I never got really excited about Halloween as a kid. The thought of having to get all costumed up and knock on people's doors in the dark to ask for candy never appealed to me. First of all, I was never a fan of candy. It's not that my parents were health nuts and wouldn't let me have candy, I just didn't care for it. Desserts, such as pie and ice cream, were much more up my alley. If someone was handing out French silk pies to trick-or-treaters, not only would I have slapped on a Mr. T mohawk and knocked on their door, I would've asked them to adopt me. Secondly, I wasn't a naive kid. I knew that there were weirdos out there who had the potential to do some weird/dangerous stuff to the candy they were giving out. Our neighbor, for instance, was a physicist who would periodically have all of his physicist buddies come over to get drunk and talk about physics as loudly as possible (by the age of 11 I had heard enough alcohol-induced physics arguments to get at least a C- on a college-level physics exam). No way am I taking candy from those guys.
I did go to Halloween parties at school, though. It was fun just to run around with my friends and play all the games (even though candy was the only prize). Except for "bobbing for apples." Again, I wasn't a naive kid. I understood the concept of germs. If I wanted to basically open-mouth kiss all the kids in my school, I'd want more than a "red delicious" apple for my trouble. Those are the worst kind of apples.
I could even be persuaded to put on a costume for those parties. I never cared what it was so I let my parents pick it out for me, which led to some pretty weird results. One year, I showed up to the party as Rush Limbaugh. I didn't even know who that was but my parents thought it was the funniest thing in the world. They had me put on a suit, put a pillow in my shirt, and slick my hair back. My dad even pinned a dollar bill in the shape of one of those AIDS ribbons to my suit jacket. The hilarity was lost on me and my friends but my friends' parents made me pose for roughly 10,000 pictures which took abnormally long because they were laughing too hard to hold their cameras still. The next year I dressed up as a baseball player so I wouldn't be bothered and I could devote all my time to conquering the cardboard box maze.
I even found some ways to enjoy Halloween through high school. One year, me and my friend Seth took the candy we were going to give out up to my parents' roof. When the trick-or-treaters would knock on the door, they were met with a furious hailstorm of candy. The kids loved it. Except for one kid named Stuart. He must have had a previous bad experience with flying candy because he ran out of there screaming like he was having a war flashback. We knew what his name was because his mom went crazy, running down the street hand-in-hand with her son screaming "THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART! THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART!". We thought that was going to keep all the other kids away and we were going to have to wrap it up. Instead, kids' ears turned up and they showed up like vultures to a water buffalo carcass. Our "clientele" doubled.
All that said, have a safe and happy Halloween and if you come across anybody giving out French silk pies, I need to be notified.
Real estate note: Are you wanting to refinance but are "under water" on your loan? Check out this government program that a coworker of mine, Seth Peterson, explains pretty well: http://madisonrealestatedeals.com/
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Staying in America From Now On
I usually travel pretty well. I can sit in a plane, car, or train for hours and thoroughly enjoy every minute of it. This has been true since the day I was born. My parents and I used to make the 9 hour trek up to northern Minnesota to visit relatives every year and I would sit in the back, silently contemplating the deep mysteries of existence and looking forward to the day when I would be able to read what all the road signs said. I'm fairly certain my parents had this exchange more than once:
Dad: "Christopher hasn't made a sound in 6 hours. Take a look back there and make sure he's okay."
(Mom turns around and we make eye contact. I raise my "sippy" cup toward her in a gesture that says, "Yep. Still here. Now turn around and let me resume my nose-picking in peace.")
Mom: "He's fine. The weirdest kid ever, but fine."
This personality trait has served me well over the course of my life. I've traveled to quite a few different countries and have always enjoyed the long flights. I've even enjoyed the ridiculously long layovers in overcrowded airports (At an especially long layover at the Incheon International airport in Seoul, South Korea for instance, I parked myself on a chair that had a great view of the entrance and exit to that horizontal escalator thing that all airports have. More people have trouble getting on and off those things than you might think. The hours just flew by). I've sat in a car and driven through Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska without wanting to fling myself out of the car just to escape the boredom. The only time I've had any traveling issues came as a result of my big mouth.
The year after I graduated from high school I went on a spontaneous road trip with my friends, Grant and Jon. We decided to pack some clothes and toiletries and just start driving. And that's exactly what we did. We started driving east and ended up going into Canada at Niagara Falls, where we encountered a very strange Canadian border patrolman:
Canuck: "What's the purpose of your visit to Canada?"
Grant: "We've never been to Canada and thought we'd check it out."
Canuck: "You've never been to Canada?"
Grant: "Nope."
Canuck (now strangely angry and red in the face): "YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO CANADA?!!?"
Anyway, we spent a few days making our way through Toronto (probably the most beautiful city I've ever seen), Ottawa, and Montreal and decided to re-enter the US in eastern Maine. It was late at night, possibly very early morning, when we came to the border crossing. We were extremely tired and I was not handling it well. You know when you're overly tired and everything makes you laugh as hard as you do when you see a video montage of old people losing their balance on America's Funniest Home Videos? That's how I was that night. We pulled up to the border patrol station and a soldier with a machine gun slung over his back took our passports and began grilling us with questions. Most of the questions revolved around where we worked and it was obvious he was suspicious of us doing a late-night drug run. The air was thick with tension and Grant and Jon were obviously nervous. My sleep-deprived delirium did not allow me to be nervous, leading to this exchange:
Soldier: "What are the chances, if I searched your car, of finding drugs, weapons, or other illegal paraphernalia?"
Me (leaning from the passenger seat to the driver's side window): "Oh jeez. I don't know. I'd say slim to none."
Slim to none?!!? The soldier's eyes instantly widened and he turned his back, speaking into his radio. Grant and Jon were furiously apologizing on behalf of their momentarily deranged friend as other soldiers appeared, guns no longer confined to their backs. One of them searched underneath the car while another one came to my window, asking what kind of drugs they had a "slim to none" chance of finding. I'm pretty sure a german shepherd was sniffing around as well. After not finding anything, the soldiers came to the conclusion that Grant and Jon were making a seemingly good point about their idiot friend and decided to let us go.
As we pulled away, Grant turned to Jon and said, "What are the chances we let Chris talk to anybody else on this trip?"
Jon replied, "I'd say slim to none."
Real Estate Note: Do you know of anyone looking for a gorgeous, unique home on Madison's east side? Check this out: http://717woodlawndr.com
Dad: "Christopher hasn't made a sound in 6 hours. Take a look back there and make sure he's okay."
(Mom turns around and we make eye contact. I raise my "sippy" cup toward her in a gesture that says, "Yep. Still here. Now turn around and let me resume my nose-picking in peace.")
Mom: "He's fine. The weirdest kid ever, but fine."
This personality trait has served me well over the course of my life. I've traveled to quite a few different countries and have always enjoyed the long flights. I've even enjoyed the ridiculously long layovers in overcrowded airports (At an especially long layover at the Incheon International airport in Seoul, South Korea for instance, I parked myself on a chair that had a great view of the entrance and exit to that horizontal escalator thing that all airports have. More people have trouble getting on and off those things than you might think. The hours just flew by). I've sat in a car and driven through Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska without wanting to fling myself out of the car just to escape the boredom. The only time I've had any traveling issues came as a result of my big mouth.
The year after I graduated from high school I went on a spontaneous road trip with my friends, Grant and Jon. We decided to pack some clothes and toiletries and just start driving. And that's exactly what we did. We started driving east and ended up going into Canada at Niagara Falls, where we encountered a very strange Canadian border patrolman:
Canuck: "What's the purpose of your visit to Canada?"
Grant: "We've never been to Canada and thought we'd check it out."
Canuck: "You've never been to Canada?"
Grant: "Nope."
Canuck (now strangely angry and red in the face): "YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO CANADA?!!?"
Anyway, we spent a few days making our way through Toronto (probably the most beautiful city I've ever seen), Ottawa, and Montreal and decided to re-enter the US in eastern Maine. It was late at night, possibly very early morning, when we came to the border crossing. We were extremely tired and I was not handling it well. You know when you're overly tired and everything makes you laugh as hard as you do when you see a video montage of old people losing their balance on America's Funniest Home Videos? That's how I was that night. We pulled up to the border patrol station and a soldier with a machine gun slung over his back took our passports and began grilling us with questions. Most of the questions revolved around where we worked and it was obvious he was suspicious of us doing a late-night drug run. The air was thick with tension and Grant and Jon were obviously nervous. My sleep-deprived delirium did not allow me to be nervous, leading to this exchange:
Soldier: "What are the chances, if I searched your car, of finding drugs, weapons, or other illegal paraphernalia?"
Me (leaning from the passenger seat to the driver's side window): "Oh jeez. I don't know. I'd say slim to none."
Slim to none?!!? The soldier's eyes instantly widened and he turned his back, speaking into his radio. Grant and Jon were furiously apologizing on behalf of their momentarily deranged friend as other soldiers appeared, guns no longer confined to their backs. One of them searched underneath the car while another one came to my window, asking what kind of drugs they had a "slim to none" chance of finding. I'm pretty sure a german shepherd was sniffing around as well. After not finding anything, the soldiers came to the conclusion that Grant and Jon were making a seemingly good point about their idiot friend and decided to let us go.
As we pulled away, Grant turned to Jon and said, "What are the chances we let Chris talk to anybody else on this trip?"
Jon replied, "I'd say slim to none."
Real Estate Note: Do you know of anyone looking for a gorgeous, unique home on Madison's east side? Check this out: http://717woodlawndr.com
Friday, September 30, 2011
I Know I'm Not the Only One
I'm fairly certain that I am a pretty manly guy. I am a great driver (no implied offense to the ladies, but us men take a lot of pride in our driving abilities), I consider a t-bone steak and a cold beer to be a well-balanced meal, and I have broken a remote control in a stupid burst of rage when the Packers have stunk up the joint. I can even sit down and not talk or even think for hours and be totally content, a trait that women, for the most part, do not possess and completely baffles my wife. But there is one area where my manliness takes quite a hit. It's something that those closest to me know about me, but I thought I'd share it here in case another guy out there who is in the same boat as I and needs to know that he is not alone. Here it is: I love chick flicks.
I should quantify this a little bit. I don't like the depressing sap-fests that exist solely to make you cry and make you feel worse at the end than you did at the beginning. There are a few exceptions, though. Hope Floats had just enough feel-good material in it to make it worth my while. In fact, that movie was the first chick flick that I remember liking and also the only movie to make me actually cry (other movies have made my eyes well up but Hope Floats made the tears flow like a Fargo flood). I saw it at the age of 13 with my girl cousins who were making out with their boyfriends for the whole movie and there I am, sitting by myself, crying my eyes out. Probably an odd scene to walk into.
Romantic comedies are where it's at for me. Light movies that make you feel good. Is this shallow and very un-hipster-like of me? Yes. I don't care. You can go on and on about how Fight Club was a brilliant social commentary that was one of the best movies ever made and I would probably agree with you. But every time I watch it I am left feeling like I just spent a week in the dark and slightly depressed. Give me While You Were Sleeping or Notting Hill, a steak, and a beer and I'm on cloud nine. What's there not to like? Boy meets girl in some cute way at the beginning, something goes wrong in the middle, and they end up together at the end. And as a bonus, there's always some goofball supporting actor/actress (Spike in Notting Hill, for instance) who more often than not delivers the most memorable lines of the whole movie. I know it's a movie-making formula that has been done to death and there are some who wonder how those movies continue to get the green light from studios. The answer is people like me. And I am now "out and proud" about it.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, romantic comedies aren't the only kind of movies that I like. Braveheart and Gladiator are two of my all-time favorites, for example. They stir up the testosterone in me, making me want to go find an injustice and beat the crap out of whoever is perpetuating that injustice. In fact, whenever someone has asked me what my favorite movie is, my answer has always been "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart and Gladiator". That was never a lie. But it was never the whole truth, either. My answer should have been (and will be from now on) "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart, Gladiator, and You've Got Mail. Now wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you."
Real Estate Note: Want to purchase a home but don't have enough income to qualify for a regular loan? Check out this program that some of our clients (who never thought they were able to buy a house) have used: http://www.rurdev.usda.gov/LP_Subject_HousingAndCommunityAssistance.html
I should quantify this a little bit. I don't like the depressing sap-fests that exist solely to make you cry and make you feel worse at the end than you did at the beginning. There are a few exceptions, though. Hope Floats had just enough feel-good material in it to make it worth my while. In fact, that movie was the first chick flick that I remember liking and also the only movie to make me actually cry (other movies have made my eyes well up but Hope Floats made the tears flow like a Fargo flood). I saw it at the age of 13 with my girl cousins who were making out with their boyfriends for the whole movie and there I am, sitting by myself, crying my eyes out. Probably an odd scene to walk into.
Romantic comedies are where it's at for me. Light movies that make you feel good. Is this shallow and very un-hipster-like of me? Yes. I don't care. You can go on and on about how Fight Club was a brilliant social commentary that was one of the best movies ever made and I would probably agree with you. But every time I watch it I am left feeling like I just spent a week in the dark and slightly depressed. Give me While You Were Sleeping or Notting Hill, a steak, and a beer and I'm on cloud nine. What's there not to like? Boy meets girl in some cute way at the beginning, something goes wrong in the middle, and they end up together at the end. And as a bonus, there's always some goofball supporting actor/actress (Spike in Notting Hill, for instance) who more often than not delivers the most memorable lines of the whole movie. I know it's a movie-making formula that has been done to death and there are some who wonder how those movies continue to get the green light from studios. The answer is people like me. And I am now "out and proud" about it.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, romantic comedies aren't the only kind of movies that I like. Braveheart and Gladiator are two of my all-time favorites, for example. They stir up the testosterone in me, making me want to go find an injustice and beat the crap out of whoever is perpetuating that injustice. In fact, whenever someone has asked me what my favorite movie is, my answer has always been "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart and Gladiator". That was never a lie. But it was never the whole truth, either. My answer should have been (and will be from now on) "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart, Gladiator, and You've Got Mail. Now wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you."
Real Estate Note: Want to purchase a home but don't have enough income to qualify for a regular loan? Check out this program that some of our clients (who never thought they were able to buy a house) have used: http://www.rurdev.usda.gov/LP_Subject_HousingAndCommunityAssistance.html
Friday, September 23, 2011
Why Not?
This blog touts itself as having a "side of real estate." Well, for today, it will consist of some real estate with a side of......nothing. I'm putting on my real estate hat, using some exclamation points, and keeping it short and sweet.
Interest rates are at the lowest level they have ever been for a 30 year mortgage! Some of you are probably sick and tired of hearing about these historic rates from the news, realtors, etc...But it's going to continue to generate a lot of buzz so get used to it. It is absolutely crazy. With the right credit, you can get a rate of 3.875%!!!
Here's what that looks like on a monthly basis: For a $100,000 loan (which in this current market can get you a good amount of house), the monthly payment would be $470. That's near half of what most people pay in rent! If you are on the fence about buying a home, now is the time to go for it.
If you or anybody you know is thinking about buying a home, I would love to help you/them out!
Interest rates are at the lowest level they have ever been for a 30 year mortgage! Some of you are probably sick and tired of hearing about these historic rates from the news, realtors, etc...But it's going to continue to generate a lot of buzz so get used to it. It is absolutely crazy. With the right credit, you can get a rate of 3.875%!!!
Here's what that looks like on a monthly basis: For a $100,000 loan (which in this current market can get you a good amount of house), the monthly payment would be $470. That's near half of what most people pay in rent! If you are on the fence about buying a home, now is the time to go for it.
If you or anybody you know is thinking about buying a home, I would love to help you/them out!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Final Inning
I grew up playing baseball and absolutely loved it. I got my first glove when I was four and immediately wanted to play catch all the time. In the summer, my dad would take me to the park across the street from our house and hit pop-ups to me before he went to work. My favorite pro team was the Minnesota Twins and I can remember swinging a bat while looking at my reflection from the glass on the gun case at my grandma's house, pretending to be Kirby Puckett (If you have ever seen Kirby you know how ridiculous this must have seemed. He was a short, right-handed black man with a backside as large as a freezer. I had none of those characteristics). I was glued to the television in 1991 when the Twins made it to the World Series, when I overheard this conversation between my dad and his friend who isn't from America and didn't grow up with baseball:
Friend: "Why did that not score a point?"
Dad: "Because that other guy caught the ball"
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad: "If the ball is caught, the batter is out."
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad (dejectedly): "I think a documentary about Victorian doorknobs is on PBS. Let's watch that."
Needless to say, I played Little League baseball when I was old enough. I was pretty good, getting voted onto the league all-star team a number of times throughout the years as a pitcher and outfielder. I even played 4 years of varsity ball in high school. But it was during my time in Little League that I almost lost my love of this beautiful game with one swing.
It was a morning game and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. My team was locked in battle with the best team in the league and we were more than holding our own. In fact, we were crushing 'em, carrying a 5-run lead into the final inning. Now, my good friend "Andy" was on the other team and always enjoyed letting me know that his was the better team. According to him, we had the same odds of beating them as Screech had of marrying Kelly Kapowski. So during that last inning, as I was standing in the outfield, I was giddily preparing the unending torrent of ridicule I would torment Andy with for the foreseeable future ("Hey Andy, my baseball team played an all-girls team on Saturday. Weird scheduling error I guess. How was your weekend?", etc...). But I would never get that chance.
Our pitcher gave up 2 runs to cut our lead to 3 and had the bases loaded. The best hitter in the league was up next. Gabe. That name struck more fear in opposing players' hearts than the thought of someday having to kiss a girl. This kid was huge and looked like he not only could get into a bar without being ID'd but he also earned free beer by being the bouncer. Our pitcher was visibly nervous so our coach brought me in to get that last out. Not only was our team going to win but I was going to strike out Gabe and ascend to the pinnacle of athletic success. As I ran in to the pitchers mound, I noticed that the player standing on second base was Andy. We locked eyes and I gave him a look that said "You are going to have a great view of the greatest pitching performance this field has ever seen."
Gabe fouled off my first two pitches to bring the count to 0 and 2. I was going to strike him out. I just knew it. I was already picturing being carried off the field on my teammates' shoulders and being the lead story on that night's Sportscenter. With those visions of grandeur in my head, I unleashed the third pitch. Gabe's swing on that pitch was as violent as a Kansas tornado and as smooth as a Sade record. I watched in horror as the bat made contact, sending the ball skyward. I thought, "Well, I didn't strike him out but I got him to pop out. That's good enough. I hope Bob Costas wants to interview me first. He's the best." But the ball kept going. It finally landed 30 feet past the fence. A grand slam. We had just lost by one run. I turned to see Gabe put his head down and start running the bases. Not an ounce of celebration, as if he had done this a million times before (I wouldn't be surprised if that was actually the case). Andy, however, was not quite so gracious, laughing and pointing at me as he made his way from second base to home (In all fairness, it should be noted that he turned out to be a great guy and one of my best friends. But at that moment I was hoping against all hope that he would severely roll his ankle as he turned towards home). I was crushed. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had let all my teammates down. I didn't know if I would ever want to play baseball again and thought about my retirement speech as I walked off the field with my hat in my hands. But as I reached the dugout, our first baseman handed me his pouch of Big League Chew. As I stuffed my cheek full of the grape-flavored shredded bubble gum, he said "I don't think anybody has gotten two strikes on Gabe all year. That was awesome."
I decided to postpone that retirement speech.
Real Estate Note: If you or anybody you know is interested in a great deal on Madison's west side, check out this home. It is a foreclosure that is listed at $71,000 below the assessed value. Click Here to View Listings
Friend: "Why did that not score a point?"
Dad: "Because that other guy caught the ball"
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad: "If the ball is caught, the batter is out."
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad (dejectedly): "I think a documentary about Victorian doorknobs is on PBS. Let's watch that."
Needless to say, I played Little League baseball when I was old enough. I was pretty good, getting voted onto the league all-star team a number of times throughout the years as a pitcher and outfielder. I even played 4 years of varsity ball in high school. But it was during my time in Little League that I almost lost my love of this beautiful game with one swing.
It was a morning game and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. My team was locked in battle with the best team in the league and we were more than holding our own. In fact, we were crushing 'em, carrying a 5-run lead into the final inning. Now, my good friend "Andy" was on the other team and always enjoyed letting me know that his was the better team. According to him, we had the same odds of beating them as Screech had of marrying Kelly Kapowski. So during that last inning, as I was standing in the outfield, I was giddily preparing the unending torrent of ridicule I would torment Andy with for the foreseeable future ("Hey Andy, my baseball team played an all-girls team on Saturday. Weird scheduling error I guess. How was your weekend?", etc...). But I would never get that chance.
Our pitcher gave up 2 runs to cut our lead to 3 and had the bases loaded. The best hitter in the league was up next. Gabe. That name struck more fear in opposing players' hearts than the thought of someday having to kiss a girl. This kid was huge and looked like he not only could get into a bar without being ID'd but he also earned free beer by being the bouncer. Our pitcher was visibly nervous so our coach brought me in to get that last out. Not only was our team going to win but I was going to strike out Gabe and ascend to the pinnacle of athletic success. As I ran in to the pitchers mound, I noticed that the player standing on second base was Andy. We locked eyes and I gave him a look that said "You are going to have a great view of the greatest pitching performance this field has ever seen."
Gabe fouled off my first two pitches to bring the count to 0 and 2. I was going to strike him out. I just knew it. I was already picturing being carried off the field on my teammates' shoulders and being the lead story on that night's Sportscenter. With those visions of grandeur in my head, I unleashed the third pitch. Gabe's swing on that pitch was as violent as a Kansas tornado and as smooth as a Sade record. I watched in horror as the bat made contact, sending the ball skyward. I thought, "Well, I didn't strike him out but I got him to pop out. That's good enough. I hope Bob Costas wants to interview me first. He's the best." But the ball kept going. It finally landed 30 feet past the fence. A grand slam. We had just lost by one run. I turned to see Gabe put his head down and start running the bases. Not an ounce of celebration, as if he had done this a million times before (I wouldn't be surprised if that was actually the case). Andy, however, was not quite so gracious, laughing and pointing at me as he made his way from second base to home (In all fairness, it should be noted that he turned out to be a great guy and one of my best friends. But at that moment I was hoping against all hope that he would severely roll his ankle as he turned towards home). I was crushed. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had let all my teammates down. I didn't know if I would ever want to play baseball again and thought about my retirement speech as I walked off the field with my hat in my hands. But as I reached the dugout, our first baseman handed me his pouch of Big League Chew. As I stuffed my cheek full of the grape-flavored shredded bubble gum, he said "I don't think anybody has gotten two strikes on Gabe all year. That was awesome."
I decided to postpone that retirement speech.
Real Estate Note: If you or anybody you know is interested in a great deal on Madison's west side, check out this home. It is a foreclosure that is listed at $71,000 below the assessed value. Click Here to View Listings
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Seemed Like a Good Idea
My last post touted my immune system as a Herculean force that rarely gives an inch. That does not mean, however, that the other systems that make up my body are at the top of their game. My hair started fleeing like the French when I was 19, I've been getting a little soft around the edges the past few years, and I even got my first cavity recently. I can't run as fast, jump as high (although that's like saying Kathy Griffin isn't as funny as she used to be), or throw as far as I used to. I feel like I'm totally falling apart. And I'm only 28! At this rate, I'll need to hire a full-time caretaker by the time I'm 37 (Jamie, you would think, would be willing to bathe me, clothe me, push my wheelchair, and help me in the bathroom. Nope. That job's going to a professional). Father Time's hot breath has been right in my face so last week I gave him some mouthwash. I started working out.
I knew my friend Jon works out regularly and we've always thrown around the idea of working out together. So when I finally said that I was ready to make it happen, he told me to meet him the next morning at the health club at 6. In the AM! Daunted but not deterred, I showed up at 6am. I've always known that Jon's workout routine is pretty intense and fast-paced, which is probably why it took me so long to agree to do it with him, so I was a little nervous about being able to keep up. But I did. Man, I really did. I was doing all the exercises Jon was doing and keeping up beautifully, same amount of reps, same amount of time between exercises (usually about 5 seconds). I was kicking that workout right in the mouth and feeling good doing it. We ended the workout after roughly an hour, which is about when the trouble started.
I started feeling a little "off" as we walked back to the locker room. My head was spinning a little bit, my stomach was nauseous, and my whole body had a strange ache to it. Jon took a look at me and asked "Are you okay?" I nodded yes and replied that I just needed to sit down in the locker room before leaving. Five minutes of sitting down helped a little bit and I got up, bid adieu to Jon, and ventured out the door. It was during the trek across the parking lot (which felt as long as walking across Canada) that I began to realize that I was in worse shape than I thought I was. I poured myself into my car and started driving as fast as I safely could in order to get home before I either passed out or "tossed my cookies" inside my car. I wasn't gonna make it. Pulling off on a side road, I miraculously stumbled upon a park with a porta-potty. Now, I figured this porta-potty had been there all summer, marinating and steaming, and smelling like the worst thing on earth. My assumption was proved correct when I opened the door. The stench hit me like a crowbar to Nancy Kerrigan's knee. Without going into too much detail, I spent about a half hour in there and thanked God for its existence every second I was in there.
Lesson learned. I now do about 1/2 the reps Jon does, at 1/2 the speed. Any time someone stares at me as I do my lame workout, I think back to my steamy dance with the porta-potty and think "Are there worse things than being stared at for doing 5lb bicep curls? Yes. There most certainly are."
Real Estate Note: Interested in how Madison's housing market is doing compared to the rest of the U.S? Click here: http://www.zillow.com/local-info/ and scroll down until you see Madison. If you click on it, it will show up in the graph.
I knew my friend Jon works out regularly and we've always thrown around the idea of working out together. So when I finally said that I was ready to make it happen, he told me to meet him the next morning at the health club at 6. In the AM! Daunted but not deterred, I showed up at 6am. I've always known that Jon's workout routine is pretty intense and fast-paced, which is probably why it took me so long to agree to do it with him, so I was a little nervous about being able to keep up. But I did. Man, I really did. I was doing all the exercises Jon was doing and keeping up beautifully, same amount of reps, same amount of time between exercises (usually about 5 seconds). I was kicking that workout right in the mouth and feeling good doing it. We ended the workout after roughly an hour, which is about when the trouble started.
I started feeling a little "off" as we walked back to the locker room. My head was spinning a little bit, my stomach was nauseous, and my whole body had a strange ache to it. Jon took a look at me and asked "Are you okay?" I nodded yes and replied that I just needed to sit down in the locker room before leaving. Five minutes of sitting down helped a little bit and I got up, bid adieu to Jon, and ventured out the door. It was during the trek across the parking lot (which felt as long as walking across Canada) that I began to realize that I was in worse shape than I thought I was. I poured myself into my car and started driving as fast as I safely could in order to get home before I either passed out or "tossed my cookies" inside my car. I wasn't gonna make it. Pulling off on a side road, I miraculously stumbled upon a park with a porta-potty. Now, I figured this porta-potty had been there all summer, marinating and steaming, and smelling like the worst thing on earth. My assumption was proved correct when I opened the door. The stench hit me like a crowbar to Nancy Kerrigan's knee. Without going into too much detail, I spent about a half hour in there and thanked God for its existence every second I was in there.
Lesson learned. I now do about 1/2 the reps Jon does, at 1/2 the speed. Any time someone stares at me as I do my lame workout, I think back to my steamy dance with the porta-potty and think "Are there worse things than being stared at for doing 5lb bicep curls? Yes. There most certainly are."
Real Estate Note: Interested in how Madison's housing market is doing compared to the rest of the U.S? Click here: http://www.zillow.com/local-info/ and scroll down until you see Madison. If you click on it, it will show up in the graph.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Picture of Health. Almost.
I consider myself to be a pretty healthy guy. I've never had any serious illnesses except for raging gastrointestinal issues EVERY time I leave the country. I don't consider those issues to be a reflection of my overall bodily health. I instead chalk them up to my stupidity:
Street vendor in Russia: "Come, eat land-animal sushi!"
Me: "What?"
Vendor: "Da. Street dog. Never touch frying pan."
Me: "Sold! I'll take two."
I've always been active, either playing sports regularly or working out. I get sick maybe once a year. Got a pretty sweet immune system. When I got the chicken pox as a little kid, guess how many of the itchy red spots I got. TWO! My body conceded those two little red dots just to be nice, to allow the virus to save a little face. In fact, I think I've only been inconvenienced by two illnesses in my whole life, one minor and one major.
The minor inconvenience was the provided by a cold that I think the government slipped into my system as an experiment in biological super-weapons. It showed up a couple of hours before an appointment I had with a guy who was interviewing agents for the job of selling his house. It started off as the worst sore throat I've ever had, which for some reason made my mouth salivate like a faucet that someone forgot to turn off. It also made my brain feel like those frying eggs in the old "This is your brain on drugs" commercials. Needless to say, the listing appointment did not go well. I don't remember any of the questions that the guy asked. None of my answers, either. I do remember actually drooling on his table and apologizing while trying to explain my salivary predicament. I didn't get the listing.
The major inconvenience showed up when I was a sophomore in high school in the form of insomnia. No one really knows why this happened. But for three weeks, sleep avoided me, much in the same way that dignity avoids Lady Gaga. During the day I was a zombie, trying not to fall asleep in order preserve some semblance of a sleeping pattern in case I did fall asleep at night. But as soon as I would get in bed, I couldn't even lay still. Once every few nights I would drift off for maybe an hour only to be roused awake by......absolutely nothing. It was terrible. I kept going to school all this time, staring blankly, forgetting to keep talking while I was mid-sentence, and flunking algebra tests (That's right. I had to take algebra tests. All my teachers knew of my condition and took it easy on me. Except for my algebra II teacher. I think I wrote my name when solving for x at least three times). The first time I went to the doctor, he gave me Benadryl. Apparently he didn't notice that this insomnia was actually a physical entity that could punch a person in the face and spit on them as they lay bleeding. It wasn't until a week later that he gave me some pills that came with these instructions: "Take one. Only one. If you take two you will fall into a coma." I actually had to fight the desire to take two. Gladly, one pill did the trick.
Real estate note: If you are on the fence about selling your home, please read this:
http://kcmblog.com/2011/09/06/5-great-reasons-t-sell-your-house-today-2/
Chris
Street vendor in Russia: "Come, eat land-animal sushi!"
Me: "What?"
Vendor: "Da. Street dog. Never touch frying pan."
Me: "Sold! I'll take two."
I've always been active, either playing sports regularly or working out. I get sick maybe once a year. Got a pretty sweet immune system. When I got the chicken pox as a little kid, guess how many of the itchy red spots I got. TWO! My body conceded those two little red dots just to be nice, to allow the virus to save a little face. In fact, I think I've only been inconvenienced by two illnesses in my whole life, one minor and one major.
The minor inconvenience was the provided by a cold that I think the government slipped into my system as an experiment in biological super-weapons. It showed up a couple of hours before an appointment I had with a guy who was interviewing agents for the job of selling his house. It started off as the worst sore throat I've ever had, which for some reason made my mouth salivate like a faucet that someone forgot to turn off. It also made my brain feel like those frying eggs in the old "This is your brain on drugs" commercials. Needless to say, the listing appointment did not go well. I don't remember any of the questions that the guy asked. None of my answers, either. I do remember actually drooling on his table and apologizing while trying to explain my salivary predicament. I didn't get the listing.
The major inconvenience showed up when I was a sophomore in high school in the form of insomnia. No one really knows why this happened. But for three weeks, sleep avoided me, much in the same way that dignity avoids Lady Gaga. During the day I was a zombie, trying not to fall asleep in order preserve some semblance of a sleeping pattern in case I did fall asleep at night. But as soon as I would get in bed, I couldn't even lay still. Once every few nights I would drift off for maybe an hour only to be roused awake by......absolutely nothing. It was terrible. I kept going to school all this time, staring blankly, forgetting to keep talking while I was mid-sentence, and flunking algebra tests (That's right. I had to take algebra tests. All my teachers knew of my condition and took it easy on me. Except for my algebra II teacher. I think I wrote my name when solving for x at least three times). The first time I went to the doctor, he gave me Benadryl. Apparently he didn't notice that this insomnia was actually a physical entity that could punch a person in the face and spit on them as they lay bleeding. It wasn't until a week later that he gave me some pills that came with these instructions: "Take one. Only one. If you take two you will fall into a coma." I actually had to fight the desire to take two. Gladly, one pill did the trick.
Real estate note: If you are on the fence about selling your home, please read this:
http://kcmblog.com/2011/09/06/5-great-reasons-t-sell-your-house-today-2/
Chris
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