Friday, December 23, 2016
After having been a member of the local gym for the past few years, I wish I could say I’ve learned how to eat better and take better care of myself, but if this Christmas missive were accompanied by a photograph (there’s more than one reason we stopped sending those out YEARS ago) you’d know that’s a big, fat lie. What I have learned, though, is that there’s a direct relationship between a man’s age/weight and the amount of time he walks around completely naked in the sauna and locker room. You guessed it: the older and fatter, the longer we all get to see them in their full glory. It’s like a demented episode of Naked & Afraid – the longer they walk around naked, the more afraid I become. I open with that little gem so you have a nausea-inducing rumbling in your bowels that will last far beyond the time it takes to read our annual letter – and you’ll forget everything you just read. You’re welcome.
Sam hit the big 16 this year and got his driver’s license as soon as humanly possible. For Erin, that wasn’t quite fast enough because from the time Sam started his sophomore year at school until he got his license, she still had to chauffeur him to and from school – possibly the longest seven months of her life (since Jack was no longer available to taxi himself and his brother). Upon acquisition of the truck his brother had previously driven, Sam got the notion that being without an operational stereo was intolerable. He tried convincing us that this was cruel and unusual punishment, and we just laughed and sent him back out in the 120-degree heat and cancer-inducing sun to cut the grass with a push mower. Kids!
Back in August, Jack hit his one-year mark – his Hump Day, if you will – so he’s on the downhill side of things now. He’s slated to come home from Peru at the end of July and start at ASU for the Fall 2017 semester. While we’re understandably excited to have him come home, we have a feeling it might be advisable to tell him to get on the airplane with only the clothes on his back and leave everything in the jungles of Peru. As I probably mentioned in last year’s note, it rains over 10 feet each year in his little corner of Peru so nothing every truly dries out, which means everything he has (including his own person) will have mold in every nook and cranny possible. We might pick him up from the airport in our truck and have him ride home in the back so when we pull up to the house, we can march him in the backyard, have him strip down to his essence, and jump in the pool that’s been treated with triple the normal amount of chlorine (while we burn his clothes and shoes in an open fire pit). Welcome back, Jack!
Back in October, Erin began working at one of the local high schools as an assistant to the librarian. She makes it abundantly clear to everyone who asks: she’s not the assistant librarian; she’s the assistant TO the librarian. In a way, you could say she’s the Dwight Schrute (assistant TO the regional manager) of the Casteel High School library. That’s certainly better than being Creed, Meredith, or Kevin, for sure. In her spare time – you know, when she’s not chasing down juvenile delinquents trying to dodge paying fines for overdue books – she’s really gotten into Pilates, so she’s now more flexible than a four-year-old with an underdeveloped spinal column. It’s quite impressive.
As for myself, what can I say? I still haven’t written a best-selling novel (or even a worst-selling one, for that matter) or started a rock n roll band that will be the next U2/Beatles – beside the fact I have absolutely no musical talent (which didn’t necessarily stop Justin Beiber), I don’t hang out with enough people to complete a band. For now, I’ll stick to my snarky comments on Facebook and mildly amusing (at least I make myself laugh) posts on Instagram. We, the Greenes, wish you a very warm and happy holiday season and hope the nausea will pass quickly!
Thursday, December 24, 2015
For those of you who have been the unwilling and/or unwitting recipients of this end-of-year epistle in the past, you know that you usually reach the end of reading it even more confused than when you began. It’s sort of like if you packed for a big trip while heavily medicated: once you’ve reached your destination, you open your suitcase to find that you’ve ONLY packed three different shoes (all for the left foot), an oven mitt, and the centerpiece from your dining room table; and your carry-on is full of nothing but chocolate chip cookie dough. Well, you’ve been warned – read on.
Sam has had four major events take place in his life this past year: (1) he finished his first year of high school back in May; (2) he made the honor roll both semesters in his freshman year; (3) he obtained his learner’s permit back in August; and (4) he has surpassed his old man in height. While the last item isn’t exactly something he had much “control” in accomplishing, we think it might be the one of which he’s most proud. (Not to steal his thunder, but it’s very possible that his father is shrinking – so he got some help on that one.) We had the chance to attend an awards ceremony for his honor roll accomplishment, and while we were beaming with pride to see our son being recognized for his hard work, we were also a bit surprised to learn that there are twelve different ways to spell “Courtney” – for both guys and girls, some of which defy all rules of phonics and cultural traditions.
Earlier this year, we were . . . shocked, frankly, to learn that not only did Jack get accepted to two colleges with great engineering programs but received a scholarship to one of them. A month or two later, he received his assignment to serve a two-year mission for our church in Iquitos, Peru. All of this was done BEFORE he had actually graduated from high school, which he did, fortunately. With his college options and scholarship deferred, Jack spent the summer getting himself ready to depart for Peru in August. Many of these preparations were arduous and exacting, which included going to the local doughnut shop and setting a record for the number of doughnut holes he could stuff in his mouth. (The number is 15 for those of you are up for a challenge.) One of the other things he had done to prepare himself was taking our Ford Ranger off a jump – he admitted this to us at the airport on the day of his departure. He’s now in Iquitos where it rains 10 feet/year, and he’s eaten grilled anteater. Send him an email at email@example.com.
Erin got roped into heading up the women’s organization at church this year, which means Sam and I have to make ourselves scarce at the house on occasion so Erin can have women come over to eat cake and talk about secret women stuff. We’re fairly sure they’re plotting an overthrow of a small third-world country – for the good of the people, of course. Earlier this year, I had enough grey hair appear in my head to cause the folks at church to bump me up to the oldest men’s organization – you don’t get out of this one alive, if you know what I mean.
Our door is always open to you. Even though, as I write this, it’s warmer in New York City than here, this is still a great place to visit. Be careful how you pack, but rest assured: we’ll make good use of the chocolate chip cookie dough.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Just like the Ebola virus, which no one hopes they’ll get but seem sure to hear that it has somehow survived despite humankind’s best efforts to stamp it out and wipe every trace of it off the face of the Earth, I present to you the Greene Family Christmas Letter for 2014 . . . even if it’s a bit later than normal.
In the spring, Sam went out for his junior high school’s golf team and made the cut. Making that feat even more impressive, let me point out that the coach was the school’s computer teacher whose complete mentoring and guidance for young golfers could be summed up in his own words: “Keep your head down.” It didn’t matter if Sam or one of the other team members was topping the ball, hitting a killer slice, or was possibly suffering from athlete’s foot, that was the coach’s answer. Let’s not be too harsh in judging the cat: he was very busy driving the golf cart with his left knee while he poured a bag of Corn Nuts down his gullet with one hand and held a 128-oz soda “keg” in the other. And, under this Arnold Palmer’s tutelage, Sam and his team were able to make it to regionals . . . by the grace of David Feherty’s golf god. In the fall, Sam began high school, which meant that our carpool days were over for the moment – he and Jack ride to and from school each day, which has met, thus far, with no casualties to the car or miscellaneous road signs due to fighting over whose turn it was to scrape the frost off the windshield (have Erin tell you about driving to school with her sister – that poor stop sign).
As Jack began his senior year of high school in late July, you would have thought he hadn’t a care in the world about where he was going to go to college . . . because he didn’t, much to his parents’ chagrin. Subtle hints like “do you have an extra $40,000 lying around somewhere to pay for college” and “the S.A.T.s don’t stand for ‘scholarships are toast’” didn’t seem to do much to rally him to the cause. Somehow, though, he woke up one morning and decided he better get his crap together (don’t jump to conclusions, though: he’s not exactly burning up the internet with applications and emails to every school possible), and one of the major things he realized he needed to obtain was his Eagle rank in Boy Scouts so he could beef up his academic resume. So, in October of this year, he guilted a whole slew of people into helping him paint the fire lanes at the high school as his project, and soon thereafter he completed everything else required and passed his board of review. We’re not sure when the ceremony will be held or what form it will take, but we’ll be sure to take lots of photos to prove he actually did it. We’ll post them on Facebook – especially the one in which he’s being presented the Eagle so I can caption it, “And the old dude gives Jack the bird.”
As for Erin and myself, we’re trying to find ways to make a little extra money so we’ve toyed with the idea of renting our house out to a meth or crack lab, but the CC&Rs in our neighborhood are pretty tight, and I’m not sure if we can find a loophole. When we’re not donning our entrepreneurial thinking caps, Erin continues to seek out and cook meals that will elicit the maximum amount of bellyaching from our sons; I am constantly trying out new exercises that make me sweat profusely and completely fatigue me without changing my body composition and muscle-to-fat ratio – it’s a hobby. We hope this note finds you well and healthy . . . and Ebola free!
Thursday, May 08, 2014
Earlier this week, I had a business meeting out in Chicago. It was too early in the day for me to fly out the same day, so I arranged to fly in the day before. In the past few years, I’ve had the chance of spending a good amount of time in Chitown, but as fate would have it, I could never coordinate my trips with dates when the Cubs were in town and playing at Wrigley Field . . . until this trip.
While I grew up a baseball fan, going mostly to A’s and Giants games, I’ve had a list of the ballparks in which I would like to watch a game. The list isn’t very big: Yankee Stadium (the old one), Fenway Park, and Wrigley Field. Back in the late ‘80s, I lived in The Bronx and was able to attend two games at the old Yankee Stadium – once from the bleachers where I got Bo Jackson (who was playing for the Royals) to do a goofy pose for a photo and once on the lower level on the third-base side. A few years back, my family and I were in Boston about two weeks after the baseball season ended, so we missed our chance to see a game but went on a tour of Fenway Park. While I’m glad we did it, I still want to see a game at this historic park. And of course, there’s Wrigley Field with the ivy-covered walls located smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood. But I’m getting ahead of myself – sorry!
On my flight out to Chicago, just after we took off, the pilot comes on and says, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Captain Steve Dauntless and assisting me here in the cabin is my First Officer, Douglas Bornhoffer. We’re going to climb to 30,000 feet and find some good stable air for our flight out to Chicago today. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” First off, I’m not sure why they tell us their names. It’s not like we have trading cards of the pilots and first officers that we’re all waiting to trade or we’re all playing “Fantasy Fly Boys”, and we’re hoping we get the right guys so we can rub it in our friends’ faces. Also, in all the flying I’ve done, when the pilot has come on and made the introduction, I have yet to have one of my fellow passengers look over at me and say, “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe how lucky we are! We’re flying with Captain Dauntless. Do you know what his ERA is?” At that last comment, I would have a look of confusion painted on my face, and my fellow passenger would say, “ERA! It’s his End of Runway Accident record.” My only response at that point would be, “Well, I hope it’s zero.”
The second thing I find odd in these little feel-good announcements from Cockpit Carl is the need to tell us our cruising altitude, which is generally 30,000 feet. I would be impressed if the guy came over the PA and said, “Ladies and gentlemen. Most pilots like to cruise at 30,000 feet, but as you’ll notice in the next two or three minutes, we’ll be climbing so high that nothing on the ground is going to be evenly remotely recognizable. I do that just to keep a little mystery in the flight. Oh, and I’ll be deploying the oxygen masks just for the heck of it. Don’t be alarmed, it’s your choice, really. The air can get a little thin at 55,000 feet even in a pressurized cabin like ours.” Telling us the cruising altitude is silly. There’s nothing that tall that we need to be careful to avoid. The tallest building in the US is under 1,500 feet. Mount Everest is just a tad over 29,000 feet tall. And I’m going to take a wild guess and say, anything over about 20,000 feet is probably difficult to gauge anyway. With that in mind, the next flight you take, bring an altimeter along and announce aloud your aircraft’s altitude in 5,000 foot increments. Your fellow passengers will thank you, I’m sure. And if you don’t make it up to 30,000 feet, demand to speak with the pilot – they love to have their performances critiqued.
A little over three hours later, we landed safe and sound (always my preference) at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. After picking up my rental car and making it to my hotel, I fired up the Internet (God bless Al Gore for inventing that!) and mapped out the best way to get to Wrigley Field from where I was staying. Knowing that Wrigley is located in the middle of a neighborhood and parking is a premium, I chose to catch a train out in the north suburbs that would take me within a few blocks of the park.
When I arrived at Wrigley, I chose to purchase a bleacher seat. The folks at Wrigley make a big deal out of their bleacher fans, so I thought this would be the quintessential Wrigley Field experience – and it was. Upon entering the park, I was handed a pink t-shirt and was asked to wear it at the end of the second inning for a breast-cancer-awareness promotion and photo. Gladly. I chose to make my way to left field because there seem to be more right-handed batters than lefties, so the odds of catching a home run ball were higher. One can dream.
I found my seat and sat down to watch the end of warm ups. I noticed a lot of the people around me were “regulars” – you could tell by the way they talked to each other and interacted with the ushers. As I sat on my metal bleacher seat, I realized I had come woefully unprepared for an evening game in early May in Chicago. The cold metal beneath my hindquarters quickly seeped its way up into my body through my jeans and thin underwear. (The only reason I added the detail about my underwear was that if I had finished the sentence at “jeans”, some smartass would invariably say, “What, you were wearing jeans with no underwear?” I know I would have said it if the roles were reversed.) I had only brought a thin fleece jacket and an ASU tuke (beanie) – not exactly the right outfit for 45 degrees with a mild wind blowing in from Lake Michigan. The ironic thing was that the official organ player was playing Beach Boys songs to make everyone feel like spring had arrived. I almost exploded when he/she busted into “Surfin’ USA”.
As the players cleared off the field and before the ceremonial first pitch was thrown out by a cancer survivor, the field crew came out one more time to tidy everything up for the game. The last thing they did was spray down the dirt in the infield with water to keep the dust down, and surprisingly, this took six dudes with just one hose. The lead “hoser” – the one who actually held the end of the hose and guided where the water was sprayed – was dressed in a Cubs polo shirt and chinos. The other five cats were dressed decidedly more casually, and they held the hose in three- or four-foot increments between one another – apparently, this is a very heavy hose (although it didn’t look to be more than twice the size of a standard garden hose). What struck me most was the fact there was a disparity in the “uniform” of the lead “hoser” and the other “hosers” – obviously, there’s a pecking order, and this lead guy is the big cheese. I’m not sure what he does better than the other guys in handling the hose and directing the water spray. The ability to spray things is innate for practically every male on this planet – we’ve been doing it since birth.
As the game began, I quickly realized something: the game of baseball is mind-numbingly slow and so boring that I believe we all lost a few IQ points for sitting there watching the contest between the Cubs and the White Sox. Ironically, I grew up playing baseball, and I loved it. Well, I might not have LOVED IT, but it was the only sport at which I had a modicum of talent and could hold my own on the field without embarrassing myself. Basketball, football, soccer, etc. – none of these sports held any fascination for me. Weird!
Near the end of the second inning, a woman came to our section and reminded us to wear our pink shirts for the photo. What made me laugh was this statement: “Come on all you White Sox fans. We put the Cubs logo on the back of the shirts on purpose so you wouldn’t have a problem wearing this for a photo opportunity for a good cause.” While the two teams are in different leagues, the cross-town rivalry is alive and well, and the “pink shirt” organizers knew their audience. Kudos to them! My mom’s a survivor and so are a number of phenomenally brave women I’ve been lucky enough to know in my life.
The bleacher fans were some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Despite their “niceness”, I couldn’t take it any longer after the fourth inning. The combination of the sports equivalent of watching paint dry and the cold assaulting me at every turn, I decided it was time to get back on the train and make like a baby and head out. As I was leaving, I looked down and noticed that the ivy on the brick wall on which the bleachers sat was completely dead. Apparently, this stuff doesn’t grow well in subarctic temperatures either.
My train ride back to my car was moving along smoothly for the first three or four stops. Suddenly, without any prelude, one of my fellow riders screamed at the top of his lungs – it was a sound one would expect coming out of the mouth of a 13 year-old girl watching “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” (which would be odd because that movie is rated “R”, and no responsible adult should take an impressionable girl to watch such a thing, but that’s another topic for another day). As I looked in the direction of the scream, I noted it was coming from a 40-something dude who proceeded to tell the entire train car the differences between what a heterosexual man and a homosexual man . . . prefer. After he was satisfied that we were clear on this subject, he “educated” us on the correct terms for castration as it applied to the different genders (given the degree of detail he shared with us, I’m pretty sure he paid attention that day in biology class). His stop came just in time – there was a guy on the other end of the car who didn’t seem to be following Screaming Sammy’s lecture, and I was afraid we were about to get a demonstration. After Sammy left the car, the rest of the ride was practically silent. I could tell my fellow riders were glad to see the back of this guy, but truth be told, I was beginning to be nostalgic for my days in New York City on the subway. I still remember the guy who got into our car in Harlem and walked around asking for money. When he didn’t get the amount he was seeking, he started playing a saxophone. Of course, he hadn’t taken a single saxophone lesson in his life, and he WASN’T a child prodigy. After about ten seconds (that seemed like ten minutes) of unmitigated noise, sax man said, “I won’t stop until you give me some money.” And we all dug into our pockets for as much loose change as we could find.
The rest of my time in Chicago was fairly uneventful. And the plane ride home was okay except for the toddler who sat behind me with restless leg syndrome and a mother who was absolutely oblivious. I can’t blame the kid because, well, he’s a kid, and his mother obviously stayed for all nine innings of the game the night before and lost too many IQ points to be a responsible adult.