Pour. Cool. Reheat. Repeat.

This blog post probably won't amount to much. Even as I write this, toys are strewn about the house as though rabid raccoons - also known as our children - tore through each room leaving behind the kind of devastation more commonly seen in the aftermath of a tornado. That's not to mention the dishes that are stacked in the kitchen waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. At this point, there's no escaping the reality that a good husband would have taken care of these issues before taking time to write a blog. Of course, in the time it took to craft the wording for this paragraph alone, the house could have been thoroughly cleaned.

So, in honor of my lovely wife, I will honor her with a post dedicated to her. This is, of course, an attempt to abate her wrath. I have every reason to expect that it will fail.

In the eleven plus years that I've been married to her, and thus lived with her, it never ceases to amaze me that I still learn something new about my wife's personality, her preferences, or behavior patterns. One such behavior pattern has inspired this post - namely, her morning coffee ritual.

Day after day, my wife goes to great lengths to prepare her coffee just the way she likes it: Enough coffee to technically declare it coffee, then massive amounts of cream and sugar to completely mask any hint of coffee flavor. This sometimes takes several minutes, as she wants to get the mixture just right.

Next, my wife then sits her coffee, which has been prepared in her favorite hand-crafted coffee mug, down in a non-disclosed location somewhere inside our house. This is where the coffee will sit for roughly 45-90 minutes.

Sometime later, my wife will rediscover her coffee with great joy and zeal. At this point, seeing as how the coffee has cooled, she places her mug in the microwave, and will reheat the beverage to a desired temperature. Then, once again, the coffee will sit - more often than not inside the microwave - until just a hint of warmth remains. Inevitably, only half the cup of coffee will be consumed before it is thrown down the drain.

Observing these trends each day, without a doubt, has brought new joy and meaning to my life.

But I'm afraid I've said too much.

Too Young to Know, Too Old to Change

I have pretty strong opinions about music. So much so that I will often be heard saying, "I don't like that song." Or, "That song was pretty cool." It could, in fact, be the same song. I should also mention that I'm somewhat schizo in my musical intrigues, which is more of a recent development. But occasionally there's a song that comes out of no where and says something or strikes a melodic tone that touches somewhere deep within the fiber of my being. In those moments, I'm swept away in harmonious bliss. Music has that hold on me... and has for a very long time. 

I recently discovered a band that surprised me with such an occasion. It's a song by the band Loney Dear from their album Dear John - and the song is titled Summers. I don't know much about this band. I discovered them while sitting in Starbucks, and had to use my Shazam app to identify it. I'm so glad I did. I doubt my life will ever be the same. One thing's for sure... my iTunes library won't be.

In the opening verse of this song, these lyrics emerge: I'm too young to know, but too old to change. Those lyrics flittered about in my soul like doves bathing in a puddle of angels' tears.  It would be a stretch to say I wept... actually, it would be a blatant lie. But you have to appreciate the ironic dichotomy expressed in that statement: Too young to know... too old to change.

It hits a little close to home for me, I guess. I feel like I'm in that stage of life where I'm still young. I have so much still to learn. And yet, I'm old enough that it's easy to feel a little set in my ways. Like the fact that I'm probably always going to leave the toilet seat up... or throw my jeans on the chair in the corner of my bedroom... or leave home projects only mostly finished... or write my blog while my wife is out with a friend and I should be cleaning up the kitchen. Hey... I'm just too old to change. 

Of course, with the right motivation, anything is possible. 

If you get a chance to listen to this song, I think you should. You may not like it. In fact, chances are you have pretty strong opinions about music, too. But if you listen to this song and you don't like it, then your opinions are dumb. 

I'm sorry... I said too much.

Button Pushing Deficiency

There's a tragic affliction affecting today's young adult that I fear many of us are largely unaware of. I, myself, was oblivious to this ailment until just recently. If you do nothing else today, please take the time to read this entire post. Educating the public is my number one concern.

Upon a recent visit to a mexican fastfood chain that urges us to head for the border, I was helped by a young man who was having a difficult time. I was bewildered by his challenges and, like many people, mistook this fine lad for being... well... lacking in effort. After pulling up to the window and handing him my card, however, I realized with horror what was actually going on. And I was shocked.

The young man - who's most noteworthy quality was his "punk-rock" hair style - revealed to me, as an older employee stepped in to offer assistance, that he "sucks at pushing buttons." And while I realize that a certain number of readers (assuming anyone reads this blog) may be offended by the use of the word "sucks," these were his exact words; I chose to keep it raw to impress the gravity of this situation. Please forgive me.

Having said that, I don't want you to miss what just happened. This young man, barely out of his teens (presumably), has a serious condition, and we need to consider the implications. The inability to push buttons may not have many professional implications; there are any number of career paths, with fastfood being the obvious exception, that don't require the pushing of buttons. But think of this: How will he text message his friends? How will he facebook? How will he play Xbox for hours with all the other kids his age? How will he microwave food, which, as we know, is the primary food source for many young adults? He very well may starve. Don't even get me started on riding in elevators, changes stations on the radio, or using a remote control.

So the next time you get frustrated in a fastfood line because it's taking longer than the phrase fastfood implies, just remember this: The person helping you may suffer from Button Pushing Deficiency. Cut 'em a little slack, and appreciate all that the button pushing ability affords you.

I fear I haven't said enough.

In Your Dreams

In high school, I became well acquainted with the phrase "in your dreams!" Whether it was my career in athletics, or my romantic pursuits, this phrase always seemed to apply. Not to mention the fact that there was rarely a missed opportunity to remind me of such wisdom - be it from the class jerk, or my parents. It's ironic, then, that even as an adult, on occasion, I relive those high school years... in my dreams.  

Dreams are funny little things. It's like Bethany Dillon once sang in a song, "I am a dreamer." Or Jack Johnson, when he sang, "Girl, let your dreams be dreams." And while I haven't figured out how to directly apply those lyrics, they are decent songs.

You see, dreams have a way of taking something that's tucked away ever so neatly into our subconscious, and bringing it to the surface like a giant white-head pimple (something else I was well-acquainted with in high school). Of course, dreams are also often coded and symbolic - to such an extant that you need a prophet (or a therapist, if a decent prophet is hard to find) in order to really know what they mean.

Well, over the years I've a had a recurring dream in which I'm back in high school - a more specific depiction of these dreams would be nightmare. The school, classes, and schedules are different with each dream. But the common thread in each one is that I'm completely confused about what my next class is, where it is, or whether or not I had a homework assignment the night before. So I walk into each class unsure of whether or not it's even the right one. I survey the faces of my fellow students to try and peg which one will be the first to make some fun at my expense. Then I wake up in a pool of my own sweat. (the last statement was inserted for dramatic effect)

Usually I come away from those dreams with a deep sigh of relief that I will never have to attend high school again. But recently I've had a new variation of this dream. I'm sure all the prophets (therapists) out there will have fun with this.

So in this recent dream, I'm stressing about my schedule and all that. Then it dawns on me: Just put my schedule in my Android smart phone. Brilliant! I'll never have to worry about when or where my next class is again! I can even put my locker combination and assignments in my "notes" and "to-do" apps. What a relief! Never mind that when I was in high school, cell phones, which could only make phone calls in those days, were roughly the size of a shoe box. Just let me bask in the newfound comfort of my two worlds - adult me, and high school me - colliding to bring order and meaning to a once chaotic time.

Of course, as the dream goes on, and just when I start to think that I've got a handle on things and I'm gaining some confidence, I look down to realize that there's a giant hole in the heel of my sock... that I'm wearing under my Birkenstocks...

It was the '90's.

I've said... too much.

Better Parenting

Recently, our church hosted a parenting conference. It was a big deal. They had all kinds of people on hand to lead workshops on everything from how to discipline to your child, to how to adopt a child. In their planning, however, a major oversight occurred - they failed to ask me to lead a workshop. Well, everything worked out fine, as I took it upon myself to summarize my would-be workshop in this three minute video. Watch it, and become a better parent... instantly.

Dunkin' Do-NOT

Even at the writing of this title, I feel a bitter rage welling up within from the depths of my being in the pit of my soul. That's not a happy place. And trust me, this has nothing to do with the fact that I just served a tour of "target practice" duty in Call of Duty - sadly, I was the target that provided the practice for the other three players. But honestly, this has nothing to do with that.

If I could be completely honest with you - and I hope I can be - I will tell you that it has everything to do with the consistently poor service I receive at a certain establishment that prides itself in serving donuts that can and/or should be dunked... dunked in what is irrelevant. I personally don't dunk my donuts in anything. I don't know why anyone would. You only end up with a soggy donut, and a beverage full of floaties. What's the point? For those of you who love to dunk your donuts, they should make a specialty item on the menu. Just throw a donut in the blender with the beverage of your choice: Milk, coffee, Mt. Dew, or whatever. Blend it up, and serve it with an extra wide straw. There you go.

Now back to the point: We have one of these "establishments" just around the corner. My wife and kids love it, and I'd be lying if I said there weren't a time or two when I got suckered into going there completely against my will. And each time has been a disaster for me.

Let me ask you something. You don't need to answer this out loud, as it may startle the person sitting near you. How hard is it to listen to someone and retain what they've communicated to you - very clearly, I might add - long enough to provide the specific items they so eloquently articulated? Did you understand the question?

How hard is it to hear, "Large coffee with caramel and extra cream - no sugar, just the caramel," and then actually produce the item specified? Assuming you're resourced properly, it shouldn't be that hard! On two recent visits to this establishment, however, it proved to be a tall order, indeed.

The first of these visits, upon ordering the large coffee with caramel and cream, the intelligent young man behind the register gave me coffee with just caramel... that was it. No cream, just caramel. The next visit, though the order was the same, this nice fellow - same as before - gave me pumpkin spice. When corrected on our actual order, he simply poured out the erroneous coffee, and without wiping off the cup, refilled it with the correct, however illusive, coffee, caramel and cream. Thus, upon receiving my cup, I then had to wipe off the coffee that was left streaming down its sides.

Perhaps that's acceptable in a place where the defilement of perfectly good coffee by dunking is encouraged. But for this coffee lover, it is not.

I'm afraid that if I go much further, I just might say too much. 

Adult Peer Pressure

We all remember those bygone years of yesteryear when our loving parents warned us of the inherent dangers of "peer pressure." They would recite modern proverbs about friends jumping off bridges, and others that I can't recall, just to engrain in us this understanding: Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't mean that we have to do it. For me, however, being the sheltered child that I was, that included all kinds of things... like staying up later than nine o'clock, or using the cheat codes on Contra (up, down, up, down, left, right, left, right...). What they should have been teaching us, however, is that this whole idea of pressure from the peers doesn't go away. Oh no... it just changes focus, and suddenly becomes acceptable. Well I cry foul, sir... I cry foul!

Now that I'm in my adult years, I may not have "friends," so called, who are trying to turn me on to the latest drug on the streets. But that doesn't mean the "peer pressure" beast doesn't show it's ugly face, from time to time! At the risk of being a little graphic, let me share two specific examples that have happened to me in the past eighteen months - both involving food.

The first example that comes to mind happened at a Christmas party. The host made a "delicious" - or so she would have me believe - desert that involved peanut butter and something crunchy. Incidentally, both of which are things I'm not particularly fond of. She offers. I respectfully decline. She insists - asserting that it was the "best thing ever," and that I "had to try it." I caved. Even now, I hang my head in shame.

The second example isn't unlike the first. At a friend's house playing an obscure board game, said "friends" offer me a brownie... a brownie to end all brownies, and will most certainly change my life. Knowing that I only care for box-mix brownies covered with cream-cheese icing, I declined. They threatened me with idle and harmless threats. Again, I caved. Yet another victim of Adult Peer Pressure (APP).

Even now, I'm reminded of the timeless advice we received under the Reagan Administration when we were encouraged to "just say no." Well, I tried, Nancy... Lord knows I tried. But they just wouldn't listen.

I've said too much.