Week Nineteen: "Traveling Light"

I got to spend a couple of days working with one of my favorite business partners in Dallas this week.  I was there to help him develop a short-term strategy for his training and consulting business.  For some people, a good business partner is one who sends a lot of clients their way, or shows loyalty through investment.  Me?  I can tell I have a good business partner when they send me an email like this:

Hey Scott,

Not sure when you are landing but we’re sorting canned goods at the local Food Pantry on Tuesday eve – 7:00-8:15.  You would be most welcome to join us.  -Mark

I had to take him up on the offer for two reasons.  First, I have a ton of respect for Mark and what he represents.  He is one of those guys who puts everyone else before himself.  His attitude is contagious.  Makes you want to return the favor.  Case in point: knowing that Mark was picking up the tab for my travel this week, I reciprocated by renting the cheapest car I could find.  “Jim’s Repo Depot” turned out to be a real value, especially when you consider they waive the deposit if you promise not to use their vehicle in a mob hit.

The second reason I took him up on the offer is that it’s good for the soul.  In doing a bit of research this year, I uncovered that one of the building blocks of happiness is serving others.  And here was Mark, my friend and colleague, making it easy.  Business can wait.  Hungry people need food for cryin’ out loud!

When I landed, I drove my recycled getaway car 45 minutes to the Plano Food Pantry where I met Mark and a team of youth that he mentors.  There, I managed to slice off the end of my toe in a can sorting accident.  Apparently, flip-flops are not the best choice of footwear when wandering around a crowded food pantry with metal table legs jutting about.  The good news is, Jim’s Repo Depot is used to blood stains on the floor boards, and I had stashed some extra Band-Aids in my lavender suitcase for just such an emergency. 

The service project set the tone for our time together.  In between business meetings over two days, Mark and I shared some personal stories.  I even got to go to dinner with him and his family.   By the end of the trip, I found myself wanting to stick around.  Wanting to help him more.  Buoyed by Mark’s generosity, honesty, and integrity and the way he lives his values.

I stayed as long as I could, but time got away from us.  I had to hustle to the airport.  Traffic was ridiculous.  By the time I got to the rental car facility, I had less than 30 minutes to catch my flight.  I quickly handed the keys to the rental agent, who popped the trunk to do her customary search for Italians wrapped in plastic.  She found nothing.

Nothing.

Not even a purple suitcase.

Uh oh.

Where is my lavender bag?  The humiliating rolling suitcase?  The one that carries shoes, clothing, toiletries, and my last vestige of masculinity?  Did it get stolen?  I wondered. 

Not a chance.  What the suitcase lacks in color, it makes up for in poor quality construction and inadequate size.  No traveler in their right mind would lay a hand on my bag.

That’s right!  It’s small.  I must have laid it in the back seat.

Nope.

Maybe between the seats?

Nope.

My search of the car turned up some duct tape, a rag, a shovel, a Sinatra CD, a half-eaten meatball sub and cement overshoes.

But no purple bag.

Panic set in.  The rental agent could tell something was amiss.

“Are you OK?”  She was looking at me as if I had forgotten to bury the body.

“No.  I think I may have left my suitcase at my hotel this morning.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed at my mundane response.  “Do you need to go back and get it?”

“I don’t have time.”

You might think I would be happy with this development.  I’ve been schlepping around this purple suitcase for the past three months. And our rules state that if I do not have a working replacement, I could buy a used suitcase.  Perhaps a nice black or gray.  I could be rid of the purple suitcase!

Instead, I felt a rush of worry.  How could I leave all of my stuff at the hotel?  Running shoes.  Business clothes.  Medications.  Toiletries. 

I called the hotel.

“Hi.  I was a guest at your hotel this week.  I checked out this morning, about ten hours ago.  I think I may have left my bag in your lobby.  Have you seen it?”

The man on the other end of the line spoke in a deep baritone.  “Is it a purple bag?”

“Yes.  That’s it.”

“Yeah.  Ain’t nobody touched your bag all day.  It’s still sittin’ right here.” 

I sensed disdain in his voice, sprinkled with a dash of pity.  But it didn’t matter.  I knew my bag was safe.  Relief.  Like finding your child after he’s been lost in the circular clothing racks of a department store. 

I immediately texted Mark.

“Hey Mark.  Funny thing.  I left my suitcase at the hotel.  Could you pick it up on the way in tomorrow?  I’ll pay you to mail it to me.”

He responded, “Sure.  Let them know I’ll pick it up.”

Then I reminded him that it was a purple bag, to which he replied,

“I’d better have Katherine go get it instead.”

Apparently, Mark’s charity only goes so far.

I continued on to my flight.  Barely made it.  It was a moment of stress in a wonderful week, but I was grateful. And then I realized that my anxiety was not about the possibility of losing my stuff.  It was just stuff, after all.  Devoid of meaning.

But it was all about the suitcase.   This purple bag has grown on me over the past few months.  The bag and what it holds.  Not the contents, but the meaning. 

Every time I drag that purple box behind me on a short business trip, I am reminded that life is not about stuff.  I am reminded that I don’t have to buy in to the myth that what I own defines who I am. I am reminded that truly knowing a person starts with peeling away all my perceptions created by their possessions and getting to the heart of what makes them tick. 

Because life is kinda’ like that purple bag.  We fill our days with stuff.  Actions and activities that may not seem like much.  But the spirit we devote to those tasks says a lot about who we are.  So, today, I can wrap my life with a spirit of worry and self-importance, creating meaning only for myself.  Or, I can choose to wrap my life in a spirit of giving, a heart for service, and a knowledge that my meaning is derived from passing on the grace I’ve been given. 

And that’s what I call traveling light.

Week Eighteen: "Haters Anonymous"

Hey there readers!  Looking for an inexpensive diversion this weekend?  Here’s a three-step process sure to make you feel as self-conscious as a bikini-clad supermodel who just polished off an entire brick of Velveeta cheese dip. 

Step 1: Record a video of your family trying to see if it’s possible to be happy without “stuff”

Step 2: Post the video to YouTube

Step 3:  Watch the comments roll in!

Earlier this week, we posted Lindsay Ferrier’s video interview with our family.  When Gabby and I first saw the video, I felt like I looked nervous due to some serious sweat beading on my upper lip.  Gabby thought she had “crazy eyes” and she was doing something weird with her neck.  She then asked me if I agreed her eyes looked crazy and her neck looked funky.  Little did I know, this question comes from the same kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species as “Am I turning into my mother?” and “Do these sleeves make my arms look like flabby old lady arms?”

“Gabby, I think I have to go pee.  Be right back.”

Once we got past all of our goofy superficial hang-ups, we agreed Lindsay’s interview captured the essence of what our Year Without A Purchase is all about. Would Lindsay’s blog readers agree? 

Our new friend Chrissie writes: 

We were really disappointed in her comment.  She didn’t even notice sweaty lips or crazy eyes.  Was she not paying attention? 

We scrolled down to hear a shout-out from our newest fan club member, momaof8?

She’s right.  The Great Mooch is really catchy!  Much better than the Year Without A Purchase.  What do you think, Melissa?

I agree, Melissa.  I, too, would be very impressed to see my wife butchering chickens and churning butter.  The truth is, we have been composting since last year, so we tried to reuse egg cartons and old pots to grow tomatoes and cantaloupes from seed.  It was a fun experiment that began 45 days ago.  We planted 12 plants.  Here are the results. 

Yes.  Two of the plants are weeds.  The rest are on life support.  We’re now looking up recipes for clover and dandelions.

As the comments continued, some said that we’re going about it all wrong because we’re not saving a ton of money.  Still more suggested we simply go a year without buying anything “new.”  But the most frequent comment was that what we were doing is no big deal. 

And I agree with them all.  Every.  Single.  One.

Could we buy more thrift store items?  Yes.  But we’re trying not to buy “stuff.”  And stuff from a thrift store is still “stuff.”

Could we save more money?  Yes.  Instead, we’re choosing to spend time with far-scattered friends and relatives we haven’t seen in a long time. Celebrating joys and sharing sorrows. 

Is this challenge a big deal?

No.  There are plenty of people who spend every waking moment trying to provide food and shelter for their own children.  Over 3 billion people, to be imprecise. 

Back in 2003, we quit our jobs, sold our house, moved to Guatemala and spent a year living with a beautiful, generous family just like this.  Our work paid us $260 per month.  We walked everywhere.  If we couldn’t walk, we rode a bus with people and livestock.  We ate loads of rice and beans.  We pooped in a hole in the ground.  Bathed in a bucket.  Washed clothes by hand a giant concrete sink.  And this experience showed us that we could be happy without having things that most Americans consider needs.   

And it was hard.  Really hard.

But coming home was much harder.  Because the advertising noise and consumer excess in the United States told a story in a voice much louder than the heart beating in my chest.  Everywhere we turned, we were being told that happiness and stuff are the same thing.  The message was inescapable.  It groped you at the grocery store.  It shouted at you from the car radio.  It exploded from billboards on the roadside.  Fulfillment is only a purchase away.

And we knew it was a huge lie.

But if you are told a lie long enough, you start to believe it.  After Guatemala, Gabby and I found ourselves slowly working our way back into society, and working ourselves out of the mindset that taught us to relish the simple beauty of a hot shower and a flushing toilet. 

So this challenge is not about saving money.  It’s not about living off the grid.  It’s all about bringing us back into balance.  Being “in” the world but not “of” it. It’s our way to remind ourselves that true fulfillment doesn’t come from a store. It comes from within – from the knowledge that no gadget in the world can change the fact that something larger is in control.  It also comes from the outside – from seeing God in the eyes of others as you move beyond a chat about the weather into a real conversation that’s alive and vulnerable.  

Because too many of us spend today lamenting about the things we don’t have, making a down payment on the stress of tomorrow.  We nurture that stress.  Invest in it.  Grow it into a monster.

And it’s eating us alive.

So today, this challenge is for us.  Me and my family. 

But it’s also for the guy who feels trapped in a job that brings him sheer misery.  A misery he shares with his family. With snapping, shouting, and emails until 2am.  A misery he endures so his family can maintain a standard of living that none of them have the time or energy to enjoy.

It’s for the mom that is burdened by guilt, desperately wanting her kids to fit in and get by.  Trying to save their beloved child some heartache with the right pair of jeans or the perfect cell phone.   A short-term fix with a long term penalty.  Perpetuating the lie that “you are what you own.”

It’s for all of us, myself included.  Those of us who can’t see that it’s not the object we desire, but the reaction we can get when people know we have it.  So we spend money we don’t have on things we don’t need to impress people who are too wrapped up in their own lives to care.

It’s about bringing value to life.  And we won’t be perfect. 

But I truly believe we’ll be better off for trying. 

Week Seventeen: "Video Blog"

Maybe it's a cop-out, but this week's blog is via video.  In week seventeen, the Dannemiller family was lucky enough to get a visit from Lindsay Ferrier.  Lindsay is a former morning show host who now writes loads of cool blogs and tells fun stories. Lindsay and her family also attend our church.  When she heard about our Year Without A Purchase, she asked if she could bring her video crew in to do a short story, figuring it would speak to her target audience - moms.  It was a fun experience. Check it out here!

Initially, we were nervous about the cameras.  Especially when Lindsay told us she would be interviewing us separately.  You see, Gabby and I share one brain and can hardly form a single, coherent thought without the other one there to edit and shape it.  This anxiety is evidenced by the beads of sweat on my upper lip.

But who knows, there may be more!  Lindsay said we should turn this into a multi-year documentary where she would show up again in five years and our house would be falling apart.  In ten years, it would just be us bickering at each other huddled over a trash can fire in the middle of our living room.  A little glimpse into the future!  Enjoy the video, and feel free to share if you think it would spark some thoughts for others.  Peace!

Week Sixteen: "Fishing for Ice Cream"

Last week, I shared the story of Gabby’s girl’s weekend and my ridiculous attempt to keep everything in order without my wife around.  You may have noticed that the kids were scarcely mentioned in the post.  This was intentional, as I was afraid to share what I had done with them in the event that anyone at Child Protective Services reads the blog.

It was my job to keep the kids occupied so Gabby and her friends could enjoy as much uninterrupted time as possible.  My first thought was to build them a “fort” out of clothespins, blankets and a puppy crate and fill it full of fruit snacks and ring pops.  This way, I could (humanely) sequester them for a couple of days under the guise they were having fun.  Unfortunately, I could never get Jake to consistently pee on the newspaper, so this plan was a bust.

My second idea was to loan them out to the Nashville Police department.  They often need loud noise makers to flush out kidnappers and other ne’er-do-wells from their bunkers.  Jake and Audrey both did well in their first audition, but were ousted in the final round for asking too many irrelevant questions. 

I was quickly running out of options. Our Year Without A Purchase rules state that I could not buy any trinkets to keep my children entertained.  This means I would have to rely on my own ingenuity and items already in my possession to do the job.  

Our first trip away from the house was a disaster. I drove around aimlessly waiting for fun to smack us upside the head.  And, due to my horrible planning skills, I left any of our fun possessions back at the house.  I tried to improvise with what was on hand, but a five-year-old girl can only play with jumper cables and car jacks so many times before the novelty begins to wear off and whining begins.

We went to a couple of parks and had fun playing on the playgrounds, but two hours later, the whining started again.  I called the Nashville Police and put the kids on speakerphone, hoping they would reconsider.  They just hung up on me.  Then, a revelation.

Commence “Operation Frozen Treat”

Our rules do include a provision to purchase food, so I whipped the car into the Sonic drive-in and ordered a menagerie of frozen delights.  A slushee for Jake, a caramel sundae for Audrey, and a Butterfinger Blast for yours truly.  My research revealed that the frozen cream and sugar act as a mild sedative, transforming loud Banshee screams into a perfectly acceptable conversational tone.

* ice cream: the miracle drug

I know the parenting mantra.  Ice cream should be reserved for special times.  Important, momentous occasions.  So, I confess that we had ice cream four times in a 48-hour period.  I’m not proud of it, but it’s amazing the things I learned about my kids when they were chatting and stuffing their faces with crap-tacular goodness. Case in point:   I learned (upon visiting a Sonic that backs to a cemetery) that Audrey would like to be buried in a heart-shaped coffin with a headstone shaped like a horse.  And Jake only wants to be cremated if it doesn’t hurt.  Audrey assures him it’s painless, because when you die your skin falls off.  And skin is the part that feels hurt.  So they only burn your bones.  But when you go to heaven God gives you new bones and new skin, too, unless you want to use your old skin you brought from Earth.

My research also suggests ice cream may be a hallucinogen.

On Saturday evening, as my wife and her friends were enjoying a free hotel night purchased with my frequent traveler loyalty points, the kids and I shared ice cream sandwiches and played board games.   It was a delightful time.  They were enjoying each other’s company.  No one was crying.  Even if they lost.  There were patches of silence while the kids sucked on their fingertips trying to lick away the chocolate sandwich glue.

Finishing off her pinkie, Audrey cut through the silence and blurted out,  “Let’s go fishing, Daddy!”

“Honey, it’s 7:00pm.  It’s almost bedtime.”

“But fish don’t sleep.”

“Not fish bedtime.  Your bedtime.”

“Can we go tomorrow?”

I thought about this.  Fishing does sound more interesting than playing in the park.  But the last time I took the kids fishing, we all got sunburned, I got a hook stuck in my shoulder,  one pole ended up in the pond, and all of us were crying.  And this was just the first half-hour.  What’s more, we only have one tiny fishing pole in working condition.  The other has a rod that’s been snapped in half and a reel that needs some major re-engineering.  We call her “The Widow Maker.”

* the "Widow Maker" and Lightning McQueen

“Sure!”  I answered.  “Let’s go fishing!”

“But we only have one pole!” Jake can always kill a buzz.

“That’s OK.  I can work on the other one.”

“Awwwwww!  Can we buy a pole for me?” Audrey asked, remembering that hers was the one still soaking in the pond at Bowie Park. 

Obviously, she doesn’t read the blog.

“Not this time.  We’ll share.”

The next day after church, I packed up the kids, our two shoddy poles, and drove to the Little Harpeth River. Our good friend, Dwayne Smith, even gave us some left over night crawlers from his own recent expedition.  We looked for a spot to fish, walking past a group of teenage girls swimming in the frigid water.  We walked past a somewhat creepy guy standing watch over the swimming girls and playing fetch with his two rambunctious dogs.  Finally, we found an open spot.

The kids and I spent considerable time wading in the shallows of the river.  With all of the bugs and rocks to check out, Audrey quickly forgot she didn’t have a fishing pole.   We were all skipping rocks and enjoying a new experience.    I then moved on to fiddling with my broken reel and casting an occasional line.  I coaxed both kids to fish for the better part of an hour.  The current was moving pretty fast, so every cast made it look like the bobber was being dragged under by Jaws himself. We caught nothing, but the kids loved it. They reeled it in with gusto every time, excited at the possibility of landing Nemo.

Audrey  took a break from fishing and went back to skipping rocks.  In an attempt to find the perfect stone, she slipped, fell into the river up to her shoulders and came out shivering.  By this time, we were all soaked and chilled.

Standing next to me, Audrey politely asked, “Can we go back to the car and warm up, Daddy?”

Recalling our Bowie Park fishing expedition, I thought it best to quit while we were ahead.

“Sure.  Let’s go.”

I looked down river.  Our tackle box, clothes and bait were about twenty paces away over some jagged stones.  Jake was standing very near all of the gear.  The bank was steep, but there were some branches and rocks immediately to my right which looked easy for Audrey to climb.

“Here honey.  Let me help you up.”

I pushed Audrey’s tiny hiney up the eight foot incline.  She clawed her way to the top and looked down at me.

“Alright Audrey.  Stay right there.  I’m going to walk down and get Jake and we’ll meet you up top.”

“OK Daddy.”

I made my way to Jake and all of our gear.  Two minutes, tops.  He was surprisingly compliant.  He immediately reeled in his empty hook, and I gathered all of our things.  We meandered up the steep bank and came to the grassy clearing.

“OK Audrey, let’s go.”

Silence. 

I looked to my right, twenty paces, expecting to see Audrey.  She wasn’t there.

I looked up and saw a kid’s birthday party going full swing at the picnic pavilion roughly 100 yards away.  There were bouncy castles and balloons all over the place.  I scanned the crowd for a tiny, wet girl in a white flowered bathing suit.  

Nothing.

I looked all around me calling her name as loud as I could.  I expected to hear her call back, “Right here, Daddy!”

But her call never came.  Instead, my voice got louder and louder.  I paced along the path beside the river.  My tone more anxious.  I looked at Jake and it was obvious he was scared.  His smile had transformed into a look of pint-sized panic.

“Where is she, Daddy?”  I could see tears forming. 

Then I thought of the fast-moving current and the steep bank.  What if she fell down the bank after I turned my head?  What if she waded back into the water and slipped?  She doesn’t swim!

I ran to the river bank and looked down.  I saw no signs of her.  But what if she got trapped under the water?  Under a rock?  She wouldn’t be on the surface!  I ran along the bank yelling her name.  I looked for a pale object under the current.  Parents at the birthday party were looking up now, sensing something was terribly out of balance. 

Jake stood motionless.  Whimpering.

I was about to dive into the water when my thoughts drifted to the creepy guy with the cute dogs.  Audrey loves animals.  I thought of every stranger danger cliché in the book.  Is this how it ends?  Dear God, no.  If I dive into the water, I am wasting precious seconds when someone could be walking off with my child.  If I go in search of her, I am wasting precious seconds when my daughter could be trapped under water. 

Panic.

I started running toward the birthday party.  I was about to yell, “Has anyone seen a little girl in a white swimsuit?!  Did you see where she went?!” I looked to my left and saw a girl running down the path toward me.  One hundred fifty yards away.  Her awkward, distracted, beautiful gait telling me my fears were unwarranted.  I dropped to my knees, threw my head back, and covered my face.  Didn’t want Jake to see the tears of relief that were coming.  It was only thirty seconds.

But it felt like a lifetime.

When she finally reached me, I scolded her with a giant bear hug.

“Where did you go?  I was so worried we had lost you?  I told you to stay right here!”

“I wanted to go back and pet the puppies.”

“I’m sure you did, honey.  But you didn’t tell me where you were going.  I thought I had lost you.  Worse yet, I thought you might have fallen in the water and drowned.”

Her eyes got big.  She said nothing.  She just looked at me and saw the relief in my face and knew. 

We walked back to the car in silence.  Halfway there, she grabbed onto my leg with both arms.  I walked with a happy limp the rest of the way.  When all the gear had been packed into the trunk and everyone was strapped into their seats, I heard Jake call out from the back seat.

“Can we have some ice cream when we get home, Daddy?”

The mantra plays in my mind again.  Ice cream is reserved for special times.  Important, momentous occasions.

And none is as special as this.

Because, unlike my brief, panicked moments with Audrey that stretched into forever, in our day-to-day lives time passes us like a raging river.  We feel like we have a lifetime to spend with those we love, but soon it will feel like only thirty seconds.  Life is precious gift of God that I often waste on worthless worry and the pursuit of perfection.  . 

So here's my prayer today.  Let there be many moments in life that sound the alarm.  A wake up call that stirs my soul.  Because I'm tired of sleepwalking through the simple pleasures that make life worth living. 

Like one more scoop of ice cream.

Week Fifteen: "Surprise!"

A few months ago, two of my wife’s best college girlfriends, Miranda and Chelle, approached me with a proposal.    They wanted to come into town and surprise Gabby for a special “girl’s weekend.”

For any uninitiated male readers out there, allow me define a girl’s weekend for you.  Think of it as a 72-hour book club meeting. Though I have never been formally invited, I have seen book club females in their natural habitat.  Their gatherings include the following: wine, lots of laughter, wine, indulgence in snacks that they normally forbid themselves to eat, simultaneous conversations, wine, more wine, discussions about crazy things their husbands do, whispers and eye rolls, surprised exclamations of “where did all the wine go!?”, and long goodbyes at the front door followed by someone saying,

“Oops!  We forgot to talk about the book!”

For the girl’s weekend, just add shopping.

I know this may sound like a nightmare to most of you fellas out there.  But trust me.  A girl’s weekend is the best thing you’ll ever do for your marriage.  We males simply do not have the capacity to absorb the number of words and complexity of emotion our wives have to offer.  It’s like trying to shove 50-pounds of raw bread dough into an empty beer can.  Try as you might, you’re still going to end up with a big, gooey mess.

But her girlfriends?  They take all that dough and knead it, nurture it, and bake it into the best rolls you ever tasted.  It’s sustenance to last your wife several months.

Her girlfriends wanted it to be a surprise.  “On the morning we arrive,” they said, “just tell her she has something to pick up at the airport, and we’ll be there!”   I was reluctant.  You see, Gabby loves to give surprises.  She loves the planning, preparation, and the ultimate “aha” moment when her plan comes together.  But receiving surprises is a different story.  I believe they all feel to her like winning an Academy Award, then realizing during the acceptance speech that you’re not wearing any pants. 

Against my better judgment, I agreed to the surprise.  My cover was that I was planning a special family weekend for us.  This announcement led to a Freaky Friday style body swap. Gabby took on the role of happy-go-lucky, carefree Scott.  I became the organized, planful Gabby.

This is not what God intended.

For me, planning involves lots of thinking, then walking to the refrigerator and opening the door, followed by expert procrastination.  In the three months leading up to the big weekend, I had consumed several pounds of leftovers, but not much else had been accomplished. 

A few days before their arrival, I had a Zen-like moment of clarity.  Since they couldn’t go shopping, I decided that my job would be to make sure everything at our house was taken care of so that once her friends arrived, Gabby wouldn’t have to think of a single thing besides enjoying their company. 

What followed was a frantic array of failure.  I tried to clean the house as Gabby might in preparation for a long-term guest.  I told her, “I’m handling everything for our family fun weekend.  But, assuming someone comes by to check on the plants while we’re gone, what would you want me to clean?”  She rattled off a list that started with vacuuming and ended with putting down wood floors in our linen closet.

I’m not kidding.

I only finished one-third of Gabby’s normal pre-trip cleaning checklist, and I felt like I had just birthed a walrus.  One hour after scouring the hall bath, I heard Audrey scream “Oh no!”.  I rounded the corner to see her watching a cascade of urine run down her legs, saturating the bathroom rugs I had just washed.  Jake added his own yellow design to the back of the toilet seat for good measure.

It was glorious.

I also committed to doing all of the errands Gabby had planned.  Shuttling kids around.  Dropping off paperwork.  Going to the bank, etc.  I think I ended up delivering our tax forms to the kid in our car pool, and trying to deposit a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the canister at the drive-thru teller.

This is definitely not what God intended.

The night before Miranda and Chelle were to arrive, I surprised Gabby with a note on her pillow.  It said, “There is no family trip.  Instead, you are to go to the airport tomorrow morning and pick up a special friend.  Be there by 9:30.”

Surprise!

Her gaze met mine.  Her face wore a complicated expression of anger (how could the love of my life have lied to me?), excitement (I wonder who my special friend is?) and Gabby’s Look of Mild Disapproval^TM (Scott didn’t clean out the refrigerator!). 

The next morning, I took the kids to school while Gabby got ready to meet her special friend.  I watched her in the mirror as she put on her eye liner.  Seeing her in a whole new light.  But her mind was elsewhere.  She caught me ogling her and said. 

“What have you done, Dannemiller?”

“What do you mean?  Aren’t you excited?”

“I’m sort of excited.”

“Why not completely excited?”

“Because, had I known someone was coming to stay at our house, I would have dusted the shelves in the playroom.  They’re filthy!”

When Gabby left the house, I got to work.  I wiped down a few shelves in the refrigerator so they would pass inspection.

Meanwhile, at the airport, Gabby was relishing a teary-eyed reunion with some of her best friends.  I had left a second, intriguing envelope in the car.

Inside was a surprise letter for Gabby and her friends telling them they could cash in Gabby’s unused spa certificate I had given her three years ago as an anniversary gift.  Side note: After taking over Gabby’s duties for just one weekend, I now see how an entire Presidential Administration could go by without her finding the time to get a massage.

* The lovely ladies.  Chelle, Gabby and Miranda.

They called to relay their thanks to me, and tell me they were on their way home.  I estimated I might have just enough time to grab the knock-off-brand Pledge and a rag and attack the book shelves, but I would be cutting it close.  I started in on the first shelf when my phone buzzed.  It was a text from Miranda.

“Um.  We might be getting a ticket.  L It’s mine and Chelle’s fault.  We were distracting her.”

Two thoughts came to mind.  First, now I have plenty of time to dust.  Second, bail bonds are not on the approved purchase list this year.

I texted back, “FYI… In case you were wondering, the hunky young cop is not part of the surprise.  Do NOT put any dollars in his waistband.”

Apparently, Gabby relayed this information to the State Trooper thinking it might get her out of a ticket.

It didn’t.

As I dusted in the playroom, I wanted to do a good job.  Twenty-four book shelves in all.  Each filled with stuff.  Some were crammed full of great children’s stories like “Oh No, Gotta’ Go” and “Tickle Monsters.”  There was no dust on top of or behind the books, so I carefully wiped in front of each one.  As my rag passed each spine, I remembered how much fun it is to sit on our couch and hear the kids beg me to give a special voice to every character.  In “The Gruffalo”, the mouse sounds a bit like Elmo.  The fox is a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy.  The Owl is from Bangalore.  And the snake is an odd mix of Sean Connery and Jimmy Stewart. 

I also do children’s parties.

Then there were the pictures.  I picked up each one and dusted underneath.  Thanks to Patrolman Riley/”Not-So-Magic” Mike, I now had some extra time to really see the photos that go unnoticed day-to-day.  They all brought back memories.  Friends young and old were all preserved in a moment in time.  Family.  Pics of the kids from when they were babies.  Smiling.  All bringing back happy memories.

Finally there were the shelves covered with trinkets.  These left a very different impression.   I tried to simplify the job by simply dusting around them, but it didn’t work.  Each one had to be moved and set down again.  Every time I picked one up, each seemed to ask, “What purpose do I serve?”  “Why do you keep me?”

The answer was always the same.

“I don’t know.”

These things just got in the way. Old awards and plaques once held pride and ego.  But all of that leaked out long ago.  And the decorations?   The effort required to maintain and transport them far exceeded the benefit of having them.  They were now just items that we had to maneuver around.  Getting in the way.

I finished the dusting five minutes before the girls walked through the door.  I was greeted with hugs and smiles. They were so ready to take on the weekend.  They came to visit Nashville.  Music City.  It’s a place where people come to see the sights. Hear some music.  Buy souvenirs.

And surprise!  They failed. 

Sure, they went out on the town.  But for the most part, they buried themselves in the couches and chairs.  Nonstop conversation.  It was like that for the entire weekend.  Plans came and went, falling victim to the desire to relax and just enjoy the company of one another.  Storytelling.  Catching up.  Connecting. 

Never once mentioning the shelves. 

Just as God intended.

Week Fourteen: "Feeling Lucky"

Welcome to week fourteen.  I realize now that when we crafted our rules for the Year Without A Purchase, we failed to clarify one key element.  What do we do about luck? Because I win stuff.  Lots of stuff. Feel free to punch me in the throat.

As long as I can remember, I have been winning random name drawings.  Not raffles where you get a ticket with a number.  No.  It has to be a raffle where you hastily write your actual name on a slip of paper.  And you must be present to win.

* If only lotto tickets made you write your name...

When I was a kid, I would get called out of the crowd to be the “special helper” on stage, even when I didn’t want to be.  I distinctly remember being called up to assist a clown at a grade school event.  It didn’t go well.  To this day I’m still scared of anyone wearing heavy face makeup.  Bozo.  Homey.  Tammy Faye Baker.  They all give me the heebies.

At my high school graduation, I won a $600 mall shopping spree.  In college, it was free pizza.  Last summer, it was a front row seat to see Book of Mormon on Broadway.  I declined the ticket because Gabby was with me, and I didn’t want to ditch her.

She doesn’t win stuff.

In the past few weeks, I have won two such drawings. The first was at a presentation on how to plan for your own funeral.  I figured that I have such a propensity for having my name called, I was covering all my bases in case the I win the Big Raffle In The Sky earlier than anticipated.

Instead, I won a gift certificate to the Cracker Barrel.

Just last week, I entered another contest.  There were tons of booths set up for Opening Day at Jake’s little league ballpark.  Gabby entered a drawing.  You had to be present to win.  They went through lots of raffle numbers for folks who weren’t there.  Number after number.  Faster and faster as they kept having no-shows.

Then they called Gabby’s number.  “Woo hoo!” she screamed with delight.  Only to see a little three-year-old slowly making her way to the pitcher’s mound to claim her prize.  They called the toddler’s number just before Gabby’s.

Remember, she doesn’t win stuff.

But the grand prize?   The Nashville Sounds (the local AAA professional baseball team) was raffling off the chance to have your entire little league team take the field during the National Anthem at a home game this summer.  You had to write your name on this ticket.

Scott Dannemiller will be escorting ten 7-year-olds to home plate.  Thank you very much.

In week twelve of our challenge, I mentioned that I was going to do an “Appreciation Audit” – taking time out each day to list five things I appreciate about my life. Things that make me feel lucky.  I wanted to see what the exercise would do for my general well-being.

Frankly, it was very easy to create the list.  I did it at the start of each day.  Five things.  They rattled off my fingertips and onto the screen.  On Monday, it included “I win stuff,” and “I get to do work I love and make money doing it.”  On Tuesday, I created my list as Gabby did some quick morning housework after a trip to the gym.  That list included “I have a wife who likes to vacuum.”  I know.  Strange.  Something about easily seeing progress by looking back at the pattern you left in the carpet.

But I appreciate it.

I wish I could say that every morning I was left with a warm sense of contentment that stayed with me throughout the day.  Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way.  The contentment was fleeting, quickly giving way to the hustle of life.  Things to do.  Problems to solve.  Kids to yell at.

But I learned a tremendous amount from the exercise.  At the end of the week, I looked back through my list, and two things came to mind.

First, creating each day’s list was meaningful, but reading all twenty-five at the end of the week brings about a flood of gratitude.  Like opening a box of ice cream sandwiches and knowing you can eat every single one.  It was an overwhelmingly beautiful sensation.  Drowning in thankfulness for the blessings of life.  I highly recommend it.

But the bigger learning came later.

I returned to Nashville around midnight after a long few days working out of town.  Instead of driving home, I took a taxi.  Our car was having trouble, so Gabby had taken it in for repairs, and I wasn’t about to have her revive the kids at midnight to drag them to the airport to pick me up.

My cab driver’s name was Alex.  He was from Somalia.  As he drove me toward my own home, we talked about where he had come from.  I asked him where he had lived.  How did he get here?  What was it like growing up in his country?

Alex told me that life was a mixed bag for him.  He has fond memories of growing up in a small village.  Playing soccer with friends.  Hanging out with family.

But then civil war erupted.

Simplicity gave way to danger.  Alex’s father wanted no part of it.  He took the family on a journey to safety.  They eventually made their way to a U.N. refugee camp in Kenya.  There, they spent a year living in a tent with a dirt floor. Temperatures frequently eclipsed 100 degrees.  They received food rations once per week.  There was very little to go around.  And there was no work.  Just living.

But he had hope.

Because Alex could read and write English, he got a job making $30 per month working for the Red Cross.  His job was to help people fill out forms at the hospital and translate their needs into English so the doctors could understand.

He smiled in the rear-view mirror as he said, “Like my dad says.  It was a S#*! life, but I knew there was something better.”

Slowly but surely the family moved out of the tent and into a room with four walls.  Then into a very small house.  And eventually they found a program through the Catholic church that allowed them to leave Kenya and come to the United States.

I asked Alex how he kept going.  He answered in his labored English.

“I had faith.  I still have faith.  I still go to the Catholic church.  They took my faith and made it real.”

I got home and looked back through my list.  Twenty-five things to be thankful for.  While some were “stuff” (my comfortable bed, warm water, a roof over my head), many were not.  My list included immeasurably important things like my health, happy kids, and a wife who loves me.  And that’s when I realized.

Even these things can be taken away.

I know it’s a morbid thought, but stick with me here.

We don’t know what the future holds for us.  We all know that “stuff” is fleeting.  It can vanish in an instant.  But so can those things that are most important to us.  I looked at my list and thought two things.

One:  Any of these things could be gone one day.  Not a single one of the twenty five was guaranteed.

Two:  What am I grateful for that can never be taken away?

And that’s when it hit me.  We all have a choice no matter the situation.  We can choose to be victims of circumstance.  We can choose to be passive.  We can choose a mentality of scarcity and fear, where we hoarde and worry and stress our lives away.  Here, we are choosing despair.

Or we can choose abundance.  We can choose gratitude.  We can choose hope.  Because faith and hope are possessions that can never be taken away.  Like the love of God.  Ever-present, no matter the circumstance.  We can choose to see the beauty in the mess.  Because the truth is that we may have entered five hundred drawings and won only five.  But focusing on those five gives us far more hope than focusing on the 495.

So choose hope.  Choose faith.

Because luck is realizing your name has already been drawn.

Week Thirteen: "Christ is risen! Let's go to Arby's!"

Easter is here!  It’s one of my favorite times of year.  There is an energy in the air and winter dormancy explodes into new life.  Christ is risen!  He is risen, indeed! But He still isn’t buying anything at the Dannemiller house.

One of our favorite Easter traditions comes from Mexico.  In the towns along the US border, people make cascarones (pronounced “kahs-kah-roan-ays”) around the holiday – hollowed out egg shells filled with confetti.  Tradition dictates that families gather to honor the agonizing death of Jesus and his triumphant resurrection by breaking the eggs on each others' heads, much like the disciples did at the Last Supper.  At least that’s what I read in my Jerry Lewis Standard Edition of the Bible.

In years past, we purchased a few dozen of these eggs at HEB, the famed grocery store in Texas named after Henry E. Butt.  This year was a different story.  Unable to buy the cascarones, we spent the better part of five weeks watching my cholesterol spike and eating eggs every day for breakfast.  We must have looked like the most OCD bunch of chefs in the world.  Tap-tap-tapping on the pointy end of the egg with a pearing knife until breaking through like a baby chick, then gently prying off a small piece and violently shaking the egg out into a bowl.

Several were victims of cascarone research and development, but a couple dozen hollow casks made it to the top of our refrigerator where they dried until March 29^th.

The next step was coloring the eggs.  I need to talk with my mom to see if I nearly drowned in a large vat of Paas color solution when I was a kid, because the thought of taking on this type of messy craft project with children who have yet to master their opposable thumbs gives me the shakes.

Due to my phobia, I left this part of the work to Gab and the kids.  My job was to take a blow dryer to get rid of any moisture in the shells once they were done.  By the time I was finished styling them, every single egg could have supplanted Trump’s toupee.

Rather than buy confetti, we finely chopped some old chunks of tissue paper that Gabby had miraculously saved from some long-ago craft project.  It’s good to know we’re prepared in case we need to coordinate a parade after the Apocalypse.

We combined the tissue paper shavings with finely diced financial documents we had recently put through the shredder.  We thought this was worth the risk, given that it would take a really nasty person to steal your identity on one of the holiest days of the year.  Still, we spread each document evenly among each egg to minimize our exposure.  The finished product was awesome, and it was a fun, shared family experience we would have missed out on had we not been tackling our Year Without A Purchase.

* Scott topping off the cascarones.  Audrey used water colors to paint all our faces.  Good times.

The Easter Bunny was a different story.

While Santa has sweatshops full of elves to assist him in toy production, the Easter Bunny is a loner.  The poor guy has to rely on Target to fill the baskets.  But this year, no can do.  Our bunny can’t buy any stuff.

In years past, we put small toys in the baskets and some knick-kacky needs.  This year, in lieu of toys, we stuffed the baskets with more shredded mortgage docs to act as Easter grass, and threw in some plastic eggs from Gabby’s stash in the garage.  Apparently it’s her substitute for a change purse post-Apocalypse.

We crammed  the eggs full of jelly beans and fun size Snickers bars to appease the kids’ sweet tooth.  We tried to think of what else they might get fired up about that’s not stuff.  After some debate, we decided to get Audrey a gift card for an Arby’s roast beef sandwich and Jake a gift card for a Cool Ranch Locos Taco from Taco Bell.

We sincerely apologize to the First Lady for our poor choices.

When Easter morning arrived, we sent the kids searching through the house for their baskets.  Knowing that they were likely to notice the lack of toys, we didn’t even mention the Easter Bunny by name.  Didn’t want to throw the poor fella under the bus.

Little did we know, the simple pleasures are the best.  They must put moon dust and Fun Dip on the shell of the Cool Ranch Doritos Locos taco, because Jake can’t stop talking about ‘em.  And Audrey?  That’s another story.

She looked at her gift card and said,

“Can I take Nana out to lunch?”

Holy cow.

We gave her the phone.  Of course, my mom accepted.  I’m not sure who was more excited.  Both of them nearly wet their pants.

When the day came, Audrey picked out a special outfit.  Nana came over to pick her up.  They went to Audrey’s favorite restaurant and sat across the table from each other, sharing roast beef sandwiches, curly fries and a mint chocolate shake.  “It was delicious!” she shouted.

And she paid for the whole thing.

You can’t plan this stuff.  It never would have happened had we filled those baskets with a mountain of trinkets.   I know it’s a tiny victory.  But it’s a big deal.  And just a small taste of the selfless connection that can happen when you clear out the junk and focus on what’s important.

Happy Easter!

Week Twelve: "Spring Broken"

This past week was Spring Break for the Dannemiller family.  The term “spring break” normally conjures images of sun-drenched beaches in Florida, infested with college kids being held up by their ankles enjoying a few mellow cocktails sipped through a funnel and some plastic tubing.  It’s a chance to get away from it all and enjoy an exotic destination.  Not to be outdone, we embarked on our own epic journey to the hotbed of spring break activity.

Madison, Wisconsin.

I know what you’re thinking.  How in the world did you find an available hotel room?

We are lucky enough to have some very dear friends that recently moved from Nashville to Madison to take a new job at the University of Wisconsin.  This was our opportunity to spend some quality time with them and point out anything remotely unattractive about their new hometown (too cold, too flat, too much cheese) so they move back.  We’re generous like that.

Little did we know that our trip was doomed.  Jake caught a stomach bug the night before we were supposed to leave.  So, we delayed our departure and stayed at home to do our taxes.  Gabby and I combed through receipts and 1099’s for the better part of the extra day. We made sure to yell at the kids every now and then to make sure they felt included.   

The romance was electric. 

Jake still felt bad the next day, but, like any good parents, we packed the kids into the car anyway.  We pumped him full of saltines, gave him a big green barf bucket and all of the DVD movies he could ever want to watch.  By the time we had watched three rounds of Tom & Jerry’s greatest hits, we made it to Indianapolis where my sister and our nieces were in town for a volleyball tournament.  After a couple of games, we all went to have pizza while poor Jake was sprawled out in the booth holding his gut.  He has a flair for drama, but we called it quits early and spent the rest of the night in the hotel.

The next morning, Jake felt better, but I was nursing a bit of anxiety due to a potential conflict at work.  Yes, I said potential conflict.  The mere thought of hanging up on a telemarketer gives me mild intestinal discomfort, so you can imagine what truly disappointing someone I value and respect might do to my insides. 

By noon, the conflict was over, but the churning in belly was not.  My stomach became a petri dish for whatever Jake was harboring.  One hundred miles into our day’s journey, the rush hit me.  We made an emergency stop at a McDonald’s in the middle of nowhere.  By virtue of a small miracle, I was able to wait until the bathroom cleared out before erupting into a volcano of bad vacation food.  I barfed up Technicolor Crunch Berries from breakfast.  I barfed up supreme pizza from the night before.  I barfed up a piece of Fruit Stripe bubble gum I swallowed back in the third grade.

It was bad.

After the McFlurry of activity in the bathroom, I stumbled out to the car, three shades whiter than normal.  Gabby issued an immediate quarantine.  We called and cashed in some hotel points so not to infest our friends’ house.  By the time we got to Madison, I was a shivering, writhing mess.    I climbed into the hotel bed and had nightmares of Cap’n Crunch forcing me to swab the deck in rough seas.  Five minutes later, I woke to the sound of Audrey planting her face into the green bucket for her own fireworks show. 

It was looking very much like the aftermath of a Florida spring break party.

To the casual observer, our trip was a bust.  We had planned on going sledding, skiing, taking in 3-4 museums, indoor water parks, eating fun foods, and touring around Wisconsin.  No purchases, but tons of fun experiences.  Instead, we spent a lot of time puking and feeling queasy.  Our eight hour drive home turned into twelve hours.  Even the car got sick, flashing its “check transmission” from Indiana to Nashville.  And we ignored it, in much the same way we ignored Jake’s symptoms on the drive there.  It cost us $432 to get the flashing to stop.

But as we look back on the journey, we now see that the experience we planned would have largely been a distraction.  Case in point:  While the rest of us were quarantined in the hotel, Gabby was able to go out with one of her best friends ALL BY HERSELF.  Those three hours of uninterrupted conversation and connection never would have happened if not for puke-fest 2013. 

* My hot wife with her awesome friend Tiz and her little boy Nathan.  At the time of this post, Nathan is now up-chucking all over the house without the aid of a bucket.  So much for the quarantine!

And another blessing.  Rather than go out to dinner, our kids got to experience an honest-to-goodness Passover, celebrating a Seder dinner at the Goff’s house while I writhed in the hotel bed.  When I asked Audrey what her favorite part was, she said, “I liked the puppet show best.”  Wondering what kind of kid-friendly puppet show would commemorate the smearing of lambs’ blood on the doorframe and the death of every first born Gentile child, I asked, “There’s a Passover puppet show?  Is that tradition?”

Gabby then explained to me that our hosts wanted to spice up the discussion of the ten plagues (Locusts, wild beasts, rivers of blood, etc.) so they found some really fun, non-threatening finger puppets the kids could hold up.  Gabby was happy to be a part of the action and do her Christian duty, happily brandishing the worst of the plague puppets so none of the other guests would be offended at being handed, say, the “First Born” plague.    

And let’s not forget the blessing of our sickness.  Had Audrey and I not been puking like fraternity pledges, we probably would have been at some indoor theme park.  Kids scattered like roaches in a brightly lit room, completely distracted by shiny objects.  Instead, the two of us were locked in suite 207 at the Residence Inn for a full day.  Drawing pictures.  Tracing hands.  Watching old Disney movies and sharing a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle.  Meanwhile, Jake and the rest of the kids threw snowballs at each other and played in the basement.  Not a parent was in sight, and they got to swing like monkeys on some makeshift trapezes Pete had hung from the rafters.

It was fantastic.

And that’s when I realized that “busy-ness” is a close cousin to “stuff”.  Both often breed expectations that are rarely met, leaving us feeling just a bit emptier than before.  Because the kids complain during the movie.  The new sweater doesn’t fit like you thought it should.  The lines are too long at the theme park.  You get tired of washing the new car. And the hotel doesn’t look anything like the brochure.  So the present moment is ruined by the impossible perfection of the vision in our heads.

But today.  The ordinary.  The here and now.  That’s something special.  It’s the only thing God guarantees.  And appreciating what you have is the key to unlocking the joy.  Whether it’s the Clark Griswold-like vacation, or the house in which you live.

So today I begin my appreciation challenge.  Waking up every day for a week and naming five things I am thankful for.  I’m interested to see what, if any, changes it brings about in me.  But I’m not expecting anything in particular.

Because that could be dangerous.

Week Eleven: "A Long Strange Trip"

I went to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to teach a class this week. No.  That’s not a lie.

I was doing work with the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center.  They had conducted a web search and stumbled across some information about a Critical Thinking workshop I teach.  They invited.  I accepted.

*A group of hospital leaders working through a critical decision

To say Riyadh is conservative is an understatement.   Outside the Embassy walls, there are no movie theaters, bars, or dance clubs.  There’s no alcohol to be found.  The flight attendants on the plane took it away from everyone once we crossed into Saudi airspace.  Women and men are not allowed to accompany one another in public, unless married.  There is almost no crime.  The customs admission form includes a graphic of a skull and crossbones declaring drug traffickers will be subject to the death penalty.

I kept my allergy medicine in the hotel just in case.

Most everything that a typical westerner might call “fun” has been wiped from the community like a muddy footprint, save for one thing.  Shopping malls.    While retail represents 7.9% of the entire Gross Domestic Product in the US, in Saudi Arabia, it’s 17%.  You can’t throw a kabob without hitting a Bath & Body Works.   I’m stereotyping here, but Saudis visit the mall so much it’s as if the entire country was made up of 13-year-old suburban girls jonesing for a fro-yo.   I wondered how such constant exposure to commercialism might impact the culture here, causing there to be an imbalanced focus on acquiring stuff.

Wanting to experience it for myself, I went to the mall on my first night there.  The place was filled with window shoppers.  Women out for a girl’s night.  Families with kids in strollers.  Guys hanging out and chatting.  I noticed some familiar stores such as Victoria’s Secret, which seemed quite out of place to my untrained eye.  But you quickly realize that the long, black abaya worn in public by every adult woman is simply covering up clothing that fashionable ladies are sporting the world over.  Public and private lives are very different in Saudi Arabia.

* Methinks Victoria has lots of secrets underneath that black robe

Around six o’ clock, I was getting hungry when I heard an unfamiliar sound.  It was the Muslim call to prayer being broadcast over the mall loudspeaker.  Storefronts closed.  Most men disappeared.  Women gathered in close-knit groups.  Seeing that it would be another 20 minutes before I could go to McDonald’s for my McArabic (an actual menu item), I took a break.

I wandered over to a bench and pulled out my two-day-old USA Today.  I made it through the first paragraph of an article skewering the latest Steve Carrell movie when I got the unsettling sensation I was being watched.  I turned around to see a rather large mall security guard standing behind me.

“You cannot sit here.”

I quickly panicked, as I often do when surprised.  My mind drifted to the skull and crossbones as I wondered if reading a colorful newspaper was against Saudi law.

“Oh.  I’m sorry.”

“Go to Starbucks.”  The man was intimidating, speaking in broken English.

“Starbucks?”

“Let me show you.”

He walked me to the elevator, pressed the button, and escorted me into the elevator.  We spent an uncomfortable half minute riding to the second floor, neither of us making a sound.  When the doors opened, he curtly gestured toward the Starbucks which was also shuttered during prayer.

“Go there.”

I did as I was told.  I sheepishly walked to the coffee shop and stood there like a frightened puppy, afraid to even glance at my newspaper.  Is Starbucks just a holding pen for unruly Americans?  Others were walking around and window shopping.  But I stood still.  I didn’t want to see the guard again.

After fifteen minutes of people watching, the storefronts opened, and I took that as my cue to move.  International incident averted.

The next day in class, Latifah, a housing manager approached me during a break.

“How are you enjoying your trip?”

“Very much,” I replied.

“It’s very different from the U.S., no?”

“Yes it is.”  Her face was covered by her head scarf, but I could see the smile in her eyes.

*chatting it up with participants

“Can I ask you a question, Latifah?”

“You just did.”

Good one.  We both laughed.

“I was in the mall last night during the evening prayer.  I sat down on a bench to read my newspaper, but a security guard quickly approached and ushered me off to Starbucks.  Is it illegal to read during prayer time?”

She paused, then laughed out loud.

“No, Mr. Scott.” she responded, still smiling at the worry on my face.  “As a form of respect toward women, it is customary to leave them a place to sit.  Especially during prayer time.”

The only law I had broken was being a jerk.  Like the guy who steals a subway seat from your grandmother.  The security guard was just trying to salvage what little chivalrous honor I had left.

* A good shot of the classroom.  Falah is in the back with the white head scarf.

Falah, a fellow student and the hospital’s media relations rep, caught the end of our conversation.  He was wearing his keffiyeh, a long robe and with a white head scarf.  He asked,

“What is the perception of Saudis in the United States?”

Haifa, a research lab technician, interrupted him.

“He’s not going to tell you!”

Before he could respond, I answered.

“Sure!  I’ll tell you.  Many people in the United States are fearful of anything in the Middle East outside of Dubai.  Very few people would want to travel here willingly.  They think it might be dangerous.  My mother, for example, called me just before I got on the plane to say her ‘final goodbye’. I think it’s a product of what they see on TV.  Bombings.  Terrorist groups.”

Someone else, I forget whether it was Latifah or Haifa said, “My family was scared for me to go to New York.  Very dangerous.  People get shot all the time.  According to the TV programs.”

Apparently CNN and Law & Order don’t do anyone any favors.    Media manipulation distorting reality.

Falah continued, “Mr. Scott.  You seem like a really good guy.  Are you interested in falconry?”

“Falconry?”  This may be one of the most obscure questions I’ve ever been asked.

“Yes.  Hunting with falcons.  I have written nine books on falconry, and run a falconry club here.  If you come back, I would love to take you out to the desert with my bird.  We could hunt.  See some camels.   It would allow you to see an entirely different side of the country.”

Haifa added, “We actually have hunting camels, too.  They snatch birds right out of the air.”

My eyes were wide until I realized she was pulling my leg.  Showing how quickly reality can get distorted. She smiled.   Falah handed me a copy of one of his books, and his personal contact information.

“I’m not kidding.  I would love to take you out.”

“I will call you.  Most definitely.”

Later that evening, I took one final trip to the mall before my midnight flight.  I was laughing at myself.  My misconceptions.  The night before, I remembered wondering how such constant exposure to commercialism might impact the culture here, causing there to be an imbalanced focus on acquiring stuff.  Heck, even on this second trip to the mall, I found myself wanting to break the Year Without A Purchase vow.  I’m half way around the world!  I gotta’ bring some shiny junk back for the kids, right?  How can anyone stay connected to what’s important when you’re surrounded by the unimportant all the time.

As I was about to walk into a leather goods store and browse the luggage, I heard the sound again.  Over the loud speaker came an atonal voice singing the adhan – the call to prayer.

Storefronts closed.  Most men disappeared.  Women gathered in close-knit groups.  For the next twenty minutes, people left their everyday distractions behind and re-centered on God. Me included.  I put away the newspaper and focused on what’s important.

For three minutes, anyway.

But there was nothing else to do. And here, it happens five times per day.

Before sunrise.  Fajr.  Remembering God.

At noon. Dhuhr.  Asking for guidance in your day.

Late afternoon. ‘Asr.  In the midst of daily stress.  Pausing to remember God’s greater meaning in our lives.

Before sundown. Maghrib. Thankfulness for a day well-lived.

After sundown.  ‘Isha. Remembering God’s presence, mercy and forgiveness.

How beautiful. How consistent.  Connecting with God as part of a routine.  Like bathing or breathing.  Simple and powerful.

I went to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to teach a class this week.

But learned far more than I taught.

*the gang's all here!  Me and my new friends.

Week Ten: "True Confessions"

The holy smoke came out of the chimney of the Sistine Chapel yesterday morning, reminding me of my Catholic upbringing and signaling a new Pope is in the big Pope chair.  I was never a very good Catholic, otherwise I would have remembered the formal name for His Eminence’s fancy seat. In fact, I may be the only Catholic child to get “held back” in Sunday School.  Most kids do their first confession in the third grade.   I was so nervous about confessing my sins to the priest that I came up with every excuse imaginable to miss out on the Sunday School lessons where they taught you the proper way to rat on yourself in front of a holy man.  I had to remediate many years later.

As a freshman in high school.  I was the Catholic Billy Madison.

This created some real angst for me.  By the time I finally mustered the courage to release my face-to-face tell-all biography to Father Mikliska, I had moved way past lying to my parents and into regularly taking the Lord’s name in vain and entertaining a constant stream of impure thoughts about the varsity cheerleading squad.  I may be the first sinner on record to ever have to pay a security deposit on the confessional.  The first 15 minutes are free, but each additional quarter hour will cost you.

After my first confession, I never went back.  I piled up sin-after-sin for another fifteen years or so before visiting Europe on a trip of self-discovery.  The year was 2001 – the Jubilee Year.  Every fifty years or so the Catholic Church celebrates its Jubilee, and opens the special doors on St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.  The belief is that anyone who walks through the Jubilee doors is automatically absolved of his sins.  You don’t even have to do anything to receive the forgiveness.  It’s kinda’ like walking through the turnstile at a Major League Baseball game on a big promotional night.  Only instead of a Derek Jeter bobble head you get total absolution.

I went through three times, just in case.

Now a real-life priest and friend from college (see Fr. Stuart's comment below this post) informs me that both my tour guide and Wikipedia have misinformed me.  Walking through the doors isn't enough.  It still requires a sit-down with a holy man.  Looks like it's now been over twenty years since my last soul cleanse.    So, today, as readers of the Year Without A Purchase blog, you shall be my priest.

Forgive us readers, for we may have sinned.

The rules state we will not buy anything this year.  We haven’t technically broken these rules.  We’ve just found some loopholes.  So, we need your judgment to determine if we need to do penance of some kind.

The first one is a minor sin.  Jake is playing catcher for his little league team, and the coach suggested he get a cup to protect his nether regions.  That’s not something you typically want as a hand-me-down.  And, while I’m sure we could have used a recycled yogurt container or something, we bit the bullet and bought one.  I think it qualifies as a need.

Next up, Jake’s shoes.

Last week’s blog mentioned that we made Jake wear his summer swim shoes when his regular tennis shoes became more hole than shoe.  Well, the elastic cord on one of those shoes snapped, leaving the shoe floppy and slipping off whenever he ran.  We checked with a few relatives for some hand-me-downs.  Finding none that fit, we bought him a new pair.

One Hail Mary.

Then there is the lunchbox.  I am fortunate enough to have married a woman who knows the exact location of the receipt for any purchase she has made since Milli Vanilli won a Grammy.  We were able to take Jake’s broken lunch box back to Costco and receive a refund, which we used to purchase a replacement.

Three Our Fathers.

And finally, there was the Scholastic Book Fair last week.  Jake was very excited about it, and it was promoted all over school.  He kept talking about wanting a new sports almanac book – the new version of last year’s book which he read cover-to-cover hundreds of times.

So, we let him use his Christmas money (before the Year Without A Purchase, mind you) to buy a new Almanac at the book fair, with the provision that we could read it together.

Two Rosaries and bring the main dish to the next parish potluck.

* Apparently, some of us still like new things.  "The Pre-Year-w/o A Purchase 2012 Santa made me do it."

I know our rationalization sounds a bit like, “I know the sixth commandment says ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill,’ but that guy was a total jerk!”  But this is a learning process for us.  We intentionally went a little crazy with this manufactured wackiness at the risk of looking patronizing to those who live the Year Without A Purchase reality every day.  But Gabby and I know that we’re not the type of people that can just say “we need to get more focused on what’s truly important” and stick with it.  We’ll just backslide.  Or worse yet, do nothing at all.  In many ways it is a selfish pursuit for us.  My cousin summed it up best in a recent email.

“So the Dannemiller family consists of highly educated, healthy folks in their prime in the wealthiest nation earth has ever seen ... and you still find a way to make challenges!  Bully for you!  Ain't it fun?”

So, we shoot for the moon and then fiddle with the rules.  Maybe even fail.  But sometimes brokenness speaks louder than perfection.  We’ve heard from a lot of people that our little adventure, both successes and failures, has made them think a bit more about their own lives.  Maybe even alter a perspective or two.  But most importantly, it has stirred changes in us.  Some are too hard to name or describe at this moment.  That will come with time.  But we do know this:  Every time we see something we want to buy, we’re reminded that connecting with those near and far is more important than the object of our desire.

So our penance is continuing the journey.  Day by day.  Learning and growing.

Week Nine: "The Worst Parenting Advice You'll Ever Receive"

Hey parents out there.

Yeah.  I’m talking to you.  The ones who said you would never let your kids eat McDonald’s in the back seat.  Or listen to kid music.  Or do that cliché’ discipline tactic where you yell, “I’m going to count to three and then I’m going to (insert horrible, irrational, overblown punishment here).”

Well, stop scrubbing that ketchup stain on the upholstery, mute “The Wheels on the Bus,” and shut you’re your big yapper.  Because I have something to say and you’d better listen up.

I’m serious.

Turn the music off.

Now.  Don’t make me say it again.  I’m going to count to three, and it better be off or you’ll never have candy ever again.  For the rest of your life.  Never.  I don’t care if the whole world blows up and the only food left is candy. You’re not eating it. You hear me?

One…  two…

OK.  That’s better.  Now that I have your attention, I’m gonna’ lay some wisdom down on you and not even charge you for it.  Here goes.

Stop protecting your kids. 

You heard it right.  Stop. Protecting. Your. Kids.

Before I start sounding like an overbearing know-it-all, please realize that I am actually talking to myself.  Any resemblance to your own neurotic parenting style is purely coincidental.

This past week brought a perfect storm of challenges to the Year Without A Purchase.  All of them child-induced.  And all had us questioning whether this whole ordeal is making us bad parents. 

For starters, Jake’s tennis shoes are on life support.  The soles are ripping off, and the side is developing a gaping hole, as if my son has the feet of an 87-year-old man with huge bunions and an extra pinkie toe protruding out. 

He asked, “Can I get some new shoes after school today, daddy?”

I replied, “But son, you HAVE other shoes.  The black ones.”

“But I don’t like those shoes.”

“You don’t have to like ‘em.  The job of shoes is to protect your feet.  These are shoes.”

 “But they aren’t the right shoes.  They are summer shoes.”

“Summer is coming fast.”

“Not until June.  June 21^st.  You said so.”

Even though my son remembered the correct date of the summer solstice like he was channeling Rainman, we did not reward him with a new pair of sneakers.

Besides the shoes, the zippers on both his backpack and lunch box broke this week.  The school requires an insulated pack so kids don’t eat room-temperature turkey sandwiches and turn the place into a salmonella factory.  His is barely functional.   He wants to leave it half-zipped until it finally falls apart.  Luckily, we have another one he can use.  The problem?  It’s a lovely paisley-floral print.

I hope he’s ready to set some new first grade fashion trends.

As for the backpack, it’s a goner.  But we have a backup.  Gabby got it at a trade show over twenty years ago.  How do we know the exact age of the pack, you ask?  Because it has the date written right on it.  1989.  I stuffed it full of his school gear and laid it in the hallway.

He asked,“What’s this?”

“It’s your new backpack, son.”

"But I didn’t pick it.”

“I know.  Mom did.”

He pointed to the clover-like graphic between the words "Yak-Pak" and asked, "What's this funny shape?"

"I don't know."

After twenty questions about the coolness of the pack and the definition of the word “new”, he lost interest in arguing the point and changed the subject.

But the topper this weekend was the March Madness basketball tournament.  No, not the one that generates squillions of dollars of revenue and makes Vegas oddsmakers giddy.  We’re talking about the no-holds-barred basketball slug-fest at Montessori Academy in Nashville.  The one pitting first-grader against first-grader to establish worldwide bragging rights for generations to come.  NBA scouts in attendance.    Corporate sponsorship deals going down in the hallways.

Or so you might think if you saw me yelling like an idiot in the stands.

As a fun way to celebrate the end-of-season tournament, the other kids’ parents had purchased these really cool red camouflage Air Jordan socks for their players.  Gabby and I struggled with the decision.  Do we get some for our kid?  Sure, we have $13.  We don’t want him to feel left out.  But it’s not part of the standard uniform. 

So Jake wore white.  The only one. 

We carried around some heavy guilt over these decisions.  I asked myself, “Is this cruel?  Have we gone overboard?”  I didn’t respond to either question.  I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

Because we’ve all lived through childhood and know how cruel kids can be.  We’ve all shed tears after taunts, left feeling inadequate.  You didn’t have the latest shoes or the latest style.  You looked different.  Acted different.  Laughed different.

And it sucked big time.  We all wear the scars.

So the question is, if you have the ability to buy a few things and protect your child from this heartache and choose not to, are you the one doing the scarring? 

The answer is, “No.”

Stop.  Protecting.  Your.  Kids.

By protecting our kids in this way, we only help perpetuate the idea that what you own is a measure of who you are.  We cover them up with so much shiny junk that it’s virtually impossible to see the person inside. 

And we drown out the God-voice inside each and every one of them.  The voice that says I’m uniquely and beautifully made.  The voice that doesn’t hear the put-downs and taunts because it’s too busy shouting,

“I love you”

“I made you.”

“You’re more than enough.”

When we protect our kids in this way, we deprive them of disappointment.   Disappointment that forges faith in something bigger than today.  Bigger than the present or the presents.  A resolve that bubbles up from deep within, making us stronger day-by-challenging day.

Because Jake got used to his summer shoes.   His friend Yusuf said his backpack looked like a “leprechaun bag,” but went on playing with him anyway.  And by the time the next basketball game rolled around, stubborn stains, stinky kids and laundry schedules had all the other players in mis-matched pairs once again. 

I realize that we may be simply justifying our own lunacy.  Rationalizing away the guilt of watching our kids struggle.  

Or maybe…

Just maybe…

We’re taking their lives out of our own hands and placing them in God’s. 

Back where they belong.

Week Eight: "The Better Half"

Not buying stuff forces you to focus on other things.  For a moment there, I was focusing on stuffing my face with as much junk food as it would hold.  A single step on the YMCA scale told me that my energy was misplaced.  Perhaps I could find it in the same place I left my self-restraint. Time to refocus on the important things.

Last week, Gabby and I vowed to eat dinner as early as possible, so we would have some quality with the tiny people in our house before we finally put them in their cages to bed for the night. After all, this year is about building connections, and we should start with those closest to us.

So last week we sat on the couch as a family every night and read The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe cover-to-cover.   You see, we’re still keeping our kids in the dark about this whole Year Without A Purchase thing.  So Jake and Audrey don’t know they’re “deprived” yet (a minor miracle), but the Scholastic Book Fair at school might blow this whole thing wide open.  We hoped a little C.S. Lewis would be enough of a draw to make them forget about any other literary works they might desire.

* a typical storytime, minus Gabby

It worked!  Each night, Gabby would chide me when I forgot to use my lion voice, the kids would beg for “just one more chapter”, and we would torture them with a cliffhanger.  When we finally finished, we got to discuss the deeper meaning of the book.  It’s amazing the concepts a young mind can absorb.

I upped the ante on “togetherness” the very next day when I picked Jake up from school.  I had to run some errands, and used them as an excuse for us to spend some one-on-one time with him, just chatting.  He independently strapped himself into the car seat.  No help needed.  Another sign that we are one step closer to the days when I will be a social anchor around his neck, holding him back from fun with his friends.

But innocence remains.  We jumped out of the car and he grabbed my hand as we walked into the post office.  I smiled.

* enjoying it while it lasts

Our six-year-old sports statistician was grilling me about Kevin Durant’s shoe size when we were quickly interrupted.

“Hey buddy, you got a second?”

I looked down and saw a man sitting on the curb.  His eyes were tired, like half-drawn mini blinds.  A woman sat beside him with her head in her hands.  I got that familiar feeling.  A body split in two.  One half wanting to hear the man’s story, and the other wishing I had chosen the other entrance.

The sliding doors opened, but I didn’t slide through.  My other half wanted to, but my better half was attached to a six-year-old compassionate anchor who knows the meaning of the word “ignored.”

Quality time.

I turned toward the couple, “Sure. What’s up?”

The woman started coughing into her lap, deferring to the man.  He explained, “My wife and I sell papers.”  He gestured to the lanyard around his neck, displaying a badge that says he works for “The Contributor”, Nashville’s homeless newspaper.  “We’ve been really sick, so this morning we went to the clinic.  The doctor says we both have pneumonia.  By the time we got back, there were no more papers for us to sell, and we don’t have enough money for rent.  Can you help us out?”

I let go of my anchor, but stayed in place.  Because my anchor knows that I have money in my wallet.  And I would much rather my better half explain to him that we should help people no matter the circumstance, rather than have the other half explain the meaning of the word “cynical.”

My better half reached into my wallet and pulled out the only bill there, while the other half wished that ATM’s spit out cash in much smaller denominations.

I said, “God Bless” as I handed him the bill.  He thanked us profusely, and I quickly blurted, “No problem.”  Unable to fully accept the gratitude knowing the turmoil I felt inside.

Jake and I talked a bit about the couple on the way home.  Always the fact-finder, his questions were mostly about details.  “What’s pneumonia?” and “What’s rent?”  I answered with the best Webster’s dictionary response I could, happy to be having a good conversation with him.

That night at dinner, as we rounded the table with our Thorns and Roses discussion, Jake chimed in.

“My turn!”

“OK buddy, what do you want to start with?”

“A thorn.”

“So what’s your thorn for today?”

“We didn’t get to go out at recess because it was raining.”

“And what’s your rose?”

“We got to help people today.  They needed money to pay for their house and we gave it to them.”

Quality time.  Well worth the effort.  An opportunity to reconnect.  Because they say “integrity” is what you do when no one else is watching.  I say “teaching” is what you do when your kids are close at hand.

And my other half is doing the learning.

Week Seven: "I Love You"

“I love you.” Her words pierced through the silence.  I looked over at Gabby in the passenger seat.  She was smiling and looking me in the eye.

“I love you, too!”

My mind had been racing.  Jumping from “What should we eat for dinner?” to “How should I redesign my company website?” to “Who wrote the 80’s classic ‘Safety Dance?’”  Gabby’s unsolicited, unexpected words of affection brought me back to reality.

A few miles down the road, she said it again.

“I love you.”

I stared at her, both hands on the wheel.

“That’s nice, honey.  I love you, too!”  I glanced up and corrected my steering, coming back into the passing lane.

“No.  I really love you,” she said.

I reached across the console and grabbed her hand.  We continued our drive to church, connected in silence, but knowing the deep bond between us.

And so it went for several weeks.  Three simple words, “I love you.” Spoken as frequently as one might say “Hello” to an acquaintance or “Put on your shoes” to a four-year-old prior to leaving the house.  I’m not sure what I had done, but Gabby showered me with an avalanche of affectionate words, and I was happily buried.

Then came Easter.

On our way home from church, Gabby turned to me and asked, “So, do you want to know what I gave up for Lent?”

“Huh?”

“I never told you what I gave up for Lent.  The past forty days.  Do you want to know what it was?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” she hesitated.  “You know how I always criticize your driving?”

“Yes.”

“Well.  For Lent, every time I wanted to comment about your speeding, or not signaling, or whatever else, I decided to say ‘I love you’ instead.”

I nearly rear-ended the Toyota immediately in front of us.  To this day, anytime Gabby says “I love you,” my first response is to scream, “Driving on the shoulder is perfectly acceptable in 43 of the 50 states!”  Probably not the result she was looking for.

As we enter another Lenten season, we church-goers are looking for something significant to “give up” for Lent.  So, what’ll it be?  Sweets?  Reality TV shows?  Facebook?   I’ll make you wait until the book is out to hear about the hilariously crazy “no new stuff” action I have taken to kick off the Lenten season this year.

But Gabby had it right.  Lent is less about “what” you choose to sacrifice, and more about “why” you choose to sacrifice.  For Gabby, she realized a simple behavior in her life was getting in the way of genuinely connecting with someone important to her.

Too often, Lent becomes an exercise in delayed gratification.  We choose to deny ourselves of something we love so that we can truly appreciate it when we have it once again at Easter.  And, there is a certain spiritual truth in that.  On the Earth, we can get disconnected from all things God.  And one day, God willing, we’ll get to ride that grand escalator to the sky where we finally meet our Creator and bask in the heavenly embrace.  I’m sure it’ll feel just like having your first Pop Tart after going carb-free for six weeks.

But it’s so much more than delayed gratification.  Lent is a time of pruning.  Cutting away the shoots that have grown over time.  The ones that clutter, and choke, and prevent healthy growth.  And feeding and caring for the branches that really matter.

And we hope that is what comes from this “Year Without A Purchase”.  Our stuff and the energy we put toward its acquisition can distract us from what’s truly important.  Time with family.  Deep conversation.  Service to those on the margins.

We hope that this won’t be a one-time thing, or an opportunity to binge on January 1, 2014.  It’s not about saving money.  It’s about saving ourselves from the distractions by consistently asking, “What is this purchase for?”  “Will this purchase help to build a connection with others or with God?”  “Or will this purchase just be something else to take care of.  Something else to worry about?  Something that gets in the way of people seeing the real me?”

While we’ve been successful in not purchasing any new “stuff” in seven weeks, we are still short of this larger goal.  A permanent change.  A lifetime of “I love you.”

And so we press onward.

Week Six: "Thorns and Roses"

Last week as I was preparing dinner,  I was reflecting on how easy this challenge has been thus far.  Aside from washing some socks in a hotel sink and schlepping around a lavender suitcase, it’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be.  I imagined I would spend each day craving stuff I couldn’t buy, but that hasn’t been the case. When I finished cooking, the kids washed their hands, we set the table, said a prayer, and everyone sat down to eat.  I had heard a story earlier in the day about how the Obama’s have a dinnertime ritual.  They play a game called “Thorns and Roses” where everyone shares a thorn and a rose – a bad part and a good part of their day.  While my thorns and roses may not be as exciting as those of the leader of the free world, I thought the Dannemillers could try the game.  After all, this year is about focusing on what’s important, and this seemed like a great way to invest some quality time with the kids.

The game turned out to be a smashing success.  The usual bickering of “Stop staring at me, Audrey!” and “You’re not the boss of me, Jake!” was replaced by thoughtful commentary on the happy and not-so-happy parts of our day.  I was amazed at how such a simple game could help us reconnect as a family.  Audrey even added the categories of “Volcano” and “Tree.”  “Volcano” is something sad, (Ex:  Audrey is sad because her stuffed animals aren’t real), and “Tree” is something funny (Ex:  Audrey says she farts in the bathtub on purpose because she likes the bubbles).

When we finished eating, the kids asked us if they could have dessert.  After such wonderful dinnertime behavior, we couldn’t refuse.

Jake asked, “Can we have some ice cream, Daddy?”

“I don’t think there is any left.”

Audrey chimed in, “But what about the pink stuff?”

“That’s cherry ice cream, Audrey!” Jake clarified, waging his continued war on ambiguity in our house.

“Yeah honey, that’s all gone.”

I looked over at Gabby, and her mouth was wide open in disbelief.

“But Daddy!  We just bought it!”  Audrey spoke as if I had intentionally ripped the stuffing out of Dumbo.  “I only had one scoop!  How can it be gone?”

Gabby interjected, “You’re going to have to ask your dad about that one, kids.  All I say is, if you’re ever trapped on a deserted island with your dad, you’d better keep a close watch on your sweets.  It’s every man for himself when he’s around.”

“Well Jake,” I reasoned, trying to sound like the dad from the Brady Bunch, “sometimes Daddy gets hungry after you guys go to bed, and I have a snack.”

Jake, once again citing the family rule book, “Ice cream isn’t a snack!  It’s dessert!”

Gabby jumped in to save the day, “It’s OK kids, we still have some Rocky Road.”

I made a guttural noise.

Gabby turned to me and shared her Look of Mild Disapproval. ^TM  “Don’t tell me…”

More grunting.

“But that’s my favorite!”

“Sorry?”

Gabby stood up, pointed at me and shouted,

“THORN!”

The kids are half-laughing, half-crying.  As Gabby moved toward the freezer to verify, I said, “Gabby, that’s not how the game works.  I don’t think Michelle Obama calls Barak a ‘Thorn.’”

“She would if she folded all his laundry and he paid her back by eating all the ice cream!”

Gabby found half a scoop of Rocky Road left in the carton.  The ultimate slap in the face.  Then she went to the pantry where she pulled out a gallon Ziplock bag, once filled with an assortment of oatmeal raisin goodness.  “Why do we have a bag full of crumbs in the pantry?  Where did all the cookies go?”

She knew the answer.  I hid my head in shame.  Gabby used it as an opportunity to hold a family meeting and teach the kids a new word called “Self-control.”

The next morning I went to the gym.  Prior to picking up lots of heavy things while trying not to soil my pants – A.K.A. Scott’s strength training session – I stepped on the scale.  I put the large sliding weight at 150lbs.  Then I slid the smaller one along the beam toward the right.

A little more.

A little more.

Wait.  That can’t be right?!

I juggled the big weight to make sure it was firmly set in the 150lb. slot.  It was rock solid.  I kept moving the little weight to the right until the scale finally balanced.  But the reading was incorrect.  WAAAAAAAY off.

It must be weighing heavy today, I thought.

Time to recalibrate the machine.  I hopped off the platform and zeroed out all the weights.  With me off the scale, and the weight set at zero pounds, the scale was perfectly balanced.

Hmmmmm.

I noticed the sweat towel slung over my shoulder.  Figuring it was made of some ultra-dense, five pounds of cotton fiber, I threw it on the ground.  I stepped on the scale again.  It continued to lie to me, telling me my five-pound towel only weighed four ounces.

Later that morning, Gabby said,

“I think the scale at the gym is broken.”

“Me too!”  I echoed.  Happy with her validation.

“Yeah.  I think it’s two pounds off.”

“That’s all?  Just two pounds?”

“Or maybe three.  All I know is that it can’t be right.  There is no way I lost three pounds last week.”

“LOST three pounds!?”

And then it hit me.  I now understand why this Year Without A Purchase challenge has been so easy for me.  Apparently, every time I wanted to buy something new.  A shirt.  A drill.  Socks.  Pants.  Suitcases.

I ate them instead.

I have gained seven pounds since our challenge started.  The pleasure rush of new purchases has been replaced by a gluttonous snack-tacular gorgefest that can only be described as disgusting.  I ate two half-gallons of ice cream in four days.  Three bricks of mild cheddar and two boxes of Wheat Thins in a week.  Prior to our toaster oven meltdown, I consumed three bowls of cereal topped with two Eggo waffles as an after dinner nosh.  If I keep this up, I will begin to resemble the USDA’s nutrition pyramid, with the “cinnamon roll and French toast” food group giving me a wide-yet-jiggly foundation.

The good news is, I can blame God.  After doing a bit of research, I found that the Creator of the Universe made our brains in such a way that they crave this substance called dopamine.     Dopamine is released in our brain when we experience pleasure.   Such as when we eat an entire sleeve of Thin Mints.  Incidentally, dopamine is also sent into overdrive when cocaine enters the blood stream.  I think it’s time we took a good hard look at the list of ingredients in Girl Scout cookies.

We also get a shot of dopamine when our expectations are met.  The bigger the expectation, the bigger the shot.  This is the reason shopping can be so addictive.  We crave something and imagine ourselves having it. This creates a bit of tension that we resolve with some retail therapy and a Visa card.  The bigger the craving, the bigger the release.  But notice the big lie here.  Your brain doesn’t actually want the object of your desire.  It wants the chemical release.

It wants to end the wanting.

This explains why my daughter spent a whopping 12 minutes playing with the stuffed poodle that had been on her Christmas list for 8 weeks.  She didn’t want the poodle.  She wanted relief from the wanting.

You read that right.  Relief from the wanting.

And we get stuck in an endless loop.  I get a new car.  I enjoy it for a time.  But I want something newer.  Why?  So I can ultimately end the wanting.  Then I’m happy with the new car until I start fixating on another.  Then the wanting starts, and I won’t stop until I get it.  It’s lunacy.

So, time to go “cold turkey” on the wanting.  Or find an alternative.  It’s time to break the cycle.   Just as soon as I eat that last scoop of Rocky Road.

THORN!

Week Five: It's In The Bag

Disclaimer:  The following rant highlights how trivial our first world problems are.  Feel free to be disgusted and annoyed.  In fact, it’s expected. Well, we’re five weeks into this little experiment and things are getting lost and broken at a record pace.

Gabby lost her favorite travel cup.  The insulated one with the straw and the screw top.  Since our house has no shortage of containers with which to hold ice water, she’s out of luck.

Jake lost his basketball, too.  He loaned it to some kids at school who didn’t return it.  He was devastated, thinking they had pitched it into the woods.  He even searched there after school with no luck.  It turns out a Good Samaritan had spotted it and taken it to the lost and found in another classroom.  Thankfully, Jake and the ball were reunited, and I didn’t have to play the role of dream crusher by saying, “Sorry, we can’t get another basketball Jake, because your parents are psycho-idiots who don’t think they should buy any new stuff for a year.”

The old fridge in the garage is on the blink as well.  As further proof of global warming, it is only cooling our food intermittently.  Since I am a complete and utter failure when it comes to appliance repair, we’ll be knee-deep in leftover chili and half-frozen peas if it goes.    A second refrigerator is definitely not a necessity.

Then, last week at breakfast, a blinding light erupted from our toaster oven.  I thought it might be an angel of the Lord, coming to settle the spontaneous debate between Jake and Audrey as to the gender of her stuffed animal.  Imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a blown heating element.  Not only will I never know whether Crushie the turtle is a boy or a girl, but now it takes four minutes per side to brown a slice of bread.  I called Cuisinart for a replacement part, and they simply said,

“That’s not a fixable item.  I think it’s time for you to buy a new unit.”

Apparently, they don’t follow the blog.

But the most troubling loss was my rolling suitcase.  She’s like a family member.  A rich brown color with four fully-articulating wheels and a pleasant disposition.  She has a telescoping handle with extra length to accommodate taller folks like me.   Always at my side - every week for business travel.  Happy to carry my burdens without complaint.

But I pushed her too far.

Irritated after a long wait on the jetway, I yanked her handle a bit too hard.  The handle cracked, and one of the telescoping arms ripped right out of its channel in the back of the suitcase.  Shoving it back in was a bit like trying to shove a Twinkie back into its wrapper - requiring patience and lots of mumbled four-letter words.  I was able to get the suitcase back into semi-working order, but I knew it wouldn’t hold up under duress.

I looked for other options.  Gabby had purchased a beautiful new red rolling suitcase last year.  It’s clean, and uncluttered.  She caught me eyeballing it and said,

“No way, mister.  That’s my suitcase!”

“But we’re family.  Families share.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because your version of sharing involves you using my stuff, breaking it, and then giving it back to me.”

She has a point.

So I dove into the bowels of the closet looking for an alternative.   Ideally, I would find a very small suitcase that might fit in the overhead bin of the tiny jet I was flying this week, allowing me to avoid the long wait at baggage claim.  After some rummaging, I found what I was looking for.  The perfect-sized suitcase.  A bag that could meet the simple requirement of holding my garments and keeping them safe and dry.  But there was just one problem.

It was purple.

And no, we’re not talking royal purple.  Not even violet.  This suitcase is lavender.  If this bag had a scent, it would smell like an infant Liberace wearing your grandmother’s perfume.  No self-respecting businessperson would dare be seen with a bag like this.

But I have no self-respect.

And I’m not buying anything this year.

So I packed the bag and prepared for my trip to Denver.  I stuffed it full of workout gear, business casual clothes, and socks.  Yes, I remembered the socks.

I got to the airport and cleared security.  Everyone seemed to glance at me, then glance at my bag.   Their eyes would then scan the area for a thirteen-year-old girl.  Finding none, they would avert their gaze to save us both the embarrassment.  It didn’t help that I was humming a Justin Bieber tune that was playing in the airport shuttle van just minutes earlier.  Damn that kid and his catchy lyrics!

As I was standing in line to board the plane, I heard a voice behind me.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I turned to see a businessman in his mid-forties.

“Yes.”

His eyes were burning a hole in my suitcase.  He continued,

“Please tell me I’m not the only one today to give you $#*! about your purple bag.”

“You’re the first to verbalize it.”

“Good.  I was just checking.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I boarded the plane and looked for my seat.  I quickly shoved the bag in the overhead along with my coat and settled into 14B.  I fell asleep not long after we took off.

I awoke as we were landing.  The plane made its way to the gate, and, as usual, everyone jumped to their feet as soon as the doors opened.  A blonde woman in the row in front of me gestured to the man standing behind me.

“Could you hand me my bag?” she asked, pointing toward the overhead bin.  “It’s the rolling suitcase right next to you.”

Without missing a beat, the man reached up and grabbed the purple bag.

“Sorry.  That’s mine.”  I said.

“Really?”  He stopped and stared at me in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Nice.”  He said, before grabbing the appropriately-toned black bag next to it and handing it to the blonde in 12C.

It was another moment that affirmed for me how much our “stuff” can define us in our culture.  I actually found myself wondering if I should let my client see my little purple suitcase.  As if the quality of my work is somehow reflected in the color of my luggage.

I only have to look to myself for the answer.

How many times have I discredited someone’s worth based on the clothes they choose to wear, the car they drive, or the things they choose to buy?  I’d like to think I see past all of those things, but I’d be lying if I said such judgments never crossed my mind.

So I hope that is a little side benefit of this challenge.  That I will re-learn what I knew as an infant.  Our worth is not wrapped up in what we own.  Our worth is guaranteed.  Our life is our currency.  And it’s up to each one of us to choose how we spend it.

Week Three: "A Tale of Two Socks"

“Come in here, honey!  I have something to show you!” Gabby was calling me from the playroom.  Her voice was excited, like she had just received a letter from a long lost friend or read an article proclaiming bowling shoes were back in style.  I immediately got up to see what all the hubbub was about.

“Look what I have for you!”

When I rounded the corner, her leg was extended toward me, and she was waving her toes in my face.  With no bowling shoe attached.  And no letter.

Her foot was covered with a paper-thin sock with a gargantuan hole.  It looked like it was 10cm dilated, due to give birth to a bouncing baby heel at any moment.

“I need you to fix my sock.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But honey, you said that you would repair at least one item of clothing this year – maybe even darn a sock.  So here’s your chance.”

“But I’ve never darned a sock before.  I gotta’ start small.  And look at that thing!  That’s like asking the school nurse to do open heart surgery.”

“You gotta’ learn somehow.”

And so started the week.  I haven’t yet attempted the sock repair.  I’m still protesting.  When we say one of our family mission promises is to “own what we have,” that means we need to repair things as they break – not resurrect them from the grave.  Gabby has not upheld her end of the bargain on this one.  This sock looks like it was worn by Wilma Rudolph when she won the 100m gold in the 1960 Olympics.  The hole developed shortly thereafter.  At the medal ceremony.

But Gabby is right.  I will darn a sock this year.  I don’t even know what darning entails.  I thought it was just sewing up holes in socks, but my dad informs me that he used to watch his mother darn socks while she watched Lawrence Welk on TV.  It involved weaving thread together to essentially build a patch in a hole.  This sounds difficult, but it was a necessary evil in his house.  With twelve kids, you didn’t have the luxury of buying anything you wanted. He had to fight for a seat at the dinner table.   To this day, my father has never had his own room.  Though, I’d bet my baseball card collection that my mom has been more than willing to give him his own wing of the house on occasion.

Me?  I’m far more fortunate.  I want for nothing.  It may be a while before I attempt to darn a sock, and for that, I should be grateful.  My underwear drawer is nearly overflowing with matched pairs.  Well over twenty of ‘em without a hole.

Unfortunately, none of them made it into my suitcase on my three-day business trip this week.

Sure, Gabby had given me her mental checklist as I was leaving the house.

“I love you.  Do you have everything?  Your belt?  Your computer?  Underwear?  Socks?  Pants?...”

This list goes on and on, but I argue that she’s almost too good at reminding me.  It’s such a part of my business trip process that the instant she starts running through the list, my ears transform her voice into a muffled trombone sound akin to Charlie Brown’s teacher.  It’s too familiar.  I just don’t hear it.

Fast-forward six hours.  There I was, outside of Omaha, ruffling through my suitcase as if I had lost my passport, looking for a three pair of dress socks that were still in Tennessee.

My first thought was, “It’s only 8:30pm.  I still have time to run by Target and buy some socks.”

Then I remembered our “Year without A Purchase” rule that states that, even though they are a “wear item,” we can’t buy clothes unless we don’t have any.  This is a test!

As I looked down at my feet, I had to admit that my socks hadn’t disintegrated.  They were perfectly fine.  Save for the fact that they smelled like the dirty laundry basket on a Deadliest Catch crab boat.  And I’ll be damned if I am going to bail out of this year long challenge in mid-January!

So I did what my grandmother would have done.  I filled the sink with shampoo and got to scrubbing.  It only took three minutes and 300 calories of elbow grease to eradicate the stink.  But the ambient temperature in my room was chilly, and I knew the socks weren’t going to dry by morning.

* The wash cycle

So I grabbed the hair dryer.

I felt a bit foolish styling my socks with a Vidal Sassoon 1500 Watt blaster.  So, in an attempt to make it a more masculine activity, I turned on SportsCenter.

Didn’t help.

Then, I noticed the heating vent.  I cranked up the air temperature in my room to 77 degrees.  The heater kicked on.  I wedged my socks into the grates and waited.   A half-hour later, sweat was beading on my upper lip.  I went to check the socks and they were dry on one side.  Another thirty minutes and I had some fresh kicks.

* the dry cycle.  Set to "delicates"

Sure, I probably wasted $15 worth of the hotel’s energy and two tiny bottles of shampoo over three days.  But this year isn’t about money.  It’s about stuff.  And, as I sit in seat 3A on my way home from Omaha, I am wearing the same well-worn socks I had on when I first left my house.

Wait.

Is that a hole I feel?

Week Two: "The Year of The Goat?"

Jake came home from school this week with an invitation to a birthday party.  The girl who invited him had chosen to have her bash at a local karate school.  The kids will spend an hour or two in a giant, padded room, rolling on the floor, punching foam-filled bags and beating each other senseless.  Sounds a lot like a room I would like to build in my house, but I would add a big drain in the middle, so we could just throw food in there at mealtime and then hose the thing down once the kids had stuffed their pie holes.

But we’re not buying anything this year.  So I’ll either have to let my dream die.  Or build it out of garbage.

I digress.

Meredith’s party is in a couple of weeks.  At breakfast this morning, Gabby mentioned that we needed to think of a gift that Jake can give the birthday girl.  This had totally slipped my mind, as most details do.  Luckily Gabby does the advance planning for us.  If I was a single dad, I wouldn’t remember a gift until we were in the parking lot.  Meredith would be receiving some pocket lint and a bag of ketchup packets we have crammed in the glove box. 

But what do you get a kid when you can’t buy any stuff?  This is something we didn’t think of ahead of time when we created our rules for the year.  The rules state that “gifts must be in the form of charitable donation or ‘experience gifts’ to build connections and memories.”

But that’s not what most six-year-olds want. 

I started thinking of the reaction Jake might get if he gave her the gift my folks got us at Christmas – a donation to Oxfam, the proceeds of which are used to buy a goat for someone in a developing country.  We loved the gift.  It's such a great concept!  But I could see our little guy sheepishly (pun intended) handing a card to little Meredith.

“What’s this?” she would ask.

“It’s a goat.”

“No it’s not.  A goat can’t fit in an envelope.”

“It’s a card that talks about how I bought you a goat.”

“Where’s my goat?”

“He’s not here.”

“When do I get him?”

“You don’t.”

“Why?”

“He lives with some other guy.”

“Why did he take my goat?”

“He didn’t take it.  I gave it to him.  My dad says he needs a goat really bad.”

“So for my birthday, you gave me a goat, and then stole it back and gave it one of your dad’s friends.”

“Pretty much.  Happy Birthday!”

* Is this a b-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-d gift?

I would be shocked if our son didn’t receive a wedgie within ten minutes.  I hear they teach that at karate school now.  My brain is starting to awfulize this scenario as we speak.  It starts with giving a goat.  Then the wedgie.  Then he’s not picked for the dodge ball game.  Next, no one will accept his invitation to prom.  He drops out of school.  Can’t get a job.  Moves back in with us.  Refuses to shower.  Starts collecting cats.  Not figurines, but real cats.  Dies sad and alone at 58, found sprawled out on his couch wearing dirty sweatpants and eating a bag of generic cheese curls watching Wheel of Fortune reruns.

It’s a slippery slope.

Another option is to go with an “experience gift.” But that’s not a simple as it sounds.   A movie ticket doesn’t cost much, but it fails the “build connections” piece.  A trip to a children’s museum is good, but it’s pretty expensive, and I’m cheap.  And, is it really a gift to give someone a ticket to something that requires their parents to buy two or three more tickets at twenty bucks a pop to accompany their kid? Sure, Meredith could go it alone, but I think Child Protective Services frowns upon that sort of thing.

A third option is no gift at all.  I’m sure Jake wouldn’t mind.  The funny thing is, Meredith probably wouldn’t notice either.  Those of us with children know that kids can hardly remember what gifts they received last Christmas.  Heck, we adults can hardly remember the gifts we received last month.

The truth is, this dilemma is more about Gabby and me.  We want to live out our values as best we can, knowing we are a walking contradiction.  Stuck in our own heads.  Wondering how others might react.  Wanting to do the right thing, but not wanting to force our values on other people.  Trying to overcome the pull that “stuff” has on us, and the meaning we give to that “stuff.”

But back to the gift.

Still not sure what we’ll do.  Make a gift?  Do a science experiment with the kid?  Make a balloon animal for her?  Other ideas are welcome.  Maybe a certificate for an ice cream cone at Baskin Robbins?

Yeah.  Ice cream.  A great "experience" gift!  Unless you're with me. I may be getting good at not buying stuff, but I stink at sharing.

Week One: "The Rules"

Many of you have been wondering, “What are the rules for this ‘Year Without A Purchase?’”  It is also a question Gabby wanted clarified prior to January 1^st.  In fact, we chatted about it in mid-December. * A somewhat retouched photo of Gabby and I reading the Sunday paper and ignoring ads of crap we can no longer buy.

“So, are we doing this thing or not?” she prodded.

“Yeah.  Let’s do it.” I replied, flippantly.

“So what are the rules?  I know this was my idea but now I’m getting cold feet.”

I continued to flip channels on our new LED TV, waiting for Gabby to decide, therefore freeing me from any responsibility or accountability.

“Hello!?!?!  You gotta’ engage here, Dannemiller.”

“OK,” I say, not taking my eyes off the TV.  “If you can eat it, you can buy it.”

“What about toilet paper?”

“OK,” still half-awake.  “Food and toilet paper.”

“You’re killing me Dannemiller.”

“OK.  We can buy hygiene products. ”

“What about cleaners?”

This item had slipped my mind, as one only cares about cleaners if one actually cleans on a regular basis.  I think for a minute.

“Didn’t we use vinegar and water as cleaner before?”

“Yes.  That’s an option, but you gotta’ let me know ASAP what’s on the list and what’s not, so I can stock up by the 31^st!”  (Gabby’s editorial comment:  she knows that hoarding defeats the purpose of this self-inflicted challenge)

I decided to postpone the “what’s on the list” decision until January 3^rd -   the day we embarked on a road trip to visit family in Ohio.  With the kids occupied in the back seat, Gabby and I had plenty of opportunity to chat about it.  I opened the conversation by telling my lovely wife all of the things that should be off-limits for her to purchase, not realizing that we were now confined in a tightly-enclosed space for the next seven hours, and the time for “stocking up” had passed.

Well played.

The result was something like taking a sharp stick and poking a beautiful swan -a swan that likes lots of advance notice.  Initially very pretty to look at, but you don’t want to be around when the feathers get to flying.  In this moment, I learned that when you tell the world via a blog that you and your spouse have committed to something without said spouse knowing what she’s committed to, she might not react with the kind of caring, understanding heart you’ve grown to know and love.  There was a lot of back-and-forth debate.

I started with a question.   “What are the essentials? ”

Gabby answered with the obvious.  “We have to buy groceries.  We can’t live off our summer tomatoes for a year.”

“True.  But what about gifts?  You like to give gifts.”  I hit her where it hurts.  She ruminated for a moment, then came back with an idea.

“Maybe we set aside some money for gifts throughout the year?”

I countered, “No.  We can’t buy gifts.  That’s the point.  We make ‘em instead.”

“But you have to buy stuff to make it with.”

“No you don’t.  You can use stuff you can get for free.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stuff that’s free that’s just lying around.”

“I think they call that garbage.”

“No they don’t.  There’s lots of stuff you can get for nothing.”

“Right.  It’s called garbage.  I haven’t bought Christmas gifts for your niece and nephew yet.  You’re going to make them gifts out of garbage?”

“Maybe they’d like a singing telegram?”

“Great idea.  Every high school and college-aged kid I know loves a singing telegram.”

After some discussion, and the kids wondering “why does daddy look like he might start crying?”, we finally negotiated the terms.   What helped us most was getting clear on why we were doing this in the first place.  Sure, it’s about defining needs vs. wants, but that’s not the main point.  We lived for a year without a washing machine, dishwasher, heat, or clean running water.  We now know that these are not basic human needs.  The only true needs are food, shelter and clothes to keep you warm.

It all came back to our family mission statement (I know – it’s cheesy, but we like it).

To tirelessly seek God’s will by living lives of integrity, owning what we have, growing together in faith, and serving God’s people to build a world without need.

We’ve tried our best to operate under this mound of cheddar for the past 9 years.  The problem is, we recently noticed that we were drifting.  Allowing our posessions to define us.  Buying new stuff instead of owning and appreciating what we have.  And through this, losing an honest connection with people.

Admittedly, this set of rules is not so outrageous.  We know that well over half of the world’s population would consider it a luxury to live like us this year.  We’re no Mother Teresa.  Not even close.  But it’s our plan to try and live in the world and not of the world.  Because we could all try to live exactly like Jesus, but that would require wearing sandals and a tunic everywhere, and learning how to make table and chairs without the aid of power tools.  That’s just plain bananas.

The Rules – Simplified

1. Don’t buy “stuff”

The Rules - Detailed

1. We can buy stuff that can be “used up” within a year.  Groceries and gas.
2. We can’t buy clothes.  We have plenty.  If there truly is a “need” (ex: not a single pair of our kids’ shoes fit without causing irreversible toe damage), we will find hand-me-downs.
3. We can fix stuff that breaks.
4. We can use cell phones and internet, since they are both (conveniently) required for our work-from-home jobs.  (There will be a “technology free” challenge at some point during the year.)
5. Gifts must be in the form of charitable donation or “experience gifts” to build connections and memories (i.e. go to dinner together, visit the zoo, travel to visit friends/family etc.)
6. Eating out:  still working on this one.  We probably won’t cut it altogether (at least initially), but will limit.

We’re still not sure what we’ll learn from this, but it should be an interesting ride.  Now, do we tell the kids, or just let 'em figure it out?

The "Year Without A Purchase"

Last night, Gabby and I settled into bed.  The kids were sleeping, and the Holiday hustle had subsided.  Finally time to exhale.   I set my book on the nightstand.  Optimistic, I was wondering what the first night of 2013 might hold for this husband.  Would we begin with some romance?  Half-smiling, Gabby turned her head toward me and looked into my eyes.

Definitely romance.

Then she spoke up.  Our first “pillow talk” of the New Year.  Her lips parted and she let loose the phrase,

“It’s only January 1^st and I’m already irritated with you.”

“Why?”

“This year is going to be a lot harder for me than it is for you.”

And thus begins our “Year Without A Purchase.” 

Several months ago, our Sunday school class did a study on giving the firstfruits of your labor, and “The Power of Enough.”  The book wasn’t exactly a page-turner, but it reminded us of our year in Guatemala. 

Back in 2003, we lived with a beautiful Mayan family, made $130/month, and experienced an indescribable level of purpose and fulfillment.  When we returned home, we were what Southerners call a “hot mess,” arguing over whether or not we truly needed Scotch tape, and curling into the fetal position at the overwhelming choices available in the cereal aisle of the neighborhood groceryplex.

Since then, we have adapted back into life in the USA as our definition of needs vs. wants has slowly morphed into something suburban.

“I need a new pair of dress pants,” I say.

Am I naked from the waist down?

“We need to renovate our bathroom,” we say.

Are we allergic to linoleum?  Have people died from exposure to 20-year-old squeaky toilet seats?

I don’t think Mirriam Webster would agree with our new definition of needs and wants.  So, a few months ago, Gabby posed the hypothetical question, “What if we didn’t buy anything for a year?”

“Are we talking hunting and gathering?  Don’t think I could do it.  I have terrible aim with a staple gun (our family’s only weapon) and can only grow tomatoes.”

“No, I mean the essentials.  I don’t know what essentials are, but it’s less than what we buy now.”

So, we mulled it over during the fall and winter, and agreed we would try to go a year without buying anything.  And now Gabby is irritated with me.  And rightfully so.  It will be harder for her.  Last night she caught a glimpse of my swiss cheese boxer briefs and realized that men tend to buy big ticket items and avoid the everyday needs such as soap and underwear.  Women, on the other hand, make small purchases to make life easier and to nurture their children, but can live without the full-size recreational vehicle converted to backyard smoker capable of turning a full-grown buffalo into 34,000 tasty Beefalo burgers.  Perhaps this paradigm will shift once my underwear slowly disintegrates into the world’s first boxer brief thong.  Until then, my crazy business travel schedule will make her life as a “single mom” much less convenient during this experiment. 

And, we do realize how elitist our challenge is.  The majority of the world faces this same challenge year-after-year out of necessity.  The fact that we are talking about it outwardly is downright offensive.  Still, we think it will be a worthwhile venture to see if a recalibration is possible.  We’ll be posting every week or two to keep you up to date on our lunacy.  Will this truly be the “Year Without a Purchase?”  Or will it simply be “The Year Preceding Our Divorce?”

Tune in to find out.

Meantime, help us out.  How would you define needs vs. wants?

Mommy Porn: Fifty Shades of Reality

Portions of this post have been read (with appropriate background music) on a St. Louis radio station morning show.  Click the link to listen, but beware ladies, you may need a cigarette afterward. I was reading through our Nation’s McNews last week (thanks USA Today!) and caught a glimpse of one of their famous stat boxes on the front page of the Life section.  There in the bottom left-hand corner, they had listed the nation’s best-selling books.  The top three spots were held by a woman named E.L. James whose novels, judging by their sales, must be the greatest thing since pop-top beer.

Further into the Life section, I saw an article about Mrs. James.  She’s a British author, former TV executive, wife, and mother of two teenagers.   And apparently, her books are causing quite a stir.

The article called it “mommy porn.”

* or... do not read unless you have ever had kids under the age of 17.

I don’t exactly know what “mommy porn” is.  I’m not sure whether I should feel embarrassed or grateful about that.  What I do know is that these books allegedly make the average housewife sweatier than an hour-long stint with a ThighMaster.

Since today is my wife’s birthday, and she is an avid reader, I thought about buying her a copy of the first book in the series.  Then I realized what a risk this would be.  It is well-known that I have very little of my manhood left, thanks to two years of high school show choir where I learned to do a pretty mean jazz square.  But giving Gabby a copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey” would require me to place my male ego in a vise grip, go out in public, physically grab this book, and walk it to the front of the store.  There is no doubt in my mind that the girl at the register would be some trainee who would have to call on the loud speaker for a price check, giving a detailed description to avoid any confusion.

“Price check on register 4!  There is a tall, gangly, pasty dude here humming a show tune from ‘Guys and Dolls’ trying to discreetly buy one of those mommy porn books.  And he’s using a coupon!”

Send me to Kroger to buy a box of Kotex any day.

So, rather than buy her the book, I decided to write some “mommy porn” of my own.  After all, handmade gifts are far more sentimental, right?  Ladies, please let me know if I’m on the right track.  And Happy Birthday Gabby!

Note:  The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.

Fifty Shades of Reality by Scott Dannemiller

The look on her face was utter shock, but the sensation in her soul was pure bliss.  He was doing things she had never before dreamed.  This was virgin territory.

“Is this how you like it?” He asked, a grin growing across his cheeks.

“That’s right.  Just like that.”  She answered, still trying to hide her surprise.  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Don’t I know it!” he added.

Then, he gingerly grasped her panties between his thumb and forefinger.  She leaned back and relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh.  As she settled into the couch, he brought the delicates to his chin.

Tucked them underneath.

Folded them in half.

And placed them into the laundry basket.

A rush went through her body, climbing her spine and erupting out the crown of her head.  As he grabbed her socks, it didn’t take long for her to realize he had done this before.  He didn’t just ball them up like other guys.  No.  He took his time.  Laying one sock on top of the other, and lightly folding them over.

“So precise!” she marveled at his technique.

“I learned this from an older woman,” he confessed.  “My aunt Edna.  She says it keeps the elastic from stretching.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this.  I can fold all night.”

Her core filled with ecstasy.  She watched as the neatly folded stacks of laundry rose higher and higher.  Socks.  Underwear.  Shirts.  Shorts.  Reaching their peak.  And just as she thought they might topple over, he moved each of them to the basket, arranging them by family member so to efficiently distribute them to their final resting place.

“I’m going to leave you alone for a moment.  I need to go put these things away.”

As he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, she watched his tight buttocks sway back and forth, disguised by his baggy gym shorts.  Her eyes were distracted by something on the right hind pocket?  What could it be?  And then she remembered…

Just this morning, she awoke to a sun-drenched room.  There were squeals of delight coming from the kitchen.  Yes, her prince had risen before the children and whisked them off to the breakfast table.  There, he had lovingly prepared a meal.  Toast.  Milk.  Fruit salad.  And yes, the oatmeal.  Oh, the oatmeal.  And not the kind from the paper pouch.  No.  He was too much man for that.

These were McCann’s Steel Cut Oats.  The kind that required warm water, heated to boiling.  Heat.  Hot heat.  Then turned down to a simmer to bubble and roll.  Full of fiber and tasteless.  Nutritious.  With some Craisins and brown sugar.  And he had somehow encouraged the kids to eat them.  To eat them all.  All except the blob that his daughter had dropped in his chair.  The blob that now adorned his rounded haunches.  Rugged and beautiful.  Like the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinet doors he had left gleaming, scented with Clorox wipes and Endust.

As she paced through the living room and into the dining area, bleary-eyed and foggy from a good night’s sleep, his voice cut through the clutter.

“Your coffee is on the table, just how you like it.”

She glanced up at him to see his strong hands wrapped firmly around the shaft.  The shaft of the mop.  Sweat covered his brow.  He was moving gracefully.  Back       and       forth.  Back        and       forth.  To the rhythm of beautiful music.  Like Norah Jones singing the theme song to a LifeTime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney as a woman scorned, then finding love again after fifty.

As she watched, his graceful movements increased to a quickened tempo.  Back     and     forth.  Back   and    forth.  Back  and  forth.  Back and forth. Back n forth.  Backnforth.  Bcknfrth.  The music now more Beyonce than Norah.  His movements strong, yet controlled.   The sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

It was a stubborn stain.

Grape juice?  Spaghetti sauce?  A smashed pea?  No one could be sure.  But what was certain is that he was dominating this kitchen floor.  Unleashing his power.  And she surrendered to it.  Submissive.

She felt a warm breath on her ear lobe, waking her from her flashback of the morning.  The clouds parted ever so slightly.

“Lift your legs,” said the deep baritone.  It was almost a whisper, hardly registering in her sleepy haze.  She hesitated.  What was he asking?

“Just for a moment,” said the voice.  “Then you can relax.  Please.  Lift your legs.”

She had fallen asleep in the afterglow of the laundry, reprising the morning.  Fading into the couch like spilled sippy cup.  So much had happened since then.  But she did as the voice commanded.  As she contracted her abdominals, finely honed by Zumba and Ben and Jerry, her feet broke free from the carpet.

It was like an orchestra.  As she moved, so did he.  Finely tuned movements.  Sliding the great machine under her heels.  The sight made the hair on her arm stand on end, like the nap of the carpet each time he withdrew the vacuum.  The pattern he left on the rug was pure perfection.  Abstract art with a purpose.  With each pass, more dirt was being sucked up.  Eons of pet hair and foot falls disappearing in an instant as the high traffic area in front of the sofa was tamed.  Her muscles were burning, but it hurt so good.

“Please don’t stop.  Don’t stop!  Don’t stop!” she wailed.  “That looks so good! “

“I have to.”  He replied.

“But why?” she asked.  “You were almost finished.”

“Oh, I promise I’ll be back.  But I have to go.”  Anticipating, almost as if he was channeling  Radar O’Reilly in a scene from M.A.S.H., he moved toward the hall bath.   A tiny voice cried out, “Mommy!  Wipe my bottom!”  It was in that moment that she knew why he couldn’t finish.

He bounded to the bathroom, still sporting the oatmeal tattoo, prepared for something dirty.  Very dirty.  She knew it well.  She scanned the house to find herself firmly ensconced in Camelot.  Every room had been scoured.  The wood floors were shining.  The dust had all been wiped away.  There was a crock pot simmering on the kitchen island.  What could it be?  Pot roast?  Gumbo?  Chicken and dumplings?  It could be dishwater seasoned with floor sweepings for all she cared.  She hadn’t lifted a finger all day, and it was nearly dinnertime.

The rest of the evening was a blur of activity.  She was like the queen bee, with everyone buzzing around.  Food was eaten without complaint.  Dishes were washed and children bathed.  Bedtime stories were read while she watched HGTV in the other room.  She sat alone in her happy home, marveling at the man who made it all possible.  Her heart swelled like the giant blister that now covered her husband’s mop-pushing hand.

“You coming to bed?” he inquired.  “I’ve got something planned just for you.”

Her spine tingled.  She looked in his direction.  He had showered, shaved, and smelled like Irish Spring.  Not the old fashioned scent, but one of the new, fancy smelling-kind.  Somewhere between Old Spice and Axe body spray.

“Oh yes.” She delighted.  “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She changed into a tank top and slipped on her favorite sweat pants that she’s worn since her days as a Kappa Delta.  She turned toward the bed and saw him.  Ready.  Waiting.  Willing.

She slipped between the sheets and turned away, unable to look into his piercing hazel eyes.  She felt a hand on her back.  It moved slowly southward, then northward again, with a subtle pressure.  A squeeze of the shoulder, a tease of the neck.  Fingers through the hair.  For fifteen minutes his hands moved all over her, from waistline to necklace, relieving the tension brought about by the everyday.  She let herself go.  Free to enjoy the backrub.

A backrub without a future.

He slowly slid over and kissed her shoulder.

“I have a headache,” he whispered.  “I love you.  Goodnight.”

“I love you, too.’ She echoed.  And, along with her gorgeous, hunk of a man, she drifted off to sleep.

Smiling.

Spooning.

Satisfied.