Trim Tram Donovan

Ground Coffee

Every time I make coffee, I see all those millions and millions of grains of ground brown pellets in the bag waiting to be spilled by my hand. I have performed the accidental spill of ground coffee many times. Sometimes, my arm misses the coffee filter and some spills out of the scoop. Sometimes, I simply have scooped too much and by the time the scoop comes to light, it's rolling off the pile of finely ground coffee way too easily.

Today's spill was the most creative spill. I opened a new bag and the adhesive tape stuck to my arm and, out of shock, I straightened my arm and tried to pull it off. The bag is slingshot up and about a quarter of the bag flew all over the kitchen.

Immediately, our dog runs into the kitchen when he hears the ruckus. "Buster, stay!" I hold up my right hand as if I'm a crossing guard and my other hand holds a broom with the dustpan attachment, "Staaaaaaaaaay." Like I'm diffusing a bomb, I gently lower my hand and take the dustpan off the broom and Buster strolls away while his nails click on the Pergo (trademark) floors. I couldn't take that dog eating all that caffeine.

Speedster/Cold Like Your Blood

I stood among 200 competitors in a 5K/10K race on Saturday. A race this small only demands a spray painted line on the street and the race director making announcements on a bullhorn. 

I'm in the front pack but don't necessarily belong there. Among the front runners are people who are gunning to win or take their age bracket. One small group of women are chatting up a storm before they realize they're up at the front, positioned right in front of me and my buddy Aaron.

They chatter something about how they should move back. One of the women is Suzy Favor Hamilton, three time olympian and seven time national champ. She stands among these women and she looks directly at me and says, "We'll let you speedsters up ahead of us."

"Me?" I answer.

"Yea, you speedsters can move up." She smiles.

"Suzy Favor called me a speedster. I am sooo blogging this."

#####

When I work on installing anything around the house, there will be two things: blood and swearing. The range of these installations goes from something as little as hanging a picture to building a deck. All of these projects demand that I'm unhappy and I injure myself.

Lately, I've had a project that I've been putting off. It's the light/fan above the oven. I've been working to retro-fit this thing and it's been a little difficult. It's been sitting in the office for about five days now while I try to figure out each problem with hanging it.

Yesterday, I returned home from watching the Ironman Wisconsin swim start. As I close the door behind me, I saw that hood sitting on the floor of the office, "I'm putting this friggin' thing on." I walked directly downstairs to the breaker box to flip off ol' #4 so I can hook up the wiring. I stride back up the stairs and lift the hood up and put it into place. 

Jeni notices me wrestling this 30 pound silver metal saucer thing and asks, "Do you need some help?"

"No. I'll ask for it." I jostle it around some more and try to let it connect with the duct and the anchor screws. I get the duct then the screws are hard to reach. I try again to get the screws to anchor but the duct is pushed up, then the third try the duct work is pushed behind it. A fourth and fifth try leads to electrical cables slipping out of the back of the hood's metal framing.

The hood slips time and again. Let the swearing begin. With my frustration growing, my ability to focus on the task becomes more difficult and I turn to forcing it into position. 

When the time was right, the hood slipped back and the metal (as the doctor put it) "filet" the face of my thumb. 

"What were you doing?" the doctor asked me.

"I was putting in the fan thing over my oven."

"Oh--the range hood."

"Sure."

"Well, I don't think you'll have to get stitches unless you want stitches but men don't usually care if they get stitches because it's typically a cosmetic thing to avoid scarring. Men don't really care about that."

"I don't want stitches."

"I don't think you'll need stitches."

"Good. Because I don't want stitches."

"Great."

"I want the bleeding to stop."

"Well," the doctor backpedals, "stitches will stop the bleeding. That's what they're good for, too. I've had stitches on this hand a couple times. Then a couple times that I needed them I didn't get them."

By that point, I wondered if he was just bored that day and was trying to mess with my head.

"Whatever. Do whatever it takes to stop the bleeding."

"Good." He nods as he leaves. 

I'm left alone in this two bedroom cardiac ward in the clinic (don't ask me why) while one tech is taking inventory of the crash cart as part of his "monthly duties."

"Everything look ok? It's all there?" I try to make conversation with him because lag time between nurse/doctor/nurse visits are long.

"Looks good," he says. "How did you do that?" he gestures to my thumb.

"I sliced it while install the fan over my oven."

"Oh, you mean the oven exhaust."

"Sure."

"Ouch," he continues to inventory, "I had some electrical work done on my house and the guy tried to bill me for stuff he couldn't do. He said, 'I don't know how to fix this.' then he sent me a bill. Well, I figured out how to do it. I should bill him."

"Yea, I mean, what if you said, 'I can't inventory this crash cart.' ? Your boss wouldn't accept that, right?"

"Sure." he replied. I could probably agree that my analogy was pretty weak. He finished his monthly duty in the room and wished me good luck.

I sat alone for only a couple minutes until the doctor ducks his head in the room, "She's not here yet?" and quickly leaves.

A few minutes later, two women enter with a number of gauze pads and a metal pan. They tell me that they're here to cleanse my thumb as the doctor ordered. According to the older nurse, it wouldn't hurt because it's "cold like your blood." I wondered how she got that impression.

The other nurse seemed unsure of herself and it became obvious that she was new. I only gained this when the senior nurse said, "She's still being trained."

"You mean she's learning things like blood is cold?" I shouldn't have said that out loud to the woman who was holding my bleeding thumb.

She asked me how I did it, "If you haven't had a Tetanus shot in a while, you should get a booster."

"I cut it on metal."

"What metal?!"

"I was installing my fan over the oven."

"Oh, you mean the range hood."

"Sure. And I sliced it."

"You should be more careful."

The younger nurse chimed up, "It takes my husband forever to do anything around the house." 

As the conversation died down, the older nurse seemed to observe that everything was under control. The younger nurse put the surgical glue on my cut then wrapped with about twenty layers of gauze.

I returned to watching the Ironman. Ron Lehmann noticed it and made fun of me and told me, "What do you think? Thumbs up?" Things along those lines.

ZUMBA!

Workout plan for this past week: Speed/Agility Class-Tuesday 5:30AM. Strength Training-Wednesday 5:30AM. Speed/Agility-Thursday 5:30AM. Friday off.

Tuesday, 4:45AM.

I drag myself out of bed to put on my workout clothes then eat something before class. I get around to putting gym clothes on my body with blurry eyes, then start the coffee. I watch the coffee brew for about half a minute. I decided to spend time checking email while the oldest addiction in my personal history is brewing.

Ian wakes up screaming about 4:50AM. Class must be scrapped.

Wednesday, 4:50AM.

After hitting the alarm four times, I find a way to get out of bed: coffee. I'll make a pot. I'll have a cup. I was up a couple times with our sick two-year-old Ian. He found his way to our bed to sleep. He was still sleeping as my black gold trickled into the glass pot. I figured I could just check email while I waited.

Our bedroom door slowly opens and it's Ian. He's coming out saying, "Daddy. Diego." His signal that he wants to watch "Go, Diego, Go." I put him on the couch, turn his show on and give him a toddler cup full of milk.

I rustle Jeni awake and tell her I have to go to the gym soon and Ian's awake. She gets up and showers. I leave for the gym--running a bit late.

After about ten minutes, I return home. On my entrance back into the house, I explain to Jeni, "I forgot my gym shoes." This time of year, you have to wear snow boots and carry your gym shoes. I forgot to perform the second part. Being late and forgetting gym shoes and leaving Jeni flying solo with Ian was my signal to just stay home.

Thursday, 4:53AM.

The alarm must have gone off a record seven times this morning. I had just enough time to make a small pot of coffee. We only had enough time & grounds for a four cup pot.

It's 5:05AM and no Ian. Jackpot. I slink into the bedroom and tell Jeni, "I'm headed out."

"Isn't Ian awake?"

"No."

"Good." She whispers.

I got to the gym and Scott the trainer is there welcoming people and checking them into class. He looks surprised as I enter, "Steve, what are you doing here?"

"I know I've been gone all week."

I begin to speed by until Scott stops me with the comment, "You know that we've changed our class for the day to Zumba? It's a dance exercise class."

There are two times when I dance. One scenario is drunk at an immediate relative's wedding. The other scenario is when a beautiful woman is involved.

"Who's teaching this?" I ask Scott. I was ready to turn around and go home.

"Danielle."

Danielle. Young gal with a great body. Awesome smile. What guy would say, "I don't want to watch her dance."..?

I think a moment on it, "I guess I could try it out." I walk on and I'm greeted by the ten or so women who are flooding into this class. They know me by name.

"Steve, I saw your car out front and I just had to laugh."

"Steve? You're the last guy I'd expect to see here."

"Do you know we're having Zumba today, Steve?"

All of those greetings should have been clear indicators that I should leave but Danielle came out in a bright red tight tank top and off white tight pants. She was excited about this class. You could tell by the big grin on her face and the way she explained what this class was about.

"We'll be dancing to the beat and simply following what I do." She motions and explains, "In Brazil, they teach Zumba by dancing in a line." I didn't hear much more than that before she launches into the dance of the Zumba.

I tried to follow along. She would tap to the beat and face the palms down, pointed left. Then pointed right. Left. Right Left Right Left. Then introduce a prance forward and sashay, then prance back. Tap to the beat, then palms down, fingers pointing left then right. Left then right.

She and I were in stark contrast among this crowd. Seeing her dance was great. But like many little mental tricks, it only was a red herring for my disgusting mis-steps, off tempo moves and lost sashays. In addition, my backwards Cubs hat and four day beard was a peculiar look for a Zumba student.

The song finds an end and a few women slink over to the water. I follow and continue onto the locker room to get my coat and leave.