I hope Dam to Dam doesn't beat me up like that.

When I was thinking about running my first marathon, I heard that UNI had sometimes offered a "marathon class". The class met twice a week; Tuesday's class covered physical education and Thursday's class was dedicated to the psychology of running and mental imagery. The assignments included group runs, running logs, and class assignments. The final exam was the participation in a full marathon. 

I couldn't take the class, but I bought the "text book" used to see if I could get some help: http://www.amazon.com/Non-Runners-Marathon-Trainer-David-Whitsett/dp/1570281823. The book is comprised of seventeen chapters, and each chapter covers one week of training ending with a training log page. For me, the most useful information was the focus on the psychological. Sure it's physical, but like anything in life, successful running also depends upon positive attitude and mental strength.

Like any used textbook, the previous owner had already highlighted and written in it. Here's the first running log entry:

It's also the last entry; all the other running log pages are blank.

Five exclamation points? Uffda.

Carousel Conquered!

Charlotte doesn't jump into anything without a lot of thought first, and when it comes to busy streets and pools with deep ends, I'm all for her caution. Last weekend we made another visit to the Heritage Carousel, and after 20 minutes it looked as if Char was going to be a wallflower again.

Here she is contemplating the ride, and if the carnival music wasn't so loud, you could hear the gears in her head whirling around.

Then, without warning, Char ran to the entrance gate and began pounding the bars so she could be let in.

Taa, Daa!

Happily, even after riding 'round 'roun 'round, Charlotte still thinks Dad's brave for riding the tiger.

Everyone Calls You What?

Last year I was walking through a Goodwill store, and the book title, "May We Borrow Your Husband?" caught my eye. The author was Graham Greene, and I jokingly thought, "Okay, Mr. Greene. If your first paragraph makes me laugh, I'll buy your book."

Touché, Mr Greene, touché. You had me at Poopy.

Don't Miss the "NOTE"

I really enjoy reading vintage "fundraiser" cookbooks. Not only are they filled with great family recipes, you just never know when they will make you laugh. I've got a collection of about 25 books, and most are from regional churches, but others are from little leagues and local schools.

This recipe is from "Cooking with Quilters: Mississippi Valley Quilters' Guild".

Reminds me of a SNL skit...

http://www.iviewtube.com/videos/152193/

Why We Love the Downtown Farmers Market

I love meat. Daphne loves dessert. We both love breakfast.

Here's the solution to a problem we didn't know existed:

Behind Closed Doors

Like a lot of the Monson men, sometimes I can be gassy early in the day. One morning Charlotte decided she needed to be in the bathroom with Mommy while Mom was getting ready for work, and Char needed to close the bathroom door.

Meanwhile, our dog Maggie was in the dinning room barking at unseen prowlers. From behind the closed door I could hear Char say, "Maggie! Bark!" in recognition of her dog's voice.

At that point I was walking out of our bedroom, and thinking I was a safe distance away, I let one rip.

Immediately Char yelled, "Daddy! Bark!"

Man, I can't get away with anything.

Tilt Ma World

Merry-go-rounds, Sit 'N Spins, and amusement rides that whip you around in tight circles used to be the best things ever. But just looking at them now makes my stomach do a flip. Just swinging back and forth at the park with Charlotte gives me a headache. How did this happen? Does this affect everyone when they age? Is it an inner-ear thing? I don't know, but I have a feeling that in a few years Disney World is going to put me in a world of hurt.

While we were picnicing at Union Park, Charlotte was drawn to the carousel and its galloping and circling zoo. She rode on its bench seat last year when she was 10 months old, but I doubt she really understood what was happening.

This year she was much more cautious. Although she was really excited to touch the jumping tiger, she couldn't bring herself to stay on the ride. Twice Char stepped onto the carousel's deck, and twice she turned and ran for the exit. We then spent the better part of 20 minutes watching the animals go bounding by, and each time tiger passed Charlotte pointed him out.

The tiger: not the boy.

I decided to get on and show her that riding the tiger isn't a big deal. I flashed the kid at the entrance gate our season pass, and climbed aboard for a ride. As I settled in and gripped the gold support pole, three thoughts ran through my mind at once: 1) Hey, this tiger is really pretty high off the ground. 2) It's really hot in here. 3) Oh, no. This thing goes up and down, too. All which cumulated into, "Oh, crap. What was I thinking?"

For the next two and a half minutes, in an effort to make it look like I was having fun, I smiled, waved, and pointed at the gals as I passed them:

 

I may have felt a bit woozy when the ride slowed to a stop, but I could tell that Charlotte was looking at me in a different light when I stepped off the ride. Her conversation on the way home confirmed that. Over and over, Char repeated in one pattern or another:
"Daddy rode tiger! Daddy rode tiger!"
"Daddy brave!"
"Ca-sel goes round, round, round!"
"Daddy hold tight!"

Depending on your age and your spinning abilities, you may be thinking: 1) Good job, weenie. You survived a children's carousel. or 2) Way to take one for the team, old man.

As long as my daughter is walking around saying, "Daddy rode tiger! Daddy brave!" I couldn't care either way.

For Him and Her

Like a toy that's been overshadowed by its cardboard box, Charlotte's next favorite item is unpredictable. One day she's inseparable from her sock giraffe; the next you can't pry a plastic mixing cup from her grasp. I don't even know where she found it, but last November Char was carting around a perfume ad. It's about five inches square and wrinkled from her clench:

On a Sunday I found it on the floor near the leg of our dining table, and during lunch/ napping time I caught myself contemplating its message. Obviously Gucci is selling the implication that if you wear their scent you'll be able to get close to someone attractive. But what about the titles on the respective bottles? If you are a guy and you are successful, then it's because you are "intense". If you are a woman and you are successful, then it's because you're "guilty". That's hardly fair.

I was pointing out this mixed message to show Daphne how sensitive I am to sexism, but then I lost my direction and made a joke instead of a point.

"... and what does it mean to smell guilty anyway? The only time I smell guilty is when I fart."

Caught off guard, Daphne laughs and quickly adds, "But I'll tell you what. When you smell guilty it sure is intense!"

Laughing at her own joke almost keeps Daphne from getting out the last word, and I throw her a high-five across the table in appreciation. Because we're both exhausted and punchy, laughter bubbles to the surface throughout the rest of lunch. Besides, fart jokes are always funny.

Later, when Daphne has Charlotte on the changing table, I peer over Daph's shoulder and pinch my face together. "Ooooo, bad news. Someone smells guilty."

Note to self: laughing at toddler girls while they're on the changing table hurts their feelings. I guess not everyone enjoys fart jokes.

Coasting Along

Last year I found an ESTY store that converted ruined 45 single records into drink coasters. They cut the 7 inch circle of vinyl into a 4 x 4 inch square, attached high quality cork to its back, and then poured on a clear, thick polymer resin. They have a bunch to sell, but I wanted a custom one.

I found a warped AC/DC single at Red Rooster Records, and the owner gave it to me for free. I signed my initials on the label as if this was a relic from my junior high days, and then mailed it to: http://www.etsy.com/shop/ROCKANDROLLCOASTERS?ref=seller_info

The A-side on this record is the awesome "Black in Black", but the B-side song is perfect for a coaster:

This coaster makes me smile every time I use it, but I'm geeky like that.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfcnoIkBdjc

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Red-Rooster-Records/47386371908?sk=info

Oh, How Nice of You

I pride myself in having a thrift store t-shirt for almost every occasion. I thought this Blues Traveler concert tee fit the bill for Mother's Day, but I'm not sure Daphne agreed. I wore it to the park for our picnic anyway.



Here's the blanket that we used for the picnic, and here's Charlotte stepping on my Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt's logo. I mentioned this shirt in my last post.

When Deb, my mother-in-law, asked me to pick out old shirts to be made into this quilt, I had no idea that Daphne and I were going to be parents. Had I known, I probably wouldn't have selected the "Black Sunday" movie tee that reads, "The Undead Demons of Hell Terrorize the World in an Orgy of Stark Horror!" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTC2vRfyVJY

Guess which square Char will discover first when she starts reading? I'll have some fast talking to do then.

Also, check out Char's state fair shirt. I asked Daphne to save every piece of clothing that Char has ever worn, and when we have enough cool logos and patterns, I'd like to see get her own quilt.

I won't actually make the quilt, of course. I'll just brag that it was my idea.

Taking Stock

Tomorrow Lazerfest hits Iowa, and I hope metal fans will have a great time. I love the metal genre, but even if I wasn't a Dad with a 20 month-old daughter, and I wasn't married to a Mom I need to celebrate, I'd be staying home. I'm a bit jaded on musical festivals.

Here's why:

In August of 1994 I was about to begin my third year of teaching, and I was holed up in my apartment jealously watching the MTV coverage of Woodstock '94. I wondered what it would be like to be cool enough to attend such a historical music event? All those great bands, all those girls in swimsuits (or less)...  Woodstock just had to awesome.

Five years later I flew out to New York to attend Woodstock '99 with my friends Cory and Kyle Moss. Here's my ticket.

Oh man, I was pumped! This was going to be a three day vacation with 200,000 other music fans.  I'd be watching almost 50 bands rocking the three live stages that were strewn about Griffiss Air Force Base. Like myself, 60,000 other people would be sleeping in tents on the provided camp grounds, and when the stages closed down at 1AM, all-night raves would start in the airplane hangers...

Too bad the male to female ratio was about 20 to 1, and the food prices were criminal: $12 for a mini pizza and $4 for a bottle of water. Here's a fuzzy closeup from a vendor's sign.

There wasn't any shade on the air base, and the average heat index for the three days was over 100 degrees. I refilled my four dollar water bottle over 15 times on Friday, and I never had to go to the bathroom. That's a lot of sweating, but it was a better than visiting kybo-land.

By the way, that's not water on the ground.

On the second day I discovered the porta-potties were cleaned out between 5:30 and 7:00 AM, and I set my watch. Too bad I wasn't the only one to notice.

This is where I realized that 99% of all people who try nudism should never, ever have made the attempt. After brushing my teeth on Sunday morning I bent over to spit out my toothpaste and ended up eye level with an old man's junk. "Cover that up, dude," was all I could think to say. He grumbled something about freedom of expression, and then turned to show me his butt. I'll spare you that picture, but here's the scene of the crime.

There was an alternative to the porta-potties: the blanket potty. You know the kybos were disgusting if public pooing was the better option. I saw quite a few people do this. Notice all the garbage in the background, and notice I am wearing shorts. This picture was for demonstration purposes only.

(2012 Reality Check: That R.H.C.P. t-shirt is now part of a quilt my mother-in-law made me for Xmas, and we're using that quilt tomorrow when we have our Mother's Day picnic at Union Park. I bought a season pass to the Heritage Carouse, so I'm gonna need a season's worth of Dramamine.)

As for the main concert area, in the morning the grass in front of the stages was so crowded you couldn't stretch your legs out when you sat on the ground; you had to sit with your knees pulled to your chest. From Thursday night to Sunday afternoon I didn't sit on anything except the ground. It felt awesome when I was finally able to sit in a real chair on Sunday night.

By the afternoon there was just too much humanity to even sit down. Those are speaker towers above the crowd, and I heard a rumor that the mass of people was a half of a mile wide, and a full mile deep. I don't know if that's true, but it sure felt true.

Each band tried to outdo the others by getting the crowd to participate in some way. Kid Rock was able to get the crowd to pelt the stage with plastic water bottles. For the better part of 15 minutes you had to cover your head with your hands to protect yourself from the bottles raining down. A full bottle hit me in the right ear. So painful.

Speaking of being hit, the scariest part of being in such a large crowd was the mosh pits. You'd be trying to weave your way out of the throng, not knowing how far you were from the edge of the group, when you'd stumble into a small, circular, open area. Just when you thought you had made it out, you'd discover you were instead in the path of three brutes charging at each other with fists flailing.  It was like being tossed about in a sea of people that was mined with whirlpools of violence.

I went to the rave to check out Moby on Saturday night. I was burned twice by cigarettes being carelessly waved around. I soon left to stumble around in the dark trying to find our one tent in a slum of thousands. If I wasn't tripping over people who were passed out, I was walking into huge piles of trash. The heat didn't help the smell of either.

We left early Sunday afternoon to beat most of the departing traffic, and by the time we got back to Corey's New York apartment MTV was running coverage of the riot fires the fans had set to the concession stands and speaker towers. Later several incidents of violence and rape were reported.

So much for three more days of peace and love.

Yes, it was a once in a lifetime experience. Who would want to go through that again?

Guess I'm a Poser

I have this sticker on the back window of our car:

I think it might have been designed as a slightly ironic jab at the slightly elitist Colorado sticker made popular in the 90s:

But irony isn't why I like my Iowa Native sticker.

What I like best about my native sticker is that I'm truly proud to live in Iowa. Before Daphne and I bought a house here, we went city shopping. We researched and traveled to as many as possible, and during these trips I discovered something. I found out that I'm a mid-western guy, a guy who enjoys living in Iowa, and more specifically, a guy who really loves Des Moines. 

I own this shirt, and wear it with pride:

I could go on with this love letter to Iowa, but according to the Iowa History Journal, displaying that native sticker on my car makes me a liar. A dirty, filthy liar.

The IHJ's fall issue featured Johnny Carson and exposed him as an (gasp!) Iowan. "In the opinion of the historians, it's where you were born that determines your labeling with regards to states, not where you spent most of your childhood." Editor Mike Chapman

The dictionary agrees:

Although Inwood, Iowa was my first hometown, I was born at Sioux Valley Hospital which is located in Sioux Falls, SD. So, if you believe Mr. Chapman and the dictionary, I'm a native South Dakotan.

(fake sticker design I just threw together)

But I don't want a South Dakotan sticker. It just wouldn't feel right. I'd be like listening to Jewel sing "Sweet Home Alabama". When Daphne and I were discussing moving to another city, one of us mentioned Sioux Falls, South Dakota as an option. Then we both burst out laughing.

Why? First, and foremost, my family lives there. Secondly, I haven't checked in awhile, but I think some school districts are still paying their teachers with pocket lint and meat sticks.

So, I'm staying here and keeping that Iowa sticker where it is. Besides, Charlotte's a native.

Purple Reign

Daphne's dad lives just outside of St. Louis, and driving back from a visit one summer we stopped at a McDonald's in Bowling Green. After taking my order, the gal behind the counter asked for my name. I told her "Brent".

"Could you repeat that?"

"B r e n t," I slowly replied.

"Ummm, okay."

I left the counter, found our booth, and waited for my two double hamburgers - no pickles. I've never been a fan of Mickey D pickles on my burger. 

A few minutes later I hear the girl at the counter ask, "Prince?"

Laughing a little, I looked over to see who was using that name.  I didn't see anyone move, but this same McDonald's employee is staring straight at me. "PRINCE!" she yells while holding my eye contact.

As I'm slowly walking up to her, I can hear people snickering. When I get there to the counter, lo and behold, I see the girl is beholding a tray with two double hamburgers on it. 

"Here's your order, Prince. Have a good day."

I thanked her, and went back to our booth where Daph and I promptly broke out into stifled laughter. How she got "Prince" out of "Brent", I have no idea. She had even written "Prince" on the receipt, and I had it on our fridge for over a year... you never know when you have to pull the "But-I'm-a-Prince!" card out during an argument.

FYI: Despite my request, those burgers did come with pickles.  Looks like they don't give royalty much respect at the Golden Arches.

Troubleshooter

I was in seventh grade when my grandma called and asked if Dad would come over with his shotgun and kill her cat.

Grandma Elnora was moving to an apartment building that catered to seniors, but wouldn't allow pets. Her cat Snoopy - yes I know that's a dog name - was an indoor/ outdoor pet that was eight years old, and Grandma figured no one would adopt such an old cat. She was also worried that if Snoopy was put down by a veterinarian the needle used would cause him pain, and while waiting in the vet's office he'd be scared.

Her solution? Just have dad drive the cat out of town, let him out of the car - Snoopy loved prowling in long grass - and when the cat wasn't looking... Well, he wouldn't know what hit him, and she'd give Dad a garbage bag for the clean up.

Dad's solution? He stopped by Grandma's, took her cat and her garbage bag, then drove both to a gravel road. When he found a secluded spot he turned the car around and Snoopy lived at our house for 12 more years.

Nice carpet.

Some Toys are Best Left Alone

My mom gave us a toy for Charlotte: a stuffed mouse with its palms stitched together. When you pull the mouse's tail, you hear a recording of this prayer:

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I die before I wake,
I ask the Lord my soul to take."

I have no problem with Christian themed toys. The problem with this particular toy is that the high-pitched voice reading the prayer is obviously an older woman trying her best to sound like a child. Makes me think of Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?":

That's creepy enough on its own, but the woman uses a slow, breathy delivery and mispronounces the "s" on "sleep" and "soul" (she says "theep" and "thoul").  Instead of a cute, praying mouse, it sounds like a speech impeded demon threatening me with SIDS.

I kept a straight face when my mom proudly demonstrated the mouse for me, but there is no way that thing is going in my daughter's crib.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--RI7tlWuaM&feature=related

Of Note

The environment at my work isn't always a positive one. As seen on my department's refrigerator:

The bathroom isn't a place to hide from negativity, either:

So, on a more positive note: 

Twice a week Daphne has to leave early to get ready for her 7:00 AM jazz band rehearsals. So, I'm the one getting Char ready on those mornings. Daphne hates any time work takes her away from her little girl, so I always try to send a quick email so Mom knows how our morning went. Not that Daphne doesn't trust me or anything...

Here's the email from the 23rd:

"Hey,
Char cried a little when she discovered only Dad was home this morning, but she recovered quickly. We went out to the kitchen for some milk, and she sat on my lap while I sat on the bench and sang her made up "Good Morning" songs. She must have like the songs, because she kept requesting me to sing another, "Moring, moring!".

Charlotte then carried her Easter egg basket with her to the changing table, and did a really nice job of letting me get her dressed. She didn't really want to give up her basket, and I really didn't want her to take it to day care, so I distracted her with a yellow bunny Peep. In the car she drank her sippy of milk and happily chewed on her "Hop Hop". By the time we got there she had sticky fingers, a goatee of yellow sugar, and I think I heard a milk burp."

Really, we should all have such a good morning.

Very Welcoming

Due to terrible winter driving conditions, Daphne's grandma had to cancel her family's Christmas party a few years ago. Rather than go through that disappointment again, Grandma has moved her party's date from December to late April/ early May. 

Last year we traveled to the Iowa River Power Restaurant in Coralville, Iowa for the family get together. Although it's no longer Christmas, Grandma still likes to have treats and decorations.

Here's the center piece for the dessert table (in case you didn't know, my wife's maiden name is Gay):

FYI: I ate the "C" berry.

Next weekend, for her 90th birthday, we're going to Ankeny, Iowa to watch Grandma check "Ride in a helicopter" off her bucket list.

Who knows what will be there to welcome us?

Get in, Dog!

Before Charlotte was born, I could sum up how I'd spend a majority of my summer in two words: "truck ride".

After a long summer training run, I would be so hot that if I was to clean up right away I'd just be sweating again when I stepped out of the shower. I hate that. My solution was cooling off by taking our dog Maggie for a drive around Saylorville Lake with all the windows down.

I don't know how it is at your house, but every saying we have for our pets gets shortened down to the bare minimum. Instead of hunting down Maggie and asking, "Hey big girl! Do you want to come along and go for a ride in the truck with me?" I now just yell, "Truck ride!" from the garage. It's not like word choice matters, you put those two words anywhere near each other in a sentence and you'll be soon tackled by an overexcited, 95 pound, four-legged hitchhiker.

Although it's not the safest picture to take, I wanted to show you what I see in the passenger door mirror when I'm driving Maggie around:

Since my shedding passenger doesn't care about conversation or music quality, I'll pass the drive time with an assortment of random CDs checked out from the library. Really, is there a better place to listen to music than in the car?  Amongst the audio junk I'll usually find something I like - proving my theory that most records have at least one interesting song. And these songs become my "Dog Days of Summer Soundtrack".

With summer on its way, here are some road songs for you to try: Road Songs link