A man's STILL got to know his limitations

(NOTE: This post was published five years ago today on September 5, 2016. I went back to it to see if it all still holds true. The answer is yes, except that, as recently pointed out, I don't do long tedious car rides as well as I used to. Other than that, these are still a few of the items on my long list of weaknesses and flaws...though to my credit, I fully embrace them all.)

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.

• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.

• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.

• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.

• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably still your guy.

• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.

• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.

• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.

• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.

• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.

• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

When I grow up, I'm going to learn to drink alcohol

As I have often stated, I am the lightest of lightweight drinkers. It doesn't take much to get me feeling buzzed, and I have no stomach for anything much stronger than a Bud Light.

To clarify, I do like beer, but only really basic, lager-type beer.

I tolerate wine, but my one-glass-every-three-months approach is likely to endure.

And spirits? Good Lord, no.

I am envious of those who really enjoy good bourbon or Scotch. It all smells and tastes like floor cleaner to me.

"Sipping" whiskey? If I'm forced to have whiskey, I'm going to throw it all back in one shot.

I'm not saying any of these are bad in general. If you enjoy them, have at it. I'm just saying that, personally, I can't tolerate 95% of what your typical bar will stock.

As always, though, I'll try anything. And I really do mean anything that is considered safe and edible/drinkable. Food-wise, there is nothing I won't eat and nothing I really don't like.

But when it comes to liquor, I clearly did not get that gene.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Now, liver and onions? I'll happily eat it all day. The thought of it might make you nauseous, but just know that, for me, so does that glass of Jim Beam you're nursing.

A man's got to know his limitations

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.
  
• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.
  
• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.
  
• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.
  
• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably your guy.
  
• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.
  
• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.
  
• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.
  
• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.
  
• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.
  
• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

Another year with Terry the Transformed

It's my wife's birthday today. As is always the case on her birthday, she is turning one year older than me.

She was born eight months before I was, so ever since I've known her (nearly 30 years now), she has been the one to "scout out" the next age ahead. She turns a certain number, and after a couple of months I ask her how it is. And invariably her answer is, "About the same as being <INSERT HER PREVIOUS AGE HERE.>"

In other words, just because the calendar turns another year doesn't necessarily mean you yourself are much different.

Of course, she also refuses to acknowledge that I'm younger than she is. When she turned 40, for example, she informed me that I was also 40. Which would have been fine, except that I was 39 at the time and wouldn't turn 40 until much later in the year.

This didn't matter to her. It never matters to her. Whatever age she happens to be, then that's the age I am, too, as far as she's concerned, birth certificates be damned.

This past year has been a momentous one for Terry, and for once it's not because she birthed another child. It was because she lost a significant amount of weight and she feels fantastic.

Everyone always remarks on how different she looks, because that's what happens when you lose weight. But as I've said more than once, I thought she looked beautiful before and I think she looks beautiful now, though I may be a bit biased.

What's different is how much happier she is. Weight loss is one thing, and it's a very important thing from a health standpoint. But it's also only the physical manifestation of something much deeper and more meaningful that happens inside a person.

Over the last year or two, Terry has started trying new things. New foods, new drinks, new experiences. Stuff that wouldn't have occurred to her to try before is suddenly a routine part of her life.

Like beer, for instance. I've always been the beer drinker in our relationship, and even then I probably average one a month, generally consumed when I'm at a party or some other social function. The smell of beer used to make her wretch. Now she drinks the stuff and loves it.

How does this happen? How does something go from vomit-inducing to mm-mm-good just like that? Of all the strange things that have resulted from Terry's Transformation, as I like to call it, the beer thing is the most bizarre.

In the end, what I'm most happy about is that Terry is finally taking time for Terry. As a mom of five (six if you count me), she has spent years thinking about and caring for everybody except Terry. So she's long overdue for a little me-focus. It's better for her and it's better for her family, because it makes her an all-around better person, mother and wife.

So I guess today I'm not celebrating the fact that my wife is yet again older than me – and make no mistake, regardless of what she says, she IS older than me – I'm celebrating the re-emergence of the joyous, exuberant person that has always been there, but who maybe got covered up a little by years of diapers, sippy cups, school projects and sleepless nights.

Happy birthday, hon. And welcome back.

Vinegar and feet

I have more than 700 Facebook friends.

I don't say that to boast, because there's nothing really impressive about it. Anyone who wants a lot of Facebook friends can have them, either by throwing out friend requests left and right or accepting any request that comes their way.

I fall into the second group. I have Facebook friends with whom I'm only passingly familiar, but I really hate to reject anyone's friend request, so I always figure, "Well, I must know this person somehow. Though honestly, I can't remember the last time I was in Nigeria."

Anyway, I have a lot of Facebook friends, which means there's always a lot of activity in my FB news feed. And at least once day, one of those friends (usually female, usually about my age or a little older) will post something to the effect of, "Sitting on the couch drinking a glass of Chardonnay and relaxing. Wonderful!"

And I get jealous. Not necessarily of the "relaxing" part, though that would be nice. But of the Chardonnay part. I am envious of anyone who drinks and enjoys wine, because I cannot stand the taste of it. It's revolting to me. All of it.

But understand, I really, really WANT to like wine. I wish I enjoyed it, because it just sounds so much fun. To me, all wine -- and I mean ALL wine -- tastes like vinegar, or feet, or some combination of the two.

Interestingly, the same is true for Terry. Neither of us even much likes the smell of wine, let alone the taste. I realize we're in the minority here. And believe me, we've tried and tried, but neither of us has ever tasted any wine we've liked. Ever.

Some people seem genuinely offended when they hear that. They're convinced they can "fix" us. "Have you ever tried this wine or that one?" they'll ask. And we'll usually say yes and yes, and both made us want to throw up. "How about a sweet wine? A dry wine? Cabernet? Zinfandel? Merlot? Red wines? White wines? Dessert wines? Mad Dog?" Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES, YES, YES! They're all terrible, do you hear me? VINEGAR AND FEET!

Our church serves Welch's grape juice for communion, so that's what we have every Sunday. But occasionally we'll visit a sister church that uses real wine, and we won't know about it. I'll take a hefty swig and then do that involuntary shutter thing you do when you've ingested something that disgusts you.

But again, I really wish this wasn't the case. I attend plenty of business events where people are walking around carrying their glasses of wine, looking all adult-like and sophisticated. I'll usually have a beer, because I like beer. But only one beer. More than one and the appeal drops away quickly for me.

Plus, I start to get woozy after more than one beer. Seriously. I'm a 42-year-old man and more than one beer starts sending me over the edge. You can't call me a lightweight drinker. I'm whatever is under lightweight. "Featherweight," maybe? So after that first beer I'll usually have water or something while everyone else is drinking their Bordeaux or Fauxfaux or HoHoHo or whatever it is that grown-ups drink.

If you have wine suggestions, I'll gladly accept them. But I'm telling you, my wife and I are wine-proof. It's sad, really.