So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

When I go food shopping, if circumstances allow, I bag my own groceries. What are the necessary circumstances? First and foremost, I must be shopping alone. If I have my girls with me, I’m sorry, but all of my attention and energy on the checkout line is focused on keeping their hands off the candy and trying to prevent them from repeatedly asking the cashier for stickers. Not that I succeed at this, as I typically leave the store with two girls plastered with stickers on their body and faces that read “THIS ALCOHOL IS PAID FOR.” Second, there has to be no store employee available to bag. I wouldn’t want a grocery store employee coming to my job, pushing me out of my chair and sitting down to write a rambling column about my family, so I won’t impose. This rules out shopping at Safeway, which usually has baggers. By the way, I’m pretty sure Safeway baggers are obligated to ask, “Do you need help out with this?” which is embarrassing for everyone involved when I’m declining while be...

There’s been a great debate raging about pumpkins, and the debate is a worthwhile one. Because pumpkins have been creeping their way into everything over the past few years – coffee, pancakes, beer, hand soap , tacos maybe, edible underwear, and jewelry. That is the list. The reason for this is, I believe, two-fold. First, Pinterest. There are just too many ideas on Pinterest that society keeps implementing, and it’s thwarted our concept of reality. Seasonal themes have been jammed down our throat to the point that nothing happens organically anymore. By the time you even realize it’s fall, you’re wearing pumpkin-themed oven mitts and holding a batch of pumpkin muffins for which your wife got the recipe on Pinterest. (Add muffins to the list.) Fun fact: If you search “pumpkins” on Pinterest, Pinterest will explode. It’s too much. Overkill. Second, there’s a rush to fall. And hey, listen, I get it. Fall is my favorite season, too. But maybe let’s pump the brakes a bit. I’ve noticed ...

Of pure coincidence as it relates to the recent trifecta of columns regarding our daughter’s struggles, I have been drinking wine lately. Now, I am a beer drinker first and foremost. I want to make that abundantly beer, I mean clear. But also beer—I would like to make an abundant beer, actually. So yes, beer is great and I love it and it is my favorite. That said, I have been getting into wine lately. Now, by “getting into” I mean that I enjoy drinking it, especially with dinner, not that I am developing any sort of pretentious wine palate or saying ridiculous things like, “I prefer a French merlot to a California cabernet.” Just writing that sentence gave me the chills. Although it should be mentioned that the levels of disdain and respect I have for self-proclaimed wine connoisseurs is strangely equal. So no, I am not a wine snob. In fact, a major reason behind my dalliance into vino was my introduction to Trader Joe’s famed “three-buck Chuck.” (Which used to be two-buck Chuck...

This weekend is Labor Day weekend, which means several important things. For starters, only two months left of summer! Or three months, depending on whether or not the scorpion sees its shadow. Also, we should take time over the weekend to give thanks for the labor unions and a political appeasement process that feared another Pullman Strike for making this extra day off possible. (If that sounded smart, please be aware that I just, like two seconds ago, looked up “Labor Day” on Wikipedia. And I am a history major.) More importantly, of course, Labor Day marks the beginning of football season. Football season creates an interesting dynamic in our household. To be more specific, my wife greatly dislikes football. And that’s real football I’m referring to, so you can imagine how she feels about my love for fake football. The Saturday of Labor Day weekend is, you see, the occasion of my annual fantasy football draft. This was a much easier thing to partake in when we lived back east ...

Note: This column appears in the 5/31 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/1 issue of the Peoria Times. My wife works as a therapist in other people’s homes. She oftentimes becomes close with the families she works with, and it is not uncommon for her to discover new and exciting non-therapy-related things during her conversations with these families. She then relays this information to me over dinner, like, “So and so saw a rattlesnake in their backyard, so I don’t think we should go outside for a few weeks,” and “One of my kids is singing ‘Yankee-Doodle Dandy’ at the library Saturday morning and we’re going.” Months ago, one of her families told her about a religious fast they were undertaking where they only consume fruit, nuts, vegetables and water for three weeks. My wife told me about this with a spark of curiosity and intrigue, so like an excellent husband I responded, “Good luck.” She did the fast on her own and did an amazing job. She said it was the best sh...

Note: This column appears in the 1/19 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/20 issue of the Peoria Times. We had to hop over a 12-foot wall just to make it to the starting corral for the Tough Mudder event in Mesa last weekend. Once we landed safely, we were informed by the event’s emcee—after a rather inspirational speech—to be careful, as many of the runners who had already departed had suffered injuries like dislocated knees and broken collarbones. Oh, and also a heart attack. Someone had suffered a heart attack. And with that, we were off. The second obstacle was the Chernobyl Jacuzzi, which has, for your records, been renamed the “Arctic Enema,” which does not do the obstacle justice, as I would happily endure a dozen arctic enemas before doing this again once. It is a dumpster filled with ice water and separated by a board in the middle. You walk in, unspeakably freezing water up to your chest, and to make it to the other side, you must submerge yourself in the water and go under...

Note: This column appears in the 7/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/2 issue of the Peoria Times There was a guy who used to live next door to us. He never wore a shirt -– I literally saw him with a shirt on only once or twice –- and he always had a beer in his hand. Now, this would have been a hilariously endearing scenario were this a sitcom and not real life. Also, he stored his cement mixer (!) on our side of the front yard. Then one day he was gone. We later found out he had been arrested. Before him, a family lived there. I never could quite figure out their infrastructure. The wife lived with her brother-in-law, and some cousins or something, and there were random children in and out. But everyone over the age of 12 smoked a pack a day, which they did in their backyard, and which delightfully wafted into our living room each evening. Most recently a different family lived there. They avoided human contact at all cost, and would close their garage door before we could so muc...

Note: This column appears in the 1/14 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/15 issue of the Peoria Times I have been on the 1st birthday party circuit for the past month. This is mostly all new to me. Sure, I have been to 1st birthday parties before. Most of them, I imagine, when I was one. But I do recall attending my niece’s 1st birthday party a couple of years ago. I even, rather appropriately, brought a couple of my ol’ college buddies, partly because they were staying at our house at the time and I had no other choice, and partly because they really know how to party. Nevertheless, things are different now that we’re kind of, unofficially, parents. Whereas before at non-family 1st birthday parties we were shunned as “childless acquaintances,” we are now members of an exclusive club, with a laundry list of privileges, not the least of which is acceptance. And cake. Case in point: While in California over the holidays visiting our friends, we tagged along to a 1st birthday party th...

Note: This column appears in the 8/20 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/21 issue of the Peoria Times Ever since I could grow it, I have had facial hair. In one form or another. As a young teenager it was the wispy mustache and patchy beard. Later on it was the goatee. In college I rocked the thin-beard plus goatee combination, which I only now realize made me look like a rejected member of the Backstreet Boys. Besides appearing dangerously older to members of the opposite sex, another important attribute of this early facial hair was my increased ability to buy beer. To this day I sport the facial hair. Currently I am enjoying the beard that is not fully a beard, but more like a “third day on ‘Survivor’” beard. This look was popularized by Don Johnson and Bruce Willis in the 80s, so obviously I am up to date fashion-wise. The irony of it all is that this look is supposed to say, “Hey, I don’t care…shave, don’t shave, whatever, man,” but I actually have to trim it to keep it that way...

Mark the Beer Guy, 2008 Okay, so here's the story: I'm at a celebrity baseball game yesterday in Scottsdale, and I go to get a beer. (Weird, I know, but stay with me here.) The line was too long to wait at the concession stand, so I left, but on my way back to my seat I run into Mark the Beer Guy, who I didn't know at the time was running for beer-related office. After pouring me an ice cold brewskie, he says, "And here, take my card." I'm thinking to myself, "Geez, beer guys have business cards? Freakin' Scottsdale," until I actually looked at the card, and saw this. Now, I don't know what the chances are that a random guy who blogs about silly sports cards would run into a beer guy who hands out a silly sports card of himself , but there must have been some divine intervention going on here. You should also know that the card was in the plastic protective sleeve inside the hard plastic cover, as if he were handing Mickey Mantle rookie card...