Oh, Honey!

 

There is an equity problem.  It has always been there for 42 years.  You’d think I would be used to it by now . . . but it still gets under my skin.  The problem?  The wife’s expectations when I have “time off”.  You might equate it to a “honey do” list.  Whatever you want to call it, it raises its ugly head whenever I have “time off”.

You guessed it . . . I have “time off” from the university between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  With the “time off” comes the “honey do” list, my whining, and the ultimate guilt trip that accompanies it all.  Let the holidays begin!

 

Why is this an “equity” problem?  Now you might be thinking that the wife and I have a “tit for tat” relationship.  A “give or take” agreement.  What is good for the goose is good for the gander.  You’d think that if the wife had time off I would create a “honey do” list full of expected tasks I want her to complete.  I can assure you that I do not!  I tried it once.  That was a mistake that nearly cost me my life as I was reminded that a “woman’s work is never done.”  It was traumatic enough that I resisted presenting a “honey do” list to the wife when she has time off.  I’ve lived a longer life because of that restraint.

 

With “time off” comes the expectations.  For example, this being the Christmas season, I should take all the Christmas decorations down—including the tree.  Christmas decorating is way beyond my pay scale.  Not that I didn’t try in the beginning.  I did.  After a while I realized that the wife was placating me . . . tolerating my efforts at decorating.  Whatever I did decorate was rearranged and prefaced with, “Don’t you think it would better like this?”  In this, too, I learned to keep my mouth shut when what I really wanted to say was, “No, if it was, I would have done it that way in the first place.”  Again, it is better to pick your battles and live another day . . . not to fight, but to live.

 

Taking down Christmas is the big expectation while I am off.  The wife drops hints all the time.  I’m off.  Yet, I assure you . . . I watched the little missus decorate our humble abode.  I watched it for hours. Yes, hours.  I know that it took hours to decorate and in turn it will take hours to undecorate.  Hours of my freedom I do not want to lose.  My first thought is to throw a blanket over the tree and move it to a corner of the living room where no one will notice it.  As I see it, it is killing two birds with one stone.  This never flies.  It must come down, be placed in the correct boxes, and hauled to the basement to be stored for another year.

 

I will also stall.  This is where I attempt to trump her with our theological education as ministers.  I try to throw the ecclesiastical card into the fray.  Christmas isn’t over for 12 days—thus the Twelve Days of Christmas song.  Using the ecclesiastical calendar, Christmas begins on Christmas Eve and ends 12 days later on January 5^th with the start of the season of Epiphany.  It is sacrilegious to undecorate before Christmas is over.  God might get mad and plague humanity with a slew of fruitcake.

 

That argument is a 50/50 proposition.  Half the time the wife just uses her look of disgust and reminds me that 12 days later it is going to come down . . . fruitcake plague or not.  The expectation is that it is coming down and coming down on my time.

 

You would think I know better about taking time off during the holidays.  I guess I am a slow learner.  The expectations of the “honey do” list are immense . . . and, not to mention, time consuming.  Make the ed.  Empty the trash.  Empty and load the dishwasher.  Make the backyard poop-free.  Pick up the dog toys. Entertain the dogs.  Pick up the dog toys again.  Cull our library of books.  Clean the bathroom.  Cook dinner.  Load up the dishwasher again.  Pay the bills.  Fix all the broken things in the house.  Ya da, ya da, ya da . . . the list goes on and on.  I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

 

And it doesn’t “feel” fair.  Just because I am the one off why should I pick up the load by myself?  Granted many of these tasks are usually done by both of us.  And the wife is working this week with a short staff meaning more work for her.  I should be the considerate spouse, buckle up, keep my mouth shut and do what needs to be done.  I should ease the load of my wife’s burdens this week.  Yes, I should.

 

But it SUCKS!

 

Why should I be the “good guy” . . . the “nice guy”?  Maybe I want to be a jerk and ignore it all . . . but I can’t.  I will break down and do it all.  I will do it, but not without a fight or at least a whimper.  A fight might get me killed, but a whimper will probably be tolerated.  Yeah, the wife can handle a whimper.  After all, we are both parents.  As parents our children have taught us well.

 

As the kids were growing up, they fought having to do the chores around the house.  The wife and I never asked them to do anything that would kill them.  We never asked them to paint the house or take out the transmission on the car.  No, we asked them to do simple things, like clean their rooms.  A simple request.  The reaction was nothing short of a nuclear explosion.  The moaning and groaning would start.  The gnashing of teeth.  The rolling of eyes.  The debate and arguments would commence.  The whining.  It was terrible.  Then the kids would start up.

 

Typically, it takes an hour to clean a bedroom.  One hour.  With the show that the kids put on it would take two hours to a whole day. I’d point out that the longer they fought it, the longer it would take.  It was their time they were wasting.

 

Yup, you got it.  This blog is that lamenting time I am putting in before I buckle down and do the “honey do” list.  Yeah, I know, I’m wasting my time . . . not the wife’s time, but it is such a dramatic and powerful tribute to my children.  They raised me well.

 

Thankfully my wife is patient.  She is kind.  Tolerant.  She knows she has me between a rock and a hard place.  She will win.  I know that.  She knows that.  I will comply because I want to live.  What good is “time off” if I am dead?  The wife tells me that is a fair trade-off.  Tells me that it is equitable.  She gets the list done.  I get to live.  After 42 years you would think I get it.  

Time Out!

It’s before six o’clock in the morning and I am driving down the highway towards the big city and another day of work at the university . . . it feels like I have been doing this routine for forever.  In my mind I am thinking that this is like the zillionth day in a row that I have either been at work at the university or the church . . . like I haven’t seen a day off for forever.  It has been a long week as I have worked at fifty percent of my job at the university doing all the things associated with professional development for educators that takes a full-time job; and, another fifty percent doing hearing rescreening for students in rural schools spread out all over the kingdom come of the vast state of Montana  . . . nearly six hundred miles in two days in locations like Lavina, Rye Grass, Grass Range, Roy, and Winnett . . . some of the booming metropolises of this great state looking into waxy ears and asking the age old audiological question: “Can you hear me now?”  Or is it a cell phone commercial?  Whatever . . . it has been a long week . . . an even longer six weeks.  I need a “time out”.

At least that is what was going through my mind as driving through the darkness and listening to John Prine sing about Jesus and his missing years . . . a “time out” period in the life of Jesus that happened between the ages of twelve and thirty.  I was also thinking about the fact that in those six weeks we as a family we have endured . . . one stolen car, one run in with a deer that crunched another car, a truck that needed major (and, expense) repairs, the wife going off for nearly ten days on a religious adventure, the stolen car being found, and the wife going off for another week to see and celebrate her mother’s 86^th birthday in Kentucky . . . just a few of the adventures that marked the past month and a half.  It has been stated that “bad stuff” happens in threes . . . well, I guess the darn thing got stuck and kept turning over and over as we easily passed the three level early in this time period.  That is a myth . . . for us Keeners, when it rains it pours.  I need a “time out”.

That’s what I thought as I neared the big city on the way to work this morning . . . I could use a “time out”.

I wanted to stop the truck, jump out, and throw my hands together in the ultimate sign of a “t” notating “time out”.  Of course in the downtown part of the big city that might be construed as a little on the strange side at that time of the morning . . . like maybe I had had a little too much to drink the night before . . . or that my medication had worn off . . . or that I had lost my marbles . . . anything but normal.  I imagine that if I had done that I would have scored a “time out”, but I really do not think that I would have enjoyed the dinner jacket with the extra-long sleeves or the padded room it would have gotten me.  So, despite my strong urge to do exactly that, I remained in my truck.

I am not quite sure why none of us is given a certain number of “time outs” that we can use over a lifetime when things feel as if they are getting out of hand.  In sports, teams are given a certain number of “time outs” that can be used for a variety of reasons . . . one of the biggest being when things seem to be getting out of hand and the team needs a “time out” to re-think, regroup, and calm down.  Sports are just a microcosm of life being played out on the field or court.  Each team is given a certain number . . . so, why not life?  Why can’t any of us have the ability to call a “time out” whenever life seems to be getting out of hand . . . when we are tired . . . when we need to regroup and reorganize . . . when we are frustrated . . . when we just need to catch our breath?  I could use one right about now in my life . . . a “time out”?

I imagine that there are those of you out there thinking to yourselves, “Boy, this guy sure whines a lot!” That you are wondering what in the world this guy is complaining about . . . adults get “time outs” all of the time.  Adults get day off from work.  Adult get vacations.  Adults get holidays.  Aren’t those “time outs”?  Yes, they are . . . when you get them.  Remember, I said it has been over six weeks since I have not worked every single day either in my university or church job.  As much as I love them . . . I need a break!

Usually with my “time off” I do a couple of things . . . I go critter creeping . . . I take lots of pictures . . . and, I write.  Anyone who follows me on Facebook or this blog knows that there have been few pictures and even fewer posts on the blog.  I haven’t had time . . . or, when I did have the time, the old easy chair or bed was calling my name . . . I was tired!  A “tired” John is not a pleasant person to be around . . . I get grumpy . . . easily frustrated which leads to more grumpiness . . . and, it has made the wife—more than once—threaten me with a whole different sort of “time out” that I hadn’t experienced since I was in grade school.  The scary thing about it is that I actually considered it.

Yeah, I know . . . why not just bite the bullet, take the “time out” and damn the consequences?  Well, I like being able to make payments on the house’s mortgage.  I enjoy being able to pay the other bills.  I appreciate my benefits at the university.  I like both of my jobs as there are good people at both.  I enjoy the church and the adventures it offers.  Both put money in the bank.  I like to eat.  I like being able to have Internet so I can blog and post pictures.  Without my jobs . . . well, without my jobs, I couldn’t do a whole bunch whether I had the time or not.  So, I bite the bullet and keep on chugging away.

In my chugging away I dream . . . I dream on while driving in the darkness of an early morning in Montana . . . I dream of “time outs”.  I dream of jumping up in the middle of a meeting at the university, yelling, “Time out!” Who cares if my fellow co-workers think I have lost a few marbles . . . it would just affirm what they are already thinking.  I dream of hopping out of my car at the stoplight, doing a quit run around the truck, while yelling, “Time out!  Time out!”  I realize that the other commuters will think that I work for the Post Office.   I dream . . .

Winter has been knocking on the door of autumn lately and we haven’t even “officially” enter into the season of fall.  There are not a whole bunch of days left to pause and enjoy the beauty of this transition of seasons . . . the leaves are turning, snow is tipping the peaks of the mountains, and highway construction crews are hurrying to get what the work done before the first snow flies . . . whatever the signs, there is not a whole bunch of time before winter settles in.  We have been experiencing beautiful weather here in Montana over the past week . . . weather that should be appreciated while it is still here.  It only adds to the need for a “time out”.

Be still and know.

Time out!

If I had known that being an adult would rob me of the adventure of life, I think I would have called a “time out” a long, long time ago.  I would have called “time out”, wandered off, found a tree to lean against, and witness the beauty of life passing me by.  I would have sat next to a creek and listened to the water babbling and rushing by . . . watch a hawk soar in the sky . . . listen to the song birds sing . . . and, wondered . . . wondered at the awesomeness of it all.  I would have skipped rocks across a pond . . . built forts out of blankets in the living room . . . smelled the aroma of fresh baked cookies cooling in the kitchen.  I would have listened to the laughter of children . . . the breeze in the air.  I would have done a lot of things, but adulthood got in the way.

That little kid within me is banging on the door . . . wanting to get out; but, life is drowning out the sound of freedom and adventure and life.  I am not sure how long that little kid will keep knocking on the door.  I can hear it . . . especially in the darkness of an early morning commute.  I think that it is about time . . . before it is too late.

Time out!  A person has got to live if he or she wants to make it to the finish line.  Time out!

Tourists

Where we lived in Nebraska--before moving to Montana--would not be considered much of a tourist attraction . . . most of Nebraska is not considered to be a tourist attraction.  That being said, we rarely--if ever--had to deal with tourists.  Where we lived in Nebraska was pretty much off of the beaten path and, unless you lived there, you really had no reason to be traveling through those parts.  Tourists were pretty non-existent; thus they were really of no issue . . . the old out of sight, out of mind thing. 

Then we moved to Montana . . . the Last Best Place . . . and I discovered tourists.  Montana is a beautiful state with a lot of attractions . . . mountains, lots of lakes, great fishing, hiking, camping, skiing, snowmobiling, nearly seventy micro-breweries, rodeos, and lots of wild critters that cannot be experienced anywhere else but in the great outdoors of Montana.  Thus there are always a lot of non-residents coming into Montana to experience the good life of the state.  They come to go hiking, skiing, hunting, snowmobiling, boating . . . pulling campers, trailers, boats . . . they drive slowly pulling all of that stuff down the highways . . . rubber-necking as they look at the mountains and for the wild things that stalk the land.  They are a great nuisance to those of us who live in Montana.  And, it seems as if they are everywhere!

Especially if you live anywhere close to a place that is a must to see and experience.  Unfortunately I live in one such area.  I must travel the same route that many tourists travel--all year round--to go to Yellowstone National Park . . . to go up the Beartooth Highway which begins just down the road from where I live . . . to go skiing at the Red Lodge Ski Resort . . . to go boating on the Cooney Dam (Montana's busiest lake) . . . to hike the mountains . . . to critter creep.  They come and they come and they come.  Travel is frustrating, if not nearly impossible nearly all year long as the tourists come invading the great state of Montana. There is a phrase they have for tourists in Montana . . . "Go home!"

Yet, as much as tourists make life miserable for those of us who live in Montana . . . we also know that they bring a big chunk of change to the state treasury,  They are a necessary evil that lurks around the state to keep its residents on their toes and their mouth complaining.  They are a frustration that must be lived with . . . but, that does not mean we will not complain or use sign language as we putt behind the slow moving fifth-wheel.  As you probably imagine, I do not have much use for tourists . . . tourists are a nuance.

As I write this I have fallen down and I am not sure that I can get up.  The wife and I are in Idaho . . . just south of West Yellowstone . . . on vacation for a couple of days.  We do not consider ourselves to be tourists when it comes to Yellowstone and all that is associated with Yellowstone . . . we go there quite a bit and know all the ins and outs; but, this Idaho thing is all new to us.  We know nothing about the area we are vacationing at . . . just that it is a part of the Yellowstone ecosystem . . . that it is right next door to Yellowstone . . . and, that we are pretty much fish out of water.  Strangers in a strange land . . . a land that is foreign to us.  We plod along the highways and roads . . . slowing down here and there . . . rubber-necking at the sights . . . getting lost . . . causing traffic jams.  We have become tourists . . . makes me shudder to admit that fact, we are tourists.  And, as tourists we have noticed that the locals (at least those we are not paying money to) have greeted us with phrases and sign language that is unrepeatable.  Deja vu!  Karma biting me in the ol' tourist butt!

I thought about that a lot while the wife was in the gas station asking directions numerous times as we were attempting to figure out where in the world we were and where we wanted to go.  I thought about how odd it is that just by going a few miles beyond one's own stomping grounds . . . moving into unfamiliar territory . . . one becomes a tourist.  It doesn't take much to make one a despicable tourist . . . complete with Bermuda shorts, "I'm with stupid" tee shirts, and a camera hung around one's neck.  Oh, the cruelty of karma!

But, what I really thought was that the bottom line is that we are all tourists . . . we are all tourists just passing through . . . strangers in a strange land . . . trying to learn more about where we are and getting back home.  From the day we are born, we are tourists doing exactly that . . . passing through the world and attempting to make the best of it.  As each of us travels through life we are put into new places, new experiences . . . we meet new people . . . we see and experience life in new and different ways that we are not familiar with.  Surprisingly, it is a part of the journey . . . a part of growing . . . a part of discovering ourselves.

Think about it . . . a tourist is a lot like a weed, a plant that is out of place.  Whenever we stumble into or go charging into something unknown and new, we are tourists.  Anytime that we join a new organization or get a new job, we are tourists.  Anytime we are thrown into a situation or place that is unfamiliar, we are tourists.  Anytime that we meet someone new and begin to attempt to get to know that person, we are tourists.  When a crisis or illness befalls us, we are tourists.  We are people who are unfamiliar . . . who are strangers in a strange land . . . attempting to get our footing and fit in with everyone else.  We are tourists trying to find out way home.

Realizing this . . . well, realizing this, I need an attitude adjustment when it comes to tourists.  I need to give them a break . . . being a little more patient . . . speak a little kinder . . . and, actually even make an attempt to be be more helpful as they explore a new place.  That attitude adjustment is just when it comes to the hordes of invaders to the Big Sky Country, but also life in general . . . after all, we are all tourists in the journey of life.

The Bible speaks of such hospitality . . . welcoming the stranger into the community . . . assisting the outsider in his or her needs . . . walking with them until they are comfortable and adapted to this new place and time.  An example of such hospitality was in the personhood of Jesus as he welcomed the stranger and outsider into the circle of family.  Jesus liked tourists . . . so, maybe I should too.

So, I am going to change.  I am going to learn to count to ten (or may to infinity and back) whenever I am stuck behind some slow moving recreational vehicle that bears a license plate other than from Montana.  I am going to where mittens so that if I accidentally use inappropriate sign language no one else will see . . . how I explain mittens during the summer I will work on.  I will unhook the horn on my car so that I cannot beep at the piddly pace that the tourist from California is not caught off guard as they rubber-neck the scenery I take for granted . . . yeah, I know, I will look silly banging on a steering wheel, but at least is won't seem hostile.  I will attempt to be more welcoming . . . more hospitable.  After all, after a few days on vacation in a strange land, I know what they are going through. 

I still don't care much for tourists . . . but, I don't care much for hemorrhoids either.  Yet, I need to learn to live with both.  I guess I should make the best of it . . . after all, in the end, we are all in the same boat.  We are just tourists trying to make the best of it.  I just wish that they would all go somewhere besides Montana to be tourists . . . like, maybe Oklahoma.