Basketball and Decorating

This is Caleb.  He's short.  I'm about his size. Just fatter.

Not too long ago, we purchased a portable basketball hoop for the kids. We figured we'd all have fun shooting hoops and doing all that "basketball stuff" in our driveway. I assumed it would be a great bonding time, would provide some excercise, and, above all, give us something to do outside.

Well, shortly after we installed the hoop in its place, I realized that it was very likely one of the greatest gifts anybody has ever given to his or her neighbors.  In the history of mankind.  Allow me to explain:

See, I'm short.  Let's just get that out on the table.  And it's not just me.  It's my whole family.  We're all short.  And when we set up that basketball hoop and extended the rim of the basket until it was regulation height, I realized just how short we really were.  We just stood there and watched it go up and up and up until it finally clicked into place.  I wish I had a snapshot of that moment--all of us looking straight up from our humble little positions on earth, some of us squinting.  You would have thought we were watching a comet.  Nope.  Just trying to see the basketball hoop.

Well, the insane height of the basket only frightened me for a minute or two before I steeled my nerves, grabbed the ball and started dribbling it.  It made a satisfying "thump" on the cement.  Made me feel like a man.  

Bouncing the ball, feeling cool, I stepped back a ways, gave myself some space for a good running start, and I took off. My tongue was hanging out in concentration, the ball was thumping against the concrete, my child-like hands were slapping it down, perfectly in-sync with each pattering footstep.  It felt just like what I've seen on TV:  real basketball players, running down the court getting ready to impress. 

My little heart was pounding as I reached that point when I had to jump.  My muscles tensed, my legs coiled and I launched myself into the air.  Flight:  it's a truly amazing thing.  I felt the air whipping through my thinning hair.  My ears popped as I reached heights heretofore never reached.  I felt like superman.  Unstoppable.  And, best of all, it happened in slow-mo.  

Well, in what felt like a long instant replay, I felt myself going up, up, up and I saw the basket get closer and closer and closer.  I reached up with the ball, prepared for the "slam", prepared for the cheering, prepared for the moment of release... and then, suddenly, I was back on the ground again.  The basket was barely visible way up in the sky.  The ball was still in my hand.  My right leg hurt and I had drool on my shirt.  I was sweating. 

Standing there, unsure what to do, I threw the ball as hard as I could into the air and pulled a muscle in my side as I did so.  The ball sailed skyward until it hit the bottom of the net--nuzzling it like a soft breeze--and then it fell back to earth, making an eery, hollow thump on the cement.

And then the kids started laughing.  I was told that in my amazing moment of jumping and "slamming", I had never once been more than 3 inches off the ground. Never once.  I thought I had been soaring, but I'd actually only been skidding along.  

Needless to say, the laughter went on for a while--until they started playing.  Then it quit abruptly because they realized they were no better. 

And from that point on, we've spent many a day running beneath that insanely high (regulation-height) basket, dribbling big basketballs that look oversized in our small, child-like hands.  We run and jump and not a single one of us gets more than 3 inches off the ground.  It's as if we've got invisible rubber bands strapped around our ankles and anchored into the ground.   

And that’s why I say this was one of the greatest gifts a neighbor has given another neighbor ever.  It’s comic relief.  Whenever my neighbors are feeling down or are having a bad day, they just need to look out the window and watch the Hansen family running around the 10 foot tall basket, leaping and jumping and for all that hard work, never once getting more than a few inches off the ground.  It’s absolutely hilarious.  We’re that bad. 

And it’s all because we’re not basketball people.  We’re just not cut out for it.  But even though we stink at it and even though we don’t have very many skills and even though we’re physically not capable of playing the sport competitively (or even casually) . . . we still do it and we still have fun.

And that’s the decorating point today.  So many times, I’ve talked to customers at RepcoLite who are picking out a color to go on their walls that’s the same color as the color already there.  It’s just a new coat--a clean coat--but it’s nothing different.

And they’re bored with it--I can tell that--it’s the same old thing they’ve always done.  But when you ask them and try to get them to step out and try something new, we often hear the same old excuse:  I’m no good at decorating. It’s not my thing.  I don’t know how to do it. 

Well, I’m not good at basketball.  I stink.  And so does my entire family.  And yet, we’ve already made some great memories running around the hoop trying to throw a ball high enough that it has a chance to go in. 

Just because you don’t think you’re good at decorating, don’t let that stop you from trying.  When you step outside of your comfort zone and start trying new things, you’ll discover how much fun it can be to take those plain walls in your home and start turning them into something that reflects who you are, who your family is.  So get going and give it a try.  And if you don’t know where to start, stop out at RepcoLite and let our decorators give you some advice.  You’ll be amazed how much fun the process can be.

Dental Neglect and Home Improvements

Proof that I have a tendency to stand like a lousy Super Hero.

The other night, we--my family and I--were sitting in the living room, watching the Tigers.  The kids were running around, driving us a little nuts and eventually there came a point when I stood up and put my hands on my hips.  (Which really, is something I wish I didn't do because my wife and kids always mock me and laugh and say that I think I'm a Super Hero.  Which I don't, the picture at the left notwithstanding.  I just happen to stand like one.)

At any rate, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and said, "Alright!  It's time to brush your teeth!"

Caleb, my 10-year-old son, just snickered, nudged Andrew, his younger brother, and whispered in a too-loud whisper:  "Look, Dad acting like he's Superman again."

I looked down and realized my hands were on my hips and my chest (or stomach) was all puffed out.  All I really lacked was a cape and tights.  And muscles.  And height. 

I thought for a second about how sad a Super Hero I would actually make before returning to the issue at hand:  "Go!  Go brush your teeth.  It's time for bed."

Well, they scampered off--all 5 of them--like a small heard of domesticated beasts.  But amidst the thundering of their stampede, I heard something I couldn't believe:  I heard Andrew--in confidential and extremely boastful tones--say the following:

"I haven't brushed my teeth in four days!"

To which Caleb responded with:  "Wow.  How do you get away with it?"

To which Andrew replied, "I fake it."

Well, at that point, I'd heard enough.  The last thing I need with 5 kids is for Andrew to start promulgating a gospel of dental neglect.  I stomped into the room, stood with my feet shoulder-length apart, straightened my back, puffed out my chest (or stomach), put my hands on my hips and said:

"Andrew Peter!  You will brush your teeth at least twice a day or...or..." I searched and searched for the right threat, the right punishment, the right ultimatum to level at this hygiene-negligent son of mine.  Ah, yes, that will do.  "Or, you will pay your own dental bills!"

Andrew's face clouded over and he looked down in defeat.  Then, he looked back up.  "Where am I going to get money for all of that?  I'm just a kid."

What?  Money for...?  He was trying to get me off-topic.  "It doesn't matter where the money comes from," I said.  "I'm saying you'll have to find it and pay the dentist for all the bills that you rack up because you don't brush your teeth."  

There.  A definitive closing argument.  Now, we should be able to move on.

"You mean 'pay him' like when I pay at the restaurant?  When you give me money and I pay?  Like that?"

His eyes were big and innocent and I couldn't tell if he was really curious or if he was messing with me.

"No.  Not like that.  You'll have to earn the money yourself."  

He paused.  Looked down, thinking.  Then his face brightened:  "Dad, the only money I get comes when I get Tooth Fairy money.  So if I'd lose all my teeth, I'd have enough money to pay the dentist, right?"  I started to respond that that didn't make any sense, but he kept rolling.  "But then, I wouldn't have any teeth to brush or any teeth to have to pay the dentist to drill, right?"  He was picking up steam now, the clear end of his logical masterpiece in sight.  "So then, I'd have all the money and I wouldn't have anything to pay the dentist for and, I wouldn't have teeth to brush.  I'd be rich."  He finished with a flourish and I half-expected the other kids to rise to their feet, clapping.

I needed to end this and I needed to end it now.  I puffed out my chest one more time, struck my pose and said, "Brush your teeth" in a very no-nonsense kind of way.

Caleb, who'd watched the whole exchange, snickered and said, "Superman has spoken--we must obey."

Well, that kind of broke the ice and we all laughed a little bit.  But I couldn't shake Andrew's desire to not brush his teeth.  I mean really, who intentionally tries to avoid brushing their teeth?  Who else but a kid would ignore such a simple project--especially when ignoring that project is only going to lead to expensive and painful work down the road?

I was just thinking those thoughts when the home improvement point hit me (yes, I've written enough blogs and radio segments about paint to see paint-related points in everything):  I'm doing the same thing he is--with the exact same consequences.

See, there are all sorts of little projects around my home.  A hallway ceiling that should be painted.  Kitchen cupboards that need to be touched-up.  Some peeling edges on my wallpaper that should be stuck back down. 

I've got all kinds of little projects.  Some are bigger than others, but most are really, just 10 and 15 minute jobs.  In the grand scheme of things, they take no time at all.  They cost almost nothing and they don't require loads of expertise or special tools.

And yet I routinely ignore them.  I do.  I don't know why.  I guess I'm like Andrew--I don't want to take the time to do these little fixes.  I just keep telling myself that it's not a big deal, that I'll get to it later.

But the problem with that line of thought is that failure to act now only causes bigger problems later.  Just like Andrew and his teeth, I'm saving time now, but I'm going to have to pay the piper, later.  And I'll have to use my own money to do it.

For example, the peeling wallpaper is a perfect case in point.  The spot I needed to fix was about 3 inches long all along a seam.  Nothing.  It wouldn't have taken any time or money or effort at all.  (Notice I've shifted to past-tense to talk about this).  A little dab of paste, some safe-release tape to hold it down for a few hours and it would have looked like new.  But I left it and didn't do it.  I ignored it.

But Tessa didn't.  She found it and, of course, figured it should be picked at, peeled, pulled at.  Well, one thing led to another and before long, she'd created a much bigger problem that took much longer to fix.  On top of it all, the fix I managed to come up with wasn't nearly as effective as the easier, cheaper one would have been.

So now, that's me and my family--what's your's like?  Are your kids brushing their teeth?  If not, do they brag about it, too?  Is that just a kid-thing?  Or do I have bad-hygiene kids?  And how about you?  Not so much your teeth, but do you have projects at home like I do?  Easy, quick projects you keep ignoring?

Well, maybe it's time to tackle them.  Maybe it's time to cross them off your list and deal with them on a more regular basis--before they become bigger, more expensive problems down the road.

Give it some thought!

So Now That You're Fat ....

Now, I don't know how this happened, or what I looked into once upon a time on the internet, but suddenly, I'm getting emails with the following subject line:  "So Now That You're Fat, What Are You Going to Do?"

OK . . . when I started getting those emails, I  found I had a couple questions.  First off, who thought up this marketing campaign?  I mean really, as a marketing guy, I found myself wondering who thought this was a good idea to start an email campaign with that subject line.  After all, starting with a line like that is no way to win friends and influence people. 

Try that kind of brutal honesty on a first date--(or a second date--or even on your wife of 50 years) and see how far that gets you.  Seriously, can you picture it?  You arrive home after a long day and your wife greets you at the door.  You give her a hug and then, before you pull away you give her another hug.  Then, you kind of step back and reach out and poke her in the stomach.  And then, just to make sure, you slowly and gently  squeeze her sides with both hands.  Finally, you loosen your tie and say, "wow honey, now that you're fat, what are you going to do?"

Yeah, just try that.  I dare you. 

It doesn't take a behavioral specialist or an FBI Profiler to know that uttering those exact words is going to end in domestic violence.  Those words are just not the kinds of words we use in normal conversation. Which is why I'm always a little stunned and surprised when I get that email in my inbox.  Do they truly think that belittling me, teasing me, mocking me is going to urge me to take action? 

Yeah, that's the first question I have whenever I find this little gem in my inbox.  My second question, however, is much more important:  How do they know?  Think about it:  How do they know that I've gotten fat?  Are they watching me with hidden cameras?  Tracking my purchases at the store and keeping tabs on how many Hostess Apple Pies I'm cramming down?  Are they keeping tabs on the clothing sizes I buy?  The numbers of pairs of sweatpants in my wardrobe?  Did they figure it out because they've monitored my phone calls and have heard me refer to sweatpants as "my wardrobe"? 

Yet, as mystifying as that is (it's probably got something to do with GOOGLE), as much as I wonder how they figured out my secret . . . I still have to come back to one sad little harsh reality, though:  They're right.  And even though I don't necessarily like their assessment or agree with their blatant, in-your-face honesty, I can't dispute the facts:  I'm pudgy.

I've let myself go.  I eat more than I should and rest more than I need.  In fact, I usually double those activities up and do one while I'm doing the other.  As a result . . . I've blossomed.  I've found myself digging through my dresser, looking past shorts and jeans and looking instead for sweatpants or things with stretchy waistbands.  I've noticed that my baggy sweatshirts are kind of clingy and that my clingy sweatshirts are like a second bulgy and unnattractive skin.  Finally, and most alarmingly, I saw video of me swimming in the lake with my kids on vacation.  It was truly horrible to look at.  So much pasty skin occasionally breaking the surface of the water like some kind of large fish going belly-up.  Horrible.

At any rate . . . the bottom line is that I've let things go and I need to get them under control.

And that brings me back to that original email.  Now that I'm fat, they have tons of suggestions for me.  Oh, I haven't opened the email to look, but I know it's all about exercise regimens and diets.  In fact, everywhere I go, everywhere I look, I discover that the only way out of this mess is to buckle down and spend at least 6 hours every night doing crunches and jumping jacks.  It's overwhelming to realize how much exercise is necessary to get back to my suggested weight. 

No, I take that back.  It's not overwhelming.  It's overwhelmingly depressing.

But, the good news keeps coming.  See, after I discovered that I was fat (thanks to that long email campaign designed to thoroughly convince me I'm a blob), I made a secondary (though equally depressing) discovery about my home.  It seems my home, like me, has also fattened up.

And I'll explain what I'm talking about in the next post.  Hang with me and check back tomorrow! 

Back in the Saddle Again

Well, it's been a long time with no new posts--almost two weeks.  But there's a reason.  And a good one:  I've been traveling around to all of our locations, grilling steaks for our customers.  

Over the last couple weeks, RepcoLite hosted 7 cookouts and served roughly 500 - 600 of our customers.  We fed them steaks and beans and potato salad . . . and in some cases chicken.  It was a huge success and we're grateful to all the folks who showed up to enjoy it!  Thanks for coming to our cookouts (yes, some of you made more than one--which is great).  But most of all, thank for your business.

Anyway, all that to explain the lack of posts. But the cookouts are over for another year and now, I'm back in the saddle again.  And the posts will flow . . . .

Father's Day Ramblings

Well, we're closing in on Father's Day. Yeah. And on Father's Day, every year, we have the same problems. In my home. The same problems every single year. And these problems are entirely brought about by me--by my failings as a person.

See, every single year, I make a big, profound display of telling everybody not to worry about presents. Because really, I'm an adult. I don't need presents. I'm bigger than that. My reward is in knowing that my family loves me. I don't need presents. So I tell them that. I tell them not to worry about it. I tell them to save the money. I assure them that they don't need to worry about getting me anything . . . .

But the problems come about when they actually believe what I'm saying. See, when I say all those things . . . the sad little truth is that I'm lying. Oh, I say I don't want presents, but what I'm REALLY saying is that I don't want any CRUDDY presents. I want fun stuff. Video Games and electronics of all sorts. Things like that. Things that are wrapped in plastic and have anti-theft devices inside. Things with bubblewrap. Yes, I'm trying to sound big and adult and above the notion or need for presents, but inside, I really, really just want GOOD presents.

Well, unfortunately, my family doesn't always clue in to this fact. No. They take me at my word and they don't get me anything . . . and so when father's day comes around and I wake up and don't get anything . . . I usually get all pouty and I mope around the house until Tami says something along the lines of "Fine . . . I'll go buy you your stupid present tomorrow!"

Well, when that happens half the fun is gone. And so I say that. I say, in my most adult and serious and honest voice, "No, no, no. I'm fine. I'm just being a crab. Besides, if you'd get me something now, half the fun would be gone because I complained so much. So really, don't bother. I'm fine. Fine."

Now, what she hears when I say something like that is this: She hears me say "I'm sorry for crabbing. I love the handmade cards I got and don't need anything else. In fact, I don't deserve a present and the fun would be gone anyway because of how I acted. So Don't bother."

That's what my wife hears. And this is a lesson for all men and women out there about how differently we communicate. See, that's what she hears, but if you remember what I said, you'll realize how wrong she would be in interpreting it that way. See, what I actually said was, and I quote, "if you get me something now, half the fun would be gone" end quote. Now, do you see the difference?

She thinks I said "the fun would be gone" when in reality, I said, only HALF the fun would be gone. Now, maybe for you women listening, that makes no difference--maybe those two things mean the same things to you--but to a guy, there's a world of difference. Let me explain: see, to a guy, what that means is that while half the fun would be gone . . . the other half of the fun would still be there... And half is better than none, right? I'd rather have half a dollar than no dollar. I'd rather have half a roast beef sandwich from Arby's than no Roast beef sandwich. It's not complicated. Half is always better than none.

See, the whole thing is code. It's my way of saying, OK, go buy me something tomorrow--I know I was a jerk and I know that because of that I'll feel bad about getting something. And I know that bad feeling I have will take away 50% of the fun I would have had. But I'm willing to sacrifice that 50% of fun in order to pick up the other 50% of fun the present will bring.

Really, the whole thing is very simple, when you break it down . . . but Tami just doesn't get it and so that's what happens on most Father's Days. Oh, like I said, it's my own fault. I know that. I know I'm being petty and childish and ridiculous. I know all that.

But that's not the point. The point I wanted to make today is that this year looks like it's going to be different. Oh, of course, I did the same thing I do every year. I made all the standard brush-offs when it came to presents. "Don't get me anything--let's just save our money" and other tripe like that. But this year, when I said those things I watched as as everybody looked at each other and winked and nodded. And that's when I realized that they KNEW! They knew I was only saying that to sound like an adult. They knew I wanted presents!

I remember sitting at the table that night and almost rubbing my hands together: I was going to get presents this year.

But . . . . Yes, there's a but. A big one. See, I thought this year would be different, BUT, a few days later we went to Target for some basic things and as I was walking through the store ahead of my wife and kids, I happened to turn around to ask them something and they all straightened up and acted like they weren't doing anything. But I had seen them. Oh, I didn't let on . . . but I started sweating . . . because I had seen them. I knew what they were doing: They were getting me my Father's Day present.

Now, you'd think I'd be happy about this, but I have already told you: I'm a petty and small individual. And they weren't standing by the electronics when I caught them. They weren't standing by the Video Games. They were standing at some end cap display that was full of . . . are you ready . . . trophies. Yes. Trophies. They weren't even metal trophies. They were that resin stuff and then painted to look kind of gold. They were trophies with a golf ball and some grass by it and the trophy said "Number 1 Dad." They were $9.95 + tax and Caleb, as I stared at him, currently had one behind his back and was trying to pass it to Tami so she could slip it into the cart without me seeing it.

Well, I let that go. I don't know if they bought it or not. I think it found it's way back to the shelf, but I won't know for sure until Father's Day.

As the days went by, I forgot about it. It's not a big deal--it's just Father's Day--and I went about my normal life. Until Caleb asked me if I had any scrap hunks of wood he could nail together. Well, I do . . . but I was curious what he was going to build. Oh, he was a little embarrassed and nervous to tell me but then he confided that he was going to build me something. With wood scraps and roofing nails. For Father's Day.

Well, you can't argue with a little boy building his dad a present out of wood scraps and roofing nails--oh, you can wish it was an ipod, but you can't fault the little guy for trying--so I pointed him in the direction of the wood heap and told him not to poke his eyes out.

He hammered away for a while and then emerged with something that he decided was for him instead of me . . . and again, life went on. Time passed and I forgot about Father's Day and presents and trophies and wood scraps . . . until the other night.

See, Tami and the kids were running a garage sale with my sister and they were all there the other day. As we were sitting around the table that night, eating dinner, Caleb and the kids confessed that they had spent much of their time at the garage sale . . . shopping. Caleb took a bite of his hamburger and put it down and said,

"Dad, I looked and looked, but didn't find anything for you."

I looked at the boy and thought he was joking. He didn't seem to be. So I asked a clarifying question: "You looked for things for me at our own garage sale?" He nodded.

I looked at him a little longer and then asked another clarifying question: "You know what a garage sale is, right? You know that's a place where people bring the junk they don't want, put $.25 on it and hope somebody takes it, right?" He nodded.

"And you didn't find anything for me?"

He shook his head. Well, I breathed a sigh of relief--last thing I wanted for Father's day was an old 70's lamp I was trying to get rid of. "Oh, don't worry about it," I said, "I don't need anything anyway."

Well, as I said in the beginning, we're closing in on Father's Day . . . and I have no idea if I'm getting anything or what I could be getting. But I've changed my mind on whether it's important or not. It's been fun watching their little minds work as they try to find something they can afford that they could give me. And 10 years from now, I'd rather have that #1 Dad trophy or that hunk of wood with nails on it sitting on my shelf than a hundred ipods. But you know, guys, in case your listening . . . I wouldn't mind both . . . .