Successfully Avoiding Anything Planned
The Infant Boarding Pass Incident
Air travel.
The words alone are enough to send most of us running to the medicine cabinet for antacids. Endless lines in tight turn styles, hasty cancellations and delays, bathrooms so small they’d make a hobbit blush —and that was before the pandemic. Masking mandates and a year plus of rebooked trip backlog have fanned the flames on an already ferocious frenzy.
Too many f-words? Tell that to the woman in front of us. She’s letting expletives fly like a four-letter word thesaurus with a luggage cart. Our goal to check-in quickly at a kiosk thwarted, we end up in line behind someone trying to check, count them, six large suitcases plus a (gorgeous, mind you) Louis Vuitton duffle.
We learned the hard way you can’t check-in at kiosk with an infant unless you have your passport or government issued ID or probably a DNA sample. You have to line-up behind someone who is clearly not just traveling, but moving. A person relocating her existence upset for mistaking Delta for UHaul.
The poor agent behind the counter. I’m not Catholic but start praying Hail Mary’s and visualizing still waters. She receives an earful. And a face full. And many-an-arm gesture. She keeps calmly trying to explain the luggage far exceeds the allotted weight, and that if the woman wants to check bags, she’ll have to consolidate.
It’s to no avail.
The woman’s arms are now flailing like she’s conducting a heavy metal symphony; Louis Vuitton clinging for dear life.
Meanwhile, we have an antsy toddler and bewildered newborn staring at the flags on the ceiling like she’s wondering how her crib mobile became so massive. The clock is ticking, our flight is boarding, and the last thing we want to do is spend the day convincing our kids the airport is Disney Land.
We’re in that less than an hour before take off zone, that free for all where somehow airlines have the right to say ah-ah- ah not so fast, Rick Steves, you’re too late. An airline saying you should of been more prompt is kind of like a serial killer saying you shouldn’t jaywalk. While it may be true, the source makes for weak argument.
My wife and I look at each other, and through face masked mind code say, “we’re doomed.”
Suddenly, we hear a sweet voice from above. Well, from the left, but it sounds so angelic it may as well be from heaven.
“Is anyone here on the flight to Detroit?”
Yes, sweet spirit, yes we are. And all we want is to give this first-time flyer her wings. Can I get an Amen?
An Amen we do receiveth. With the determination and dexterity of salmon swimming up river to spawn, this gentleman takes my driver’s license, nearly hurdles over luggage cart woman, and triumphantly returns with the golden ticket. I’ve never wanted to kiss a mask more. I abstain, Covid and all.
We make it through security and on our plane just in time. The flight takes off moments later. We exhale for the first time in an hour.
Travel angels. They exist. Look for them as you roam planet earth and/or Michigan.
They take many different forms, but their mission is the same: to ease your way, weary traveler, and to inspire you to look for opportunities to return the favor to someone in need.
How much better the airport, and the world for that matter would be, if we all tuned in to helping each other ease the way.
Go forth in confidence, quench that wonder lust, take all precautions, and for the love of all things good, leave the sixth suitcase behind.
Three Men and their Babies Podcast
Three friends: a firefighter, a lawyer, and a chaplain (a what?!) get together to talk about their kids, the highs, the lows, and the laughs along the way.
Welcome to the Three Men and their Babies Show!
I’ve been enjoying these short chats with friends James Duggins and Marcus Landsburg about the joys and challenges of parenting.
We just posted episode 18 of Season 1.
We invite you to listen, and if you have any topics you’d like us to tackle with cunning non expertise, please let us know:
Why I Still Hate The K-i-s-s-i-n-g Song
We’ve all heard the song. For many, it’s the soundtrack of our nightmares.
(name) and (name) sitting in the tree
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes baby in the baby carriage.
We hear the words in a high-pitched taunting tone. We see fingers pointing. We hear the laughter. We feel our face blush. The tune has power to snap our consciousness back to playgrounds of our youth where even the slightest hint of affection—a smile or exchange of a pudding cup for Fruit Roll-Up—incited a subpoena by peers to go kiss in a tree. Then, you were to fall in love, marry, and bear children; all presumably before middle school.
Not even Hester Prynne lived under such austere Puritan rule.
The unabridged lyrics are even more disturbing. They involve sucking thumbs, wetting pants, and doing a hula-hula dance; the latter with a sardonic circular hip motion that would sicken Hawaii purists.
I hate The Kissing Song. I always have and always will.
I don’t know who wrote it. Perhaps a buzzed-cut striped shirt kid named Titus, who after years of bullying, grew-up alone eking a living selling vacuums door to door. Whoever it was, they’re a dirty liar. A liar-liar pants on fire.
First of all, Titus, kissing in trees is dangerous. Even the strongest branches can weaken under make-out conditions and some of us, mind you, have no business being one-step closer to the sun. As a teen, I once ignored an acne prescription label warning against prolonged sun exposure, and after 8-hours at the beach, ended up in the ER with voracious swelling of the face.
So I’ll leave elevated necking to geckos.
Second, and most importantly, love does not come first. You missed a crucial step in the love-marriage-carriage continuum: that of excruciating heartbreak.
I’ve never met anyone who shares their life with the very first person they were interested in. If so, I’d have proposed to my first crush Alyssa Milano, because after all, she would’ve only needed to change the first letter of her last name.
Even my grandparents, who celebrated 70-years of marriage last August, had relationships prior to meeting that didn’t work out.
And thank God it didn’t!
Heartbreak has to be part of the equation, otherwise, how do you know when you’ve found the real deal?
But, Anthony, you found love. You’re married, have a baby and an overpriced all-terrain stroller with cup holders. What are you even talking about, silly goose?
Ah, yes. The Facebook post lives we live where it all looks so seamless and heart-eyed emojied. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely grateful. I love my wife more than the day we married, and when I come home and my daughter blows a kiss and says, “Da-da,” my heart melts a million times over.
But one thing I refuse to forget is this: the only reason I met my wife in the first-place is because of an ex-girlfriend.
Let me explain.
Soon after college, I began dating a girl in Chicago. She was fun to be with, had a sweet job, was strong in her faith and convictions, and for two years we were inseparable. We explored the city, traveled together, spent time with each other’s families, and were seriously talking marriage. The first year was awesome; the second year we started growing apart; the third, it tanked. My hopes of getting back together were dashed when she moved away.
Enter the pain of heartbreak.
It was depressing, frustrating, lonely and it didn’t help that most of my friends were married and having children.
Most, but not all.
Almost a year passes and I start spending more time with mutual friends I met through my ex-girlfriend. One night, I’m invited by a friend who used to work with her to a birthday dinner. Seated at the other end of the table is a beautiful brunette. She asked me if I liked my enchiladas, and I asked her to marry me….two years later.
I wouldn’t have been at the restaurant had it not been for my previous relationship. Not only would I not have been physically present, but emotionally ready to meet the woman who would become my wife. As difficult as it was, that break-up helped me become a better version of myself and refined what I needed in a partner.
I keep that night close. It helps me not take what I have now for granted, to remember in a city of millions our two paths collided.
First comes heartbreak, then comes love. There’s no way around it, no matter how many rhymes or songs try to simplify it.
Whether you’re celebrating Valentines, hating this week for all it stands for, or somewhere in between: have hope.
And whatever you do, don’t kiss anyone in a tree.
Escaping California’s Wildfires with a Pregnant Wife and an Empty Tank of Gas
Prologue
A few months ago I bought one of those cheesy writing prompt journals at Barnes and Noble called, you’ll never guess, 300 Writing Prompts. It’s filled with questions ranging from the mundane to the profound, and some that are so dumb they make me angry like “Do you like or have facial hair?”
As I read back through the journal recently one question, however, proved eerily prophetic:
Question: If your home was on fire, what would you grab before escaping?
My Answer: As I sit here packing our things to move into a new apartment I find myself not giving a rip about any of this stuff. If our place was on fire, I’d make sure my wife Christi was ok then grab some sticks and marshmallows and make S’mores over the open flame of junk.
You know that saying, “Be careful what you joke about —it may come true?” Let’s just say I may never joke about fire again.
Monday, October 9th. 3:30 am.
I wake up with the strangest feeling. Like something is wrong. I can’t shake it. I lie in bed, can’t fall back asleep. I have a feeling inside like the scene in a suspense thriller where you know you’re about to jump out of your seat. But the feeling never finds release.
I get up, look out the window, see nothing out of the ordinary. Our back porch, trees. Normal, but not. I lie back down. Suddenly, the fan on our dresser stops. The power flashes off and on. I hear a rustling noise outside. I get up, walk into the living room and open the front door.
Smoke.
Someone outside yells “fire!” People are running toward their cars, toward the street, away. I wake Christi up, “There’s a fire, we gotta get out of here.”
Adrenaline. Mind racing.
If your home was on fire — or perhaps your entire neighborhood — what would you grab before escaping?
I can’t find my glasses, with hands shaking put contacts in each eye fast. Throw on pants and shirt. Grab whatever I can get in one hand from my bathroom cabinet; throw random clothes in a bag. Christi grabs our folder with passports and birth certificates. My camera and computer in a grocery bag and we’re out of the door.
The dog!
Right, she’s at a kennel just outside of town. We were away for the weekend, supposed to pick her up tomorrow morning. She’s ok, we hope.
We get out to the parking lot and from behind our apartment, we see black smoke billowing, the ominous glow of red flames rising.
Too close.
Christi, 5-months pregnant with our first child, wraps her face with a shirt to breathe. We knock on doors, yell “Fire!” No answers. We get to our car and look at the road in front: total traffic gridlock. We pull out to exit the back way, see flames.
Some decisions in life you agonize over, some are easy: don’t go that way.
We join the line of cars inching away, our heads turning back and forth. How soon will we have to ditch the car and run? Cars slowly moving, air getting better, then worse, then better, then worse. That’s when I notice: we have about a 10th of a tank of gas.
Expletives like an inferno.
It’s amazing how quickly your brain does math in a crisis. I instantly crunched an important number: the cost of the car we just paid off and how certain I was we were going to have to leave it behind.
Cars moving too slowly. How is this happening, move! My eyes shift from the road, to smoke, to gas gauge, to road. I can’t speak. Christi praying.
There’s an unusual calm over all the cars. We’re in shock, disbelief. Moments ago we were in bed with a case of the Mondays, now normalcy a dream. The woman in the car next to us is talking to herself. Next to her is a car packed to capacity with random household goods and a person in the back seat holding a television. A kid on a bike rolls up and blocks traffic so his friend driving a car can swerve into the open lane.
Mental note: make more friends with dudes on bikes.
An hour and a half in traffic. The whole neighborhood trying to get out. Every street full of cars funneling in the same direction: away. Over 90-minutes to get down a street that takes 20 to walk. We’ve gone less than a mile. It feels like that dream we’ve all had where we’re trying to run away but our legs are too heavy to move. How soon will black smoke be joined by red flame?
God, please protect our child.
Windows up, AC off to conserve gas.
How soon do we run?
We idle and inch toward the intersection. Three choices: turn right, presumably in the direction of flames (no thanks), turn left into more gridlock, or go straight into dark country roads.
We go dark and gun it.
Air fresher, eyes stinging less. We’re away, windows down, we can breathe. And perhaps most urgently…we can pee.
I’d like to pause and formally apologize to the owner of the vineyard in which we relieved ourselves. In normal circumstances, I would never think of christening your fields of grapes with the fruit of the vine. But, fire.
5 am.
We need gas or sayonara Subaru. No phone service. Emergency calls only. Internet touch and go. We’re able to pull up a map for a hot minute and figure out how to get to the nearest station. Christi scribbles the directions on a receipt. We turn around a few times to avoid traffic. Miss a turn, go back. We make it. It doesn’t open until 7 am and the line is already down the block.
There’s another station up the road. How close is the fire? We have no idea.
Do we chance it or sit for 2 hours? We go for it, I can’t idle anymore, I need motion. I’ve never been so happy to see a sign that says, “Rotten Robbie.” The line is down the block, slowly moving. And so we sit. Windows up to keep the smoke smell at bay. So much for motion. After 45-minutes we finally pull into Sir Rotten’s gas euphoria.
I’m not quick to define things as miracles. I think the word is overused and often abused. Life itself is a miracle, but one could argue a gas light coming on the very moment your car pulls into the station after dodging a fire for 2 hours despite your tank being WAY low…is something of divine octane intervention.
Remind me to write Subaru a thank you letter. Also, remind me to always FILL UP MY TANK WITH GAS.
We inch toward the pump, fill up, and park to get our bearings. Rotten Robbie’s humble convenience store is in full-apocalypse mode. Packed with people stocking up on water, bread, and pizza flavored Combos talking a mile a minute to anyone who’ll listen.
The shock wearing off, reality setting in.
A woman tells me she thinks her home is gone. Two friends cry and hold each other. A husband and wife wearing jackets over pajamas stare into space. A man waving his phone desperately trying to get service. A woman bangs on the door and tells me to hurry up in the bathroom.
Where’s a vineyard when you need it?
7 am.
Radio on.
Multiple fires everywhere. Zero containment. Unprecedented damage. The worst fire in California history. Highway 101 a parking lot.
Radio off.
Get to the city. The long way, anyway but the 101. Text my brother. Message fails. Text again and again and again and…watch the road!
Expletives.
8 am.
Slowly make our way down Highway 1. I normally love this drive, not today. No Vacancy signs flash, beach parks overflow. People finding respite where they can. Dazed looks, families huddled together. Do they have a home to go back to? Do we have a home to go back to? Nobody knows. There is no rich or poor, we’re a new class, the displaced and unraveled. The air has an odd off-brown hue, making everything look like a sepia filter.
Is that another fire?!
No, It’s just the sun’s reflection on the horizon. Sirens in the distance — or is it in our heads?
9 am.
Sparse internet, erratic phone service. Text to brother goes through. We’re coming to our niece’s birthday party in San Francisco two weeks early. Make a Facebook post so our families don’t freak when CNN falsely reports all of our deaths for high ratings.
WE HAD TO EVACUATE SANTA ROSA DUE TO NORTHBAY FIRES. CHRISTI AND I ARE SAFE.
11 am.
Have we really been in the car for over 7-hours? We stop at Shoreline Marketplace just outside of the city. I’ve never been happier to see overpriced organic produce in my entire life.
Wifi, phone service full-bars. Calls to family, yes, we’re ok. Phone friends, are you ok? Yes, thank God. Whose house is gone?!
Everyone in the store is talking at once. Stats are flying like Cirque du Soleil on crack. How many houses? 3000. That can’t be right, the numbers too high. 3000 homes and over 40 dead. But, we were just there, this morning, hours ago, moments ago. How is that possible? That can’t be true. Coffey Park? That’s right by our apartment. We just took our dog there last week. We walked, only a few minutes. All those homes? Those beautiful homes with the park in the middle? It can’t be right. Is it all gone? No. Yes. No way. I’m afraid so.
Denial, disbelief, anger. The stages of grief, not nice and neat, flash-flood simultaneously like a storm.
Noon.
Golden Gate Bridge. Towering pillars across kingdom threshold. Open arms, welcome pilgrim. I’d kiss you Italian style if you had cheeks.
12:45pm
Arrive at my brother Mario’s. It took us over 8-hours to drive what normally takes 70-minutes. Our little niece is surprised to see her Tio and Tia. We hug, we commiserate, we laugh to fill the silence. We might be staying with you guys for a while. Like, a long while. Do you have any clothes I can borrow…and perhaps an entire meal of food?
Anything except pizza flavored Combos will do.
We crash on an air mattress and hope to God it was all a weird dream.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017. Operation DEZ.
After reliving our experience several times on the phone to concerned friends and family and going back and forth on what to do next, we decide if we can’t have a home we need to at least have our dog. We find out the kennel where she’s staying is ok and none of the dogs were hurt.
We set out to get Dez, our 10-pound Chihuahua terrier, and to see if our place is still standing. We do our best to prepare ourselves for the worst. We find little comfort in telling ourselves it’s just a rental, an apartment we’ve only lived in for a few months. Sure, many of our possessions are replaceable, but so much isn’t. Family pictures, home movies, letters from my dad who passed away. Treasures you assume you’ll have in a box forever. Keepsakes the best fire insurance policy can’t bring back.
Someone tells us the Walgreens across the street from us burned down and now there’s little doubt our place is no longer. If the neighborhood to the north and businesses just south are gone, what’s in between has little hope.
Arriving at the kennel we’ve never been happier to see Dez’s sweet little face. We adopted her weeks earlier at the Bay Area Pet Fair and she instantly became the queen of the castle. Our hearts tore when we dropped her off and she watched us leave through the fence. Thankfully, all is forgiven and she’s excited to be back with her pack, oblivious to yesterday’s tragic events.
“Well Dez, let’s go see if we still have a home.”
We drive slowly into a smoke-hazed Santa Rosa. Few cars are on the road. First-responders and face-masked citizens walk the street. Young men and women in National Guard uniforms pace intersections.
It feels like driving into a city after war.
Traffic lights are down, power is out. We creep slowly toward our street. Everything familiar, but different. Changed. A light mist of ash covers our car. Then we turn and see it.
Walgreens. It’s still there.
Last week, waiting for a prescription, I couldn’t escape it soon enough. Now I could run down its aisles yelling “Merry Christmas” like Jimmy Stewart.
Another tough lesson learned: don’t believe everything you hear in a crisis.
We exhale a sigh of relief, like breathing again for the first time, as we look across the street. We see a line of apartment buildings, one of which is ours, standing proud but looking like it had too much to drink the night before. We’ll take a hung-over home over a demolished one any day.
How close our place was to the Tubbs Fire
Aftermath
Writing prompt #183: What is a sure-fire way to distract you from the task at hand?
Fire. Fire is a sure-fire way to distract me from anything…hence the word fire in sure-fire. I can’t think of a single task more important than avoiding fire. Unless you’re a firefighter. Then you better not be distracted by fire otherwise we’re all in trouble.
We gather a few things from our apartment and return to San Francisco for two more weeks. As the raging fires are slowly contained we hear story after story. Some heroic —firefighters working hours on end despite losing their own homes — some horrific: people posing as first-responders, telling the vulnerable to evacuate, and robbing them blind.
We decide it’s best for Christi and our baby-to-be to spend another week in Michigan with her family while the air clears. Dez and I return to the apartment. Smoke slowly lingers like fog, outside smells like a campfire. I stand spaced out in our kitchen, sipping coffee and staring at the floor. Exhausted mentally, physically, spiritually. One question repeats in my mind like a broken record: How many people would love to be having a boring morning in their own kitchen right now?
Later that day I’m told by a neighbor that if it weren’t for the large open field in back of our apartment, a nature reserve where firefighters were able to contain the rising flames, our place would have been leveled. I feel survivor’s guilt — a strange mix of sadness, gratitude, empathy, anger, and a loss for what to do next.
God bless this field
Mr. Rogers famously said, “When I was a boy and would see scary things in the news my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You’ll always find people who are helping.'”
I used to think that was just a nice corny sentiment until I experienced it first hand. Our old friend in the cardigan sweater knew what he was talking about.
I read recently that after the Great Chicago Fire —which took place on October 8-10, 1871, almost exactly 146 years earlier than the Tubbs Fire in Santa Rosa — the ash and debris from the demolished city was pushed toward Lake Michigan and became the foundation for what is now Grant Park. They took a horrendous situation, and from the devastation, made something beautiful.
That’s our job now. With every act of kindness, we push slowly the ashes of what we’ve been through toward creating something that fire can never destroy.
For pictures of the incredible efforts by first-responders to contain the fire visit https://weather.com/photos/news/napa-valley-tubbs-fire-photos
Christmasy
Thank you for subscribing to my blog.
May you and your families have a blessed holiday season and happy new year!
Much love,
A
Drive-By Blessing
This month I launched a new web series called Drive-By Blessing. It’s something I’ve wanted to do, like, forever, that I finally managed to pull-together.
“Drive-By Blessing” is what I used to jokingly say at the hospital in Hawaii where I worked when I’d walk passed co-workers. I’d pretend to bless them on the go, miming the ti leave waving motions associated with a traditional Hawaiian blessing. Chaplain humor.
Here is Episode 4.
Be Blessed.
39 to 40: Getting the Band Back Together
For an indication of an early midlife crisis one needs to look no further than the band reunion.
In 1997, 9 out of every 10 people you met on the street played in a Ska band. Threefold Cord were 9 of those people. Having all met while attending North Park University in Chicago, we quickly set out to break the record for the number of band members you can fit in a Nissan Sentra (7, don’t tell the cops).
Recording an EP and two albums in six years, our mission was simple: to share the love of God and make as many uncoordinated people as possible dance throughout the U.S. and Canadian side of Niagara Falls.
Often spelled horribly wrong on show flyers, the name Threefold Cord comes from the verse Ecclesiastes 4:12:
Although one may be overpowered, two can withstand one; a cord of three strands is not quickly broken
Professional definers define Ska as:
I would have just said it goes chucka-chucka-chucka real fast with horns.
Now let’s be clear, we were neither Jamaican, Caribbean, Calypso or had much in the way of rhythm or blues. When you picture any of these genres, you see cool people with beautiful dark skin playing music in colorful shirts on a beach or cruise ship. We were a bunch of pasty white guys practicing in a frigid multi-purpose room on a northside Chicago campus.
Probably not what our Jamaican forefathers had in mind
Imagine a long game of telephone where the message becomes distorted and much different than the original. We were the distortion. We began as third wave ska and evolved into what one friend and wanna-be music critic called “post-ska.” Whatever dude.
Threefold Cord had a full horn section with trumpet, tenor sax, and trombone; a rhythm section with bass, guitar, and drums; and two random dancers. Yes, two guys not physically graceful by any means whose sole job was to dance. And dance they did. Inspired by the Mighty Mighty Bosstone’s dancer and backup vocalist Ben Carr, we wanted to up the ante with Lead Dancer and Rhythm Movement.
We played a lot of gigs in a lot of church basements, clubs, coffee shops, and lawns over our six-year existence. We wrote several songs (some of which you can download by clicking here), played at CHIC (Not to be confused with a baby bird convention or a gathering of Chick-Fillet enthusiasts, CHIC is the triennial youth conference for the Evangelical Covenant Church), and somehow convinced North Park to sponsor a nationwide summer tour for the first and last time.
We played 35 shows across the country in two months ensuring we’d have tinnitus for the rest of our natural lives.
About every few years after our final show we’d start a conversation that ended with “Hey, we should get back together and stuff and write some stuff someday.” But something happens when you approach 40 that makes you realize your somedays and stuff are limited.
We’re Getting the Band Back Together!
In early 2016 we started talking again about a band reunion and this time it actually happened. Spearheaded by random dancer turned lead guitar player-songwriter-sound engineer-pastor, Matt King, we exchanged several text messages, and if you can believe it, a few phone calls. We started dusting off our songs, and before we knew it, we had two shows lined up. It helps when two of the band members become pastors and can book you at their church. We descended upon western Iowa from all corners of the states, and after an obligatory chest bump or two, we got right to work. The shows were fun and full of the same uncoordinated arm flail dance moves we were accustomed to seeing in the past.
We played two shows and even got invited to play a short set at a neighborhood BBQ with a few other local bands.
One of the best parts about the reunion was for the fathers in the band to have the opportunity to share this important part of their lives with their kids. With nine guys now all married, there are a lot of mini band member lookalikes running around. After the shows, a few of them even started talking about starting a band of their own. We’ve officially passed the madness down to the next generation. (Sorry next generation.)
Despite living in five different states, we continue to write and record music together long distance. The reunion inspired us to keep the creativity we love flowing. Here’s one of our new songs called Potato Gun, a song that has a story of its own….but we’ll save that for another time.
See you in the next conga line,
Anthony
39 to 40 (Day 2): Hot Cakes and Vintage Sinks
Hot Cakes
You know that part in Back to the Future when Marty speeds through the mall parking lot away from the Plutonium villains and cracks into 1955 almost hitting a scarecrow and driving into a barn?
Of course you do.
Sometimes life feels that way doesn’t it? Like you’re in 1985 one second then the next you’re being interrogated by a confused farmer and his family.
We’ve all been there.
39 to 40 (Day 1): One Doughnut at a Time
Today I woke up and my wife Christi said “Happy Birthday! You’re 39!”
The first part I was excited about. Birthdays still remind me of cake and the roller rink and awkwardly singing the birthday song in staff meetings to people I don’t know.
The second part though, the 39 bit, whoa. Hold on, is that even possible? 39, that’s a year away from 40. I don’t care how many times you say 40 is the new 21 and cackle and high-five your friends and lift a drink to the sky, 40 is officially old. I’m no longer a Spring Chicken. I’m a Late Summer/Early Fall Chicken with only one place left to go: Winter Chicken.
I know I’m getting older because I have a daily regiment that includes trimming nose hairs taking a thyroid pill and spraying my feet. If I stop any of these things even for one day I will die. Fine I won’t die but I’ll have a hard time breathing through my nose, staying awake, and walking due to my sweaty dogs. Oh, that’s gross? You know what else is gross? Not being able to stop the hands of time! I’m 364 days away from 40!
You know what else is crazy? I woke up this morning for the first time as a resident of Portland, Oregon. 24 hours ago we lived in Honolulu. Oh you think I’m making this up? Just look at me 24 hours ago:
And look at me now:
Freezing with a creepy look on my face in a picture I’m kind of ashamed I even shared with you.
(That top picture is actually 6 months ago, you probably figured that it wasn’t really 24 hours ago, but I’m almost 40 so I don’t have time for ambiguity. Plus the beard.)
We looked at apartments today with these strange things in them:
On the reals, (an expression almost 40-year olds use to sound younger) we’re SO excited to be here. Living in Hawaii was amazing and we’re grateful for the opportunity to continue our careers, passions, and hopefully start a family in Portland. Christi is continuing her nursing career and I’m taking a sabbatical, a fancy word for “help I need a job.”
Can’t wait to explore the city, get together with friends, and see how this adventure unfolds.
I thank God for our time in Hawaii and want to learn how to walk in faith in greater ways. In other words, try not to freak out when I don’t have all the answers to what neighborhood we’re going to live in or what I’m going to do just yet.
Until then I plan on walking over a lot of bridges and eating plenty of doughnuts.
Today’s life lessons:
- Don’t get lazy and copy and paste the same text to multiple people even if it’s your birthday. Today I called my mom Camille.
- One doughnut per sitting is enough. You’ll try them all in good time.
- If you have a maple bacon doughnut for lunch, plan on walking over a lengthly bridge to ensure your heart will continue to beat for years to come.
Cheers,
A
“God Wants Me to Break-Up With You,” Claims Girlfriend
Found spacing out while slowly shuffling Uno cards at Holy Grounds coffee shop yesterday, a beffuddled Jason Wellington recalled the events surrounding the recent break-up with Alissa Jones, his girlfriend of nearly 8 months.
“She basically said God told her to do it. In fact that’s exactly what she said. That God told her to break up with me,” said Wellington pointing a blue Draw Two card toward the sky. “I was perplexed because she always told me she was thankful God brought us together.”
Jason and Alissa met as counselors last summer at Camp Lakes of the Cove Ranch, beginning their courtship known as Fandango and Stargaze or “Fan-Gaze” by other staff.
“Fan-Gaze were like two arrows on the same archery bullseye,” said camp director Chuck “Big Kahuna” McKinsey. “Rarely did you see one without the other.”
“She changed her profile pic to the Fandango paper bag girl…I mean that’s how serious we were,” said Wellington.
“Well, it leaves little room for rebuttal doesn’t it?” said chiropractor and relationship specialist Barbara Leeman. “When one claims God is leading them in another direction you don’t want to be responsible for getting in the way. The truth is God does call some of us to be single. Myself, The Apostle Paul, Jesus. We can’t all be King Solomon.”
“The sad thing is her profile picture is now a plate of cookies..so I know what that means.” said Wellington, flinging the rest of the bright colored cards toward the game basket. “I saw the way Snickerdoodle looked at her across the camp fire. I guess when she said ‘leading me in another direction’ she meant towards him.”
At the time of printing Doodle-Gaze was unavailable for comment.