Archive for the ‘marriage’ Category

Thanksgiving: Part 2

November 26, 2009

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.



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.



American Football and Lactic Acid…

November 24, 2009

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.



November 18, 2009

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.