We're off to see...

We're off like a dirty, stinky, sweaty pair of socks. We officially left Colorado. Our remainder of meager belongings and last bits of wedding appliances that we couldn't bear to part with are now securely wrapped in boxes awaiting the New Zealand shipping boys in the confines of a climate controlled 2nd story storage closet. And we are in Virginia with what Christmas gifts and clothes we could stuff into two over sized duffels, two barely zipped travel packs, a wheeled carry-on, and an enormous stretching, ripping red Christmas target bag (which looked like Garfield had a party in it and tried to break out.)

We arrived at DIA yesterday morning to discover that one of our wheeled duffels was 15lbs over the limit and we would now owe AirTran $25 and the prospect of our fly fishing rod getting through security looked grim, according to an annoyed yet forcibly cheery customer service attendant. She even added, with a smile, that we would probably miss our flight if they decided that they wouldn't let it on the plane. How nice.

Security went quite smoothly and nobody even questioned the rod's presence. (Take that, Debbie Downer!)

Our first flight, we sat next to a chatty retired Marine who was on his way, with his wife and kids, to Miami to embark on their first ever family cruise. He was very stoked. Our second flight was less upbeat. The male attendant assigned to our section was quite enamoured with the gentleman across our aisle. He was sending out some serious i-like-you vibes as well as i'm-desperate-for-you-to-like-me-back. I don't believe the passenger, even though, clearly of the same gender preferential genre, shared the return sentiment. It was almost comical if it wasn't so blatantly obvious. He talked to him while motioning the safety protocols. He handed us our beverages and minuscule snacks all the while giving 21E the "puss-in-boots" imploring look. He was still staring when he came by with the last trash run and I had to actually grab the bag to make sure the cup made it in, even though he was holding it out to me.

We made it to Richmond. Our bags obediently came off of the conveyor and we lugged them to the rental car pick-up. In the midst of everything we've been working on and taking care of the past 3 months, pre-arranging a rental car was not one of them. Our bad. Since Christmas is pending and just because they can, they take all your money and your left kidney with a deposit of your gallbladder that is only returned upon return of the rental car and that is purely contingent on it having no nicks, scratches, or smudges and that is with the insurance. Key in hand we continued to huff and haul our belongings in the direction of our dearly paid for wheels, passing a smirking cop who looked suspiciously at the vast amount of our belongings in tow. Coming to the space marked B13 (that should've been a clue right there) we had to do a double take. Before us crouched the chariot of all things impractical with a trunk big enough to hold maybe a carton of milk and a can of wasabi peas: The Dodge Caliber. Somebody was not thinking about toting anything around when they designed this car, and i think that they hadn't really considered even driving it around since the rear-view mirror took up the entire view of what little you could see from the front windshield. You could see where you'd been and what was behind you but, by George, you were not gonna see where you were going. And really, its just a car, who needs to see where they are going?

We smashed, pushed, re-arranged 5 times, squished our luggage into the "trunk" and the back seat and got into the front and meditated for a moment on how the heck we were going to be able to pick up Becky and Seth and all their luggage the next day. We came up with a solution: put their luggage inside on our laps and tie them to the roof. Satisfied, we lurched off in the direction of our friend's home, also known as Casa de Brocks.

First Annual Amish Classic Turkey Trot

In my previous post i mentioned where we currently are, the armpit of Amish Country, more exactly, in a house on a hill just off Tater Road, turning right off Greasy Gravy Lane. (i am not making this up folks.)

I realize that the epitome of Thanksgiving, for most in this country, stands on the vast consumption of turkey, its lesser known sidekick dishes and as the name reveals, giving thanks. For me, i'd like to add to that pyramid: The Turkey Trot. Most major cities host the race. Cities such as Denver, Indianapolis, and a random town in Arkansas have it every year, rain or snow. The small town of Paoli, Indiana however does not. I kinda see why. Being that the majority of its inhabitants are horse and buggy riding, cow and goat milking, farming, sheep shearing personages i highly doubted they would rally for a race with the same zest as they would for a barn raising. They already choose to work a little harder for the basic comforts of life. I can't quite see them out there in their beards, bonnets and black dresses filing up to the starting line for a 5k. I understood. I still wanted a race.

Paul and i got up Thursday morning and promptly put on our exercise duds. Steven, our brother-in-law, greeted me with, "Who would want to run when they could sit?" I retorted with, "Who would want to sit when they could run." (I secretly understood his point.) We stepped outside and the wind greeted us with the chilly blast to the face. Tradition has gotta start somewhere so we headed toward Tater Road.

Our pace came nowhere close to say, a, performance enhanced Marion Jones but it was a beautifully crisp Thanksgiving day and we were running our Turkey Trot. We had thought we might run the country block but after about 2 1/2 kilometers we weren't coming to any crossroads so after a couple more trots we pulled a 180 and headed back to mashed potatoes, fresh cranberry sauce, steamed veggies and a very large hunk of triptophan in the oven. Who, less than 3 days ago, was running his own little trot in a very well cared for farmyard.

Road Trippin'

I have summoned the courage to step out from the shadow of my husband's curious writing abilities and add a bit more to our slightly read blog.

We are currently in Paoli, Indiana, the armpit of Amish Country. It's not important that you know where we are or even that this particular place exists except to add the necessary fact that 5/11ths of Paul's immediate family live here and the rest of us converged upon this place for the triptophan ridden holiday we commonly refer to as Thanksgiving. Paul and i left Denver this past Monday and decided, for the fun of it, to drive out here and fly back. The fact that his sister is buying his car from him is a minor detail.

Paul drove and i amused him to keep him awake; even when i was sleeping apparently, something about drool and talking in my sleep. We sang songs, told each other stories, and played the alphabet game forward and backward. Several times. We stopped only to refuel and empty our bladders. About 3am Tuesday morning we paused for one such break and bumped into some Midwestern hospitality. Paul filled up the tank and then we walked inside to find a restroom. We didn't see any obvious bathroom signage so Paul asked the invisible attendant, "Where are the restrooms?" From the back hall we heard a grumpy retort, "The ONE restroom is back here." Paul motioned for me to go first. I stepped into the small hall which had been turned into a stocking room. I was unsure, even upon entering the hallway, where this phantom room of rest was. The man was standing in front of a door. "Well, are you gonna go or what?" After another surveying moment i wondered at the door, but the man was still standing in front of it. Did he want me to push him out the way or squeeze behind him? He looked at me annoyingly. I guessed the latter, so i squeezed past him. Inside, finally, i realized it was once a public loo, but apparently the attendant had not been notified. By now i didn't care. One thought, "must go pee". Second thought, "Check for toilet paper". None, nada, zip, not one square left. I contemplated performing the hovercraft maneuver but its no secret that my legs are of the shorter variety, this toilet was unusually tall, plus i just wasn't in the mood to drip dry. I stepped back out, prepared to face the wrath of Grumpy Gas Grumperson. "Uh, sir, its out of toilet paper." I prepared not in vain. "Well, sh#%, of course it is." He scuffled into hall #2 and pretended to search. "Uh, can't seem to find any and...nope, don't have any." I hurried out to Paul. I brought him up to speed in about 3 seconds and in about 8 seconds we were back in the car and in search of another place. We found respite at a 24-hour-country- home-cookin' restaurant, whose water closet was not in much better shape than the previous but it did have TP so i didn't complain. Five minutes later we were back on the road again. Three and half hours later we made it to the Taylors, in Paoli, Indiana.

Confessions of a Hospital Security Guard

There is something to be said for the feeling of polyester covering every square inch of your body; the comforting weight of a grossly oversized flashlight dangling from your side; and the knowledge that you are in no way trained to handle anything remotely resembling an emergency. Yep, being a hospital security guard is a little bit like being a Navy SEAL, without the excitement, exercise or state of the art weapon systems. In fact, if Navy SEAL's spent most of their time sitting in tiny glass booths telling everyone in ear shot about the time they restrained a patient three years ago and eating everything in sight, they would be exactly like hospital security guards. There are thousands of brave men and women out there doing jobs you and I can't even imagine just to break even at the end of the month. And, I'm sure there is a desperation worse than the kind it takes for a grown man to put on an ill fitting uniform, a meaningless badge and a walkie-talkie, but I can't think of it right now.

I know what you're thinking, "What a stupid job! Why would any one want to be a hospital security guard?" But, without security guards, what kind of world would we live in? We'd be over run with snot nosed skateboarding hooligans and a catastrophic oversupply of donuts. Any one could park anywhere they wanted. No one would hassle you about wearing your company name badge; even though you've worked with the company for ten years and know the guard whose hassling you on a first name basis. We wouldn't have such gems as "Try to calm down ma'am!"; "I'm just doing my job."; and "Stop or I'll tell you again!" Chuck Norris would only be known for his Total Gym commercials, Block Buster rentals of Super Troopers would drop by 89%, and martial arts supply stores would have to close their doors forever. You could forget about national security and border control if our parking structures and 7-Elevens are left vulnerable. Yeah, get rid of security guards and the very fabric of society starts to unravel. Chaos, war and disaster would quickly ensue and the Antichrist would make his first appearance as a trespassing teenage pot smoker with an "I (heart) cops" tee shirt and ripped blue jeans.

Okay, maybe the world wouldn't completely fall apart, but you get the point. The truth is, we all have a place in the grand scheme of things; it's just that some of us have missed ours completely.

There are all kinds of security guards on this planet, but hospital security is a special breed. It ranks, in the hierarchical structure that is modern medicine, somewhere between MRSA (Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus, [a drug hesistant staph infection]) and Nationalized Healthcare. Security doesn't exactly fit into the grandiose picture of patient care that doctors, nurses and administrators have in mind when they decide to go into the healing arts. Guards don't add anything to the bottom line and consume one hundred times their body weight at staff picnics and potlucks. Doctors despise them, nurses are afraid of them and Risk Management doesn't sleep at night knowing they have the keys to every door in the building. So why, you might ask, do hospitals have security guards? I don't have a straight answer for you. Maybe we all like to take a certain amount of risk and have inherently self-destructive tendencies. Maybe it helps those who have succeeded, to have an example of what could have been if a single gene had spiced left when it should have gone right. Whatever the reason, hospital security is here and it would take a whole lot of jelly filling to get them to leave.

All this was on my mind in 2003 when I decided to infiltrate their ranks and find the answers to these and many other questions. I would bravely enter the under belly world of power trips and cholesterol to get to the root of this highly secretive and close-knit fraternity. Like Hunter S. Thompson and Robert Young Pelton before me, only more dangerous and dynamic, I vowed to blend in, investigate and report what I found behind the polyester wall of silence.

The two years that followed would change my life and my waistband forever. I would come to know real fear, insatiable hunger and a power unfit for mortal humans. In the realm of fake tickets and yellow strobe lights, there is no room for error. A rent a cop can smell a cheap imitation from a mile away and you better be ready to consume donuts, lots and lots of donuts. If you hesitate, even once, your cover is blown. If I've learned one thing from my time in security work, it's that you should never underestimate a man with a plastic badge and a real set of handcuffs.

Olfactory Confessions

A writer can only write so long without mentioning the biggest part of his or her life. For some writers this luming presence is a thought or an idea. For others, this gargantuan spectre is a childhood event or tragedy. What ever this humongous, gigantic, or enormous thing may be a writer can never be fully content or understood until he or she has dealt with it in real and honest terms. Shakespeare, for example, it is believed, wrote many of the tiny words seen at the bottom of TV commercials before he was able to slay his giant. "Irritable Bowl Syndrome" was not his best work, but it was a brutally honest portrayal of a terrible affliction. When it premiered, people were shocked, even appalled, but its therapeutic value for William can not be underestimated. Lost to time, this disturbing play opened the door for such great works as "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet". For Shakespeare it was IBS, for me, as for most Taylor's, it's my nose.

My name is Paul Taylor and I've got a really big nose. If you don't have one or live with someone who does, you can't possibly understand what I go through. Just try to imagine, what its like to have your other senses deadened because your sense of smell is so strong; or never being able to turn your head and walk through a doorway at the same time; or wondering if today is the day your neck will give out from the sheer weight of the thing! Yeah, doesn't sound so fun now does it, you nosist pig? It's always "Mommy, mommy I want a big funny clown nose too!" Until your neck gives out and you find yourself face down on the sidewalk, too exhausted to lift yourself, and your dog is having its way with your leg while school children gather around and laugh. I can live with these things, I've done it all my life, it's the people I care about who suffer most. My poor wife can't kiss me without tying herself down to something solid, just in case, during a moment of passion I inhale too deeply.

It's not all bad though, I have my good days too. We all have handicaps. Some of them just happen to be more visible than others. Just because my handicap walks around in front of me yelling "Here I am big and bulbous blah...blah...blah!" doesn't mean I'm not petite and cute as a button on the inside, like a little Swiss ski jump. And, we all know it's the cute little Swiss ski jumps on the inside that count.

My name is Paul Taylor and I've got a really big nose.

Toaster Wars

[Que Star Wars Music]

NaNaNa NAAAAAA NA NANANA NAAAAAA NA NANANA NAAAAA NA NaNaNa naaaaaaa

Long Long Ago,
In a galaxy far far away......

So, this isn't MySpace and you have to use your imagination a little...Get Over It! We can't all afford the very best of everything can we? Some of us have to make do with what we've got and, well, this is the best I've got (A couple of nana's in upper and lower case letters is all you're going to get and you should be thankful for that!). This generation makes me sick, you all have to have surround sound in Dolby digital; flat screen televisions and toilet paper. In my day, a couple of nana's would send us through the roof, but not you whiners, you won't poop without four-ply, triple quilted, downy scented squares of cloudy soft shame.

Anyway, I'm getting a little side tracked. I was perusing my last post and realized I hadn't really said anything about our marriage and this is, after all, a marriage blog...Imagine my embarrassment! So, I thought I should amend this disgusting oversight immediately.

You see, Jess and I recently got married and that entailed moving all of our stuff into the same general location. This, from an outsiders perspective, might seem pretty easy...and they would be right, it is easy! To my relief moving in together went very very smoothly...almost too smoothly. In fact it wasn't until we were unpacking the last box that we realized the challenge, nay, the evil twist of plot, that lay before us. We had not one but two toasters! Now the simple minded might say "Great! We can have twice as much toast!". But not us, no, we took this minor kink in an otherwise perfect move and blew it way out of proportion.

My toaster was sleek, new and shiny, the Ferrari of toasters really; and Jess' toaster was, well, old. She said something about classic and sentimental value but all I saw was a beat up old toaster. She said "I've had this toaster a long time and I'd like to keep it!"

I've been wearing this underwear a long time too, I thought, but it doesn't mean I wouldn't change them if someone offered me a shiny new pair. But, she seemed determined, so I changed the subject and snuck my toaster onto the kitchen counter when she wasn't looking. Problem solved, I just knew she'd forget all about Barney Rubble and his toaster once she had given my dream toast making machine a try! The plan seemed fool proof until she noticed my toaster on the counter. "Hey!" She said, "I thought we agreed to keep my toaster!"

Uh Oh, I thought, not only has my planned failed, but my memory is failing too! Dumbfounded, I said something about looking over there and ran into the other room.

For weeks, both of us refused to use the others toaster. Until Jess brought it to my attention that our behavior was immature and ridiculous. So, because I hate to be immature and ridiculous, we put our thinking caps on and tried to come up with a compromise. "I know!" I said eyes narrowing, "We could have a toast off!"

And so the stage was set. We demonstrated the highlights of our treasured machines; we tasted each others toast; and glared at each other. Until finally, after my toaster had clearly won and she obviously looked away first, we were right back where we started. Worn out, tired and exhausted we sat defeated on the kitchen floor. Just then, Seth, our brother-in-law, knocked on the door. "Let's let him take which ever toaster he wants!" Jess said, a little too enthusiastically. "Okay", I said nonchalantly, my exterior was like a pond of serenity but my insides quivered like a new born llama on meth. I just knew he was going to pick my baby and I would be without my Lamborghini of English muffin heaven.

When Jess presented him with the idea he shrugged, picked up Jess's toaster and walked out the door. "That's easy" he said, "I'll take the classic!"

Suddenly, my toaster looked cheap and plastic. Something you might find in Walmart while my brother-in-law walked out with a treasure beyond melted butter. "Are you sure you don't want the new one?" I asked hopefully.

"Nah," he said, "the old ones always make better toast."

New Era

Okay, here we go, my first blog ever. I'm embarrassed to say that all previous blogs have been the contribution of my beautiful and linguistically gifted wife. She not only writes funny, charming, and dare I say provocative blogs, but she lets me bask in the credit of their creation (and if you haven't seen a full grown, 200 pound male of the species, with hair like a gorilla on Rogain, "basking", then you haven't lived!). What a Woman! And, while this is one tremendous perk of being married to such a talented vixen, I think its time for me to hop off the old free ride to blogger infamy and strike out on my own. She shouldn't have to bare the burden of always coming up with the cute, funny little stories that lighten the unbearably mundane lives of our two blogger groupies (whose very happiness, dare I say existence, is intrinsically tied to the tectonic action of her comedic prose).

Yes, I know you crave her stuff; but us Lilliputians of the literary world need our voice too. Like Michelangelo's little brother Jimmy, its time for me to step out from behind the giant shadow cast by "big brother" and sculpt... That's right sculpt. If not the "David" then perhaps the "Tooth Pick Log Cabin" or the no less challenging "Clay Mountain". What ever form this ill advised expression of inner turmoil takes, you can rest assured that it will be pure and tortured. Because, what I lack in talent, charm and good looks, I make up for with determination, the ability to fart on command and hair every where but the top of my head. Thats right folks (and by folks I mean the two of you), this blog has entered a new era, if not for the better than at least its new and that, my pudgy little Internet scavengers, is all any of us can ask for.

P.S.
My wife tells me it's not a good idea to insult the readers (rookie mistake).

A Yoga Conundrum

Our original intent was to keep a journal of our first year of married life, but now, months later you have only march 15th to thank for your reading pleasure. Fortunately for you July 31st was last night and since every knows that is Mid-Year Resolution Day, August 1st gives you an update. Bring out the heavily inflated yet biodegradable non wildlife-killing balloons and ticker tape, lots of melt in-the-rain ticker tape.

Since we like to think of ourselves as an outdoorsy couple we thought a few camping trips would be necessary to keep that reputation alive. Our most recent consisted of a Friday night drive to Maroon Bells and Snowmass outside of Aspen, a sleep at the conundrum trial head, a curious wake-up by a Porsche-driving lap-dog commanding over-outfitted man (who said, as he was donning a long-sleeve tech tee over his already sun-screen coated arms, to his disobedient dog, Cosmos, "I am your Master."), a heavy exhausting 8.5 mile wildflower-covered hike up a couple thousand feet in elevation, a treeline nook for our tent and our goal: natural hot springs. Oh, did I mention the natural part? Not quite sure to what degree he considered himself a naturalist but one particularly leather-tanned dude was void of threads and full of yoga-like movements which he proudly performed on the grassy knoll next to the hot springs and only during audience-filled intervals. I don't know if he was going for amused or awed but he got the former. We retreated the next day, cutting our time in half on the descent but traffic doubling it on the road, and then, finally, non-freeze-dried food and a clean shower.

Paul is currently unaware of my re-design or my resolution so i may leave the next informative update to him. (And hopefully that will be before Last Quarter of the Year Resolutions or we will be rounding up to a full year with a whole 3 updates for our friends and fans.)

Hardhat not required

So the day is finally approaching, another hard-to-get beauty and stoic stud muffin (commence side-splitting laughter) will be officially "tying the knot" and off the market (could someone please tell us where "tying the knot" came from??).

Our hope for this blog is to keep you informed of various updates, both necessary and superfluous, that will precede and follow our nuptial bliss.

We hereby promise that nothing will be tossed, thrown or otherwise hurled at anyone throughout the course of our wedding (at least not on purpose or in premeditation). This includes but is not limited to: rice, floral arrangements, birdseed, car keys or undergarments. (We know that this was one of your greatest concerns and hoped to alleviate any stress you may have suffered otherwise. Inspectors are due next week to further ensure the safety of this happiest of days.)

We are looking forward to sharing this day with you as we start our bright new bruise-free future together.

We love you all and hope that each one of you can be there.