ashmarlin

Slow on the Uptake.

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 18:16:00 +0000

For those a little slow on the link update thing. . . we've moved.

Ashmarlin has moved

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 15:55:00 +0000

Click here to see the new digs.

The 100

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Thu, 27 May 2010 16:50:00 +0000

This is it. The big one. OK, so it's not really that big of a deal but this does mark my 100th posting. And that feels pretty good. Next week I actually do have something at least a little bit big - I'll be launching a new blog. Stay tuned.

Just a Tiny Patch

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 26 May 2010 20:57:00 +0000

The other day while looking in the rear-view mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs. We’ve had nearly constant rain for the past month but on that day, the stars seemed to align and the sun shone through the clouds in the same split second I checked the mirror. It’s reflection revealing a peppering of grey across my scalp.

Later I mentioned it to Linda and all she said was, “You don’t really have that much. Just that one tiny patch above your left ear and a few random ones everywhere else.”

Today I’m adding to the patch of grey.

Just a Thousand?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Tue, 25 May 2010 21:24:00 +0000

While eating lunch today I noticed the man sitting in the booth across from me. This was in a local hamburger establishment called ‘Burgerville’ whose menu boasts of ingredients produced locally and includes items only available in season. These items tend to rotate on and off the menu about every month or so and are advertised with huge posters that hang in nearly every window. Currently on display is the ‘Grilled Coho Salmon Sandwich’, which includes a description beneath it using words like ‘frisée’ and ‘lemon aioli.’ It’s a description that seems out of place next to red plastic booths and the smell of french fries. I’ve been to several different locations and each has the same veneer of sticky grease coating the tables. Burgerville likes to add to this ambiance by bringing one’s food out to them rather than offering it at the counter. It’s a nice touch that isn’t fooling anyone.

So while I waited for my food I couldn’t help but notice the man across from me. He was mostly bald with what remained cropped short. The blue t-shirt he wore looked like it was pulled that morning from the dirty clothes hamper and advertised what I assumed was his employers construction firm. In his ear he wore a bluetooth headset flashing at the ready and he was slouched so low in the booth his knees touched the bench across from him. When a woman delivered his food I think he slouched an extra half an inch and asked, “Hey you got any thousand?”

Really? So we’re shortening “thousand island dressing now?”

Flip, Flop, Flip, Flop

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 24 May 2010 18:29:00 +0000

We’ve all been frustrated while trying to straighten the bend in a wire coat hangar. I’m not talking about straightening one out to roast marshmallows over a campfire on or to construct a scratching tool for use beneath a cast. I’m referring to the rehabilitation process of making a bent hangar work again as a coat hangar.

The tendency is to take a corner in each hand and attempt to bend the wire back to its original shape. My personal preference is to employ my thigh, while bending the hangar across it. I’ve seen people use the arm of a couch or the edge of a countertop as well. The result is the same, however, with the bend doing nothing more than flipping from one side to the other rather than actually straightening.

I don’t make it a habit of sharing much detail about my coworkers but from time to time I notice something that can’t go without mention. The other day, while speaking with our admin about some travel arrangements, I noticed she picked up a bent coat hangar. Her name is Mychl, which is pronounced the same as the more common spelling - ‘Michelle’, though there’s nothing common about her. Armed with the energy for two and the common sense of three, she’s the office equivalent of a Tasmanian Devil. At least that’s what I imagine pretty much every time I see this woman; mid-fifties, dark curly hair that’s slightly wile, spinning, bouncing, and maybe even foaming at the mouth a bit as she’s constantly solving 17 problems simultaneously.

So Mychl picks up this hangar and begins attempting to straighten it while answering a question about my travel itinerary. She begins by working the hangar across the edge of her desk but it simply flips then flops back and forth with no real result. Frustrated and needing to burn off a bit more energy while stuck solving my simple problem, she places the unresponsive hangar across her chest. I’m guessing in her mind she’s thinking, “I bet I can get more leverage on this little sucker if I can just pin it here between the top of my ribcage and my left boob.” The problem is the hangar is doing it’s best to remain bent. Flip, flop, flip, flop - above the boob, below the boob, above, below.

“Hey Mychl, could I borrow that a minute so I can gouge my eyes out?”

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Outerwear

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Fri, 21 May 2010 20:49:00 +0000

No post today. Out on the golf course testing an update to some of the outerwear I'm working on. See you Monday.

Legal Eagle

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Thu, 20 May 2010 18:11:00 +0000

A couple of days ago an attorney friend of mine asked me for a favor. Between family lawyers and the friend ones, I probably know a couple dozen attorneys and like keeping them on the speed dial. Just last month, for example, when forced to deal with a frustrating insurance issue regarding the family car, I consulted with an attorney brother, an attorney brother-in-law, and two attorney friends. There’s something about a little legal jargon that makes me feel invincible in the midst of conflict. I like to pepper the conversation with big lawyerly terms gathered from my lawyer crowd, hoping to scare my opponent into capitulation. Things get heated, though, and I’m not always sure when to use the right term. When this doesn’t work I blame it on my adversary’s inability to detect nuance and the fact they weren’t born with a brain. Next I resort to less subtle jousts like, “Well, when I spoke with my attorney about this, they recommended such and such.” This tactic generally proves even less fruitful.

So the other day when my friend asked for a favor I quickly said yes. It seems he’d had some legal problems of his own and when the legal jargon tactic followed by statements like, “You realize I am an attorney,” didn’t work he turned to me. And why not? I’m no attorney but then he was way past the legal route and came looking for some more specialized work.

It turns out my friend was heading to small claims court and needed a person not directly involved in the case to serve papers to the defendant.

“Perfect,” I said then added, “You realize I have a bit of experience with this sort of thing, don’t you?” And while I’ve technically served papers before I did spend a year as a private investigator looking into insurance fraud cases. But like I told him - that’s a totally different story for another time.

I caught a lot of people though. Unfortunately yesterday turned out a bust as the defendant didn’t live at the expected address. I’m on the case though and will now turn to my killer private eye skills to track them down.

Jim Gaffigan, Cake, and What?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 19 May 2010 18:31:00 +0000

One of my favorite comedians is Jim Gaffigan though admittedly I’d be hard pressed to name more than five and that includes Gallagher whom I believe is dead and the only thing I know about him is that he made his fortune smashing fruit before huge crowds. This seems completely stupid to me and I’ve always assumed those attending Gallagher’s shows must have been either completely drunk or totally wasted to see the humor in having chunks of watermelon and cantaloupe splattered in their faces. Gaffigan, though, is hilarious and I’d highly recommend seeing him if given the chance.

A couple of years ago we got turned onto Jim Gaffigan one night while flipping through the channels and then saw him live when he came to town. It was Linda, actually, who stumbled upon his stand-up show one evening when I was out with a friend and since then we’re slightly obsessed.

He’s most famous for his bit about ‘Hot Pocket’s’ but for me, whether it’s deodorant, bacon, or white trash; everything he does is hilarious. He also does this one about cake and office birthday parties, which is based on the premise that we all behave like we’ve never seen a cake before the second it shows up at the office. “What’s this?” he’ll say. “Cake? Well, I guess I could try it.” I’m sure if you spent a second on youtube you could find a clip.

This is what I think of every time a cake shows up around here at work. Take last week, for example, this woman I work shows up on her birthday with a large cardboard cake box. It had one of those shiny foil stickers in the corner displaying the name of the bakery on it so I know it’s going to be a good cake too. Not one of those cheap theme cakes with waxy frosting that comes from the grocery store. I asked her why she was bringing a cake on her birthday and she explained, “That’s how we do it now. Everyone brings their own cake for their birthday. It just makes it easier.”

I didn’t see how this was easier or how it made sense but she insisted, then added, “and anyway, this isn’t a cake. I brought a fruit tart instead.”

A fruit tart? Really?

A few minutes later she broadcasted an email to the entire department announcing birthday treats. About a half second later the first guy showed up a bit out of breath from running. He’s about 4’ 10” and works on footwear engineering and grumbled, “Oh, I thought there’d be cake.”

You, me, and Jim Gaffigan too my friend.

The Name of The Wind - For the Record

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Tue, 18 May 2010 16:08:00 +0000

Yesterday afternoon on my way back to the office following lunch I called my brother Trevor to discuss a book I’d recently finished. ‘The Name of The Wind’ by Patrick Rothfuss falls into the fantasy genre, a category I don’t often read. In fact at the time he suggested I read it, I asked if he read sci-fi exclusively or if he dabbled in other genres. Trevor reads more than anyone I know except maybe for my wife Linda and politely suggested, “Well, ‘The Name of The Wind’ is actually considered fantasy. And yes I read other genres.” He went on to tell me he thought the book was as good if not better than ‘The Lord of The Rings’ series. Then changed his mind adding, “yes I actually think it is better than ‘The Lord of The Rings’.”

The book is a massive 722 pages and took me nearly 2 weeks to finish. For me the first half felt slow and didn’t really get moving till somewhere between page 300 and 350. I mentioned this to Trevor adding that the category was largely new to me and admitted I didn’t think I caught all the nuances. I’d give it 4 - 4 1/2 stars because it really did end strongly, while he gave it a solid 5.

Later in the conversation Trevor mentioned he’d read the days posting on my blog and wondered if I actually saw the people I write about. He added that he loved my post but wondered aloud along with Graham how I could possibly notice the sorts of things I write about. My mother has asked the same thing - several times.

So just to clear things up I’ll share with you what I’ve told them. I’m very observant. I never forget a face. Ever. People I see at the mall on the weekend I can remember from the movie theatre from a month ago. Stuff like that. Because of my profession I’ve honed my wicked observation skills and probably notice more than most. The people I blog about are actual people I’ve met or at least seen.

That said, Linda claims I add so much to a story they become unrecognizable then often adds, “Either that or we really see things differently.” I like to imagine it’s the latter.

Blackberry vs. Q-Tips

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 17 May 2010 16:45:00 +0000

A year or so ago I was sitting around chatting with my family. It was a reunion of sorts, though only about half the family was there. The subject of cell phones came up and we compared notes for a minute or two about who used which phone and why. My sister Stephanie mentioned she was in the market for a new phone and had a few questions. Phones came out of pockets and purses and a sort of informal demonstration began. This went on for five minutes or so before Megan our youngest sister said, “Tell everyone why you need a new phone Stephanie.”

The two are practically neighbors, living a couple of blocks apart and from what I gather spend most days together in some fashion or other. Apparently Megan was “in the vicinity” when the phone was lost. “I dropped it in the toilet,” Stephanie said. “OK? And before that I ran it through the washing machine. But that time it dried out and still worked. Unfortunately the toilet wasn’t as forgiving.”

“Was there anything else in the toilet? Graham asked.”

“No. I was just leaning over it to get a Q-Tip and it fell out of my pocket.” I wasn’t sure I believed her and asked if Megan was in the bathroom with her when it happened.

They insisted in unison they weren’t that close.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Fred Meyer picking up a couple of yogurts for lunch and stopped off in the restroom. Theirs is located at the end of a long winding hallway with doors lining both sides marked ‘Employees Only’ in thick black lettering. As I rounded the last corner I nearly bumped into a tall woman dressed in heels and a light grey business suit and skirt. Her hair was pulled back tight and she wore a look on her face that suggested she wasn’t one to be messed with. I quickly stepped aside and noticed the wad of paper towels she was using to dry off her blackberry cell phone.

It seems Stephanie isn’t the only one “reaching for Q-Tips.”

Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Tue, 11 May 2010 15:33:00 +0000

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘Don’t mess with perfection.’ This is a statement not to be confused with it’s close cousin, ‘If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it,’ which is close, but only at first glance. While the second statement refers to an object that works, or at a minimum, services and requires little to no attention the first statement calls one’s attention to something that merits complete and utter focus simply because it can’t be improved upon. They’re opposites, really.

May 11th each year, for me, is perfection.

Happy Birthday Linda!

Planes, Trains, and wait, what?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 10 May 2010 19:36:00 +0000

I’ve been away from my writing for nearly two weeks and haven’t so much as touched a pen or the keyboard the entire time. I guess we all need a break sometimes and it’s taken me these near two weeks to regain my interest in writing. Well, that and a laundry list of distractions I have been forced to work through so I can get back to business here on Ashmarlin.

First I had to plan a trip to Taiwan and Hong Kong, which I was not looking forward to. I tend to travel to Asia a couple of times a year for work and this sort of travel really gets old. The good news is the trip was cancelled, the bad is that it was replaced with a trip to Florida.

I’ve been to Florida on several occasions and have always heard the state laid claim to the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the country. If you’ve even been, you understand the reason for this reputation - I really dislike Florida. And, frankly, would prefer Taiwan and Hong Kong even with the accompanying 25 or so hours of flying and the 4 - 5 days of jet lag recovery.

The swap to Florida was bad news but I guess the upside was that I was supposed to be meeting with Tiger Woods to work through some design stuff. He ended up canceling.

During this on again, off again travel planning I got a call from my daughter Leah. She’s nine and was crying so hard I could hardly tell what she was saying. Between sobs I caught, “Car...sob, sob, sob... acci... sob, sob... dent...,” and then she hung up. It turned out to be minor, “just a fender bender,” agreed the body shop. Then suggested the repairs should only take a couple of days.

This was before the insurance company got involved, though, which turned into a nightmare of it’s own. A nightmare that morphed and grew of it’s own accord for over a week and has required dozens of phone calls, voice messages left, and letter writing. The upside to this little adventure is that after nine years our family car has been replaced with a spanking new one with all the whistles and bells.

To kick off this little personal pain session, though, was a relaxing evening with the family. Leah and Margaret had been begging for weeks to play a game as a family. Following dinner one night Linda and I finally agreed to a round of balderdash. This is the one where one player has the actual definition to some unheard of word in the English language and the remaining players make definitions up before everyone guesses which one is right. We played 5 or 6 rounds before, out of the blue, Leah claimed, “The only thing Dad and I have in common is we both like treats.” While it is true, in fact, Leah and I do both like treats; I like to imagine we have a bit more in common than a taste for sweets.

So for the past 10 days or so while stumbling through my many distractions, all I could think of was what else I shared in common with my daughter Leah.

Should things go from bad to worse

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 16:23:00 +0000

Some members of my extended family have spent years planning for the worst and expecting nothing less that total catastrophe. This weekend while bouncing around the internet I saw this little device and thought I'd offer it up to those family members who are interested.

You'll also note this product is made in the good old U.S. of A. which satisfies another extended family conspiracy theory of doom and destruction.

If you're reading this and asking yourself, "Is he talking about me?" The answer is probably not. You know who you are.

Watch Battery

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 16:41:00 +0000

A week or so ago I found myself in Fred Meyer, a local chain that combines groceries with apparel, yard items, and home repairs. They’re based here in Portland and seem like what Sears Roebuck might have felt like back in the 50’s. I’d heard from a co-worker that this was the place to go when one needed to replace a watch battery, a chore, which at least in our house, goes months and even years neglected. In the past I’ve always gone to one of those sketchy watch repair places located in malls. These are the kinds that line the walls with glass cases containing watches from brands that seem familiar but oddly out of place at the same time. They tend to charge outrageous prices for battery replacement and more often than not the sales person shifts to a full court press if one casts even the slightest glance toward a new watch.

“Oh, you like this new watch, eh?” asks the Middle Eastern associate. “This is good watch, very reputable brand. This is good buy right now. Is waterproof to 3,000 meters.”

“I had no idea Esprît was still around, let alone made men’s dive watches.”

“Oh, yes. This is big brand in Europe still. They are the best.”

“But 3,000 meters?” I ask. “I thought the max for any brand was more like 500 meters.”

“Europe, my friend. This is European watch. You like, I can take 5% off for you my friend. Today only.”

My past experiences more or less which explains why sometime last week Linda handed me 5 watches when I mentioned my news about Fred Meyer’s battery deals.

When I arrived I was directed to the jewelry counter where I spoke with the watch repairman. He was dressed in an antique cardigan sweater and wore thick magnifying lenses over his regular glasses. He was in his late fifties or early sixties if I were to guess and asked in a thick Asian accent, “What you need today?” I explained I was looking to have a few watch batteries replaced and he wondered how many was a few.

“Oh, all five? Yes? How about $40 total, all five?”

It really doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

Bluetooth Devices

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 17:00:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago while picking up a few things at Costco, Linda and I decided to split up. She went one way, I the other, each with a list of items and a plan to meet back toward the front, “Near the checkout line,” she said as she headed into the walk-in cooler for some cucumbers. This was a Saturday and the place was so crammed with shoppers we figured by separating we’d more easily slip in and out of the crowd.

Personally I love Costco but hate a crowd. On Saturdays, when it’s crowded, I’m left angrily navigating around the sample lines mumbling about the foolishness of waiting 20 minutes for a teaspoon sized bite of frozen enchilada but with a grin on my face. “Success is mine,” I thought as I made it around the Aidells sausage sample buffet only to be almost knocked down by a giant blur of blue. In front of me stood a large black woman with an imposing presence and a baby tucked under one arm. She was dressed in an ocean blue frock that wrapped her girth from neck to toe and sported a matching headband. This wasn’t one of those skinny little rubberized headbands my daughters wear, rather it was a wide one and was fashioned from a strip of fabric matching her dress. It wrapped up from her forehead and disappeared into a pile of dreadlocks creating a sort of hair dam.

She was talking loudly when I noticed her, which I first mistook as directed at me. An apology perhaps, or even an angry word or two and it took me a minute to realize she’d hardly noticed me. She was having a conversation all right, but as I listened it became clear her words were not meant for me or the baby beneath her arm. It was at this point I noticed this woman had a cell phone tucked up into her headband, cocked just right so as to enable her to talk and listen at the same time.

In January Oregon passed a law prohibiting cell phone use without a hands free device while driving. I’ve heard bluetooth sales have jumped dramatically here and imagined the conversation my woman in blue might have had upon hearing about the new law. “Nobody’s gonna tell me I need an $80 bluetooth thingie. I got a whole drawer of headbands for that.”

Out of Touch

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 17:32:00 +0000

I'm sorry I've been away. I'm completely swamped trying to make Tiger Woods look good for the Fall season of 2011. I'll be back next week with some good stuff.

I had no idea, really.

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 18:18:00 +0000

It is my habit to tidy a room by moving it’s out of place contents to new, neatly stacked residences strategically placed about the room’s perimeter. A re-shuffling, really, and it’s a skill that takes a certain talent to pull off. To my trained eye, a pair of pajamas, three socks and a sweatshirt I haven’t worn in a week just look better in an organized pile next to the nightstand. “There’s just this little gap between the closet door and my nightstand just begging for some company,” I think to myself. Gently rest these items alongside a half filled glass of water and to me, the collection simply disappears.

If one were to ask me to assign myself to a category - clean or messy, I’d go with the clean one without hesitation. “Look around,” I might add. “I just cleaned this room and it’s spotless.”

My wife Linda, though, would beg to differ. Two weeks ago we returned from spring break where I thought I’d have the chance to get a morning of snowboarding in. I prepared for the trip with goggles, gloves, snow pants and a choice of jackets but when it came to packing it seemed we’d run out of duffle bags so I stuffed my gear in a white plastic Hefty bag. When we returned from vacation I emptied the contents of my suitcase but left the plastic garbage bag in the hallway outside our room. Holes had begun to tear spilling its contents on the floor but I honestly hadn’t noticed. Two weeks ago when I propped the bag in the corner I was careful to nestle it next to a closet door where it sagged, blending perfectly with the door’s casing.

This morning Linda said to me, “When are you going to clean up that bag of ski clothes?” And I looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. “The white garbage bag,” she said. “The one that’s been sitting right outside our bedroom door for the past two weeks?”

I hadn’t noticed. Really.

Am I really that bad?

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 17:40:00 +0000

My oldest daughter Gretchen is becoming increasingly independent and homework is no exception. From time to time she might ask Linda or I to do a once over on a project she’s completed but we both know it’s just a formality. She really doesn’t need our help. Yesterday, though, she did ask for help with a particular word. Surprised she didn’t know the answer I listened to the conversation. “Mom, what’s the definition for Folktale?”

“It’s a story that’s been passed down through a family for many, many years,” Linda responded. And then she added, “Or basically anything Dad puts on his blog.”

Once Perfect

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 17:07:00 +0000

I thought about posting a really great April Fools post. I really did and it would have been great. But I’m tired after spending half the night on the couch. The seasons are changing here and with that come frequent pressure changes - High shifting to low and vice versa. It’s a combination that makes my bones ache, keeping me up nights and hobbling during the day.

Since today is April 1st I thought I’d simply ask for a moment of silence in memory of my once perfect Achilles tendon. Today marks my four-year anniversary since rupturing my right Achilles that, trust me, was no Aprils Fools joke for Linda or me.

It wasn't Meant to Be

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:37:00 +0000

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I’ve been growing it out over the past several months and went in just for a trim. You know, clean it up a bit. A few weeks ago, though, when my hair was looking nicely unkempt and shaggy, I was running an errand after lunch and overheard a couple of guys talking about me outside the Best Buy. “Hey, isn’t that the guy from that movie? You know, the one about the three friends who get into trouble in Vegas.”

It was both exciting and awkward hearing someone talk about me and my hair. The movie they referred to, The Hangover, had just won a Golden Globe award and I assumed they mistook me to be Bradley Cooper. He’s tall and handsome and I slowed my pace to hear more.

It is my habit to shave no more than twice a week, generally on Sunday mornings before church, then again on Wednesday or Thursday depending on my mood. It’s not uncommon for me to shave only once though and this was one of those weeks. My beard fills in fairly quickly and by Friday my stubble tends to look more like a beard.

This was a Friday and my beard and I listened as the second guy added, “Yeah I figured he had that beard just for the movie.”

It seemed I wasn’t being mistaken for Bradley Cooper at all rather for Zach Galifianakis. I haven’t seen the movie but with previews playing round the clock I’ve become familiar with his character. He’s the short chubby one and I felt completely deflated.

It seems my hair isn’t the only thing that needs a trim.

Travolta at the Table

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:29:00 +0000

In Oregon Spring Break arrived the beginning of last week. A few weeks before that Linda mentioned we should plan on taking a trip, “Maybe go and see our families in Utah,” she said. This was in the evening after the kids had gone to bed and while we lounged around I mulled the idea over in my head. And then she added, “Just so you know, there’s no way I’m spending an entire rainy week with the girls home from school and nothing to do.”

We spent Spring Break in Utah with our families.

While we were there at one point the subject of this blog came up and my brother Graham suggested, “You need to post to that thing every day if you ever want to go big.”

“I just don’t always have the time,” I responded. “And besides it’s not always that easy coming up with a subject to write about.”

“I’m just saying,” he said and then the subject took a turn followed by another and the topic of blogs was dropped. The idea, though stuck, and for the rest of the week I mulled it over in my head while spending my evenings observing my brother Graham.

It turns out he’s a gold mine when it comes to blog topics. Just in the short few days we were in town he taught me a hand signal when noticing his two-year old appeared constipated. He thought out loud that he’d like to, “Go for the full fifty next time,” then followed this up with a demonstration on a knife sharpener he’d brought home from work. It wasn’t so much the things he did that I noticed rather the way he does them coupled with his constant commentary.

Take our last night at dinner for example. My sisters, brothers-in-law, mother and Linda and I sat around a crowded table in a busy restaurant. Graham made quick work of his meal then patiently fed our sister Stephanie’s baby pinto beans with a plastic fork. Her name is Reagan and I think she’s nearly two and has chubby hands and a permanent smile on her face. I’ve never seen such a cheerful baby and while Graham stuffed beans into her face she giggled and waved her hands. At one point her hand caught the plate in front of her tipping its contents into Graham’s lap. Unfazed he picked up what he could then stood, baby in hand, and did a little hip thrust projecting the remaining food back onto the plate. “See,” he said, “That move has more than one use,” then walked across the dining room for a refill on his drink.

I wish, for the sake of this blog, I could have a few more weeks with my family.

Timing is Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:05:00 +0000

The other day I was in the men’s room in the building where I work. I’m not going to say where I was specifically or what I may or may not have been doing and will simply leave it at that. I will say, however, there was a man in one of the stalls whose cell phone rang. This caught my attention and I watched through the gap between the floor and partition as he scrambled to find his phone. He had the ringer set quite high and was having trouble retrieving it, you know with his pants around his ankles and all.

None of us can control when a call comes in and while my personal tendency is to keep my phone on vibrate mode each of us has our own personal cell phone preferences. If it were me, however, in this man’s situation I would have found my phone, cancelled the call and when the time was more suited returned the call. This is what I expected Mr. Office Stall to do and was surprised when I heard him say “hello.” He followed this with what I would consider a lengthy conversation under any circumstances. This was one of those two-way conversations that to me as an outsider sounded casual and something that could have easily been postponed. A chat, really and again, as an outsider, there was nothing comfortable about it.

When the call finally did come to an end I was surprised to hear Mr. O. S. say, “Hey could I call you back? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

I wondered what had prevented him from starting things off that way.

Stomach Woes

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 16:12:00 +0000

Several years ago, which the way I keep track of time is probably more like 10 or 12 years, one of my cousins got married. When the reception was announced my brothers, brothers-in-law, compared notes and made plans to attend. I think it was Wade who pointed out, “That place has the best food. It’ll be one not to miss. They have this beef and it is. . .” None of us needed to hear anymore; we were all in.

When the day arrived and we were all sitting around a table with plates piled high before us, a sort of unofficial contest broke out. Maybe my brother-in-law Mark or possibly my brother Trevor asked, “How many of those beef strips do you have on your plate?” He wasn’t asking anyone in particular, rather lobbing the idea out to the collective group. You know, just making sure the bar was clearly set for the evening. The menu included a salad I’m sure along with a nice selection of side dishes but once he’d pointed this out the focus shifted to these one-inch strips of bar-b-qued beef. Each strip was about half an inch thick and eight or so inches long. Game on.

I remember Graham, my youngest brother, being too young to compete in any serious fashion. He was maybe 14 or 15 and fit into the junior lightweight category just behind me. Neither of us made it past the single digit zone. Trevor gave things a good run, landing just north of the teens, but the real heavyweights were our two brothers-in-law Mark and Wade each finishing the evening well into the high teens. Each also complained for several days of “stomach issues” and my sister Jennifer added, “Mark smelled like that stinking beef for nearly a week.”

Last week Graham called me complaining about stomach trouble then relayed the following story. “So we were out with the in-laws and all the cousins and we went to McDonalds for dinner. My father-in-law, Don, and me and my brothers-in-law all ordered the 50 piece Chicken McNuggets meals for everyone to just share.” And here’s where I stopped him.

“Wait a minute, 50 pieces? I had no idea they made those.”

“Oh yeah, they’re awesome. They come with 50 McNuggets and a couple of orders of large frys and a few drinks,” he said.

“And everyone ate McNuggets?” I asked. “Even Devri?” I added, who is Graham’s wife.

“She ate a couple. I think,” he continued. “But that’s not the point. Dude, I ate 32.”

“What?”

“Yeah, 32. That was a day and a half ago though and my stomach isn’t, well, things aren’t really working if you know what I mean. And my stomach is killing me. Does that seem weird?”

It seems the junior lightweight has moved up to the full professional heavyweight class. And, no Graham, that doesn’t seem weird. Weird would be if you didn’t skip a beat after consuming what any normal human being would consider to be a disgustingly impossible amount of McNuggets.

Bleeding Out

noreply@blogger.com (Christian Darby) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 17:26:00 +0000

A couple of days ago Linda cut her thumb while washing a kitchen knife. Having lived through more than my fair share of injuries; my tendency leans to the un-amazed and under whelmed when it comes to this sort of thing, which I pointed out. “Oh, yeah, that looks like it hurts. It doesn’t look that bad, though.” And then I foolishly added, “I’ve seen much worse.” It’s true I have seen worse but saying it might not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Linda has an incredible memory and a knack for tactical recall of said memories. I worry this will go down in the banks alongside the time I suggested, “If you don’t puke, or at least feel like you’re gonna puke, I’m sure you didn’t break your wrist.” This after a biking accident in which she did, in fact, break her wrist.

Half a second later Linda passed out.

Yesterday she asked me to swing by Target on my way home from work and pick up some band-aids. Wanting to make up for past mistakes I happily agreed. She’s been using the kind typically referred to as a “butterfly bandage” and is often used in place of stitches. They’re more secure and saved us a trip to the doctor for real stitches, which in my opinion is always better.

After spending a good ten minutes in the bandages aisle and coming up empty I went for help. The girl I found was young and bubbling with enthusiasm. She had dark hair pulled back into a pair of pigtails and wore a red calf length jacket reserved for employees assigned to the pharmacy department. I explained my interest in butterfly bandages and she led me to the same bandage aisle I’d already visited. “I know exactly what you’re looking for and we have them,” she said. “You’re talking about those kind people put on elbows and knuckles, right?”

Following a detailed description using words like “small” and “not for elbows and knuckles” I could see my happy little helper was still not getting it so I added, “The bandages I’m looking for are typically used in place of stitches,” and yet, still nothing. She suggested I try a nearby pharmacy and began giving me directions at which point I interrupted.

“How far away did you say this place is? Because I have someone at home who is bleeding out. I’m not sure I have 5 minutes.”

“Uh, well I think there’s a Rite-Aid a little closer but I’m not sure.”

Just for theatrics I turned and sprinted toward the door.