The genetics of popcorn eating

Question: How do you eat popcorn?
Do you eat it like a debutante, picking one piece at a time off the pile and carefully poking it into your mouth?
Or do you grab a big handful of it and shove it in like it's the last food you're ever going to eat?
Or maybe you're somewhere in the middle and you grab just a couple of pieces and eat them as a respectable human being would.
Unfortunately, I fall into the second category. My dad, who loves popcorn, always ate it that way and, naturally, I followed in his footsteps.
The other day I was watching a movie on Netflix, so I threw some popcorn in the microwave. Nothing like a nice warm bowl of popcorn to enhance the movie-watching experience, right?

Hey, I'm not a cross dresser, I'm shopping for my wife

It's Christmas Eve, 2011. My shopping is done and I've been breathing easily for several days now.
My wife's presents are wrapped (thanks to my daughter) and safely under the tree. I won't lie to you, it feels pretty good to be done.
As a guy, I know what it's like to Christmas shop for a woman. And not just any woman, either. I'm talking about shopping for the wife.
Look, I realize in some cases wife-shopping isn't that difficult. She tells you she wants jewelry and you go to the jewelry store and buy what she wants, no problem.

Here's to the cavemen who lunch

My wife and her friends go to lunch together several times a year. Because I'm not a complete buffoon, I've never tagged along with them. Why would I, right? It's a girl thing. I imagine they sit around and talk about stuff that doesn't concern me. Stuff like ... well, I couldn't even begin to guess. Girl stuff, I suppose.
The point is, my wife and her friends enjoy their little luncheons and I'm glad they do. After all, I figure they need the time together, away from their husbands, so they can bond.
This is hardly breaking news, of course, but guys also like to bond. What's more, there's a need to bond, just like the ladies have.

Rocking out in your car? Oh yeah! Turn up the volume like it's Friday night

As I type these words, it's Friday evening. The sun is setting and it's quiet around my house.
That's certainly a far cry from the way it used to be back in the fun-loving days of my youth.
Yep, I know what you're thinking: "Geez, this guy loves to blather on and on about his younger days. We get it! The good old days were awesome, and everybody gets old. Give it a rest already."
While it's true, reflecting on those good old days is a staple of the middle-aged man's mind, that's really not what today's blog entry is really about. Instead, I'm thinking about music ... good, blood-pumping, loud Friday night kind of music.

It keeps getting colder while I keep getting older

Ah yes, another sign of age. How exciting!
Because I grew up in Texas, where the summertime humidity hangs in the air like a thick, invisible fog, I never had too much trouble getting used to the cold when I went to college in Idaho. From there I lived in Vancouver, Canada for a time and became even more accustom to cold weather.
In fact, I actually began to enjoy it. I don't know, it just felt ... romantic. Seeing the snow and feeling the cold, frosty air was like living in a Christmas song, like each new snowy day was like "the most wonderful time of the year."
Even after getting married and settling down in Utah, I never really minded that cold air, especially compared to that brutal, dry summer heat that practically buckled your knees just walking out the door to go get the mail.

In our Christmas letters, it's always a wonderful life

*Sigh* Today we're reluctantly tackling a delicate subject, one that is divisive, potentially flammable and could, in fact, earn me some enemies.
I'm referring to Christmas letters.
Look, I know they're popular. In some families, writing them is a longstanding holiday tradition. They're a great way to keep up with friends and family. They're a great way to share a year's worth of experiences (and possibly a photo or two) on fancy paper.
I understand the appeal of writing them, I'm just not sure why anyone reads them.

Becoming friends with your grown-up children: What a concept!

If you're a young parent, the thought of actually becoming your child's “friend” may seem like a weird, far-off concept.
But I'm here to tell you it can happen.
As they usually do on Sunday evenings, my oldest son and his wife came to our house for dinner yesterday. They've done so almost weekly for nine months now. It has become a comfortable tradition, something we all seem to enjoy.
Why is this such a big deal? Well, for starters my son and I went through a fairly tumultuous period from the time he was 14 or 15 until he left home at 19 to serve a mission for our church. As parents and teenagers often do, we shouted at each other on a regular basis.
Harsh words were said; feelings were hurt; tears were shed.

Be grateful for that curly hair because it won't last forever

Going through that awkward adolescent phase in the 70s and 80s was not always easy, especially with a head full of wavy curls.
In fact, it was terrible.
See, back then the coolest guys parted their hair down the middle and feathered it back, sort of like the wings of a Golden Eagle. But me? I had curly hair that just sat there on top of my teenage head, frustrating me so much that I cried myself to sleep most nights.

Check out that hair ... and that avocado-colored telephone.

Okay, that last part was a slight exaggeration. I didn't cry myself to sleep, but believe me, I hated my hair.

From vending machines to the vegetable aisle

Broccoli and steel-cut oatmeal.

Green beans, apples and whole-grain bread.
No, this is not a grocery list. It's how I eat now. And, yes, when I used the word "now" at the end of that last sentence I was implying a change ... a huge change, actually.
Like so many men and boys across America, I grew up eating junk food: fast food, candy bars, chips and soda. If you could get it from a drive-thru, a vending machine or a convenience store, it was part of my regular diet. Not only that, I'd pretty much navigated my way through life without eating anything I wasn't completely sure of. If it looked "gross" to me or if I just assumed I wouldn't like it, I didn't eat it.

Want to reduce your stress level? Take baby steps, baby

In a previous post, I mentioned my incessant need to make the bed, not only to keep things tidy, but as a form of mental therapy.
Weird, I know.
My goal here is not to simply recap the previous post (how boring would that be?) instead I'll just hit the high points for the sake of clarification. Basically, I'm the bed-maker in my family. I do it because it's a job I've inherited and also because, over the course of 25 years of marriage, I've discovered making the bed in the morning sort of sets the tone for the rest of my day.
My wife, on the other hand, is a completely different kind of person. She's one of those self-starters who just gets up and starts working, no motivation required.
Anyway ...

Ho-ho-ho no! I broke the coolest Christmas present I ever got

Remember those hand-held electronic sports games from about 35 years ago?
Unless you're an old dude like me, chances are you don't. But, believe me, they were cool. Maybe not cool by 2011 standards, but back in the mid-1970s they were hotter than Charlie's Angels and trendier than Farrah Fawcett's hairdo.
If memory serves (and sometimes it doesn't) Mattel made a football, basketball and a baseball version. They were played on these rather bulky hand-held devices that essentially featured no graphics at all. Instead, there was a series of flashing lights controlled by pressing arrows up and down, back and forward. They also beeped and played some sort of a tune when you scored a touchdown, hit a home run or made a basket.

Bed-making: Those who do and those who don't

The way I see it, there are pretty much just two kinds of people in the world: those who make their beds and those who don't.
Okay. That was a horrible generalization. Sorry.
Surely there are people in this world who have more important things to do than make their bed every morning. I mean, there's also doing the dishes, right?
Okay. Enough with the clowning around.
While I know bed-making isn't the most important thing in the world, I do think there may be some truth in my initial statement up there. After all, there doesn't appear to be a lot of middle ground ... at least not from what I've been able to gather.
It's one of those things where, it's either a priority or it's not.
For me, it is. For my wife, it's not.

(My unmade bed this morning)

Now, I'm not saying she wouldn't make the bed if I wasn't around; I'm just saying it wouldn't be on the top of her to-do list every morning ... or afternoon ... or evening.

Becoming Dad (and Mom) 2.0

Lately I've noticed something weird, something I'm not sure I like.
It seems every time I walk past a mirror I get a glimpse of my father.
Now, don't get me wrong here. I love my dad. I have great respect and admiration for him. He provided a great life for his family and gave us lots of support. So, in that way, I'd love to be like my dad because he set a great example.
If I'm being honest, the part I really struggle with, though, is the notion of looking, sounding and acting like my dad in almost every way. I've not only developed many of his mannerisms, I use many of his same expressions and I swear my voice sounds exactly like his.

Of fathers and sons and golfing for life

Some people play golf for a living.
Some play it for life.
Count me as part of the latter. As I've already noted here, I took up the game when I was 14; now I'm 47 (hold on, let me get a calculator ...)  that's 33 years I've been chasing that little white ball around big, green pastures. And, oh, has it been fun.
It's funny, though. For years I felt golf was a great escape for me. Even though I wasn't that good (and I'm still not) I'd get out on the course and the cares of the world would drift away like a hard slice off the 1st tee (if you've played with me, you know what I mean). For the next few hours, even if I wasn't playing well, life was pretty good because even bad golf beats a good honey-do list on a Saturday afternoon.

Santa baby, please make the music stop for a while

Baby, it's getting old outside.
Please, let me explain:
Recently, I read that Christmas carols have been around for thousands of years. Supposedly they date back to around 120 AD when folks used to celebrate Winter Solstice. Then came Christmas, carols and later, regular old Christmas songs.
So, to recap: Christmas music has been around for more than a thousand years, give or take.
Boy to I feel silly. See, I figured they started about 20 minutes after the first Thanksgiving.
See what I'm getting at here? When it comes to the holidays and Christmas music, I'm as festive as the next guy. Really I am. But as I sit here and look at the calendar on the wall, I see that it's December 1, 2011. The problem is, I've been hearing Christmas songs for at least a month now, if not longer.

I know, I know. This isn't a new objection. Its seems for years now we've been hearing complains that radio stations and shopping mall sound systems have been playing holiday music earlier and earlier.

As a middle-aged guy, I can still remember back to my youth in the 70s and 80s when nary a hint of the holidays was heard until sometime after Thanksgiving.