December hath arriveth…

Ah, Christmas time. Charlie Brown on the Telly, snowflakes in the air, stress levels on the rise. What a great way to celebrate a birthday.

To be quite serious, there isn’t a snowflake in the air, I’m too busy to watch any Charlie Brown, and the stress around here, which is indeed on the rise, is not at all related to the season. What a downer! Kind of reminds me of the first Christmas season. Here’s teenage Mary, pregnant out of wedlock, and her fiance Joseph, the presumed baby-daddy, trying to plan a trip across the country (probably one that is not within their budget) just so that ol’ Ceasar can get an accurate headcount on a backwater country in his empire. Upon their arrival, they find no sanitary place to stay, no charity, and a bunch of dirty hobos invading their personal space. Talk about stress. What a downer Christmas.

Meanwhile, 2000 years later, we’re too busy dragging out greedy asses out of bed to go shopping at 3:30 AM a month ahead of time to think about the terrible excuse of Christmas music they’re playing these days. What ever happened to “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas?” More like I’m dreaming of a pop culture Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, there are some very good artist out there today, I’m just stating my opinion about their songwriters’ abilities to write new Christmas music.

On a happier note, this is my wife and I’s first Christmas! Living together, anyway. Actually, it’s our first Christmas in the same state. Pretty crazy. Needless to say, the decorations are sparkling.

Have you ever heard of “Owl City?” Being the oblivious and culturally semi-irrelevant type with no radio in my car that I am, I hadn’t heard of this lad until very recently. Evidently he is a Christian insomniac with quite a nack for creating electronic piano tunes. Quite brilliant, actually. My wife and I have grown quite fond of listening to his pieces in the evening.

It’s getting cold outside. I like cold, but generally only when it is accompanied by snow. Or hot soup. I’m already trying (in vain) to convince myself that this winter will go quickly, that spring will be here before you know it…blah blah. It’s going to be forever. Oh well.

Meanwhile, I will keep my toes over the vent and hot soup on hand, relaxing to Owl City as I admire twinkling Christmas decor. Bavo, December. For all your faults, you’re enjoyable yet.

Thanksgiving: Part 2

Kids these days. My young cousins introduced me to a new game that’s going around in schools this fall called “poision dart.” Evidently, participants go around calling each other’s names, making eye contact, and pretending to shoot a blow gun at each other. Once someone has been shot, he must immediately lie down on the floor until a fellow student pretends to pluck the dart out of his neck. This game can be played whenever and wherever, including at the thanksgiving dinner table. It was pretty amusing to see my kid cousins slumping out of their chairs randomly, sprawling on the floor, yelling “pull it out pull it out!”

Anyway, I’ve noticed that, quite contrary to popular opinion, playing football on thanksgiving is a very bad idea. Everyone is stuffed to the neck with turkey day delights, so there’s a sort of tension in the air as everyone waits for someone else to vomit. Meanwhile, all of the older males try to re-live their highschool glories while the younger ones run circles around them. Finally, there is hardly every an opportune playing field, so the street is often used, resulting in several damaged knees and parked automobiles. The end result is rather comical, as the elderly lay panting in the yard, licking their wounds, while the youths go inside for more pie. I think the whole mess should just be avoided as everyone gathers around the television to watch the professionals.

The women of our family love to play board games after dinner, having much more common sense than the men, who choose to jostle their biggest meal of the year playing a contact sport. We played “Loaded Questions” this year, a fun game where participants write down their personal answers to questions such as “which three species would you choose to have extinct?” (answers such as hippies, school mascots, and political parties were plentiful), “What do you find to be your most attractive feature?” (more than one body part below the neck was mentioned), and so on. The game can be quite fun, but was rather complicated this year by the fact that we were all dodging imaginary poisoned darts.

I’m so thankful for the ability to get together with so much of my family every year. If you are without your family this thanksgiving, for whatever reason, know that you have my deepest sympathies.

I’m thankful for how much I am blessed with. When I take a look at all the things I have been given, I’m very humbled.

I’m thankful for my wife. Without her, I’d just be another jock bachelor. Not a pretty picture. My wife makes my life complete, full, and fulfilling. Thanks for that babe.

Think about what you’re thankful for. Then think about it some more. Be thankful.

-unknown

_creativmynd

Post Script: I know this isn’t a humerous entry, and for that I am rather sorry. Dare I say, my mind just isn’t very creative today? Please tune in tomorrow for a more jovial tale.

 

Thanksgiving: Part 1

Watching a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving with my wife this morning on the couch, I got to thinking…why exactly was Peppermint Pattie so mad that they were eating toast, pretzels, popcorn, and jelly beans (at least, I assume they are jelly beans. They aren’t ever named, so they’re kind of a mystery)? I mean, seriously, that’s a good meal right there.

As I was baking my pumpkin pie, I also began to wonder why we, as humans, love tradition so much. Eating turkey and pie on Thanksgiving, giving presents on Christmas, etc etc. We love our human traditions. Why? Is it the comfort of knowing what lies ahead? The memory of what lies behind? Maybe both.

Walking into a grocery store on Thanksgiving morning in one’s sweat pants to buy spices for one’s wife’s stuffing, one would expect to be the only soul in the store. Shouldn’t everyone be home baking and such? Evidently not. The place was a zoo! Pies were flying off the racks. Is that really the world we’ve come to, running by the store to grab a pie on the way to grandma’s? Are we really too busy to enjoy our holiday? Maybe we are. how sad.

I’m sure I will have a funny story or two tonight, once I get back from grandma’s, but for now, just wanted to leave you with this thought:

Enjoy Thanksgiving!

_creativmynd

Bowels, rain, and chest colds…

Have you ever noticed that there is a direct correlation between how badly one is in need of a toilet, and the inopportunity of the moment of need? For instance, one can be brushing one’s teeth in one’s own bathroom and have no need to secrete any waste. But the second one finds himself, say, on top of a roof in the rain, all of a sudden one’s bowels and bladder decide its time to go into overdrive, generally at the same time.

This, by mere happenstance, is the situation in which I found myself today. Did I mention it was raining? Rather miserable experience, being on a roof in the rain. Why, you ask, was I in just such a predicament? Well, I’m a roofer, you see. I apply rooves. To peoples homes. In the rain, sometimes. That’s my day job, anyway. By night I’m a pizza delivery expert.

Anyway, this wasn’t a hard rain, but a steady drizzle, the kind which leaves one with no choice but to stay on the roof and work. Of course it was also cold and windy, which forced me to divide my irritation into thirds. If you could have peered into my mind this afternoon, past the clutter, disorganized file cabinets, maps, movie clips, and wastebasket full of irrelevant comments and bad puns, this is a sampling of what you might have read scrolling across the typewriter that sits upon my mind’s dusty desk:

“Golly, I wish the wind would stop. It drives this steady drizzle of rain straight up my shirt. Come to think of it, if the rain would stop drizzling, my fingers probably wouldn’t be so cold. Speaking of the cold, this breeze sure isn’t making me any warmer. Add in the steady drizzle, and you’ve got one helluva bad afternoon…”

I could go on, but I’m sure most of you get the gist of my mental process. So there I was, rather peeved about all the rainy, wetty, coldy business, when suddenly…there was a tremor. No, not an earthquake, this particular tremor came from the region of my body which was covered by diapers for the first three years of my life. Being rather too old for diapers at my present age, I found myself rather unprepared. The logical thing to do, I concluded, was to get to a safe area where my sudden discomfort might be relieved.

Now, for those of you who do not find yourselves lucky enough to apply rooves to people’s houses in the rain in November, let me explain something. On a sunny, still day in september, navigating a roof is like navigating a garden path. A twist here, a turn there, and you’re where you want to be. Navigating a roof on a wet, windy, cold november day, however, is like trying to sprint down Mt. Everest with your boot laces tied together. Needless to say I nearly died several times.

Oh yes, and I have a nasty chest cold. So, naturally, halfway down the roof, I started into a coughing fit, which did not help matters. By the time I was down the ladder and on solid ground, I had coughed up 3/4 of a lung, a half pint of phlegm, and nearly released by bowel movement. I rushed to the toilet with the agility of a walrus, arriving just in time.

It just occurred to me that you, dear reader, might not be interested in hearing about my bowel movements, viral infections and bladder control issues. I apologize. If you have soldiered on through  this much of my blog posting, I thank you kindly, and you have my solemn vow that I will not speak of this subject again for a rather longish time.

The path to the toilet is fraught with difficulties

-unknown

_creativmynd

American Football and Lactic Acid…

There seems to be a direct correlation between the playing of American Rules Football and an incredible buildup of lactic acid in the thighs and hams of the participants. I just recently experienced this phenomena while playing a rather violent pickup game this past Sunday. By the end of the day, I was beaten, bruised, and thoroughly worn down, and that dreaded lactic acid was already seeping into my every cell. I imagined that those little lactic acids were gleefully frolicking about in my veins, clogging up all sorts of passageways and generally disturbing the peace. It makes me shudder just thinking about it.

Monday morning rolled around right on schedule, of course, and hit me like a freight train. I oozed out of bed and set about my morning rituals: Bathroom, kitchen, closet, keys, wallet, leave, go back for cell phone, leave, arrive at work…accept this time, I felt like I had put in a full day’s work by 9 am. My legs were like logs, my feet like bricks. Needless to say, it was a rather long day.

I took my wife out for tea after work, my intention being to sit and have a long talk about nothing in particular in a coffee shop. We ended up shopping for a new outfit. How does that happen? I’m really not quite sure. Somewhere between her cute smile and sparkly eyes, she turns her ideas into my ideas, or something to that effect. She practically makes me believe it was my idea for her to try on a new outfit. So there I stand, feeling rather smug and pleased with myself, while she tries on some Miss Mis jeans…whatever those are. It’s not until she apologizes about ruining my date idea that I realize what has happened. I sulk a bit, naturally, playing it up and all, but really I’m just happy that she’s happy. And that the lactic acid seems to have finally worked its way out of my system.

_creativmynd

On the origin of a species…

Who, on God’s verdently green earth, decided to beed yorkshire terriers? In case you are not familiar with the breed, allow me to expound for a moment.

The yorkshire terrier originates from England, evidently (God save the Queen), and displays a coat similar in coloring to a rottweiler and in texture to a silky something or other. This particularly small specimen weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 pounds, and bears resemblance to a very dirty mop in the hands of a custodian on speed when awake. When the dog is awake, that is.

Anyway, my wife and I recently acquired such a creature, and since the time of her acquisition I must say our lives have changed somewhat. I rise early in the morning, not to the gentle sound of a silent home, but to a rather obtrusive yipping. Our puppy’s cries could be summarized by the sounds of nails on a chalkboard, an infant’s wail, and the sound of a child beginning his first lesson with the violin. Needless to say, it is somewhat begrudgingly that I rise to take her on her morning trip to the out of doors.

She is not, of course, all pain and suffering for her owners. There is nothing quite like a puppy to make one’s life feel more full. A puppy sees only the very best in its master, which is both refreshing and sobering. It can be scolded for piddling on the mat for a minute straight, and have nothing more to say than a wag of the tail.  It apparently has no end of love for those it chooses to love. This quality, of course, makes it vitrually impossible for one to stay mad at the little dustmop for long.

But anyway, back to the original question: Who on this very green and affable creation decided it would be a good idea to create such a creature? By create, of course I mean breed, but semantics-shmantics. The question remains.

I am forced to conclude the following: Someone, probably a duke or baroness with a rather dank old castle or estate, must have had a need for a rather small kanine to create small puddles, chase feet, and be remarkably pleasing to the eye, all while emitting sounds well within the boundaries of the terms “severe” and “vexing.” Either that, or the runts of the litters of bigger dogs found one another attractive for several generations in a row.

Regardless, my wife and I have one now. Her name is Roxi, by the way. I can’t help but like the little rapscallion, with her bright eyes and needle teeth. Like I said somewhere up above, probably in the paragraph where your mind started to wander, the love she shows me is just too much to not return a little. She brings joy that only a puppy can bring.

I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am.

-unknown

_creativmynd

Preliminaries…

Let’s get something straight first off: I did in fact debate the name “creativmynd.” The implications of claiming one’s own mind is creative are, to be sure, heavy, but I decided that enough people have confirmed this prognosis (that my mind is in fact capable of, and even prone to, creating) that I was free to proceed.

Of course, the spelling was also up for debate. Is it too coy to spell a name like “creativmynd” wrong intentionally, in an effort to confirm that the title is in fact deserved? That is to say, is it a bit too much, too soon? Should I have eased readers into my creative, um, ness, more gently?

My obvious conclusion was to charge ahead. I will assault you with creativity from the moment your eyes grace the name of my blog. It’s just who I am. I apologize profusely.

With that matter out of the way, I feel somewhat free-er to speak on the subject which I intended to blog about this evening in the first place: pizza delivery.

An addendum: My grammar is, shall we say, less that perfect. If you happen to be an editor, an english professor at an ivy league school, or someone who passed their creative writing class with a “B” or better, please just spare yourself the pain and stop reading. I can be brutal to english.

Okay, let us continue on our “Run” (the technical term for a pizza delivery) for this evening.

In case you hadn’t surmised, I deliver pizzas. Hot, steaming, greasy, toasty, toppingy, cheese-covered discs of carbohydrates and empty calories…served fresh in cardboard.  I love my job.

Why, you ask, do I enjoy a job which has been largely attributed to hippies, pot heads, and drop outs? I’ve traced it back to at least three reasons. There may be more reasons, but for now I’m sticking with just three.

Reason 1: I love freedom. As far as jobs go, you don’t get much more freedom than delivering pizzas. At a busy store like ours, you’re basically only in the kitchen long enough to get your next delivery and get out. The rest of the time, you’re free to cruise in whatever way suits you.

Reason 2: Two of my best buddies work with me. One of them got me the job. The second, like me, had the first guy get him a job too. 

Reason 3: I like people. I like watching people, interacting with people, learning from people, etc. You would not believe how many different people one meets while delivering boxes of goodies (or perhaps you can, depending on your background.)

Anyway, between driving my beat up vehicle around a college town, encourtering every possible breed of human (oh yes, there are breeds), and trying to keep it at least a little professional, I have a good time with the whole “food courier” gig (a title which was besowed on me by an emergency room security officer once…long story).

Well, I think that’s more than sufficient for my first blog ever. There’s lots I would like to impart to you, but I’m sure your brain, like mine, does not have the capacity to hold any more information…assuming you care.

_creativmynd