Home Depot Broke the Guy Code

In the book, Dune, by Frank Herbert, there is a dialogue between the Reverend Mother Gaius and Paul Atreides , a.k.a. Paul Muad'Dib. Let’s listen in on their conversation.

Rev. Mother Gaius: There is a place...terrifying to us, to women. It is said a man will come - the Kwisatz Haderach. He will go where we cannot. Many men have tried. Paul: They tried and failed?
Rev Mother Gaius: They tried and died.

Let’s turn the tables and listen on a conversation between Michael Nunan and myself.

Rev. Scott Peterson: There is a place, terrifying to us, to men. It is said a woman will come, the Amy Grant. She will go where we cannot, Michael’s Crafts. Many men have tried. Nunan: They tried and failed?
Rev. Scott Peterson: They tried and died.

Dan Ferguson and I share in our believe that Hell will be Michael’s Crafts with Amy Grant playing on the speaker system. It is a vision that haunts and chills us to our inner core. Walking around inside a craft or a fabric store is so foreign to a man, that our capacity to think, walk, utter sounds and swallow our own saliva all become severely affected. We can’t go in them. When I’m forced to go, the she-workers instantly recognize a testosterone-affected human has had a stroke and they come running to my aid. I hate craft and fabric stores. I cannot enter them. And the thought of Amy Grant playing in the background sends me into the fetal position.

So imagine my horror today, when I was sucker-punched inside Home Depot, the Temple of Testosterone. I was covered in MDF dust and was purchasing a light and some 3” PVC pipe when suddenly, over the speaker system, Amy Grant was singing, “Baby Baby.” Arrrrrrrgh!

You ladies just don’t get it. This is a man store. It smells like lumber and oil. Walk down any aisle and you'll run into a fresh fart. We can go in there looking like we’ve been in a war and no one cares. We can wear shorts with holes in the butt. We can wear unmatching socks. We can smell like raccoon feces. No one cares. We barely tolerate your flowers and storage tubs. But Amy Grant, in our store? Are you kidding me?

Why is this so offensive to us? Picture this. It’s like a female sales associate walks up to me and says, “Hello sir. Try on these panties. They’re your color. By the way, what season are you? I bet you’re a Spring. And here’s some ginger infused soap. Would you like a facial?”

That doesn’t happen in Home Depot! Someone was obviously asleep at the wheel. I don’t feel safe going in there, again. If they can do that in there, what next, pilates class? Bran muffin samples? Chai tea? I broke the Guy Code once so I can forgive them once. Click on this link to find out how.

If I ever hear Amy Grant again at Home Depot, I’m going to Lowes.

I love my wife!

I met Sheri Anderson in the winter of 1982 at North Park College in Chicago, Illinois. Neither of us remembers each other but we do know that’s when we formally met. Where I do recall meeting her is on staff at Lake Beauty Covenant Bible Camp in Long Prairie, Minnesota where we both worked in the summer of 1983. My first impression of her was that she was a bit too strange for my liking. She thought I was stuck-up. But by the end of the summer, I was in love.

She was a pastor’s kid from Michigan. Her grandfather, also a minister, lived in a town near my hometown. After the camping season, she spent some time with her grandparents in Dassel, MN. I would make the short drive from Buffalo and spend the better part of the evening there and we would sit on the gliding swing in her grandparent’s backyard talking about what twitterpated young adults do. It didn’t matter what the topic was. Being with Sheri was the best.

I was in college in Minneapolis and she was in Chicago. Neither of us were sure how a long distance relationship would work. I was especially clueless since I had no idea how to date. I was always too scared to ask girls I liked in high school out on a date so I had no experience. So I kind of just went with the flow.

We did something that rarely happens today. We wrote letters to each other every day. I cannot tell you how excited I was to go to my P.O. box in the big hallway at Northwestern waiting for a letter from Sheri. We wrote about everything. I devoured every word. During our school breaks, one or the other would visit. It wasn’t long until I realized we were made for each other, as corny as that seems.

Sheri was in the concert choir at North Park. They were due to come to Minneapolis in the spring on a concert tour. I went with my mother to our small town jeweler and picked out a ring without her knowing. I knew this was a big risk but I was pretty sure the answer would be, “Yes.” My mother, recently widowed, gave me her diamond and I had it set in an unusual ring I knew she would love.

The big day came. I arranged with the choir director to steal her from the bus for a couple of hours. Then I arranged to have the small island chapel on Lake Josephine opened (something I had never seen happen). Inside the chapel I placed a sign that said, “Sheri, will you marry me? This is no drill.”

I brought her to Northwestern. She suspected nothing. There had just been a terrible spring storm that dropped a tornado just a couple miles away from the campus causing some major damage to a nearby mall so I was a bit concerned we’d have to run to a basement before I could pop the question.

I drove as close to the island as I could. We got out of the car and she seemed a bit confused why I was so excited to show her this tiny little chapel. We went inside and she looked all around, completely missing the large blue sign hanging on the wall. Then she started to leave. I said, “What’s that writing on the wall?” EGO MATER PULEBRAE DELECTIONIS ET TIMORIS ET AGNITIONIS ET SANCTAE SPEI ("I am the mother of beautiful delight and of reverence and of knowledge and of holy hope"). “It looks like Latin,” she said still oblivious to my sign. “Oh really?” I said. Sensing she was missing something she gave the chapel another look. She finally saw the sign. I got down on my knee and opened the box with the ring and held it out. I was so nervous that I forgot to ask her myself. Not one to miss such an important proposal, Sheri said, “Say it yourself. Say it yourself.” I came to my senses and I said it. Four words I have never regretted, “Will you marry me?”

Much to my relief, she said yes. We were so excited we were about to burst. She ran outside and I followed her. She wanted to see what her ring looked like in the sunlight. At that moment, I had arranged with campus security to ring the school bells (again, something I had never seen happen). I told her the bells were for us. They rang and rang. It was great to explain to folks at the school what the bells were for.

A year and couple months later we were married. On Monday, August 24, 2009, I will have been married to Sheri, my best friend, for 24 years. I cannot think of anyone I would have rather had at my side than Sheri Anderson from Livonia, Michigan. The joys and the struggles we’ve faced have come and gone so quickly. Our twin daughters, 22, have left the nest (almost). We’re now (almost) alone with each other again. We only had two years together before those little pumpkins came along and interrupted everything. Lesson one, birth control only works when you use it. Lesson two, babies change everything.

Now we have a big house and no kids. It’s just us again. And we’re a little confused. So much of our lives were spent raising the girls that we don’t know what to do with each other. A part of me is trying to remember what those early years were like, remembering the young Sheri and remembering what it was that made her so special. As we remember each other, and remember where to pick up the trail again, I know in my heart we were made for each other.

Before kids we used to talk about what it would be like to grow old together. What kind of grandparents would we be? What kind of vacations would we take? Who would our friends be? Where would we be living? What would our jobs be? What would our kids be like? What triumphs and tragedies would we experience and how would they shape us?

I can recall some of those conversations and I can confidently say we were wrong about most everything. We had no idea what life would do to us. We had no idea what kind of people we would become. We had no idea how hard adulthood and parenthood would be. We had no idea about the losses we would experience. We had no idea the tragedies we would suffer.

I can confidently say that the man I am today is not the man Sheri married. And she isn’t the woman I married. We’ve both changed immensely. We’ve matured and grown older together. We’ve slowed down, mellowed. We are each interested in things the other isn’t, and that’s O.K. As I write this, Sheri is at the movies all by herself. I hate going to movies but she loves it. That’s O.K. But we are still deeply committed to each other. When we’re apart for a while, and I see her, I’m home.

And she still drives me crazy. She does not tap the water out of her toothbrush to dry it out. She laughs way too loud at T.V. shows. She bangs the oatmeal spoon on the side of the sink, waking me up every morning. She uses glitter on her craft projects. I’m phobic about glitter. She obsesses about things for months at a time then she replaces it with a new obsession. She does not take the time to learn how a cell phone works. I’ve only twice called her on her cell phone and she’s actually answered. She can’t turn on a T.V. and make the DVD player work. She has a Master’s Degree with honors but she can’t send a text message. She snores and talks in her sleep. She puts her cold feet on my legs when I’m asleep waking me up. She buys too many shoes and I don’t like the smell of her hand lotions and lady things. But the list she has about me is much longer and way more embarrassing, I’m sure.

But that’s what love is. Love is having to say, “I’m sorry,” over and over and over. Love is going to Wendy’s in the middle of the night for chili during a pregnant craving. Love is buying a giant box of feminine items at Costco by myself when that’s so embarrassing.

As we approach 25 years together, I look forward to celebrating our commitment to each other, with you. We have a list in our bathroom of the places we want to go to celebrate next year, all by ourselves. She wants to go to Florida. I think that’s too hot and stinky. I want to go to Alaska, she thinks that’s too cold and wet. Who knows, maybe Tokyo?

So here’s to 24 years together! I love you Sheri. And thanks for never complaining about me leaving the seat up.

Private Pilot

I have a box filled with goodies from when I was in kindergarten. The paper has the smell of “antique” which is somewhat disconcerting. To think that anything I created smells antique makes me realize just how far away I am from my earliest memories. One stack of papers has paintings I made of airplanes. It reminds me that my earliest goal was to someday be a pilot.

When I was 19, that dream came true. I worked hard for a year, spent my paycheck on flying lessons and ground school, and could not believe it when my instructor got out of the airplane and trusted me to fly the airplane myself. Later on, when I met all the FAA requirements, someone trusted me enough to award me my license, allowing me to take passengers.

Then life happened. I flew a couple more years. The cost and commitment was too much for me to maintain. I was in college and had no money. Soon, my license expired. But I always wondered if I would ever be able to get back into the air someday and renew my license.

I’m in my mid forties and my planned midlife crisis is hitting me hard. Couple that with having a very difficult year at work and I was going home each evening absolutely spent. I busied myself doing things for others but never really did anything for myself. Then, the opportunity to fly again presented itself so I jumped at it.

On Friday, July 30 at 7:00 PM, Captain Kevin, my extraordinary flight instructor, signed me off again as a private pilot. It’s been 25 years since I last took to the air. Captain Kevin got me back up to speed in just 10 hours. I kept hearing that it would all quickly come back. But I can’t remember my wife’s cell phone number, let alone a skill I haven’t used in 25 years. How was I going to do that?

It was long, tough, nerve-wracking and exhausting but on Friday night, Captain Kevin took me up into the pattern and we shot 5 more touch and go landings. He even gave me an engine failure on one of them. Then, he said it was time. I could feel myself getting choked-up (another sign of my age). I didn’t want to go by myself so I took my friend, Les, the man who got me back into the air, and up we went. I was now the PIC (Pilot In Command).

After a quick run around the pattern, I landed and taxied back to the hanger where Captain Kevin pinned me with Mickey Mouse wings. I cannot tell you how elated I was to have re-accomplished this achievement. Surrounded by my flying buddies, we went from the hanger to Third Street Aleworks to celebrate. We told flying stories and did a lot of smiling.

Thanks to Captain Kevin for the most difficult but excellent flight training anyone could have. He used to train the pilots for Japan Airlines so he really knows his stuff. Thanks to Captain Erik in Forest Lake, Minnesota. He let me fly his Cessna 150, the plane I first trained in. Those simple flights renewed my confidence at a time in my training when I really needed it. It reminded me of when I was 18, first taking to the skies. It helped to bring back something I feared I had lost. Captain Erik has no idea how much those flights meant to me, especially landing in that wicked crosswind in Duluth on the shore of Lake Superior.

Thanks to Les, the guy who said, “I want you to be my partner in this airplane I bought.” Even though I faced some challenges due to past medical issues, he kept pushing me to investigate and do what needed to be done. He was a bulldog and would not let up. And, thanks to my wife. She’s put up with my little dream for a very long time. She’s scared to death of little planes and is building up the courage to actually fly with me again. But without her encouragement, Friday night would not have happened.

I look forward to going on flying dates with my bride of 24 years. The ability to fly over the California mountains in one quarter of the driving time puts us in easy range of Lake Tahoe, Mount Shasta, Monterey Bay, etc. In just a couple of hours we can be someplace amazing without dealing with the insane traffic. And now that we’re empty nesters, getting to date my wife again is something I’m really looking forward to. I know how blessed I am to be able to do this.

When you look at that plane in the sky and the engine stops, understand that it’s probably Captain Kevin with another frightened student. About 500 feet above the ground the plane will restart and they will fly off. And inside, a confident Captain Kevin will know he’s doing what’s best for his student. And that student will, in turn, be getting an incredible gift.