M&Ms for breakfast.

As kids, one of the things we loved most about visiting my Grandma Rehmer’s house was her incessant urge to feed everyone constantly. You’d walk through the door and somewhere between the welcome hug and the “come on in,” she was already on a mission to convince you that you were hungry.

“I have some peaches. How about a sandwich? I made that fudge you like so much . . .” she would press, naming everything she had on hand.

Then she would shift to things she or my Grandpa could buy at the Highway Foodbasket.

“They have Oreos up there. And lots of chips. You like those barbecue flavored ones, right?”

Eventually, whether you liked it or not, you wound up eating. It didn’t matter what time of day, where you had to go or how much you resisted—as long as you were consuming something Grandma was happy.

I thought of her this morning as I stumbled out of bed and flipped the switch on the coffee maker. Standing in the kitchen, beginning to process the items on my agenda for the day, I noticed the bag of Mint Chocolate M&Ms Cristi bought at the store the night before sitting on the counter. My logical, boring side told me it was too early for chocolate and I should consider a piece of toast or a banana instead. But my other side, the same side that sometimes suggests I take whiskey shots at 1 AM, told me to do whatever I felt like. If you want the candy, eat the damn candy. I took a handful, poured a cup of coffee and walked down the hallway with a smile. Grandma would be proud.

Funky chicken.

I think about food a lot these days. With Cristi’s culinary career, my advertising endeavors in the pasta industry and the fact that you have to eat to live, food is subject that I just can’t shake.

Among the many issues that swirl around in my mind, I am most intrigued by the fact that none of us really have any idea where anything we eat comes from. Just tear open a bag of Doritos, hold a chip up to the light and ask yourself whether there’s anything there you can identify as “food.”

Of course, this issue goes far beyond packaged goods. Take a stroll down the meat aisle at your local SAVE-SAVE-SAVE Supermarket and there’s a good chance you’ll discover row after row of grey looking chunks of flesh wrapped tightly in cellophane. The signs suggest ‘Chicken’, ‘Beef’ and ‘Pork’ but how do you really know for sure?

This is the situation I encountered today when I went down to Trader Joes to buy something to barbecue. Chicken sounded good, so picked through their small selection of breasts and thighs and found a couple of packages I thought would suffice. But looks can be deceiving. When I came home and unveiled my bounty, a nasty odor filled the air.

Disappointed, I stood there and stared at the lumps of meat. Poor chicken, I thought. Born and bred to be eaten, the seemingly simple process of feed, kill, package and consume got screwed up somehow. Stupid humans. As I loaded the rotten breasts into a white plastic bag one by one, I contemplated what to have instead. Perhaps peanut butter and jelly would do the job?

Blue jeans of joy.

Every year around November or December I have to retire a pair of jeans due to inappropriate splitting. By ‘inappropriate’ I mean the inner seem between the two legs gives way and suddenly the pattern on my underwear starts coming up in conversation. So, like an elderly pet or beloved car in need of a new transmission, the only way to ease the pain is to replace the broken item with a brand new one. Off to Sears.

Now, as I sit here in my indigo blue 501s I wonder what adventures we’ll have together. The bike rides and the barbecue. The beer spills and bratwurst juice. Ah, if only every $32 investment brought this much happiness.

Raving idiot.

I rode home in the dark drizzle this evening. The whole time reminding my inner aggressive asshole that the swirl of traffic around me wasn’t comprised of people trying to kill me—they just couldn’t see me through sheets of mist, dense fog and fuzzy windshields. Folks just like me, trying to get home to their overpriced condos to spend some time with 12-packs, cable TV and maybe even a loved one or two. I rolled in safe, sound and wet.

With haste, I changed into dry clothes and headed out with Jez for her evening walk. About two blocks over, I heard a bunch of yelling. Jez and I both paused for a second on the sidewalk.

“Motherf*cker, go!! F*ck. God, what the f*ck are you waiting for a GREEN LIGHT. F*uck,” went the stream of obscenities.

I looked up to see two cars and a tiny flashing light. Cyclist? I wondered. Angry cyclist, my mind quickly interrupted, as some dude came blasting through the intersection.

“And f*ck you, too,” he mumbled under his breath, looking toward Jez and I.

Well. Wow. I really didn’t know how to react to that one. As a fellow cyclist, I was looking out for the dude. Then, all of the sudden I found myself wishing one of the cars he was yelling at had taken him out. Of course, the hardest part was the realization that I’d been “that guy” a million times.

Then it hit me. Hard. The raving idiot cyclist is pathetic. More pathetic than a retarded, 3-legged dog. People in cars already hate us—yelling at them is only going to make a stupid situation worse.

I made a promise to myself right there on the spot that I would never yell at another car again. Call it my New Year’s resolution a few months ahead of time. Call it my pact with the world. Call it whatever you want—just don’t let me forget I said it.

‘Tis the season for the tacky aluminum Christmas tree.

It’s time once again for the Shipley-Green family holiday season. There’s a $100 organic turkey in the fridge, a bottle of Dr. McGillicutty’s peppermint schnapps on the counter and a stack of Christmas LPs lined up next the record player. Gene Autry, Elvis, Perry Como—basically any artist who put out a Christmas album before 1959. But the most important sign of the season is the five-foot silver Christmas tree I swiped from the back room of the thrift store I worked at in college. Unveiled yesterday and carefully decorated so most of the ornaments are out of Jez’s “tail-wagging range”, this beacon of holiday delight is even more significant than a visit from Santa himself.

My friends, the silver is shining, so let the merriment begin.

Cold front.

It’s not exactly easy being human. Honestly, I believe we’re naturally inclined to live like animals. Cave men and women, if you will. But these modern times won’t have it. We have to smell good, drive shiny things and dwell in places with two-thousand-dollar light fixtures and whirlpool tubs. Subconscious or not, I think we have to force ourselves to be civilized. And sometimes that can be challenging.

Take for example, the road biker guy I literally ran into this morning. There he was, all decked out in Lycra, with an outfit that matched his bike, and suddenly he does a u-turn directly in front of me. My inner caveman says, “Off with his head—he obviously doesn’t use it.” But the “real” me gives him the benefit of the doubt, says “Eeek, watch out, man,” and life goes on.

Or consider for a moment the person I was talking to the other day who admitted to drafting text messages while driving. I have trouble typing with my thumbs to begin with, so I wonder how the hell someone could do it while sitting behind the wheel of a moving car. The caveman says, “Flog them, brand their foreheads with the word ‘Idiot’ and take away their licenses.” But the contemporary me, simply nods his head and smiles.

But the best example is this guy I know who keeps a blog. He’s an extremely fortunate individual—with a loving wife, awesome dog and about 16 bicycles—and yet he still finds a way to bitch and moan. He’s the worst kind, because no matter how many wonderful opportunities come his way, or amazing people enter his life, he still manages to complain. What does the caveman think of this guy? It’s hard to tell, as cavemen seem to be afraid to look in the mirror.

Finding My Place: Another Coming of Age Story

This morning, as I walked Jez through freshly fallen leaves admiring the beautiful single-family homes that line the side streets around our place, I paused for a moment and looked up into the sky, “what a wonderful turret,” I thought. Suddenly, I heard something stir in the tree above my head. Before I could grab my cell phone to report the suspecious activity, the Lords of Coolness dropped down—one on my left and one on my right. Jez stared at them for a moment as if she might bark, but quickly went back to stalking squirrels.

Dressed in leather jackets, blue jeans and white t-shirts, one of them spit on me and laughed. The other one grabbed the collar of my Columbia® Fleece and looked me dead in the eye. “You’re not cool anymore, man.”

My body went limp and I fell to the ground. He was right. I curled up into a little ball and cried for a minute or two. When I pulled myself together, they were gone. Attached to a tree with a switchblade, I found a recent 401K statement and a photograph of me standing in front of my beloved ‘68 Impala with a pompadour and a grin.

On the way back to our condo Jez and I encountered a group of rowdy teenagers making their way down the sidewalk. My uncool mind went to work, “youngsters up to no good,” the voice in my head stated authoritatively.

Jez and I quickly prepared to cross the street. I looked up to check for cars, but found myself distracted by a well-appointed house on the corner. “What a wonderful turret,” I thought, admiring the structure.

There’s just something about steam.

Last winter on Berwyn Avenue, Cristi and I spent about six months under heavy blankets, contemplating whether our heater was broken. We called the landlord, we adjusted the thermostat, we changed the filters once a month and still spent practically every moment in that apartment rushing around from room to room, searching for wool sweaters and cursing.

This year everything is different. This year we are being warmed by this amazing invention called a rad-ia-tor. Ever heard of them? Although they seem to leak a little water around the valves—and the one in the living room looks as if it may eventually fall through the floor—they bring warmth to every room in our house incredibly quickly and effectively. Where a normal “forced air” system sounds a bit like a rocket ship about to take off, the radiator usually starts with a quiet, soothing boiling sound. Then, there’s a slight rattling in the pipes under the floor. Soon the steam begins to flow. From the front of the apartment to the back, heat fills the room with an audible “Tsssss” sound. A sound I’ve grown to love.

Winter, I welcome you. Go ahead and try to torture us with your subzero temperatures, snow and freezing rain. I think my 100-year-old heating system can melt your ice, stop your chill and kick your ass until it’s time for the Tulips to bloom again.

New tricks?

As a young man, I tried to keep an open mind and positive attitude about the world and the many things I would eventually conquer. But today as I quickly approach the age of 30, I’m beginning to get comfortable with the fact that there are a few challenges I may never have the opportunity to overcome.

My fear of water, for example, is something that’s probably never going to change. My dad’s the same way, so I blame heredity. End of discussion.

My aversion to getting behind the wheel of a stick shift is another thing I suspect will follow me to my grave. This one used to really bother me when I lived in Kansas and I was surrounded by tractors, old pickups and old men in overalls who would say, “whaddya mean you don’t know how to use a clutch?” But these days my hands are soft, I’m a member of a condo association and cars without air conditioning seem unfathomable—let alone a car without an automatic transmission.

Finally, I have issues with ironing clothes. Go ahead, laugh all you want, but I am currently avoiding pressing a shirt at this very moment. Give me perma-press. Give me cotton. Give me anything that comes out of the dryer without requiring any further attention.

Everything is ready. The iron is hot, the shirt is spread over the board and the wrinkles are deep and plentiful. I’ve tried to go to meetings before un-ironed, hoping everyone would just think it was the seatbelt or the leather conference room chair that caused the major tracks in my attire. It never works. Once I enter the room and the bright lights of the corporate world are shining on me, I realize it looks as if I’m wearing a wadded up rag.

I must iron and I must do it now.

Seasonal shifts.

Out with the severed heads, in with the Santa Claus. Halloween has passed and now the retail world will dictate an entirely new mood. Haunted houses become gingerbread houses. Screams in the night are replaced with jingle bells. Stories of ghosts and ghouls become stories about a guy who crawls down your chimney and eats your cookies (which still seems a little creepy if you ask me, but I diverge . . .)

Be prepared, my friends. Buy yourself one of those red, plush hats with fuzzy edges. Pull the batteries out of the howling skeleton and stick ‘em in the mechanical Santa. Check the balances on your credit card collection. Make sure you’ve got an updated address list for all the friends and family you haven’t sent anything to since last year’s Christmas newsletter. And most important during these days of heightened sensitivity, remember to say “holiday” not “Christmas” when you’re around people you don’t know. Take my advice and you’re probably ready to celebrate the most wonderful time of year®.