Great Moments In My Life

Sometimes the stars align. Sometimes impossible things happen. Sometimes these things happen to me. I was reminded of these few times when one happened the other day. But first, a little commentary. It seems like more often than not, toast lands butter-side down, dogs have to sneeze right when your face is closest, toothbrushes seem magically attracted to the toilet, Lindsay Lohan doesn't overdose, and Justin Bieber's music keeps getting purchased--almost as if by some magical force. Along with natural disasters, I think these moments are God's little way of letting us know that we are not in control. I'm not saying God causes these things to happen, He just allows them to happen. (Because he definitely has nothing to do with Lindsay or The Biebs.) The most exciting thing about these moments for me is that I cannot wait to watch the replay in heaven. Or wherever I end up when I'm dead. It will be like youtube, but more personal. Maybe it will be called metube.

But onwards to my first greatest moment. Picture me. Six years old. White-blond hair. Cowboy boots. That is what I looked like the day it happened. I guess it was a day like any other. On this day we happened to be playing football in the street with the college kids who lived across from us. So there I was. On a team. Running around being generally useless, I'm sure. That is, until I went long. I clomped northbound on 200 East, arms outstretched. I wasn't even looking for the ball floating toward me in the air. I must have looked like a little cowboy zombie, running like that. And suddenly there was a football in my hands. In my little kid perspective I looked backward at the cheering students, and they seemed to be a hundred yards away. I had just caught a touchdown pass. I was a hero. I had done an impossible thing. It was the start of my amazing career as a pro-football player. The celebration lasted into the night.

In heaven the video will be short. Maybe ten seconds. It will be shot in that old-timey style that flickers and the people move too fast. It will show little me running for approximately 3.54 feet and catching a ball thrown right into my hands. Less glamorous. But hey, you gotta start somewhere.

Amazing moments in my life took a 10 year hiatus. I guess catching the pass of a lifetime filled my amazing quota for quite awhile. That is until one fateful night in the Bozeman Stake Center I was center court, holding a basketball. I gave the ball small toss with heavy backspin. The ball sprung backwards and I kicked at it. The heavens shook for my good that night. The ball soared through the air. Going, going, going. Time slowed. Emotions ran high. Swoosh. A perfect half-court shot.

The replay in heaven will be boring. It will show a bunch of awkward zitty teenagers kicking balls at basketball hoops for two hours. Shane and Chet and I all taking turns. And finally one will go in. The celebration lasts longer than is needful for the moment.

Fast forward 8 years. Monday December 20th 2010. I'm pushing carts at Costco. I'm waiting for a line of oblivious customers to get out of my way so I can stow my line of carts in the entrance. Suddenly a rogue cart comes careening into my peripheral vision. Pushed carelessly by some old dude, the cart is headed straight for a stray toddler. He stands like a deer in the headlights right next to my row. I don't have time to think, so I stick out my leg and kick the murderous cart towards the motionless lines of extra carts. The cart does an elegant spin and then lands right on the end of one of the rows. Perfectly stowed and interlocked. Disaster was averted. Not only did I save a miniature human from what surely would have been a most heinous death and/or dismemberment, but I stowed an extra cart without using my hands. I was super-human for half a second. This time no celebration was needed. I just smirked to myself and thought about how awesome I am. No thanks was necessary.

Yeah, right. Where was the mother?! She should have showered me with gifts and affection and different creams and lotions. But I didn't even get a, "OH thank you, you are so great, take this cash." Lame. There better be replays in heaven so I can show this mom what happened and get my dues.

[Keep following. There is more where that came from. Filler... fillerup... FILL 'ER UP PLEASE!]

I Share Something With The Greats.

What do Paul Dunbar, Washington Irving, Samuel Johnson, Franz Kafka, John Keats, D. H. Lawrence, Molière, George Orwell, Alexander Pope, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Henry David Thoreau, Voltaire, a vast majority of Bronte Sisters, Igor Stravinsky, John Calvin and DJ Scheerer have in common?

If you guessed Tuberculosis, you get nothing!

TB is one of those diseases that you hear about, but seems like a distant fantasy; the plague of days gone by and people unknown. The sickness of those of lower socioeconomic status. What you didn't know is that TB is alive and well. "The Consumption," as I am privileged to now call it, is far from eradicated. Over half a million new cases of drug resistant TB are diagnosed worldwide every year.

I was almost one of them.

Upon arriving--home (oooh!) from my mission I had to get the mandatory TB skin test. This consists of the awesome idea of injecting a strain of the disease into your skin. If your body reacts to the infectious disease sitting in a bubble beneath the first few layers of dermis, it means your body recognizes the disease and you have most likely been exposed to TB.

I got the blob injected me and came back in a week, ready to proceed with life, when the nurse assigned to analyze the test recoiled when I pulled up my sleeve. There is only one way to describe her face during that moment. You know the look your mom gave you the first time you swore at her as a teenager? Not the look right after when she swats you with the fly-swatter, I'm talking about the exact moment the four letters leap from your tongue. The surprise and confusion and horror and disgust all at the same time? The nurse's face was something like that. I felt like I needed to apologize.

Anyway, after shooting some X-rays into my chest, giving me way too much literature and things to sign, solemnly interrogating/consoling me and sufficiently scaring the hell out of me, I was told I had latent TB and that I would most likely die of "The Consumption" sometime before my mid-life crisis. That is, if I didn't go on an intense regimen of antibiotics.

Eventually after making it to Provo, they did a blood test, and found that, no, I didn't have latent "The Consumption" after all. What most likely happened is that I had a false positive on my skin test. I don't know how my skin could have possibly gotten irritated and swollen after they stabbed me with a toxic disease-filled needle. It makes no sense at all.

I was relieved and saddened; knowing that I would live longer but most likely never achieve musical, religious, or literary greatness. So here's to all those great famous persons who've gone before and established the greatest heap of bloody handkerchiefs ever created. I may never write something worth reading, but I now know that if I ever need to get inspired, I'll simply go to sub-Saharan Africa or China and let someone cough in my face.

[Keep following, you might learn something.]

I Hate Being Sick

Like you really needed to hear that. No one enjoys being sick. Well, I'm sure there is some weird Finnish guy sitting in his basement somewhere wearing a traffic cone on his head and gloves on his feet with a garlic-clove necklace on just trying to get sick. But I'm not that guy.

I got food poisoning. Don't ask me how. I eat pretty much the same types of food everyday. Miles also eats those same foods with me, so don't ask me how I got sick and he didn't. Don't ask me what it's like throwing up in the JKB bathroom in the middle of class. And even though it was the middle of class, all of the stalls were staked out when I walked in there like some kind of cruel joke. So I leaned pale-faced over the sink and practiced Lamaze childbirth breathing patterns until one opened up.

I would do almost anything to not throw up. It is number one on my least favorite things. If an evil genie showed up and offered different kinds of torture in exchange for barfing, there aren't a whole lot of options I would turn down. I don't blow chunks very often, but when I do, it's always bad news. I won't go into details, but I'm just a mess afterwards. I look like I've been crying for weeks and I go so pale I make dead bodies look rosy-cheeked. I always  feel like I need to apologize to anyone who has to listen to my harrowing trial. Yesterday, that awkward apology went something like this, "Sorry you had to listen to that, guys."

To which I received the reply, "You don't have to apologize, it must really suck to throw up pieces of your femur."

I would have laughed if I hadn't felt so sick.

[Keep following. I know it was gross, but at least I didn't post pictures.]

The General Rules

No this is not about the online auto insurance company. (Although don't get me started. Those commercials make me want to poke my eyes out with a stick.) This is not a declaration about how the military rules! This is about another type of battle organization. These are the General Rules. Love. Yes, I'm talking about love.

Some of you may remember my poll from awhile back about starting a separate blog about love. Due to the mixed reaction, I decided not to do it. Plus, two blogs is a bit much. So I'm starting a new segment called, you guessed it, The General Rules. But before I get into the meat of this new segment I'm going to lay down a few ground rules for the General Rules:

1. They are the "General" rules. This means that there are exceptions. There are always exceptions. Everyone knows someone who had a fairytale courtship, engagement, and subsequent marriage. This is an exception to the rule. For most of us, dating is more akin to a fight to the death in gladiatorial ring than a delicate dance in  a palace. For most of us, getting engaged and married will require a herculean effort. For most of us, this whole "love process" involves more slogging through the mud than walking on clouds. That is why I titled the new segment the general rules rather than "The rules that are always true no matter what."

2. I am not an expert. Don't quote me on anything. In fact, most of you will be better off not reading any of these segments.

3. I cannot be held personally responsible for any actions you may take after reading my reflections and ruminations on the subject.

4. I am always right. Comments are welcome on these posts, but just know that any comments that disagree with my opinion will be subsequently laughed at and ignored.

Thank you for your consideration. And I hope you are looking forward to the forthcoming mindless blather about the most complex subject on earth as much as I am.

[Keep following. Actually don't. You may not like what you find.]

Lifeguard... Duty...

Just look at him. All smug on his little tower. Some have called them aquatic saviors. Others have called them guarders of life. Be not deceived, for they are the fun killers. 

You may think they are innocent enough. They have a tough job. They brave the suns harmful rays day after day just to keep us safe. With their cheap sunglasses and billowing shirts, they are like Batman. If the pool were Gotham City. And the swimmers criminals. And after all, we pay them to stop us from doing dangerous things right?

Wrong. We pay them to save our lives if we happened to drink a bottle of Jack before swimming. We pay them to bandage toes and perform CPR. We don't pay them to be the fun police. Who are they to stop me from running? Who are they to put an end to my chicken fight? If I want to run amok and go down the slide backwards, it is my god-given right. And they better be there to save me if I happen to crack open my skull on the bottom of the pool.

The rules they enforce have been handed down over centuries. They are no longer relevant. The "No Running" rule stems from the before-time when Roman baths were covered in tile and running meant certain death to all toga-wearing patrons. This is outdated. Today's poolsides are covered in textured concrete that resembles course sandpaper. Let me run freely to the diving board. 

So to all lifeguards, I say, stop sucking the fun out of the pool. And take off those shoes. If I'm drowning, I don't want you unlacing your Sketchers and pulling off your socks before you dive in.

[Keep following because the summer has just begun. Also, more rants to follow.]

An Oldie But A Goodie

Perhaps I remember too well how
August ended in snow or
How Lighthouses deceived me or
When I felt empty in Scotland

I am loathe to dock on convenient
Shores;
Finding the first inviting harbor
Yet I know no other way
Fear of whipping winds or
Sails long fallen limp --
Keeps me at bay

For fear of feeling penetrating cold,
Watching flurries of flakes,
I burned my rigging and set fire to the deck
Yet again; Despite pretending
Winter was rain-soaked snow drifts

I long for forbidden routes and
Exotic ports;
Deep bays and long docks on sunny shores
Blue waters on warm skin
Where I can finally rest
And depart again
But not alone.

[Keep following because I have to admit, it's getting better. All the time.]