my 4 year old, has been playing with my old GIJoe figures. Now, these little 3 1/2 inch figures are about 23 or so years old but they're in remarkably good shape. Their only weak spot is the rubberband that holds their torso to the lower parts of their body. Occasionally, as Andrew's flipping them and twisting them and contorting them into all sorts of positions that he describes as "really cool"--occasionally, when he's tormenting them like that, the little rubberband finally gives way and their legs fall off.

Yesterday afternoon that happened to one of his favorite people and I don't think there's ever been, in the history of the wide world, a wailing like that which rose out of our dining room. I walked in there to see what had happened and I was just in time to see Andrew sink to his knees, sobs wracking his body.

Now, because I'm not always the smartest father, I laughed. You see, it was actually kind of funny--the whole scene kind of reminded me of some sad little war movie or something. Andrew was slumped over in the dining room, the little GIJoe legs dangling uselessly from his left hand and the chest, arms and head in his right hand. He pounded the floor in despair and then shook his fists at the ceiling fan, yelling "Why? Why?" (I tell you it was just like a scene out of Saving Private Ryan--except the soldiers were smaller and there was less profanity).

Well, when I laughed, Andrew exploded in fury. He told me it wasn't funny--that Barbecue (the fallen soldier's name) was dead--and that things were never going to be fun in our house ever again. (Wow. Just because he broke a GIJoe. I hope he grows out of that or High School's really going to stink for him).

Anyway, I let him rail and mourn for a few minutes and then I told him that we could fix Barbecue. His eyes brightened as hope dawned in his cold, little gray-tomb heart. I told him to get his shoes and coat on and get in the car. We were going to Zeeland Hardware, just down the road, and we'd find a new rubberband. In 1/2 hour or so, I told him, Barbecue would be as good as new.

Excitedly, he got ready and hopped in the van. And that's when Caleb, my 7 year old son, walked in and asked if he could go with us.

"Sure," I said. (I said "sure" because I'm such a good father. I may laugh when I shouldn't--when their favorite toys lie broken on the kitchen floor--but I'm still that amazing guy who'll load his kids up in the car and take them to the hardware store to go rubberband shopping.)

So we drove to the store and we were laughing and having fun. Andrew was a new kid--knowing that Barbecue would not be dead forever, he was giddy and giggly and a little annoying. Caleb was also happy--actually a little too happy for a trip to the hardware store--but I didn't think about that at the time.

I pulled into a parking spot and shuttled them safely across the street. Together as one, we wandered across the creaking floorboards of the old hardware store until we reached the back of the building where they kept the plumbing supplies. We poked around until we found a bin filled with various rubber gaskets. Holding up the one from the little broken GIJoe, we searched until we found the perfect fit--a 5/8" black gasket for $.49.

I took two of them so we could fix another disabled GIJoe and we paid the guy and made for the front door. And then everything fell apart.

You see, as we were leaving, Caleb spotted walking sticks in a bin at the door. Now, these were carved, varnished walking sticks that looked pretty cool. Of course, they were $25 - $40 and no matter how beautifully they were varnished they were still sticks from a tree that were $25 - $40. And I'm not the kind of guy who's going to pay $25 - $40 for a stick. No matter how beautifully it's varnished.

Well, Caleb sees them and starts drooling.

"Can I have one?" The question is full of hope and excitement. He looks at me with big brown puppy-dog eyes that get larger as he clasps his little hands in front of his chest in a pleading posture.

I looked at the sticks and I looked into his eyes and said "nope. Let's go."

Well, the boy slumped over in the store. When he stands straight up he's maybe 4' or so high. In the hardware store, he was so doubled over, he looked like he was about a foot and a half tall. He dragged his knuckles on the floorboards like a chimpanzee and his whole body shook with with sobs as he staggered out of the store.

All three of us, Andrew, the monkey boy and I, crossed the street and climbed into the van. Between moans and groans and cries of torment, Caleb started trying to make me feel bad. All the way home, he belly-ached.

"It's just not fair!" He wailed. "I'll never get a walking stick! It's all I've ever wanted, my whole life and now, when I get a chance to get one . . . you say no!" (All he's EVER wanted is a walking stick? Well, we'll be saving some big money THIS Christmas. Who needs Wii games when you can get your hands on a varnished hunk of wood?)

When that didn't raise my ire, he switched tactics.

"All you ever want to do is make me sad!" It wasn't an angry accusation--or I would have pulled over and done something to make him a little sadder--it was actually a mournful, despairing cry. It was kind of funny.

That didn't provoke me to action, so he decided to pull out the big guns. As we turned into the driveway, he hollered out his last shots: "You love Andrew best! You always buy him stuff and I don't get nothing--nothing. Andrew gets all the good stuff and I don't get nothing!"

Well, at that point, I thought about pointing out the double-negatives, but that would only produce more yelling. And besides, the whole thing was so ridiculous I couldn't believe he was actually carrying on about it. After all, I had "everything" that Andrew had received in my pocket. I looked at Caleb and figured there must be some strange misunderstanding. "You remember that Andrew got rubber bands, right?"

"Yesss!" He screamed like Gollum after he lost his precious.

"You know that the rubberbands are little, right?" I still believed that there had to be some mix-up.

"Yessssss! Gollum! Gollum!"

"You know what rubberbands are, right?"

"Yessssssssssss!" He collapsed in a heap on the floor.

I pulled one of the rubberbands out of my pocket and tossed it on him. It landed on his head. He didn't even feel it hit.

"There you go . . . now you both have a rubberband."

A thud behind me caused me to turn my head. Andrew was laying on the floor. "That wubberband . . . . It was mine! It was mine . . . it was my . . . my . . . my precious!" Sobs and tears and weird choking, slobbery sounds drowned out the rest of his words.

Aahhh . . . good times, good times.