*

I love these shoes. I bought them on sale two years ago at Payless, probably as part of a BOGO (buy one, get one half off). They’re kind of dressy, but they’re not dress shoes; I can slip into them without sitting or bending, but they’re not slippers; and they’re comfortable enough to wear all day, but they’re not hideous looking like my beloved Crocs.

If I could snap my fingers to call forth all my adult-life shoes in a pile here in front of me, I could put them in order from best to worst. This pair would be in the top ten, maybe top five.

I’ve noticed some recent wear though: little white threads poking from the seams, a few more creases on top, worn down tread on the bottom. I found myself wondering how much life is left in them and how I’ll eventually set them free; will I toss them in the trash or drop them off to be re-sold in a Goodwill store?

Last week on a rainy morning as I walked from the car to the bookstore, I felt water on the bottom of my left foot. Sure, the parking lot was wet, but it wasn’t like I was skipping through deep puddles. Immediately I stopped and inspected the area between the upper and lower expecting to see a flaw. It looked fine, but my sock was definitely wet. I thought of a painless cut, leaking blood: wet from the inside out.

Later I was sipping coffee and writing, enjoying a productive stretch without distracting thoughts. But then I remembered the earlier shoe problem, so I put my pen down and looked at the bottom of the shoe. And there it was–plain to see with the shoe bent, not so apparent flat–a crack in the rubber under my forefoot, all the way across. Ah, man!

In that second I felt the death of a favorite possession, grieving. And the end of writing.

Well, there’s no use to trim those little white threads now. They’re finished. I can’t overlook this crack.

My brain automatically calculates if a purchase was a success or a failure. If an item is a bargain, gets much use, and is able to be recycled, that a clear-cut victory. If I over-pay for something, ignore it, and then toss it, well, that’s a bad purchase.

As I sat there, I thought of other good purchases: a ’98 Honda Accord, a sherpa-lined gray hooded sweatshirt, a pair of Wal-mart jeans.

I thought of other “winning” footwear, like my current Saucony running shoes and a pair of brown Skecher boots from the late 90s.

Then: Are they too far gone now for Goodwill? I don’t want to just toss them.

I imagined a man pulling my old shoes from the shelf, sticking his feet in them, thinking: well, they’re a little worn, but I can trim these white threads. They’re worth three bucks for sure. Of course, without me there to warn him, he would overlook the crack.

And then one day, in the rain, this guy might walk outside and feel that cold shock.

What the?

He would inspect the shoe like I did, finally noticing the flaw. Ah, man!

What if he’s elderly? What if that cold wetness startles him? What if he’s crossing a busy street and it causes him to stumble? What if, God forbid, he falls into the path of a speeding car? Holy shit!

If he survives the wet sock incident, I can see him sitting at home, looking at that crack, wondering: should I throw these away or would someone else be able to use them? Heck, I could still wear them, just not when it’s wet out.

I was staring at my shoes when I looked up and saw that the barista was looking at me. Why is that guy staring at his feet? He looked away. I looked away.

And then I left.

Wearing a purple shirt and tie, Tim Tebow stepped up to the podium and addressed the media.

“Before I talk about anything else, first I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and my teammates for working so hard, not only tonight, but the entire season.” Tebow said.

Tebow went on to answer several questions: about the lopsided loss, about all the attention he’s received, and about playing against Tom Brady.

Then it got a little weird when he was asked about his off-season plans.

“I’m going to work hard to improve all facets of my game,” Tebow said. “And I’m going to strangle as many small animals as possible, mostly kittens.”

As the stunned media wondered what to make of this new development, Tebow continued.

“Last year since we didn’t make the playoffs, I got an earlier start and probably strangled 21 or 22 small animals, including two parakeets and a cockatiel.”

Tebow was asked how he justifies this practice, given his strong religious devotion and vows to make the world a better place.

“Uh, before I answer that I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for giving me so many opportunities last off-season to strangle so many small animals, including a couple of nasty ferrets and a disabled boy’s pet hamster.”

The mood in the room darkened and a couple of reporters stormed out in disgust.

“What kind of man are you?” A man shouted.

“Before I answer that question I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for giving me the drive and motivation to strangle a bunch more small animals this off-season,” Tebow continued. “I’ll probably get things started tomorrow after church by strangling my neighbor’s brown tabby, Lucy. Then I’m going to watch some football.”

That’s weird. I typed that first sentence and Happy Gilmore popped into my head. This part:

Shooter McGavin: You’re in big trouble though, pal. I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast! 
Happy Gilmore: [laughing] You eat pieces of shit for breakfast? 
Shooter McGavin: [long pause] No! 

Oh man, now I just felt this little pull in my insides (right near my spleen) begging me to revisit this movie soon. Here is my absolute favorite part, right here:

Grandma: Sir, can I trouble you for a glass of warm milk? It helps me go to sleep. 
Nursing Home Orderly: You can trouble me for a warm glass of shut-the-hell-up! Now, you will go to sleep! Or I will PUT you to sleep. Check out the name tag. You’re in MY world now, grandma! 

Okay, back to boring talk about salad. I’m writing about salad because this morning I threw together this epic mix of nutrition.

This sucker weighed just a squirrel’s nut under three pounds. Yes, I really did weigh it and, yes–I know–I have too much time on my hands. Have you ever Googled the word salad? No, of course not. Dumb question. Here is one way to put it:

A cold dish of various mixtures of raw or cooked vegetables, usually seasoned with oil, vinegar, or other dressing: “a green salad”.

I was wondering what makes a salad a salad? The temperature? The content?

Since late summer my brain’s idea of salad has been torn down and built back up into such a monstrous entity that I’m having a little trouble breathing right now. It’s all just too much.

I used to think salad = romaine lettuce, maybe a crumbled Saltine, black olives, and some processed dressing. When I’d go “big time,” I’d add tomato and carrot.

This salad is made of ginger, broccoli, cauliflower, onion, artichoke, chickpeas, quinoa, almonds, brazil nuts, walnuts, pistachios, cashews, coconut, apple, banana peppers, blueberries, tomato, and a “cutie” or California mandarin.

The dressing is from pomegranate juice, prune juice, garlic-infused red wine vinegar, balsamic vinegar, brown mustard, and lime juice.

I’m including this next photo because I was messin’ around with my camera and was shocked to find it could do such a neat trick. I was standing there dumbly staring into the giant mixing bowl and I thought hmm, I usually have more greens in there. This was the first time I ventured away from the “automatic” mode of point and shoot. It automatically picked out all the green and–well, you can see.

This morning before school, as my 7-year-old ate plain Cheerios in vanilla soy milk, I ate half of this salad. I’ll eat the other half for lunch. And get this: I’ll fix another salad this afternoon.

Odd, you say? Scandalous?

Obviously, I’ve entered the “salad” phase of my life.

What “phase” are you in?

Once or twice a year, Jennifer uses her aunt up in Grayslake, IL as an excuse to shop at IKEA, the world’s largest furniture retailer. And thank Holy Jesus we don’t own a cargo van; who knows how much crap she’d haul back down south. Oh, and just to be clear, when I use “Jesus” like I just did, it’s for comic effect only. I mean, it just sounds funny to me. Obviously I know it’s not an inherently funny word. Jesus. In fact, the last time I found myself in a church (not counting a funeral), it wasn’t funny a single time, not even the first. Then after the one hundredth time–Jesus, Jesus, Jesus–I thought to myself man, this chap is really riding this Jesus thing. That was way back when our daughter attended a Lutheran pre-school. She’s a first-grader now.

I woke up Google this morning and asked him about this issue. I found one person who would likely slap me around for exclaiming “Holy Jesus.” This person was answering the question:

Is it offensive to exclaim “Jesus!” as an exclamation, i.e. when something startles you?

This person’s reply:

It is blasphemy. If you are using the name of Jesus to not address Him, like when you are making an exclamation, angry or in disgust, you are blaspheming his name (using it in vain). It’s just like using someone’s mother’s name to express disgust.

And as did that religious public speaker-guy, I’m going to really ride this Jesus thing (at least for a couple more paragraphs). As soon as the name–the concept?–enters my mind and then hits the screen, besides the “funny” feelings, I feel a confusing mish-mash of guilt and anxiety–guilt for having notta-one religious bone in my body, and anxiety over possibly misleading people into thinking I am. Before I move on, I have an important confession about the bones in my body. I do have one religious bone, the stapes bone in my middle ear.

Bottom line here: I’m a live-and-let-live kind of guy. I don’t aim to offend.

Okay. Chicago Land houses two IKEA stores, one in Bolingbrook and one in Schaumburg. My wife mistakenly thought I had been to one of these IKEAs when in fact it had been her teenage cousin (son of the aunt) on a 2010 pilgrimage. That’s how her memory rolls, it rolls to the right, rolls to the left and then–plop–right into that soggy ditch of misplaced facts, where what’s real is confused with what isn’t.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t need an excuse to talk about IKEA. No, there’s no toll booths between a thought about IKEA and a statement to me about IKEA. If I could erect a toll booth right in that slot, when she’s about to mention that store, I’d charge a million dollars. Warning, toll bridge ahead . . . and you don’t have nearly enough cash to get through, so forget about talking to Mike about how great IKEA is. 

Here’s a sentence for you. The girls just love to eat at IKEA. I’ve heard that sentence so many times that I’m really beginning to think the girls love to eat at IKEA. One time. Tell me one time and I get it. That’s how my memory rolls. Straight on.

And guess what? Sitting on our kitchen counter–right now–is the latest IKEA catalog. I’m not sure how long it will sit there. Three days ago, when she set it down, she told me something that involved her sister and also mentioned this or that about an earlier edition of the catalog. As of January 11, I’m thinking that this catalog is destined to be handed to her sister. I spend much time in that kitchen and each time I see that catalog I want to toss it into the recycling bin.

It’s not that I hate IKEA either. I’ve just never been to one and I guess I just don’t “get” it. Right? There IS something to “get,” I assume. Cuz Jennifer done got it. I’m actually sitting in an IKEA chair right now. It’s a version of this chair, different color. My feet, along with a cat, are on this footstool. And this lamp is floating above me.

After writing most of this on Tuesday, Jennifer came home and–wouldn’t you know it–found an excuse to bring up IKEA (without paying a toll). It seems her friend, who actually lives in Sweden where the founder of IKEA, Ingvar Kamprad, is from, wants MY lamp. Hmm, you don’t say?

Another confession to end this post. When writing like this, it’s essential that I exaggerate or I literally will fall asleep at the keyboard. Here’s the truth: J’s memory is fine, mine isn’t spectacular, I don’t really mind her talking about IKEA, and my stapes bone, after all, isn’t all that religious.

If you really want to know, want to put me in a box, though a rather large one, I’m Spiritual, But Not Religious.

Chloe wrote a six page story for the annual Illinois Young Authors Program. This is her first paragraph:

Rayne slowly opened her bedroom door and glanced down the hallway to make sure that nobody was awake. Once she was positive, she slipped out of the small opening and silently walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She winced as her heavy feet made creaking sounds on the old wood floors. When she got to the kitchen she grabbed her blue jacket from the hook, putting it over her blue jeans and green t-shirt. Then Rayne opened the back door and walked into the night.

Last year in her fifth grade parent-teacher meeting, we had asked–after hearing nothing but positives–what area she could use improvement.

Writing.

And that didn’t surprise me. I thought the same thing when I read her early-year essays.

But I’m astonished at how her writing has improved since then. One explanation is the amount of reading she’s done. That girl loves to read. Wow, just writing that sentence fills me with joy. Let me write it again. That girl loves to read. Thanks for allowing me to fill myself with joy twice. I take credit for a portion of that love of the printed word. One, she see’s me reading every day. Also, since, well, forever, I have preached on the joys and importance of reading and warning of the dangers of watching too much television. Read all you want. Watch television with moderation. That’s the message I’ve been sending to both kids.

Nothing can improve one’s writing more than one’s reading; they go hand in hand. And I think her interest in writing increased as she read more. At the end of fifth grade, she won  honorable mention, which amounted to second place, on an essay she wrote about the importance of education. It even came with a prize–twenty dollars.

Inject a kid with some self-confidence and watch them grow. Maybe that essay was the beginning. Yesterday she asked if she needed to go to college to be an author. I said no, but it definitely helps. This was after I told her how much college she’d have to attend to become a veterinarian.

When I read her story, my first thought was her previous work. From kindergarten to fifth grade, they also illustrate their books. The drawing takes up most of the space and there’s a line or two of text. Even last year, after I suggested more of an involved story, she turned in a picture book. This year, before I knew she’d begun, she emerged from her bedroom with a stack of handwritten pages.

Beyond writing, I’ve also noticed how her work habits have changed. Fifth grade brought very little homework compared to what she’s doing now. Before, I had to get on her a bit to do her homework, but this year, after raiding the kitchen for fruit after school, she gets to work without a word from me. Yesterday, she worked all day on her “mummy sarcophagus” project . . . and with no complaints.

Dammit, there’s only one explanation: she’s growing up.

]]> http://plumbananas.com/2012/01/09/chloes-story/feed/ 1 Myklray My Girls http://plumbananas.com/2012/01/05/getting-it-from-behind-on-the-bumper-cars/ http://plumbananas.com/2012/01/05/getting-it-from-behind-on-the-bumper-cars/#comments Thu, 05 Jan 2012 16:28:44 +0000 fightn4it http://plumbananas.com/?p=1272 ]]>

My life is like a ride on the bumper cars at the Illinois State Fair: I switch directions often and crash into things, and all I walk away with is a sore neck.

I’ve been making and selling t-shirts online for six years. It’s part-time, easy, and I don’t have to talk to people. It’s perfect for me.

Still, last winter I shut it down so I could write every day. Then in the Spring, I woke up one day and realized I was done writing.  I re-opened the online stores and worked through the summer and fall. Then one cold day, again, overnight, I woke up and was a writer again. I tried to do both, but found myself neglecting the “business.” I have put the store “on vacation” five times this winter to catch up (people get cranky when their little t-shirts are late).

And within these shift are mini-shifts. I began two other blogs and posted around 15 times to them. Now, the newness is gone and I don’t like to think about them sitting out there, feeling neglected. Yes, blogs feel. I began a long writing project, a middle school novel aimed at my middle school daughter. I’m still “into” it, but will that last? That kind of project takes some dedication; dedication I might have . . . until opening day.

Every day I try to decide what to do. Should I do what I enjoy or stick with making money at what feels like a real job? I’m almost certain that whatever I decide to do now will change in mere months.

So. What the heck is going on with me? All I can figure out is that I’m suffering from some kind of seasonal affective disorder that changes my brain chemistry from November to March. In warm months I think about baseball and bicycles, but when it turns cold I read philosophy books and think about death.

Dr. Oz told me (not personally) to consider light therapy for seasonal affective disorder. Yesterday, I browsed Amazon for just that. I didn’t buy anything. Yet.

The thing is, I don’t feel depressed. I don’t feel sad and hopeless. But when you’re buried in depression it takes awhile to realize you’re in it.  Am I in it? Am I–right now!–figuring it out?

If it’s not lack of sunlight, it could be what I’m calling the “Too Much Freedom Hypothesis.” I’m fortunate to have this problem. Most people are stuck in crappy jobs they can’t walk away from. But it’s not all ice cream and puppy dogs living with this freedom. My only deadlines are self-imposed. In College I had due dates. Write a ten page paper by next Friday!  At work they expected me to show up at the SAME TIME EVERY DAY. They kept track of how many days I was late or “sick.” That all takes discipline. They’d hand me a stack of papers and expect it to be taken care of by a certain time. It’s easy to be a corporate slave. Just tell me what to do boss!

Do you know why some men can’t handle retirement? It’s the loss of a sense of purpose, of a sense of accomplishment. All of a sudden, they’re no longer “productive” members of society. Former executives are working fast food drive-throughs.

I “vacationed” the store on Tuesday. Today, I’m feeling some of this retirement distress.

In the end, my problems are probably a dash of depression, two tablespoons of plain-ol’ neurosis, a half cup of social anxiety, and a third of a cup of “too much freedom.”

And for the record, I’ve never liked the bumper cars.

Oh, you like the bumper cars, huh? Oh, look, here’s the merry-go-round, let’s do that.

With the bumper cars, I don’t like the interaction with the other drivers. If you ram into me good, face to face, I don’t like that moment when we’re sitting there looking at each other. Wipe that smirk off your face. I don’t go after people randomly either; I attack jerky-looking men (however, at a young age I do remember trailing cute girls intent on little love taps and never from behind).

And at this age–pushing forty–if you blindside me at full speed, bring in the damn stretcher ‘cuz I’m not walking out.

No, this guy would rather be sealed into a private pod and taken on a leisurely ride. An hour would be nice. Is there a ride where they hand out (clean) pillows beforehand?

Excuse me Mr. Carny, can you tuck me in?

Turning 40

Some consider the big 4-0 one of the most difficult milestones, like Oh my freakin’ God, yesterday I was young, today I’m old. But “old” is subjective. I don’t feel old. I still have hair (non-gray). I don’t have unexplained pains. My energy level is usually high. A quick web search tells me that I can expect to live to around 77, so, going by that, I’m more than halfway done with this life. Given my relatively healthy lifestyle, I’m going to predict I’ll live to see 80. So . . . I’m half dead . . . is one way to say it.

But when I first “existed” on March 5, 1972, I didn’t know–to use a colloquialism–my ass from a hole in the ground. I don’t even remember the first 4 years. I probably didn’t get much done.  I didn’t work a single minute on important global issues (my mom would have told me if I had). I just crawled–then ran–around and . . . developed, I guess. I sat around playing with little wooden toys. My point was going to be that the next 40 years will be better than the first.

Then I thought about it for a minute, always a mistake. It’s possible that my last 4 years (theoretically from age 76 to 80) will, again, be spent trying to figure out the difference between my ass and a hole in the ground. The first 4 years is tolerable because a lot of the silly stuff you do is adorable, but can you find anything adorable about a grown man pooping into a diaper, ripping it  off with one hand, and then winging it into a ceiling fan? Oh, you do, huh? Sicko. And don’t accuse me of making fun of Alzeimer’s sufferers, because I’m writing about about things I’ve already started doing.

I’m just thinking out loud here.

I’m writing about this because I’m sitting near two “old” people in Sacred Grounds. They’re in their 70s, maybe 80s. They’re wrinkled up like a couple of raisins and they’ve gone gray up top. I just can’t keep my eyes off these people. I want to ask questions. What do you think about your . . . oldness? Does it take a day’s worth of energy to get to and from the coffee shop? Are you guys wearing diapers?

I went to the restroom, came back, and they were gone.

I’ve decided that i’m okay with 40. I’m not going to worry about things I have no control over. All the wisest people, past and present, will tell you the same thing. They say “Dude, worry kills!” The Alcoholics Anonymous folks are going on and on about it right now in church basements all over the world.

God, grant me the power to keep my diaper strapped on until someone comes along to change it and the power to not worry about how the Serenity Prayer goes.

Yesterday, the first day of 2012, I pulled into Starbucks at 7 o’clock in the morning. I drove a circle around the building and saw a couple of people behind the counter. I had wondered whether they would open, but it’s not like Christmas when everything is closed. I went in, ordered a grande light roast coffee, and asked what time they had opened. Seven. I asked if I was the first customer of the year. Yes. The woman said I should at least I should get a free coffee or something. Free coffee for the entire year, I thought.

I want to write something other than blog posts. This has been in my head for three weeks. I’m just scared to begin. Yesterday, I started. In Schrivener, I titled the project “For my Girls.” It takes the pressure off to think that I’m writing a piece of fiction for the girls and not for some faceless agent or editor.

I sat in Starbucks for over three hours. It was peaceful. The coffee was good. The music, tolerable. A normal day in Starbucks is much busier. The atmosphere was prime to allow the words to flow from my brain to the screen, but the process was like a car rolling down a hill with the brake pedal stomped every two seconds.

This morning I went to The Y at six and felt, well, BLAH. Last month I started a new twenty minute routine on the treadmill. I began on the “hill” workout at level 5 at 5 mph. Now, I’m at level 10 and 6 mph. Good progress. Today, I plodded through a leg workout and petered out on the treadmill after four lousy minutes. The incline felt too high, the speed, too fast. I hit the stop button and left, predicting more “petering out” here at Panera.

Then I started writing. From the first word it felt good. The words were spilling, the sentences forming. The paragraphs. The ideas. This was ten times easier than yesterday. And I can’t explain why.

And I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll just roll with it.

From Wikipedia: “. . . he is credited with helping start America’s fitness revolution, popularizing the sport of running and demonstrating the health benefits of regular jogging.”

He wrote that running would extend your life.

Then he had a heart attack and died while running on July 20, 1984 at the age of 52.

On some days I feel like Jim Fixx.

In my last “real” job I worked with a guy everyone called “Bud.” I don’t know if that was his real name, but it fit. He was short and simple. A thin, ugly, gray cubicle wall seperated us. I heard every word out of that guy’s mouth. I heard whispers to his wife. Needless to say, I brought in a solid pair of earphones.

I declared my vegetarianism at that job, towards the end of my stay. Bud scoffed. He said things like, “I could die tomorrow, so I’m going to enjoy myself. I’m going to watch a lot of sports and eat a lot of meat.”

Okay, that’s fine. I would reply that NOT eating meat was enjoyable to me. Me not eating meat was the same as him eating meat. So, Bud–Buddy Boy–I’m doing what you’re doing, see? We’re the same! We’re both doing what’s best for us at this particular point in our lives. Get it? No, he didn’t get it at all. I wanted to pound him. I didn’t like that guy from day one.

That was–wow!–seven years ago. I stuck with it. I dropped meat “cold turkey,” to use an awful cliche. Three years later, I upgraded to veganism. Now I eat mountainous salads. I run. I lift. I make sure I get eight hours of sleep every night. I don’t smoke or drink. If Bud could see my overall lifestyle today, he would–I’m sure–scoff.

“You what? Run? Run to where? Around the block? What for? Well, I could die tomorrow, so I’m going to relax, have a beer and a beef stick and watch football all day.”

What do you say to this, to people like Bud?

I get it, I could die tomorrow too, but running makes me feel good; having ran makes me feel even better. I understand his philosophy though. He’s going to “live life to the fullest” by eating a bunch of meat and watching a bunch of sports or whatever. Pleasure before all else. Many dead philosophers would have agreed.

But, please, Bud-types, don’t think that it works for all. If my lifestyle was a pair of underwear and I made you put them on, you’d go “Eww, gross, get these off me, I can’t stand your underwear right now.” But maybe ten years from now, you’d stop by and say “Hey, remember me? Uh, you wouldn’t by chance still have those underwear, would you?”

When Jim Fixx died, Bud-type people struggled from their recliners, pointed and jabbed their fingers, and screamed “See. See. See. See what happened to Jim Fixx? He dropped dead while running. Why waste all that time? Why put yourself through all that?”

Most people have these thoughts. I do. Exercise is hard. Watching TV is easy. Ice cream tastes better than Broccoli. I know I could croak tomorrow, so why not go “out” the easy way . . . with my head submerged in a giant bowl of chocolate pudding.

Uh, no.

For one thing, running didn’t kill Jim Fixx. He didn’t run until he was 35. He was a heavy smoker and he weighed 240 pounds. He also had three other strikes against him: an enlarged heart, heart disease in the family, and a stressful occupation. If I was magic I’d close my eyes and see what would have happened if he had never started running. Maybe “Oh, I’m getting a vision of Jim Fix. Oh my God, he died on his fortieth birthday, eating an elephant ear in a Porta-Potty at the Wampaloo County Fair.”

Who knows, right?

If you’re looking for my motivation, I could tell you in a thousand different ways, but today, at nine in the morning, on the day after Christmas, 2011, I’ll say:

When I’m alone, in silence, I want peace. Among the damning thoughts I fight to ignore–I’m not good enough– I want to feel I’m doing all I can to create the good ones–I’m doing fine–and to work hard to live long enough to figure some of it out–this “human life” business.

Some day I know I’ll be able to relax.

I’m in the basement. It’s cold down here. I bought this heater in blue and it’s blowing warm air over my fingers. I have this heater behind me. I’m sitting in an office chair with my feet up by my butt. My arms are on either side of my knees, pecking away, staring at this 24″ monitor. There’s an overweight, dark gray, polydactyl cat under my chin, on my knees. It’s 7:40 a.m. I’m listening to The 50 Greatest Pieces of Classical Music.

I’m wearing:

• Long socks. I’m pissed at these socks because they’re loose around the top, so they don’t stay up. If you like your long socks bunched up around your ankles you’re a total weirdo. I will give you these socks if you ask for them. They’re gray.
• Thermal pants. Some would say “long underwear,” and I would have said that last winter, but this year I’m calling them pants. I wear them all winter unless the temperature climbs above forty. They’re black, size small, from Target.
• “Comfy” pants. I’m not calling them sweat pants, because when I think of “sweat pants,” I think of the four dollar wal-mart variety with no pockets and the elastic waist and ankle cuffs. Might as well call them shit pants; not worth a shit. I absolutely need pockets. I bought these at Old Navy. Qualities: dark gray, three pockets, drawstring, wide leg openings, no elastic. The drawstring is wide and will not disappear into the holes or fall out in the washing machine. Call them “premium” sweat pants if you want.
• T-shirt. I bought two identical wine-colored t-shirts on clearance at Target. I have over a dozen of their Mossimo “athletic fit” t-shirts, all size small.
• Hooded, zipped, sweatshirt. It’s light gray and I wear it every day. It’s sherpa-lined and I don’t know what that means. I bought it last Spring in Kohl’s. It’s Sonoma brand.
• Boxer shorts. Black with small, white skull & crossbones all over. That makes me bad-ass.
• Finger-less gloves. Didn’t I say it was cold down here? I bought these last week at Target. They dark gray, flecked with light gray. Acrylic, polyester, and even 1% spandex. Awesome.

I just ate a small bowl of this cereal with almond milk. To my right is a pile of around fifty packages that I have to take to the post office when they open at nine. First I have to fill out four “customs” forms for the ones going to Canada and Norway. People get all cranky this time of year about getting their little t-shirts before Christmas. Customer service is a pain in the ass.

To my left is printer paper, “clary sage & citrus” all-purpose cleaner, two lint rollers, a box of Kleenex, my Garmin, a box of garbage bags, a compressed gas duster, a camera tripod, my box of notebooks and journals, my old phone, my extra eye glasses, a printer, a toothbrush, and a bag of those flosser picks.

From ten to one, we’re wrapping presents in some St. Louis mall to raise money for Nurses for Newborns. I wrap like I string Christmas trees, swiftly, like I’m being timed. So Jennifer will be wrapping gifts; I’ll be somewhere reading and people-watching.

After that, I don’t know. Jennifer might want to Christmas shop and I’ll say something like “Drop me and the kids off at Barnes & Noble.”

That’s all I have to say. Happy 100th post to me.