Ohp, Sorry: Why We Say Sorry So Much

Ohp, sorry – were you reading this? Sorry, I was busy writing it. People around the globe have numerous negative perceptions of Americans. Too fat, too rich, too imperialistic, too obsessed with padded, helmet-clad footballers. One thing the world – and especially rude Europeans – will admit is that Americans are polite. We’ve retained some element of please and thank you ma’am, opening the door for ladies, tipping your waitress server, and apologizing in advance via email for any little thing that may or may not occur which may possibly offend you or one of your loved ones in any conceivable way*.

*This paragraph is the opinion of its writer, and not necessarily that of said writer’s employer, city of employment, state of residence, degree-granting university, Facebook friends, fantasy football league commissioner, favorite watering hole bar tender, or any other living member of societies past, present, or future.

The strangest way this politeness manifests is in the overuse of the word “sorry”. Tune yourself into this phenomenon, and you’ll be amazed how frequently and for what such inoffensive and unobtrusive interactions people will audibly apologize.

Take the simple act of people walking, from point A to point B. Point A could be “hallway outside bathroom” and point B could be “in bathroom”. If someone opens the door from point A and another person happens to be coming through the very same door from point B, one or both of those people will say “sorry” and step far to the side, signaling their great shame for having interrupted the other’s run for the border.

Or let’s say point A is the lobby outside an elevator, and more than one person is trying to get to point B: inside the elevator. When those doors slide open, whichever person takes a step forward first will undoubtedly say “sorry” to the other, hesitate, and then create that awkward decision moment where nobody moves and everyone already in the elevator immediately hates both people for being unnecessarily polite. (The elevator is filled with Europeans, clearly.)

Sometimes “sorry” comes out in even less appropriate times, like when someone is about to deliver any measure of clarification, criticism, or request. This often happens in business settings, where it is absolutely necessary and not burdensome whatsoever to clarify, criticize, or request things. The beauty of this “sorry” is that it happens before the person actually says or does anything at all. Apologizing in advance, like in emails! They step forward or use a hand motion to alert you of their sudden mortification: “Sorry, I was just thinking…” or “Sorry, ummm, could you just send that to me in an email so I don’t forget…” Yes, we will do that for you, but only because you displayed such public regret.

“Sorry” doesn’t always emerge alone, though. In fact, many times it’s preceded by a strange grunt – something between an “oops” and an “um” – when someone is surprised and apologetic. It comes out sort of like an “ohp”. Imagine Ted, hurrying down the parking garage stairs less than fully alert, thanks to a recent text from his wife (“hurry home, da buns are n da oven LOL!!!”). He makes the turn and BAM, Janelle is right there heading back up the stairs because she left her laptop on and in the dock with Hugh Jackman’s GQ photo slideshow up.
Ted: “Ohp! Sorry.”
Janelle: “No, sorry. Left my travel mug, heh-heh.”
Ted: “Sorry.”

So, sorry for bringing this to your attention. It may slightly bother – no, sorry – annoy the crap out of you from now on. We don’t say it because we’re actually regretful or remorseful. We’re just so intensely afraid of having any potentially awkward moment of minor confrontation with people going about their everyday business.

I say: let’s embrace it! Next time you’re using the break room microwave and there’s 4:23 left and someone comes in with a Stouffer’s dinner-for-one and that ravenous look in their eyes, don’t say sorry. Don’t even say something like “Ohp, just a few more minutes.” Just stand and stare directly at them with a half-smile until they flinch, then say “Oh, did you need to use the microwave?” And when they say, “Uh, yeah, but I can wait,” just say back to them, “Yeah. You will wait because there’s now 3:08 left, and that’s the way microwaves work.”

That way, the next time they come storming into the break room with a dish of leftover chili and a half-sleeve of saltines, they’ll see you, stop, say “Ohp, sorry,” and they’ll just walk away. No confrontation, apology accepted.

3 Steps to Pretty Good Success: My 33rd Year

As I kick off another year of existence (yaaaay), it’s time to reflect upon the milestones scattered along the meandering trail of life. Year 33 alone was a microcosm of what could be 78 or even 104 weeks of life-change, from which I will share the elusive secrets to moderate happiness and success. It’s every middle child’s dream!

1. Get yourself a baby.

This one was harder than it sounds, for many reasons. The serious reasons aren’t appropriate for this column, but the silly ones are invaluable. First, learn to measure everything in weeks, like people do with baby ages. “Fourteen weeks” is not only more specific, but much more impressive sounding than “just over three months”. Apply this methodology to other big decisions, like home buying: “Hey honey, instead of a one-thousand five-hundred sixty week loan, we qualified for the same rate to which we’ll be beholden for only one-thousand forty weeks. Isn’t that horrifying?”

Babies add another neat element to life: food testing. Get a baby, and you’ll feel totally comfortable touching, smelling, and testing for heat any food-like substance someone might put in front of you. Dirty green mash? Let me check that out, Mmmm-Mmmm! And that’s the other half of the fun: pretending it’s delicious! So next time your mother-in-law is super stoked for you to try the organic hybrid plum-pricots from her very own garden, you’ll know just how to fake it. Remember, cut it up into tiny pieces first and say to yourself, “it’s nummies for your tummy, yaaaay”.

Finally, enjoy the new free time you’ll have when you get that baby. I bet you didn’t know how much more productive you could be if you used all 24 hours of the day. It helps if you write down a schedule: 11:30pm – check your email after almost drifting off; 12:42am – brush your teeth again, this time with an electric toothbrush to drown out the noise; 2:18am – wonder if you could change a diaper in complete darkness, just so your eyes don’t have to adjust; 4:55am – update Facebook status to “Please God, why?!”; 5:08am – read the 23 comments from your other parent friends. Strangely, not one of your non-parent friends “Liked” this update. Probably because they were sleeping.

2. Get yourself a (new) job.

Nothing brings to light your life path like switching jobs. New strangers, new coffee machines, new parking space hierarchy, new 400-page tree-killing benefit packets that you never open because it’s all online… Job transitions are soothing to the soul. Day 1: “Hey – you have Microsoft Outlook. I know something about that!” Lucky you, because you have already learned how you’ll spend 83% of your time. The rest will be comprised of 14% meetings and 3% updating Facebook status to “OMG this week is draaaggging!!!”.

My favorite part of new jobs is meeting all the new people with all their roles and expertise and advice. “That bi-weekly mandatory meeting on results? Avoid it.” Since I’m in marketing, I get the added value of technical jargon – KPI’s, ROI, CPC, CPM, SEO, creative “briefs” – and countless speculation about “our social media strategy”, which may or may not exist. (That new branding initiative? Tweet it out, yo.) It only took me 47 weeks to remember which manager was under which director in which division, and which cost center to bill for “services rendered”. Fortunately, Jane or Diane or Patsy in accounting will help you out with that, if you can find her.

Let’s face it, the longer you’ve been at a job, the more bored you are with your colleagues. Unless, of course, you work for a high-turnover company, in which case you might want to find out why you’re the only one sticking around. Trust me; it’s your lunchtime salmon and hard-boiled eggs habit. And those are just the gateway foods to leftover “____ curry”. Get some help. And get yourself a new job.

3. Get yourself in shape.

America has an obsession with two things: food, and commercials about getting rock hard abs. If only the commercials were a real personal trainer with mind control powers! Instead, we are forced to fend for ourselves in the quest for fitness. This past year, I turned to the time-tested, painfully mundane sport of running for…sport. Just me and the road and my iPod and blisters on that middle toe that’s actually longer than my big toe.

I tricked myself into this endeavor by signing up for 5K races throughout the spring and summer. Signing up means paying money, and nothing provides genuine motivation more than a little skin in the game. Try this yourself. If your fitness goal is to lose 10 pounds, sign up for the new “Minus 10lbsK” events, sponsored by Benefiber and Jan’s Full-Body Haircuts. Each event comes with race bib, and commemorative extra pair of shorts made of the latest moisture absorbing material. If you don’t lose 10 lbs, you’ll be ill enough (and ashamed enough) to never leave your bedroom/bathroom until you’ve achieved your goal. It’s motivation like this that turns couch potatoes into limping, energy-sapped workout zombies. Very nice!

If my 33rd year taught me anything, it’s that…uh, actually, it’s just those three things. I need to get myself some better life lessons.

What's The StepDude blog all about?

Greetings, friends! I'm four (<--) words in and already my knuckles are creaking. While writing is a passion of mine, blogging has been an "I'll get to it later" task for about a year. Not coincidentally, it's been as full a year as I've had. We welcomed Oliver into the world last October 14, one month after I started a new job in the healthcare staffing industry. I went from marketing cookies to healthcare professionals. In a neat moment of irony, the anesthesiologist in the operating room gave me a cookie to help my blood sugar return to normal after I nearly passed out during the C-section. Recall - if you know anything about childbirth (or are over the age of 4) - that the father neither carries nor delivers the child. And yet I almost fainted, all while my wife - who was the actual surgery patient at the time - was telling me to hang in there and everything would be fine. Such is my constitution for all things hospitally and snippy and suctiony and birthy. My son's first sights and thoughts out of the womb: 
Bright lights!
Somebody's hands - must be the doctor.
Where are they taking me?
Oh great, my Dad's a shivering wuss. Won't make it through a diaper change, I bet.


And he was right! The first diaper change was a disaster. (How does the poopy get on his heels?)


So The StepDude is named such because initially I was considering a blog about raising step-children; which were the only children I had a few years ago. But I still like the name and it's memorable and I had the URL, so there. I moved all my old posts here too, for simplicity. I find that the older I get, the less things I want to keep track of. Life, unfortunately, has a way of making that an uphill battle; from children to job responsibilities to usernames and passwords to friends' children (Oh, hey Frank. How is, uh, Chr...Jay...your littlest one doing?) to vitamins and supplements to assorted remedies which help one poop. More and more while I have the focus for less and less. I can't complain though - my life seems comically easy at times. Justin Bieber has faced more adversity (i.e., getting blended.)


More to come in the near future. It'll sound more like a column and less like "this dude's blog about his boring life"; I'll feel better about you sharing it with strangers via Shoutface and Bookperch that way. Or do what I do and just email a "hyperlink" to Mom and Dad. They'll read it. (By "they" I mean my own Mom and Dad. Their email address is...)

This is now my blog site!

I've migrated the old "Stizl Gone West" blog (stizlwest.blogspot.com) to this site because it has a sweet URL and it was time for a change. 


Thanks for reading!

Sunny with a slight chance of bears

It’s amazing the excuses one can find before venturing out on a camping trip.
“Says here slight chance of rain. What if we’re cooped up in the tent?”
“Where will we find a spot? It’s the 4th of July weekend and it’s going to be packed.”
“Lows are going to be around 40 – you sure the kids are going to handle this?”

Sometimes you just have to pack up and go, welcoming any discomfort in return for fresh air, open flames, an excuse to get dirty, and the invigorating threat of a bear attack. And so we did last Saturday, pitching camp at Shingle Creek campground along the scenic byway that is, uh, Mirror Lake Scenic Byway. Shortly after arriving, the kids busied themselves picking out the lumpiest possible spot for our tent while I jogged off to pay the site master. When I got back, they had already laid out the tent and were alternately confused and amused by the folding bungee-pole system. Considering our last (and their only) tenting experience was last summer in our backyard, I patiently explained every step in tentsmanship, including the physics behind arch tensile strength and how to put the plastic bone thingy through the loop to hold the door flap thingy open.

Meanwhile, Annie was readying our first outdoor meal of the day, sandwiches and chips, a meal which the children refused to accept on account of it not being prepared in a fire.
Kids: “Why can’t we start the fire yet?”
Me: “It’s 82 and sunny...”
Kids: “Can we start the fire now, pleeeease?”
Me: “We didn’t bring enough wood for a 10 hour fire watch, so no.”
Kids: “Can we just make a little fire out of these sandwiches?”
Me: “Well… er, no.”

Camping puts me in a wild kind of spirit. For example, I had my shirt off before I even helped with the tent, to prove how manly and protective I could be against the bears. This photo of me slouched in an uncomfortable folding chair just does not do my physique justice. Immediately the kids felt more at ease, while Annie was like “nice try dude” and tiny boy inside her was like “thanks for nothin’, wimp.” But I ask all witnesses: did any bears show up?

We milled around the site, grabbing kindling and extra wood for later and reading books or answering “no” to fire questions until Annie’s sister Heather and hubby Jake and son Emmett arrived. They brought additional, more comfortable chairs as well as a unique sleeping device called an “air mattress.” I would envy them later that night, at 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 o’clock in the AM, or every time I rolled over the giant tree stump under the tent. Or heard the faint crackling of a stick in the woods, a sure sign of lurking bears.

The afternoon got more exciting as we secured camp and headed 20 miles up the road (in vehicles) to the Lower Provo River Falls. It’s one of those rock-bottom river beds cascading down the mountain, like something you’d see in a movie. But it’s not your run-of-the-mill scenic overlook because while there is a small platform with a guardrail, there is also plenty of open space on which to run around and access to the river. So we spent almost 2 hours there. The kids saw a couple teenagers (they now classify anything they witness a “teenager” doing as either cool or dangerous) crossing the river at one flat spot and climbing up the wall on the other side. Of course, Preston wanted to try it and after I cycled through more excuses not to do it, we did it. He managed the slippery rock bottom and strong current on his own while Zoey held my hand across. We ended up making it okay with no ouchies!

The rest of the trip involved lots of fire tending, some hiking around the campground, stick wielding, log-bridge crossing, marshmallow rationing, and as I mentioned before, little to no sleep. But we made it. No bears attacked, we woke up and made campers’ eggs and oatmeal, and headed home to recover.

Later that night – as it was the 4th of July – we let the kids do some cracker-jack fireworks in the common area by our pool. Once we bought them they simply could not wait to strike matches and argue about whose spark fountain was better, so all incendiaries were burned out before dusk came. It wasn’t even dim. White and blue and pink showers of sparks, 3 feet off the ground in broad daylight. The true celebration of Independence Day, I guess.

It's summer, baby

Sometime long, long ago, like this past winter, I took an eight week writing course at the University of Utah. The class was engaging, informative, and intellectually stimulating. I sat with a dozen people week after week as we explored, critiqued, and created meaning through words. My appreciation for writing and a desire to develop the skill had never been higher. Predictably, I immediately stopped writing.

Sort of. I started writing about sports bars in Salt Lake City, which is like writing about beach life in Nebraska. Also, I realized I only like going to two or three sports bars (all of them in Michigan) and I only like to do that when there are good public-viewing sports on, like football or, uh, football. So the spring and summer have been unproductive.

Also my wife’s pregnant. Not the best time to make weekly treks for “inspiration” or “research” or “beer”.

Speaking of pregnant, Annie’s pregnant! We have these little Doppler-radar images showing some small creature inside her belly. Apparently that’s my son. The proud Gingrich name lives on, hurrah! “We” are over 5 months along. The book The Expectant Father tells me to take more ownership and share this pregnancy, but let’s be honest: she is over 5 months along. I am over 5 months behind on supportiveness.

Part of our parenting process has been to relax, mentally prepare, and take on one thousand new home projects, including selling our home. So we’re making it more livable than it’s ever been so we can leave it. Makes perfect sense. Also, we’re refinishing an old crib - the same one Zoey and Preston used - so we have one less thing to buy for the baby. This fun project involves wearing a cool outfit of bright orange rubber gloves, goggles, and the grubbiest painter’s jeans, so you know it’s awesome. You “paint” a thick orange solution over the wooden pieces of the crib and then you take a long break for it to dry (my favorite part). Then you scrape the dried orange substance off along with the old finish. And then you look down and notice your pants and feet have tiny holes burned through them, but the wood is nice and dry and smooth so you can stain it some other woody color.

Feel free to stop by Annie’s Facebook page and tell her how excited you are for her – she’s been playing it cool, but we (really, we) are super stoked. Also, if you know anyone that needs a groovy town-home in a family-friendly complex with a pool, we’re for sale.

Super Bowl XLIV Ad Review

Don’t worry about New Orleans anymore, ‘cause they have a winning football team! Instead, let’s put our collective focus on television advertisements. Ads carry more import than city infrastructure and economy and psychological well-being anyway, right? Well, no. But I have no answers for N'awlins, or Miami, or Indy (boo-hoo), so let’s move on.

Super Bowl XLIV had more viewers than any television broadcast in history, surpassing the legendary finale of M*A*S*H, a show from the 70s or 80s which was about an army of Idaho potato farmers fighting for survival against Irish oppressors. I’m pretty sure it starred Steve Guttenberg.

This year’s advertisers, which can be classified into two groups: “Brands” and “CBS”, obviously viewed the Super Bowl as their prime opportunity to persuade innocent fans of the Colts and Saints to start thinking about other things besides football, like how hilarious underwear can be (UNDIES!) and that Denny’s and Abe Vigoda still actually exist. These life tools are invaluable after the respective fan-nations recover from their joyous hangovers (winners) or their less joyous hangovers (losers) to realize that football season is, alas, over. For the rest of us non-rooters, casual partygoers, and TV addicts, the ads are meant to reinforce how dumb men are. Specifically men who drink Bud Light, willingly, in front of other people.

I’ve already hinted at one theme (UNDIES!), but I’ll get to that later. Another great ad theme was the string of hit CBS shows which are apparently #1! Like Lost, something, something, something, capital letters, something, capital letters Los Angeles, something, something, and of course, The Late Show with old unfunny comedians.

Speaking of old, The Who completed like the 8th straight halftime act featuring an artist whose career pinnacled before I was born. In a clear tryout for next year’s Super Bowl halftime act, KISS and mini-KISS showed up for a Dr. Pepper Cherry ad. (Mini-KISS is slated for halftime of next year’s Puppy Bowl.) Dr. Pepper Cherry: tastes just like sweaty face paint!

Bridgestone, a company that makes tires for automobiles (hopefully not Toyotas), wins the award for Brand Trying Hardest to Seem Cool Despite Fact that Most Humans Pick Whatever Tire is Carried by their Dealership or the Shop Around the Corner with Free Coffee. “Gimme the ones with those grooves in it!” They (Bridgestone, a tire company) also pulled a super lame The Hangover rip-off with their killer whale-in-car ad, with the lamest bachelor party reference of all time. Listen, Bridge-people, Goodyear long ago invented a flying machine to promote themselves, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Only one American automaker paid up the bucks for chicken-wing-interrupted glory: Dodge. Their “I will…” ad featuring a bunch of guys who were saying things about me hit home with most people in the room. It also managed to get in one of the 30 underwear references (UNDIES!) of the night. A few critics have called it whiny, but I related to it in every way. I may just have to go out and test drive a Charger after I fold this laundry and clean the litter box.

Google made a lot of people “awww” and “hey yeah, that IS Google!” with their touching spot about someone figuring out how to create totally unreasonable expectations for their relationship and life. Go watch Sleepless in Seattle again, daydreamer.

Doritos, a product my family and I always referred to as “bad breath chips”, probably had the best laughs in a macro sense (marketing jargon!) with the kid slapping his Mom’s suitor, the guy getting shock-collared, the casket dumping over, and the Doritos-clad warrior attacking dudes in ugly gym clothes. These ads were submitted by regular ol’ people, not agencies, and turned out to be more memorable and funnier than almost every other ad. It’s a YouTube world people, and we’re just living in it. I re-watched almost all of the ads in a conference room with a bunch of marketers on Monday, and everyone LOL’d when the warrior appeared.

You probably noticed the Dockers no-pants chant? I liked this ad better when it was the Dial For Men chant about 2 years ago. Unoriginal, unfunny, and filled with too many tighty whities (UNDIES!). For a good usage of pantsless people, see Careerbuilder.com’s ad. That one featured both men and ladies in their delicates (UNDIES!) as a casual Friday policy gone waaaay too far. The best line was delivered bitingly by a half nude gentleman to the lone remaining pants-wearing holdout: “Nice pants, Terry.”

FINALLY! As the commercial pointed out, men everywhere have been tearing up the gossip lines with their buddies wondering if Dove would release a “for Men” line of products, which they have! Uh…no. See above review of Dockers – this is another Dial for Men rip-off. WE’VE SEEN IT.

Basketball is a sport near and dear to my heart. I love playing it, I love watching it, I love writing about making 19 consecutive 3-pointers and how crappy the NBA Slam-Dunk competition (sponsored by Sprite!) has become. So it pained me to see McDonald’s completely abuse the memory of the classic Jordan vs. Bird game of “HORSE” ad. You remember: “from the bleachers, over the rafters, off the glass, nothing but net.” Swish. The new one—which, in true professional sports league fashion, was overhyped—featured LeBron James and Dwight Howard calling out ridiculous dunks, and then we had to watch as their herky-jerky digitally enhanced selves “completed” those dunks. The NBA is now failing at their real dunk contest and at making impossible dunks look cool on television. McDonald’s, I am most certainly NOT lovin’ it!

In another lame remake, Boost Mobile knocked off the Bears Super Bowl Shuffle from 1985. I guess if you take something that’s already hokey and stiff (but awesome at the time!) and copy it, it’s going to be hokey and stiff. And of course, there was a line about some teammate’s “cheetah print thong” (UNDIES!) to continue with the overdone theme.

This review is getting out of hand, and there are plenty of places to get professional, respected opinions on the ads by people who had time to write them two days ago. Or you can just watch them again on your own, because I just checked and New Orleans is still partying. So let me wrap up with my favorites:

Audi “Green Police”: It sounded like a real Styx song, was fun, dramatized an important topical issue, and clearly showed one of the vehicle’s consumer benefits. Audi had my favorite ad two years ago, too.

Both Coca-Cola ads: Surreal contrast of bright, wacky Simpson’s characters underneath light-hearted music and no dialogue; and the sleep-walker’s dream sequence, which happened to feature a man in boxers (UNDIES!). Both harkened to the classic feel-good message going all the way back to “I’d like to teach the world to sing…” Simply brand builders, but good ones.

Volkswagen slugging: Relatable across generations, and capped off by—no, not the kid punching grandpa in the crotch—but by Tracy Morgan’s “How do you DO that?” line to Stevie Wonder. Rarely do 2-second celebrity cameos work, but this one was perfect.

Unknown: Somewhere in this mess was Megan Fox in a bathtub. I don’t know what it was for, but I’m sure I scoffed at it and turned to my wife to tell her how much I love her. My wife, that is.

Sorry I couldn’t keep this review, uh, more brief (UNDIES!).

My Memoir of Writing Class #1

Saturday morning, I packed a bag lunch of turkey sandwich and Teddy Grahams (honey flavor), drove to the University campus, and attended Read Like a Writer. I joined 11 other students and an instructor, all better read than me, in that they did not scrunch up their face and shrug when the instructor mentioned someone named “Ayn” Rand. I certainly did my part to participate in the class. In business, I’ve learned if nothing else that if you’re walled in with a bunch of people around a table, saying stuff is the best way to avoid nodding off. So I offered my limited examples of book knowledge (Dirk Pitt is rad!), espoused original observations, and even made counterarguments to a few really opinionated lifelong students, which isn’t something I normally do. It was a rare time for me to engage in intellectual discourse with a group of people about things other than work or sports. I do engage my wife in intellectual discourse about once a week, but you should stay out of my business.

Several classmates expressed their desire to write memoirs; some as retirees with decades of life experiences looking to share their stories, others as people writing to write. I’ve thought about this too, and I find that the following facts about me – facts which are almost certain not to change – make the idea of my memoir quite silly:
- I was never in the military
- I was never poor
- My father was not a drunk
- My mother was not an evil taskmaster
- I did not attend Catholic school
- I am not an expert in any field
- I am not gay
- I did not have an older brother who beat the dickens out of me

And let’s be honest, facts like those are often bases for compelling and interesting memoirs. But screw it. I’m compiling a memoir-ific outline using the following facts about myself – facts which are almost certain to make you drowsy:
- I sort of skipped 3rd grade
- I once made 62 consecutive free throws
- I won the “Director’s Award” in 8th grade band, only to quit band after 9th grade
- I grew up on the rugged avenues of Hudsonville, MI
- I scored a 33 on my ACT
- I’ve sprained my ankles a combined 34 times
- I wore teeth braces for 5 years, and still made homecoming court
- My family is quite nice and I enjoy hanging out with them

My challenge is clear: figure out how to create an indulgent meal out of weak-sauce ingredients. And if there’s one story-of-my-life asterisk here, it’s that I avoid challenge at all costs (just kidding, employer!). I’m diving into this memoir full speed, tomorrow. But if it takes 31 more years to write, all the better, because by then I will have:
- Probably beaten down a few minor diseases
- Probably been married 4 or 5 times (just kidding, honey!)
- Probably developed random neuroses, like plucking hairs out of my upper arms (wait, I already do that)
- Probably punched a few hobos
- Probably figured out what I’m good at
- Probably failed as a writer...

Picture Show

Lots of pics for all the good girls and boys. And cat.

What's So Lucky About Them?

We had a pot luck Tuesday at work. I brought in some chicken chili, the only thing I ever take to any event involving prepared food. Why? Because I have a crock pot and the recipe involves 5 or 6 cans or jars of various things, some shredded cheese which I hand-shredded, and a teaspoon of something called "cumin". I looked up "cumin" on the internet and it is defined as "something you put in chicken chili". The hardest thing about this creation was remembering to dump it all together in time for it to crockulate overnight, which I did (remembered) at 11:30 the night prior, approximately 14 seconds before I nodded off to sleep. There's nothing quite like being comfortably settled into bed, finally getting warm, fading gently into blackness, then realizing you have to get up and go downstairs and crank open 3 cans of great northern beans. And it's a good thing there's nothing quite like that, because that thing would suck.

Our pot luck at work was so successful we put all the leftovers in the break room fridge, and reheated them today for another one! Which made me wonder... Why do people prepare so much food for pot lucks? If 20 people are slotted to bring something - and everyone who attends has to bring something - and if all 20 people make/buy enough food for like 5-10 people, then you have either a) food for 100-200 people; or b) 5-10 servings of food for 20 people. No wonder we did it all over again.

My favorite memories of pot lucks come from church when I was young. Several times a year a pot luck would be announced to celebrate some event or another; a church milestone, a sending-off of a missionary or pastor, maybe a softball league championship? The thing is, I can't really remember why most were held, I just remember the thrill of walking into the multi-purpose room, greeted by the sights and smells of so many various pots of meats and potatoes and gravies and indecipherable casseroles.

A good pot luck always had these items (from these people):
- 2 pepperoni pizzas from local chain (forgot about pot luck until en route to church)
- Bucket of KFC (didn't necessarily forget, but a dad was in charge)
- Green bean casserole with soggy fried onions on top (mother who thinks having greens is important)
- Someone's homemade fried chicken which lasted way longer than the KFC bucket (thinks they're a good cook and resents fast-food addicts)
- Cocktail wieners! (single mom who loves America)
- 2-pound bucket of store bought potato salad (didn't necessarily forget, but definitely can't cook)
- Au gratin potatoes which are so hot they burn your tongue and then you can't even taste the KFC (my mom)

And I haven't even gotten to the dessert table!

Pot lucks at church had several other attractions to me, like danger and sports. The multi-purpose room was carpeted but had basketball hoops (a rug burn lover's paradise), and there was always a group of us trying to get some shots in before the tables were all set. One of the more assertive mothers would always insist we "put those away before they knock something over", but we'd push it until something was knocked over, or until the larger, even more assertive father would just go ahead and grab the basketballs and say "Come on you guys!" in that midwesterny way.

Look, nothing says community like a dozen crock pots and a bowl of punch, so let's beat this topic up a bit! What else is a favorite or must-have item at a pot luck? Comment below or at Facebook.

3 Questions You Should Just Let Me Ponder

If you use your child’s name as part of an online or network password, do you actually run the risk of forgetting your child’s name?

Like you’re sitting there one day, dying to check the spam building up in your “second” email account – which you use for retailer and airline spam and questionably tasteful picture-of-the-day subscriptions – and as you begin typing the password (starting with a month/day code of a child’s birth of course), you realize you don’t know which child’s name you used, or if you used the entire name (Samantha) or the abbreviated/nick-name (Mantha), and then as you rack your brain trying to work all this out, you realize…OH NO… the name escapes you entirely! To add insult to injury, you’ve just forgotten your password, too. Which, as we know, is inevitable. Later, you run into your child – also inevitable since you live with them – and all your flustered brain can manage to send through your mouth is “Oh hey there, uh, password to my Hotmail account. How was your day?”

If you lose your mobile phone, and nobody is around to call you, did it ever exist?

I was faced with this conundrum recently whilst on a sports-watching holiday in friendly Florence, Alabama. Florence is quite easy to find on a map: look at the dangling protuberance at the southwest corner of Alabama – call them Alabamacles? – and then go straight north all the way to the Tennessee border. It’s within 300 miles of there. OK, maybe not the most direct way to point it out, but I did get you to see Alabama in a whole new way. (Thanks, Matt, for the inspiration.) Anyhoo, I lost my Samsung Omnia touch screen web-browsing text machine, which places something called “telephone calls” from time to time, somewhere around the place in which we parked for the game many hours earlier. Inexplicably, we made it all the way back to the hotel in Decatur (again, Alabamacles, then straight north but a little further east) before I realized the device was no longer in my coat pocket, nor in a pants pocket, nor in the trunk, nor in my hand. And there was no chance of finding it now that it was dark and we were 50 miles away. Strangely, a sudden calm descended on me as I realized I no longer needed to compulsively check for new texts. I had no desire whatsoever to check my Fantasy Football scores the following day on my mobile browser. I spent less time in the bathroom since I didn’t have to start a new game of Jamdat Bowling. I even used a PAYPHONE. You remember those; they’re the silvery boxes where you put in quarters and get a friendly, female voice to let you know you have 5 minutes to place a call and you’d better get yakkin’ cuz you just used up 2. This oasis of personal freedom lasted a good 2 days, until my mobile’s insurance carrier zipped me a replacement, no questions asked. Now it’s back to—hold on, I have to go. Texts coming in.

If IKEA furniture were harder to put together, would we ever put up with its chipped edges and dodgy fasteners?

We have no less than 17 pieces in our home (including each dining room chair) which Annie or I assembled using the illustrated, non-gender monster guided instructions. Assembled well even, although it’s probably hard to do a poor job of assembling pre-drilled boards with wooden pegs and lock screws. It’s essentially Tinker Toys for grownups, let’s be honest. I shouldn’t really complain; our furniture looks great in our home and has afforded us some modernity and matching color schemes which we might not have otherwise achieved. In college, for example, my shared rented house had a set of donated couch, chair, and ottoman that matched (in lovely green plaid) and then 24 other miscellaneous TV stands, folding chairs, long mirrors, coffee tables, handy plastic crates, and upside down wastebaskets covered with a towel (end tables). Clearly I have experienced a major furniture upgrade in my life and for that, IKEA, I thank you. And for the Marabou chocolates and Daim candies, too. And Swedish meatballs.

99 Photos of Fall

According to Blogger, this is my 99th post. To celebrate, here are 99 photos of me, family, and friends from the past 3 months. They're captioned to tell you some stories.

Enjoy!

What's This?

This thing just looks foreign to me. The whole interface of it all. The title - what the heck is a Stizl? Stupid name regardless of what it izl.

In a hotel in Chicago. Stuffed from a nice Italian dinner at Piccolo Sogno, thanks to our agency friend. A little bored, but happy with the day's progress (took beautiful photographs of giant cookies - really). Wasn't bored over the weekend. Flew out here late Friday night and had some fun with bro-and-sis-in-laws. Drank a few too many beers, ate a ton of food in restaurants (which continues), and probably gained a pound or twelve.

This hotel has a fitness center, but I don't feel motivated to use it. I'm ready to get tomorrow done, hit a little Miracle Mile shopping for my wife, and go home Wednesday to see the family and get ready for some Thanksgiving fun. Only the best of holidays would roll an invitation to overeat and watch tons of football all into one.

I learned something Friday night. People still don't understand the letter/number system for Southwest Airlines' boarding process. I'm amazed at the impatience and inability of people to do these two simple things: LISTEN and LOOK. That's all it takes. (The above is maybe the most creatively written blog post, by me on this blog, and it was nearly 2 years ago after waking up in the middle of the night with this revelation that we use letter/number combos ALL THE TIME with no trouble, yet getting on a plane with it is nearly impossible. It still makes me laugh.)

I take too many things for granted in life, but not this: my ability to listen and absorb knowledge, information, and even the random bit of useless trivia now and again.

By the way, I highly recommend the book A Painted House by John Grisham. Hadn't read his work before, and this must be a great departure from his courtroom/lawyer dramas as it's written from the perspective of a 7-year-old boy in the cotton fields. It's about family, sacrifice, life lessons, and hope for something better. I also finished 'Tis by Frank McCourt and Born Standing Up by Steve Martin and am halfway through Slam by Nick Hornby, just on my flight out here. (Slam, not the others. That would be some type of record).

That's all I feel like writing about for now. Glad to have typed a few strokes again.

Why is GEICO awesome?

Time for the debut of my alter ego:

The Marketing Genius('s Assistant)!

Frank, my editor, added in those punctuations, so neveryoumind them. Except the exclamation point, of course. That's all me! The first rule of marketing is: Emphasize the awesome by adding exclamation point(s) as necessary!!!

The second rule of marketing is: If you disagree with the first rule, just leave this stuff to us, the geniuses (and their noteworthy assistants).

Today, let's ponder GEICO, America's 3rd largest auto insurer who could save you 15% on car insurance if you just give them 15 minutes; a process so easy that modern day cavemen could even do it.

Why is GEICO awesome? It's clearly not because they put a (!) at the end of their brand name or slogans, which they don't, but they do have an ALL CAPS brand name, which is almost as good. (However, I did hear that Sam Mendes is working on a musical based off of the company's history, set in rural London, tentatively titled "GEICO!") No, it's truly awesome because I did absolutely NO research to tell you that information. I know those things because of effective use of the tried and true element of the advertising biz, the "TV ad".

Am I saying they're awesome simply because they have gimmicky characters, like a cheeky talking gecko, or the aforementioned cavemen, or googly-eyed stacks of money (my personal fave)? Nope, that's not enough in the bottom-line world of marketing, no sirree.

As this one great economist once said, "It's the message, stupid". It's not the gimmick itself, or the way the message is presented. It's the content of the message. The ink on the paper, not the pretty letterhead. The trailing banner behind, not the single engine aircraft. The concept of "d-e-f-e-n-s-e", not the cheerleaders barking it. And other interesting analogies, too.

Look back at all the silliness, the purposely low-budget appearance of the ads, the cavemen spin-off opportunities, and remember that all they're trying to get you to remember (point approaching) are the following words: "save", "money", "car insurance", and "fancy a crisp?"

Now, what about the results? Does the brand's obvious effect on this marketing genius guy put the googly-eyed money stack where his mouth is? (maybe rethink that sentence. -Frank) Answer: No. I don't really think about my insurance very often. I used my parents' insur...er? insurrector? back in the day, and then when I switched states I took my wife's insur...ance provider. I'm big into family plans, I guess.

So I don't pay any money to GEICO, but I love GEICO's message enough to write about it. Which leads us to the 3rd rule of marketing: If you can't sell your product to someone, maybe you should think about giving that person your service for free, in return for them writing an awesome column unmonetized blog post about you.

The End of Summer Out Here in Utah

In a previous post, I mentioned how much fun it is to have to talk about weather all the time at work. Well, it reached a new low pressure system the other day, when a Sales Guy called from some provider of some valuable service which is guaranteed to provide valuable value, boost ROI, improve logistical flow-through, and make my Mother proud. These Sales Guys really need to tone down their rhetoric by the way. Anyhoo, after identifying himself as Sales Guy from Illinois, he signs off the voice mail with, "Hope the weather out there in Utah is treating you well. Take care."

Those were his exact last words before hanging up; I was so impressed with them I backed up the message and wrote them down as I listened a second and third time. This Sales Guy, endlessly pressured for new accounts, wants money I don't have in the budget for his magical wonderservice, and he leaves me with a comforting wish that atmospheric phenomena are treating me, personally, with kindness. This is what he must want me to remember then, right? You start and end your sales pitch with things that last, everyone knows that. What better than a weather well wishing? But not just a generic "Hope you have a sunshiney day", no! Give it to them in a more personal way so they will relate to you!

One of the things I'm thankful for in my career is I haven't had to cold call, ever. I was technically a salesperson right out of college, but I was never selling a brand new thing to a brand new account. Actually, I never really sold an old thing to an old account, either (ha ha!). What I'm saying is, I'm lucky the previous marketing administration quit, because I'm not very good at sales.

I had a fun adventure last night. I went shopping with Zoey for a birthday gift for her friend from school. Zoey is 8. When I suggested we get the girl, who invited her over not only for the 6pm party but directly from school today so she doesn't have to go to daycare (awesome!), a birthday gift for her troubles, Zoey rattled off the list of things Emma is dying for: "makeup, like lip gloss and those little kid makeup sets, and she loves loves loves perfume, and she also wants new necklaces like the peace sign ones I have...". Huh, alright. I didn't even know who Emma was until yesterday, but you apparently know everything about her. Anyway, we went to the superstore for last minute gifts, Walmart, and I spent a good 10 minutes in a makeup aisle fending off adult-shade lip and cheek applications and encouraging she get "up to 3 or 4" of the $0.89 tubes of pink glittery stuff. We settled on some fake nails, and I let her get a set, too. Emma is going to be thrilled with the little flowers on the tips, ohmygosh!

We also got the kid a Hoops & Yoyo birthday card--have you seen these things? My family has begun making them a tradition, and they are often hilarious. These little recorded voices come out of the card giggling hysterically and subtly insulting the recipient. You have to listen to them 3 or 4 times to get everything, but it's worth it. The one I got on my birthday will be opened no less than 100 times over the next week, and by then I will want to strangle Hoops with his Yoyo. But they're funny.

Last weekend was my big sports/birthday trip, and it did not disappoint. Below are a couple photos. Everyone who matters knows about Michigan's big win by now, and looks forward to their HUGE crosstown rivalry game with the mighty, uh, Emus? of Eastern Michigan University. EMU is located in the hipster village of Ypsilanti, a town so famous due to its name, that when you ask locals where they're from they simply reply "Ann Arbor". Except my friend Charlie, he's really proud of "Ypsi"; perhaps because they use really clever puns in their advertising. You "auto" see it!

Happy end of summer. :( <-- Sad face.

My 31st Year: What Have I Done?

I stole that title from a previous post I wrote, and I like it because you can read it one of two ways (just in case you can't hear the inflection in my text):

"Hmm. What HAVE I done, anyway? Let's reflect..."; or,

"OH MY GOSH WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

I'm reflecting, frantically, because next Saturday is my birthday. The big 3-1. No longer just 30 which, let's be honest, simply meant "not in my 20s anymore"--a surprisingly harsh reality that was difficult to accept, and even difficulter to get up from after crouching for any more than four or five seconds. When did a physical act as simple as "the crouch" become something you must truly question whether to attempt or not? Do I have a nearby wall with which to brace myself? Will my trick knee decide to flare up, causing me to groan inappropriately loud as I rise? Do I have enough give in the seat of my pants? Years back, the crouch was an afterthought; a simple and necessary tool for several sporting positions, also known as a "stance". My favorite was the "three point stance" in basketball. This clever device allows one the leverage to either pass, dribble, or shoot the basketball. Ha ha! You'll never know silly defender! Only they knew with me. If I was in the three point stance, one of my two signature moves was imminent: the "sit back down on the bench", or the "ankle sprain". At least then I had the will and joint lubrication to spring right back up.

Also, I don't really have a "trick knee". I just like the sound of it. Maybe if I spent 20 years workin' on the railroad I could get away with that sort of embellishment. So, sorry about that, railroadmen. I didn't mean to demean your 2nd favorite ailment behind "spike-through-hand".

I'm celebrating my 31st birthday by doing what any responsibly maturing man would: flying across the country to watch sports. And I'm dragging my wife! We'll be popping into Detroit for a Tigers game on Friday with Brad and Andrea, staying there that night, then meeting my parents in Ann Arbor for Michigan and Notre Dame. A birthday treat worthy of former president Gerald Ford and The Pope! It's been almost 3 years since I visited the Big House, and despite all the program's efforts to become a horrible football team the past two years, I'm stoked to go back, and maybe more stoked to have my wife go with me. She'll finally understand just a smidgen more of my personality and my tendency for withdrawal on fall Saturdays. I don't know that she'll understand why the Michigan Wolverines are "Champions of the West", nor why we sing the words so heartily, but then again, nobody really does. We just do it because it's college football.

This time of year always feels new because school sessions are starting. But even as a workin' man, it makes me feel I should work a little harder and "think about my future". So, in a clear sign of advancement, I'm thinking about taking a class. At a college. I considered enrolling in High School Government class just to relive the fun, but they didn't like my voting record. Instead, I'm going to take a class called "Toolbox Basics". No no, it's not a lecture on how to become a tool. I'd be in a much more advanced class than "Basics" for such a topic. It's a class to help me learn how to write. I'm not sure what I want to write yet, but at the least I'm moving closer to my goal of wearing jeans or corduroy pants and a sweater every day, not shaving, developing neurotic quirks, and having everyone accept those things for the sake of art. Wish me luck! And...I have to say it...GO BLUE!

Bloggers block, and my dream work scenario

This is a blog. How can I go weeks or months without feeling like I have "anything to blog about"? I am alive, I have a family, I have a job, I have more and more nose hairs which protrude beyond the nasal opening, and must be trimmed! So really, no shortage of material.

I spend 9 hours of most weekdays at an office building. I sleep about 8-9 hours a night, thanks to my wife's awesome sleeping habits (seriously, life changing). So that leaves 6-7 hours to do other things like work out, play with the kids, taunt the cat, watch sporting events on TV, trim nose hair, etc... But that 9 hours at work may be the problem. Work takes up more than half my waking hours, yet I do not like blogging about it. There are too many things about having a corporate job that an outsider wouldn't understand, and that I don't want to risk talking about in a public forum. A public consisting of about 11 people spread around the country, but a forum nonetheless. Or maybe I'm only inspired to blog about it while I'm at work, which then creates a scenario where my creative ambitions could usurp my jobly duties; which, in turn, could cause termination of the job. 

To steal a gimmick from Dave Barry, "Jobly Duties" could make a great band name.

In all the meetings, conference calls, and seminars I've had the pleasure of leading or attending (no sarcasm there at all), I've been waiting for one moment--one particular opportunity--to let my true abilities shine. The transaction would happen during one of those meet and greet sessions, where everyone toots their own horn by saying how long they've "been in the biz", and it would go something like this:

Me:  "Hi, I'm Steve, the Assistant Brand Manager for the brand. I've been here..." blah blah blah "...after which, I developed a true passion for..." blah blah blah "...this one time, in band camp..." blah blah blah "...really happy to be here. And how about this weather, huh? Huh?"

Before I continue my dream sequence, let's consider why every single person in the history of any business conversation, new friend introduction, or family reunion simply MUST talk about the weather. Why do we do this? One's location in relation to the other makes no difference at all. You could have resided on the same street for 20 years, never vacationed, and stepped out of your house only to say to your neighbor, "Man, can you believe this very typical sunshine?", and they would reply, "I know, RIGHT?" This happens 40 times a day in the average office building, with people in one state acting like the weather in any other state is, like, totally wild.

Anyway, back to my sequence. I've just humbly introduced myself.

Interested Party: "Steve, as the Associate Brand Manager, how do you..."

Me: "Ahem, ummm...OH, you know, I was just going to say I'm just the 'Assistant' Brand Manager, not what you said, which was 'Associate'."

Interested Party: "Riiiight. Anyway, in your role, how can you impact the average sales of..."

--Here's where I interrupt again and turn a normal, droll business meeting into a real LOL moment--

Me: "I mean, and either way--associate or assistant--my title starts with 'A-S-S', so... Right?"

Everyone in the room: 

Well, there you have it. An insight into my professional success, and personal joy. Work is work, and I'd rather write about make-up stories that prove my immaturity than about actual workish work things. Or the weather, apparently. Except when it's SUPER hot for like 5 straight days, which it has been lately here in Utah. Seriously, it was like 103 the other day, in late August. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

Vacation pics and tidbits

Annie, the kids and I flew to Chicago on 7/31, drove to Hudsonville on 8/2, drove to Big Rapids (Cottage) on 8/5, drove back to Chicago on 8/8, and flew home to SLC (minus kids) on 8/9, our 1-year anniversary. All that time on seats of moving vehicles left me thinking, "Why do men wear wallets in their back pockets, anyway? My left arse cheek kills!"

Happy Anniversary baby! I did exactly what I wanted to do this year: set the bar low. I only get better from here, trust me.

Some of my favorite highlights from the trip:

- Zoey left the other 3 of us in stitches at the SLC airport restaurant. She started doing this weird "duh, du-huh" sound to Preston, and for whatever reason we all started giggling as she just kept doing it, without breaking. It was like one of those uncomfortably long Family Guy jokes. She just kept making that noise.

- The waiter looked like a creepy, ashy-faced version of Michael McDonald from MAD TV.

- I'm not going to compare every anecdote to a TV show, sorry about that.

- Nicknaming the Willis Tower the "What you talkin' 'bout-Willis Tower", and then hearing the kids try to say it fast. TV reference again, dang.

- Preston methodically cleaned out the appetizer plates at Giordano's.

- Zoey played a game at a street fair where you had to throw a ping pong ball into these tiny glass jars, to win a goldfish in a bag. You got 5 tries. These games are designed to be nearly impossible, right? She nailed it on the first try. We won a fish. It lived for 3 days. We tried.

- My Dad unwittingly ego-slapped me while we put together a new trampoline at his house. I just couldn't pull the last few sections of springs far enough to hook them. My hands were blistered, nearly bloody by then (slight exaggeration). He just kept pulling them 'til it was done.

- I saw my cousin Emily for the first time in well over a year, maybe two years? She went and married a man named Steve. Good job, cousin!

- I met my niece Elizabeth finally. She was crying within 30 seconds when I picked her up. We made up and became buddies later in the week.

- Zoey walking through Meijer in one flip flop, having lost the other one at AJ's house.

- Preston deciding to do lots of unpredictable things: Choosing an afternoon with Grandpa John and Grandma Terry instead of taking the train to Heidi's neighborhood with me and Annie and Dave and Heidi for the street fest; Going grocery shopping with Grandma Carol instead of hitting the G.R. Children's Museum with my Dad and Annie; Waking up super early on his own, at my parents' house, to play Gotham Racing on the X-Box. Well, that last one isn't so unexpected.

- Josh Pepper singing - screaming - "Beat It" in falsetto at the top of his lungs on Guitar Hero World Tour at AJ's house.

- Preston and Zoey arguing over the controls of the slowest, least entertaining type of water vehicle: the paddleboat. "I want to push the little handle forward and back!" "No, you suck at turning left while pedaling!"

- Seeing 3-yr old Danny by the campfire with his pants down. He was standing there with a marshmallow roasting stick in his hand, and suddenly his pants were at his ankles. It seemed like no great surprise to his parents.

- On my 2nd ski run of Thursday, catching an edge and going shoulder/face first into the water at full cutting speed. I hadn't fallen in a long time, and it's a trip. In half a second these thoughts occurred: "I am killing this run OH NO GOING DOWN. I think my shoulder just punched my clavicle. Am I upside down? I wonder if this looks cool to the kids. My teeth hurt?"

- Something about vacation makes my wife actually okay with a real, full arms and body hug. With an extended embrace. I know that's really sappy but I'm treasuring it. It was our anniversary after all. And I hadn't showered in like 3 days at the cottage and she was still in for it. That's love, baby.

I'm omitting a few things, surely, but I'm also very tired and this is taking forever. Plus I took the time to put those clever, HI-larious captions on all the photos above, so don't skimp on those. Thanks to Terry and John for letting me drive the Kia Sportage with the "One Hot Grandma!" license plate frame -- very awesome -- and for letting us crash at our favorite downtown Chicago condo. And thanks to Mom & Dad for hosting us at your home and the cottage for a week. It was a lot of running around, but something about the Midwest always makes it feel easy to enjoy. 

Crickets...where has Stizl gone?

I haven't written anything lately because I spend too much time thinking about writing. Ask me about that next time I see you; I'll have to explain.

I'll say this: John Irving either has some deep-seeded father issues, or he simply has the mind to create the gripping fictional tales his Garp longs for. I read The World According to Garp in about 2 weeks, which is, for me, flying through a novel. I can't wait to get more of his stuff.

My wife made a good point tonight over garlic burgers and beer. (Yes, a romantic Wed. evening every woman dreams of.) I was blabbering about how I hadn't blogged in a while because I couldn't recently find the time to write my observations or op-ed column-styled posts about life happenings. She pointed out that this particular blog may be an outlet for me in that respect, but that the small group of readers - family, friends - who would take the time to read it simply want to know what's going on in my life. Throw on some pics and let them know we all went to the water park, in other words.

So I'll probably start doing more of that. But not until after my vacation next week. We're all flying to Chicago on Friday, then driving to Michigan on Sunday for a week to catch up with friends and hang out with the family at the cottage. I'll get a chance to finally meet my niece, Elizabeth, do my kind of skiing (less snow, more motor) for the first time this year, let the kids 'drive' the Sea-Doos, catch some delicious bass, and maybe even share a reflective, love-drenched moment with my wife over garlic burgers steak and beer.

Track Day photos