The Nothing Box

Rising to the challenge

A man with no goal is a rudderless ship, subject to the whims of fickle Neptune's fathomless fancies...

No, wait, that's not right. (Well, it is right, but it's not going to get me to the point I want to make. Lemme start over.)

A man with no goal is a ship safe at port. He hath access to all he might need, but knoweth not how strong the stuff of his sails may be.

Stand by for actual example intended to double as allegory in 3... 2... 1:

Years ago almost everything I ate was bland. There was no garlic in my life. No curries. No peppers. It was, in part, a result of the company I kept but, in truth, I didn't even really aspire to spicy.

I had dabbled before and felt the heady rush of the flavorful fire. But mostly I played it safe. Nothing ventured, nothing lost, and I wasn't willing to risk the cost.

I won't go into what made my tastes change, but they did. And suddenly spicy sounded pretty damned good. Some peppers here, some salsa there. Shake a little Tabasco on that, wouldja? I bounced around, trying this and that, but eventually I had to admit I was getting nowhere. I decided I needed to test myself – to stretch my boundaries. I needed a plan. I needed a goal.

Now, let's be honest, spicy food goals are limited in St. Cloud, Minnesota. Thankfully, there is BW3. I set my sights on the Blazin' Challenge.

This was a worthy goal. It scared me (though I certainly wasn't going to let anyone know). There was going to be nothing comfortable about this zone.

Here's the thing you need to know about the Blazin' Challenge: The spiciness of the Blazin' sauce is no higher than third on your list of worries.

Problem number one is the temperature of the wings. See, the waitress brings your wings straight out from the kitchen, accompanied by a Wing Nazi. The Wing Nazi is equipped with a stopwatch. And when she hits that button, your six minutes start. Those wings are hot. That's problem number one.

Problem number two is more of a timed-release problem that I won't go into in this venue.

And yes, the Blazin' sauce is problem number three. It's pretty darned hot. And they slather a whole lot more of it onto your Blazin' Challenge order than they do when you place a regular ol' lunchtime order for a dozen Blazin' wings.

It made me sweat. It made me drool. It cut loose viscous strands of runny snot that issued forth from my nostrils in just about the least attractive way possible. But I did it. I did it in about four and a half minutes. I set the highest goal I could imagine and did what I needed to do to reach that goal.

That's what we should do more of, don't you think? I'm not very good at challenging myself, but I do pretty well at facing up to challenges when they're put before me. Corinne's awesome like that. She has a bold-but-delicate way of challenging me to try new things. To reach farther. To do something bigger and better. (No, she hasn't gotten me to write a book yet. But she'll never stop trying. Guess it's a goal of hers!)

I am one-eighth bohemian. Not nearly enough to be interesting.

My mother is half German, one quarter Swiss and one quarter Bohemian. And aside from a rampant, swarthy eyebrow, those crazy gypsy roots have given me... (sigh) Just about nothing.

For the most part, I'm okay with that. But every once in awhile, I really wish I had a little more of a bohemian edge to me. Just every once in awhile I'd like to be able to sit in a darkly lit coffee shop, sipping organic espresso, wearing something that looks truly ridiculous but is still cool (because it was hand-woven by the grandmother of an Ecuadoran freedom fighter who was executed by a death squad of jack-booted thugs and died in my arms, breathing out his last wish – that I take this poncho back to America so that some part of his grandmother could at least touch freedom), and opining in detached, world-weary tones about the collective works of Franz Kafka or David Sedaris or whoever it is that's really cool and not a phony.

But that will never be me. First off, I don't even like coffee. But it's more than that. I'll never be tragically hip because I'm too conservative in my politics, too aesthetically unaware in my fashion sense and too slothful in my reading habits.

I have a degree in government, and the closest I ever came to "politically active" in college was driving into town when Bob Dole came to the St. Cloud Holiday Inn. (Actually, I'm not even sure I drove. I think my car was broken down at the time.)

The only time I was ever "fashion-forward" was my senior year in high school. Moving from a big school to a small one, I was at the vanguard of the boxer rebellion. And I was the first to wear indoor soccer shoes to class.

I think the biggest part of my problem is plain old apathy. It takes work to be quirky. And I just don't have enough want-to in me. There are just these passing whims. That's not, however, to say that I am and will always be a blind conformist. (That takes work too. Keeping up with all the trends I'm supposed to follow? Come on. That's not me either.)

I guess I'll just be who I am. I'll embrace the eighth of myself that actually IS bohemian. And I'll sleep well in the knowledge that, while my percentage isn't high enough to get me free tickets to the poetry slam, it IS high enough to get me a cut if they ever open up a casino in Greenwich Village.

She's my little rock and roll

 

On Saturday, Corinne and I did the MS Mud Run - Twin Cities. (Tell me again, exactly which city is Dresser, Wisconsin's twin?) It was a fantastically kick-ass time, with a ton of great stories to tell. For shorthand versions of some of those, see below.* The thing I want to talk about though is the positively equalizing effect of thick, full-coverage mud.

We live in a world wracked with body image issues and flagging self esteem. Fortunately, what was true in Akron in 1938 is just as true today. Everyone looks great when they're covered head-to-toe in mud. There's something undeniably sexy about a woman willing to sabotage her manicure to support MS research.

Slathered on, monochromatic mud, obtained in the charitable pursuit of a goal, just does something that highlighted streaks and smoky eye-shadow never could.

Complete mud immersion therapy can balance out imagined flaws. Insecure a-cup girls? I'm going to guess you could pack on at least a cup size worth of muck after crawling through 6+ miles of it. And c-cup girls? Oh, who the hell am I kidding? You all looked great right from the start.

I want to be perfectly clear that my point isn't anything lurid or crude. Seriously. (I climbed a lot of steep hills on Saturday with my face mere feet away from Rachel's or Jodi's ass [or Justin's ass, too, I suppose]. And, since both Isaac and Chad could swiftly and easily beat me senseless [as, I suppose, could both Corinne and Reba], I want the record straight that my mind was always exactly where it belonged – on the searing pain in my left calf and the jabbing rocks in my right boot.

I'm talking about the pure, wholesome beauty that every person possesses when glistening in the glorious filth of human kindness. And that's straight-up hot.

 

*Shorthand versions of Mud Run stories

• We signed up two teams. My Curmudgeons ran in the competitive-coed-teams-of-five division. Corinne's Angels With Dirty Faces ran in the DGAP division. (Don't Give a Poop. No, seriously. That's what they call it.)

• After much shuffling and more who's in / who's out than an MLB all-star game, the rosters that lined up to face the starting gun were:

Curmudgeons
    • Justin Gauerke
    • Jodi Rohe
    • Rachel Watkins
    • Rachel's fellow-phy-ed-teacher buddy, Mark (a.k.a., Grambo)
    • Me
Angels With Dirty Faces
    • The always angelic Corinne
    • Corinne's sister, Annette (who must have some angel in her, genetically speaking, given Corinne's angelic status)
    • The must-be-angelic-because-everyone-seems-to-like-her Gina Nacey
    • Honorary angel and much better sport than he gets credit for, Eric Nacey

• Gina had a plane to catch that evening, but she wanted to get all the way to the end of that course, just to jump off the tower into the 7-foot "mud pool".

So she and Eric sprinted off from the beginning (they ended up running a faster time than our competitive team) and left Corinne and Annette to spend some quality bonding time that they don't get much of. I think that was really cool. There's a gap in age between Corinne and Annette. I'm not going to get into how big a gap it is, but suffice it to say that Corinne's Barbie clothes were out of style by the time they got handed down to Annette. This was one of very few times that they've gotten to spend a few hours together without kids or spouses or anyone, just working together toward a goal. Worth the price of admission, right there.

• No one got seriously hurt. That's a legitimate concern here. I'm not sure how we managed to get 9 of us through that course with nothing more than some truly nasty looking blisters. I think I was the most wounded of anyone and my greatest injury occurred when I pulled a muscle making the always-dangerous parking lot run from the gas station to the ATM before we even left Sartell.

• Chad Gertken has the patience of a saint. He showed up with us, waited through the Angels' wave, then continued waiting while the Curmudgeons ran, and never complained at all. Not even an eye roll. Chad – and I say this in the most reverent tone possible – you are the consummate bag bitch.

• Sure, just about everyone enjoyed the post-race beer. But how many racers were as dedicated to their hops as Justin and I were with our pre-race beer? Suck on that, spaghetti feed.

 

 

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What a weekend should be

I just had the kind of weekend that picks up your brutal, beat-down of a week, shakes it by its scrawny neck, and hollers "Suck it, bitch!"

It was the kind of weekend that God sends on rare occasions to some of His most weary and downtrodden little creations. The kind where the veils of stress and frustration flutter and part in a passing breeze of chance.

My weekend kicked ass.

Now, in order to truly grasp the scope of this weekend's awesomeness, you need to get your head around the profound suckfest that was "last week." Stuff was breaking, funds were dwindling, kids were crabbing, schedules were bursting...and I'm not even going to get into work (because anything honest I wrote would probably get me fired...and this blog doesn't pay ANY bills).

So Corinne and I limped into Friday evening. Fortunately, Molly and Claudia were both out of town for the early evening marching in a parade, because it gave us the last couple of hours it took to finish putting together the zebra room.

It's a consistent challenge, fitting six kids into a three-bedroom house. It's gotten a little easier as they get older -- Josie's more out than in (though her stuff still occupies what will one day be my workout room), and Erin doesn't sleep over anymore. But it's still crowded, and it leaves Molly with a family room as her bedroom.

That means we need to find ways to make it a dual-use space. It needs to be a functioning family room for 12 days...and then it needs to make Molly feel welcome and at home for two days. So we built a 5x8 foot platform at 4.5 feet high. The couch goes under that, and Molly's bed goes on top of that - on her own little mezzanine level. It came out awesome. And Corinne took Molly's request for a  "zebra-colored theme with bright-blue accents" and ran with it.

Molly loved it. We actually got an, "It's more than I dreamed of" out of a 13-year-old. THAT is a statement.

So the weekend was off and running.

Claudia got to go spend the weekend at her friend's cabin, goofing around and tubing. Big, happy win there.

Josh got to sleep over at his friend's house on Saturday night. Win for him. (And Luke's parents are good about making them get some actual sleep. Win for us.)

After a few days of terror and panic induced by her new invisible-fence collar,

Bijou finally got the hang of it and started discovering the joys of running around the yard without a chain. Huge, unfettered win there.

 

I took down some branches off the maple tree out front and managed to burn them on the same night -- so they didn't add to the unsightly brush pile on Ty's side of our house. Nice little win for Ty there.

On Saturday, we managed to remove an imminent lawsuit from our backyard and replace it with a mere probable lawsuit. We tore down the 10-year-old trampoline and replaced it with a brand-new, much springier, much nettier trampoline. Very big win for all there.

 

I got a great little Sunday-morning ride in with my wife. (On bikes, you pervs.) And Corinne accomplished the geometric impossibility of charting a looped route that pretty much avoided wind for its entirety. Take THAT, south-easterly breeze.

Quinn got to go to the fly-in breakfast with his Grandpa Lloyd and catch pancakes from across the hanger. Good-time win for him.

Molly and Anngel got to make a trip to the mall on Sunday afternoon and waste a whole lot of time (though not a lot of money). Jasmine got to take a trip to the beauty salon and, since she's so fat and happy, didn't have to get shaved down all the way bald. Quinn, Josh, Ben, Tommy and I all got to go catch a Sunday matinee of Green Lantern. Win for us.

And while all THAT was going on, Corinne was home making serrano-infused homemade salsa, marinating chicken in a fantastic green curry sauce, and cooking up a double batch of cheesy potatoes. Gigantic-sized win and a great way to wrap up the weekend.

Wow.

Weekends should all be like that.

(And I'm already in need of another one, because today kicked off Suck Week, Part Deux.)

Little Duplex on the Prairie

Settle the hell down, breath deeply, and take comfort in this simple fact: there's someone lazier than you. There's always someone lazier than you.

I coasted through school based on that knowledge. I finish races fueled by that knowledge. And, occasionally, I sit comfortably on my back patio with a beer – at peace in the glow of that knowledge.

I'm aware that I will never win an award at any lawn and garden show. In fact, in your neighborhood, I'd probably be that guy. The guy you shake your head and grumble about at the annual block party. The next-door neighbor whose weeds make you take that extra pass along the border with the weed 'n' feed. The guy you not-so-secretly wish would join the circus, move out, and sell the house to a nice young assistant greenskeeper from Kentucky. (Those are some of the many reasons I don't live in your neighborhood.)

In my neighborhood we've got the guy who lives behind me. Terrible, disastrous lawn. Ridiculous. Hideous. Birds won't crap on it. Makes you wonder how, as a homeowner, he can find inner peace enough to even enjoy his Harley.

You wanna know how? Re-examine paragraph 1.

See, the guy who lives behind me – with his rock-hard, dandelion-strewn, post-apocalyptic wasteland of a lawn can relax and take comfort. Because two blocks down the street, we've got this guy:

See. There's always someone lazier than you.

Dick Van Fatten my dog up

Genetic testing would confirm that Jasmine is a dog. But she's nobody's Balto.

There is no proud, regal wolf ancestor peering down from the heaven to which all dogs go and nodding thoughtfully as if to say, "Yes. THAT is my bloodline."

For years I've given Kirby the guinea pig more dog cred than Jasmine.

She was skinny. Her hair would get tragically matted way too quickly. She was whiney and a fantastically conflicted combination of timid and aggressive that may have made sense to Cesar but always just left me shaking my head.

That's just who she was. She was one of us and we pretty much loved her. But she sure wasn't going to win many favorite pet contests in a house currently occupied by personalities like Shouko and Bijou. Such is life.

Then our dogs got the runs.

In the process of trying to firm that situation up, one thing we did was throw out their current bag of food. For a few days I was actually fixing boiled chicken and rice for three dogs twice a day. But anyone who knows me knows THAT shit ain't gonna fly for very long, so we needed to get some dog food.

Partly in the interest of making sure our dogs were happy and comfortable (but mostly just because I didn't want to go back to cleaning up runny dog crap several times a day) we opted to temporarily switch from our regular super-premium brand of dog food up to some sort of insanely expensive ultra-mondo-uber-premium dog food.

At least for a little while, Iams was out. And Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance was in.

As '70s quasi-celebrity endorsements go, this seems to be among the more random. Suzanne Somers for the Thighmaster? That made sense because her claim to fame was that she was allegedly hot. (I was always more of a Janet guy than a Chrissy guy.) Sally Struthers for the Christian Children's Fund? That was totally in character.

But this? Seriously. Did the Bradfords even HAVE a dog?

Well, whatever. As Tom Bradford, he may not have known anything about birth control, but as Dick Van Patten he's totally got dog food figured out.

Shouko and Bijou are fine. But, with the exception of that brief intestinal episode, they were fine before. Jasmine, on the other hand, has officially flourished. She's put on at least 40 percent additional body weight. Her hair's calmed down. She's just generally happier. She's even started doing DOG things like finding smelly stuff and rolling around in it.

Who knew we were starving our dog by buying Iams? (For real. That stuff's not cheap. It's not like we were shoveling Atta Boy down their throats or something.) So, while the two bigger dogs are migrating back to regular dog food, I think we're going to keep spending some extra extra money to keep Jasmine under Dick Van Patten's watchful eye.

Now. Where do I go for a bottle of that Gavin MacLeod Kitchen & Bathroom Cleanser? (Just kidding. No way Gavin could come up with anything to top simplyneutral!)

"Nenikékamen"

And with that single utterance to the people of Athens, "We have won," Pheidippides collapsed and died from exhaustion.

Or so the story goes.

Ol' Pheidippides and I; we're kindred spirits now. Sure, he ran his from the plains of Marathon to the city of Athens after fighting all day in full armor while I ran mine through the streets of Fargo (and Moorhead, don't forget Moorhead) after sleeping in the back of my truck. But basically it's pretty much the same deal. And it's kind of a big deal.

I'm a "marathon runner" now. I love that I can say that. And I love that I'll always be able to say that, even if I never choose to do this again.

Brace yourself, this is going to be another long one. I'll try and break it down with some subheads so you can just pick what (if anything) interests you!

Lodging

Races like these are trouble. But without logistical support, they'd be even more trouble. And no one is more supportive than Corinne. She's awesome.

There were 23,000 people signed up to run in Fargo this weekend (bunch of different races) and it seemed like every one of them except me remembered to book a hotel room. Fortunately my wife was able to find a space at what was either a former KOA or a former beet farm (or both). 

So Friday night I wedged my Expedition between a rusty fire ring and an anemic maple sapling and we were home for the night. 

Training

My training was, again, less than it should have been. (I've got to stop doing that.) I did the Earth Day Half Marathon last month. I did a 10-mile run a couple weeks ago and an 8-miler the week after that. This past Monday I ran to work, so there's 9. Beyond that, I woke up and did 10k a couple of mornings here and there. Last year at Earth Day I ran the 20-miler. That's the longest I'd ever run. So once I reached that point in the race I knew I'd be in uncharted territory. And I was.

Nutrition

On Friday night, after we got into town and picked up my packet, we figured we'd better get something to eat. We stopped at an unassuming little sports bar called Labby's. If you're ever in Fargo I suggest you do your best to avoid it. Since it took approximately an hour to get my cowboy burger, I was logistically forced to have a second beer.

In the morning I was better. I had a banana and a Clif bar to go along with my can of Diet Coke.

Running

I've heard it said that a marathon is really two races. There's a 20 mile race...and then there's that last 6.2. Believe that. It's absolutely true.

The race had pace runners (which is a totally fantastic concept). I found the 4-hour goal time guy (that's 9:10 minute miles, in case you're wondering) and just hung with him.

Six miles? Feeling really good and almost exactly on pace. The halfway point? Still feeling pretty good, all things considered. After that came the 14-, 15- and 16-mile marks. Joints starting to get a little worn down – primarily my hips. By the time I hit 17 miles, I was beginning to realize that I wasn't going to make it the whole way with my pace runner. But realizing that and giving in to it are two different things. So I hung on gamely. He'd start getting some separation from me...and I'd reel him back in.

We went on that way until the 20-mile mark. After that, as the yards between us started to grow, I knew there was no comeback left in me. At that point it became a game of goal revision.

My 4-hour goal was bounding up the street, out of my reach. I needed to come up with a new goal quickly because, if I didn't, my brain was going to start playing with the idea that maybe "finishing a marathon" is a noble goal.

The problem with that is that "finishing a marathon" was never in doubt. I was absolutely going to cross that finish line. No question. So, out on that course, that meant that accepting "finishing a marathon" as my goal was the same as "giving up." I had tried my damndest for my 4-hour goal – and, for 20 miles, I'd been right there. But that wasn't going to happen. So what was going to happen?

I started with "RUN an entire marathon."

That sounded good, but I knew that still left me with a lot of wiggle room. So I eventually modified it to, "run the whole thing, and finish without getting caught by the 4:15 group."

That worked. I did it. I know it wasn't pretty. I could tell by some of the poignantly sympathetic looks I started getting from spectators along those last couple of miles. A few hundred yards from the finish, they had a camera that played video on a big screen alongside the road and also on the jumbo screen inside the Fargodome (so spectators could watch and prepare for when their special someones were about to come in) and I saw myself onscreen there. So I know it was ugly at the end.

But I did it.

Injuries

I was pretty worried about chafing. For that reason, I diligently lubed up my crotch and my nipples. Mission accomplished there. No problem. I forgot, however, to lube up my armpits. I'd never really had any problem with armpit chafing. That was a mistake. I'm pretty raw.

Other than that, not too much to report. Most of my toes are a little blistered, but nothing painful or traumatic. My right pinky toe is fairly bruised up, but no biggie. My wrist was a little bloody from my watch rubbing on it. Whatever.

Afterwards

I've never felt closer to passing out after a race than I did in Fargo. It didn't help that the finishing chute went on forever and then, when you did get out of the chute, you had to fight your way through the crowd and up two flights of stairs to get out of the building. So Corinne took me by the hand and guided me as I wobbled along the trek toward a door and a soft patch of grass right outside that door. I collapsed in a heap there and waited while Corinne ran to get the truck and pick me up so we could leave. I didn't even wait around to get my official time.

It didn't seem to matter at the time. I'd done what I came to do. I had the shirt. I had the medal... And I had my wife to do the driving on the way home. I was a happy, tired guy.

I'm not buying it yet

 
Okay bandwagon jumpers, I'm not buying it yet. Liriano's no-hitter could be the spark that ignites this team. And then they follow it up with another win this afternoon? Still, I'm not buying it yet.

In fact, I'm going to have a beer tonight. (No special occasion. I just happen to like beer.) But I won't be drinking it out of a Twins pint glass.

That's right. I'm announcing right here – for all the interweb to see – that I am hereby taking my Twins pint glasses out of the freezer and putting them up on the highest shelf. I'm removing them from the starting rotation.

They shall not touch another hoppy drop until the Twins go on a winning streak. I'm not asking for much here. I'm realistic about this team's short-term prospects even if I can't get excited about two games. (Two games does NOT count as a "win streak".) Just give me a three-game win streak. One little win on Thursday at Fenway and I'll fill you back full of foamy happiness, Twins glasses.

See what kind of influence you have with the boys. Rally cap and I are about shot.

Reconnection

Divorce is awkward.

(What the hell? He goes a month between posts and that's the best insight he can come back with?)

I mean it though. The family stuff is painful. The financial stuff is infuriating. The legal stuff is emasculating. But it's the friend stuff I want to talk about.

When I went through my divorce a few years ago I was scared, confused, a little bit hurt and a whole lot of sad.

And in the process, I did a lot pulling back and insulating myself. I leaned heavily on family and on a few key friendships, but I pulled back from just about everything that could have been considered a "joint" friendship.

I always told myself it was out of respect for them. I didn't want to place anyone in the awkward position of having to choose sides. I'm pretty good at that – convincing myself I'm a pretty noble and honorable guy. Truth be told, I was pretty much just worried they wouldn't choose me.

So, about a year ago, when Erin started asking, "How come we don't hang out with X and Y anymore? I miss them," I was a little uncomfortable. And when I finally worked up the stones to contact X and Y, I was a little uncomfortable. Actually, I was pretty uncomfortable right up until the point where it dawned on me – I wasn't asking them to choose sides. I was just asking to sit down for a beer.

And we did. And it was great. Corinne and I had a great time. I think X and Y had an okay time too. I'm not saying we're planning on renting a condo in Vail or anything, but we are planning on getting together again soon.

You know – normal stuff.

Shhh. Listen. You can actually hear me getting fatter.

I haven't gotten in a legitimate workout in over two weeks.

I can literally feel the bacon and ice cream knitting themselves into some sort of gelatinous, chemical/biological equivalent of a packing pillow. (On the plus side, my internal organs should be safe from any blunt-force trauma.)

With each passing day my muscles continue to atrophy like a snowbank in the springtime.

I can hear the gods of triathlon laughing – mocking me. I can taste the sand that they continue to kick in my face.

It's disgusting. No more.

This two-week lingering cold? I'm done with it. I've decided it's all in my head now. I'm going to start powering through it.

This monstrous two-week (and counting) freelance editing project? The hammer will fall. I'm pushing hard, pushing through and finishing this thing so I can get back to regular life (and so I can get paid in time for our spring break trip to Phoenix!).

This two-week (and a whole lot more counting...) new-dog experience? Um... That one's going to be a bit more problematic. This dog needs exercise. Lots of exercise. So I've been taking her on two walks a day – during my two most likely workout times each day – just to keep her from going crazy and becoming destructive. In a few months I can just turn those walks into runs. (I know she can hang.) But I'm not into icy runs. I've done too much slipping and sliding over the years. Sick of it. I don't do it anymore.

So maybe it's going to take some super-extra-early mornings in order to get Bijou (and Shouko!) some exercise and then get myself on the bike or over to the pool.

One way or another, something's gotta change. Race season is coming and I've got some goals for this year. (At this point, one of them is just fitting into my gear.)