The Story of Frank

Does anyone really need a cat? Dogs, ever the predictable choice, tend to provide utility and generally seek to please. Lucy, our 13 year old mutt, has assisted with hundreds of vacuum-worthy spills while keeping us intruder free for the duration. She’s also never met a nature show she couldn’t ruin.

But back to cats. We already have one. His given name is Tiny Peter and he’s top notch. Practically every new visitor to Chapman HQ says something to the tune of “Hey, what’s wrong with your cat?” I’ve had a long think on the subject and Peter either truly thinks he is a dog or is actually a reincarnated five-year-old with a heart of gold. We’re currently shopping around for statue makers so we can capture his likeness in its prime.

Recently, however, Peter has been super bored. He has spent his entire life with another cat around, and since Leo has moved on to kitty heaven, Peter is flying solo. He tried to play with Lucy, but she’s basically hated every lifeform that has diluted her portion of our love. It’s been one demotion after the next in her eyes, and Peter was simply another middle manager who had been swiftly promoted through the ranks. With tons of energy to burn and not much going on, Peter’s favorite activity had become gnawing on my fingers, especially if they happened to be in motion on a keyboard.

A good friend of ours was fostering cats and shared that there was a kitten fitting our profile (orange + male) being taken in. The poor guy was found alone at a shady apartment complex in town. I saw the profile picture and was immediately sold. But when I called the next day to inquire, I was told that many were already interested. They must have seen what I did - all that voluptuous fluff.

But as a little time passed and the adoption window opened, I was notified that others had not been a “match.” That’s definitely not a red flag, right? Fondue (as his adoption papers called him) was open to meet us. We promptly made ourselves available and thought a lot about melty cheese.

Allison was out of town, so the girls and I loaded up the minivan on a Saturday morning for our official visit. The entire backseat was read the riot act since we were being evaluated as a candidate just as much as the cat was. Time to turn up that classic Chapman charm.

Let’s admit it was not a great sign when the hosts dropped immediately to the living room floor. Fondue required detachment from the underside of a couch. Our crew was cautiously able to pet him for a smidge. Indeed he was the softest thing imaginable. In my mind, the decision matrix was on full tilt with not much of a data set to go off of. Still young, impressionable, with a good role model chilling back at our house - I figured the odds of success were in our favor.

I’m not one to linger at a stranger’s house (or anyone’s for that matter), so I made a seat-of-my-pants call to adopt Fondue on the spot after we were asked for our thoughts. I’ve driven away from an adoption opportunity with Maggie before, and that’s how we ended up with the aforementioned Leo. The legally-binding paperwork was already out on the counter. 

After a quick stop at adoption headquarters for a last round of shots, the three of us and our new furry friend headed to the house. I called Allison with the news. Being married as long as we have, it’s the tone that you really pick up on. Through the excited words of congratulations, I detected a hint of doubt that maybe we hadn’t done our due diligence. She knows me so well (and vividly remembers my impulse buy of a new piano last year).

Upon release, Fondue McFluffins Chapman promptly bolted for the first item he could hide under. Dude was terrified. We went through a few rounds of extrication, attempted love, and scratches before we admittedly lost track of his whereabouts. Eventually he was located up inside the frame of a chair. I couldn’t help but be a bit impressed.

The very next day he scuttled to a more permanent location - this time, under a bathroom vanity who's opening was barely larger than he. This was a pickle. Since I have super thick man arms, you’ve probably already come to the realization that I was unable to reach Fondue at this point. We had ourselves an old-fashioned standoff. After a long day of fretting, it had become (in my paranoid imagination) legitimately possible for Fondue to no longer fit back through that hole in a few days. 

Mercifully, the dual contributions of teamwork and good smelling cat treats finally paid off. I hurriedly taped the vanity with every roll of tape on hand. When Allison arrived home, my open wounds were not signs of an optimistic start. Still, we kept with it. Our house guests agreed he indeed looked like a pleasant thing to hold and we had them sign a waiver prior to the scratches. Then it got a little worse. 

Young “Frank,” as we were now calling him, started pooping regularly on Lucy’s beds. Now, we totally expected to promote this little guy quickly, but (what seemed like) premeditated hate pooping was violating several notable HR policies. This was a double-whammy, as Frank had to be given a special wet food that was already an unsettling experience on the way in. 

On the upside, all the delicious meal times started to prove my worth in young Frank’s paranoid little eyes. I was permitted to pet him in passing. He farted prolifically, but that couldn’t mask the sweet smell of progress.

The soiled dog beds began to pile up, however, and overall improvement stalled. More scratches accumulated. This guy was obviously miserable and had a stomach that churned incessantly. The rest of the family never saw him, and hardly believed my tales of victory. It was not going well.

Then I had a slight epiphany. Frank was basically still a feral cat. What if he was binge eating his face off, thinking each meal was his last? I had left the kitty buffet wide open and he was taking advantage. I know I’m a real peach when I have the tummy troubles, and maybe portion control would make a difference. The change was almost immediate.

In a few days, young Frank walked up to me and meowed (which feels more like he’s yelling at you). I picked him up, feeling optimistic. Y’all. You can’t imagine how good it actually feels to embrace such a wonderful surface. Like heaven misplaced a pillow. 

After steadily working towards true friendship for a few weeks, Frank bestowed upon me the privilege to carry him clear across the house for feeding time. He made regular appearances in front of the whole family. Lucy grunted her displeasure as we all told Frank how good he looked. 

And then one fateful night…

Allison and I have become quite clear in our roles as our life together has gained efficiency. Sanitation, mess hall, critter control, light switcher-offer (we’ll group them together as “Facilities Management”) are all under my jurisdiction. Allison is President of Feelings and social chair while carrying the company’s key objective of “acting like respectable humans.” When she is out of town for a stretch, we devolve into pizza-crazed hermits - dressed in mismatched clothing and binging on Battle Bots.

Considering this delegation of responsibilities, note that on this particular evening, I was downstairs ensuring all our lights were off and properly sorting the recycling. Out of the serene quiet comes the piercing screams of my girls from above. “Daddy, there’s a bug!!!” 

I always spring to immediate action in these scenarios because I love them so much. When I arrived on the scene, however, the critter had already been dispatched. With a paw placed proudly atop the offending roach, Frank looked dignified and in his element. We had ourselves a new Head of Security. Lucy was beside herself.

Back in the World Again

It had been over 500 days since my last flight, a staggering amount of time inside my house since returning from India in early 2020. We’ve all gone a bit nuts. I am absolutely no exception. My hobbies have evolved from welcomed distractions to obsessive and weird. Currently, I’m going deep on books about fungi. Like real deep.

So you might understand why there was a smidge of trepidation in catapulting back into the throngs of humanity. Allison had also stocked up on COVID tests in anticipation of me bringing the Delta variant back to Alabama. Her goodbye was riddled with all the feels.

My destination was Indiana for two jam-packed days. NASCAR and Indycar were both racing on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway road course, in the type of event that gets me all jacked up. It promised to be a loud, exciting and buffet-filled weekend.

But there would be lots of people - three dimensional ones. Overwhelmingly, my personal interactions as of late have been virtual. We introduce ourselves with well-worn bios, try not to talk over each other for a bit and then follow-up with an email. Along with having to remember where I stored my pants, this trip would also force me into situations where I was hanging out with a lot of new faces. Luckily, I was loaded up with some sweet mushroom fun facts. Let’s do this.

The airport protocols I walked into weren’t that big of a deal. I wouldn’t say wearing a mask is really an inconvenience, because it acted as a barrier between my nose and airplane smells. The bigger challenge was that they are notably understaffed in all positions. Finding paper towels or ordering a meal was a much more challenging experience than before. The angry face buttons on the bathroom cleanliness surveys were all assuredly covered in COVID. 

Since I’m all healthy and stuff (also the Chick-fil-A line was insane), I opted for a smart travel snack pairing of a bottled water and bag o’ trail mix. I went with the budget nut brand, instead of a well-packaged offering of ‘Nut-rition.’ So after building confidence and optimism on the puddle jumper to Atlanta, I prepared for a tasty snack on my Indy flight. Not having one of those ‘tear here’ notches probably saved me 2 cents, but I would have happily shelled out the difference after spraying my nut assortment clear across the airplane. I. Was. Mortified. The guy beside in a “Baby Yoda is my Patronas” t-shirt shirt asked if I needed help in a way that came off as very insulting. I had interrupted his Parks and Rec viewing slash game of Candy Crush. 

Indianapolis has a cool downtown area. It smells slightly of poots (steam?), but offers lots of pleasant green space, a man made canal and great views of the White River. I love a good water feature. They need to chill on the ubiquitous scooter rentals though. After 10pm, you are taking your life into your own hands when traversing the sidewalk. 

f you know nothing about Indianapolis Motor Speedway, know that is has brought upon the kind of racing fan devotion that involves a man building a treehouse in someone else’s back yard just so he wouldn’t miss seeing last year’s 500 in person. He couldn’t even see the whole track from there. 

This hallowed site has been hosting automobile races since 1911, when “The Brickyard” nickname alluded to the 2.5 mile oval’s surface original brick surface. 500 miles of that would have been rather chafe inducing. The facility in its modern form is so unbelievably massive that you could fit Vatican City, The Taj Mahal, Churchill Downs, Yankee Stadium, Rose Bowl Stadium, the White House, Liberty Island and the Roman Colosseum inside the track simultaneously. The most repeated phrase from our weekend group was, “Got my steps in!”

was geeking out as soon as we came out of the tunnel. To you, cars going around and around for hours may be super boring, but a race track is my happy place. The noise, the danger, the smells of burning rubber and exhaust awake my senses. These individuals that pilot shiny 200+ mph machines are my heroes. I was given a pass that would let me go just about anywhere, and I was going to use every bit of that freedom. 

Having never quite known how to act around famous people, I decided to go with the “make them think we know each other” approach. My dad uses this method with great success. A normal human can only remember so many names and faces. If you are Joey Logano and get introduced to hundreds of people every week, you’re going to smile and wave back when someone says hello with a certain level of confidence. I had an absolute blast exchanging cordials with drivers, broadcasters and legends of the sport, including the greatest mullet-haver in racing and a portly NASCAR icon who is so very appropriately sponsored by Oscar Meyer.

When a lull in the on-track action came Saturday afternoon, I set out to procure some authentic trackside merch. It has become standard practice to fetch souvenirs for the girls whenever we travel. Money can’t buy love or happiness, but it can help your kids forget that you abandoned them for a stretch.

My oldest occasionally watches along with me on Sunday afternoons and she doesn’t pick losers, so I knew Maggie needed a Chase Elliott car. I promptly stepped up to his designated vendor and asked for such. “You want the Hooter’s sponsored one?” asked the lady. “Umm, this is for my 6 year old daughter, so maybe let’s go another route,” I responded with a half-judgy laugh. We settled on his usual NAPA Auto Parts livery. 

declined both bag and receipt, because the case was small enough to go in a pocket and, you know, the Earth. Target one acquired, I quickly ducked into a tent next door to find Libby a Scott Dixon Indycar replica. She hadn’t declared her allegiance specifically to the 6-time champ, so this was admittedly a bit selfish on my part. I also like winners.

While casually twirling purchase 1 in my left hand (still in original packaging) and thinking nothing of it, I look up to see a huge display of Chase Elliott cars before me…the exact same edition I’m holding. No question, I 100% look like a shoplifter if I do anything other than walk this to the register. I scanned the area for employees, started to sweat a bit, and concluded that Jesus knew the truth. In the most suspicious looking sequence in history, I slid the plastic case into my pocket and scooted toward the exit with my cool guy face on. Safely out of range and feeling uncomfortably damp, I hastily deconstructed the packaging before Chase Elliott himself could appear out of nowhere and yell “J’accuse!” 

Back to the mission at hand, I simmered a bit and tracked down mini Scott Dixon. Feeling a renewed sense of accomplishment, I make for the checkout. About that time, I look down and see blood…a shocking amount of blood.

My shorts are stained red. My thumb is dripping all over the grass below. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I choose the least COVID-friendly course of action and put the affected area in my mouth. The plastic must have sliced my hand during the hasty escape minutes earlier. Panic returns. I take off in search of a bathroom. There’s no easy conversation with strangers about where all the blood came from, so I do my best to stay optimistic about stain removal possibilities.

Did I mention it was a real bad weekend for finding paper towels? Yeah, this is when the scarcity really hit home. Rather than conveniently wrapping my open would in absorbent materials and making some inroads on the problem, I was left to squeeze as much utility as I could out of soap and water.

With shorts that were mostly soaked through and a thumb that I kept as far from my body as possible, I figured that since I walked clear across the plaza to get here, I might as well pee. Let me at least empty my full bladder with the shred of dignity that remains. But no, dear reader, with a bumbling one-handed approach, I failed to get all my business properly back in its place before the zipper tragically caught some of it. 

Y’all, it’s truly a low moment when you are sweating, covered in water you threw on your own blood-stained shorts while franticly evaluating the severity of a self-inflicted penis wound in a public bathroom. This tends not to happen when you are watching the race broadcast from the comfort of your couch. I got lucky, folks. It was touch and go for a bit, but I thankfully did not require a trip to the infield medical center.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, I eventually rebounded and nobody knew the difference. All my wetness and anxiety evaporated in the 85 degree heat. I was once again happy not to be somewhere other than my living room on a Saturday afternoon.

I used the opportunity to wander around and take in the event from as many angles as I could. I talked to the volunteers, got a little too much sunshine on my face, and eventually returned to a delightful set of mixed company. All in all it was a great weekend. 

Upon my return home, Allison eschewed pleasantries in order to first stab me in the nose with a COVID test. It came back negative.

Living in a House Full of Ladies

I like to plan things. Meals, trips, conversation topics, most efficient driving routes, you name it. Some things, however, are beyond my control. Family planning, for instance, was a bit of a crapshoot. But in an ideal world, I wanted two girls.

So here I am, a father to two lovely ladies of 5 and 3. Every day is a joy. There’s glitter everywhere.

As I tackle year five of being wholly outnumbered, it’s time to offer up my findings. The sample size, at this point, has produced many insights that are rooted in factual observation, and hopefully won’t get me exiled to the basement. The time has come to hand in my report on what it’s like being the only dude in a house full of ladies.

Exhibit 1: So Much Hair

You know you have reached peak hair when every shirt you throw on has a dangly one in the sleeve. This is an unbelievably consistent occurrence and ever since Maggie grew a head full of curly locks to match her mother, this is my life. Drains, floors, and stray toothbrushes lay fully at their mercy.

To top it off, I have no idea how to style and/or arrange the two small heads that have been presented to me. WTF is a barrette and what are they good for!? I pick up at least 10 per day off the floor, so maybe they are simply fun to play with.

When Allison goes out of town, I consider it a success if my girls return home from school with any implements I stuck on their head still intact. Corralling a fidgety child’s hair into a reliable ponytail still feels like throwing darts, but I’m trying.

Exhibit 2: Music

Taylor Swift isn’t terrible. There, I said it. 

Music is one of those things that I hold reasonably sacred. I was a radio DJ in college at WEGL, played in a band* and have a decent record collection. Once I married Allison (for mostly not her taste in music) it was already assumed that I would have to make some playlist sacrifices. 

We have a family agreement that a song can’t be played twice on the same car trip. Rules exist because they were, at one time, broken to an egregious extent. I’m warming up to that T-Swift, but a man can only take so much. Once you hear your 5 year old belt out the line “In the middle of the night…In MY DREEEAMS…You should see the things we do, BABY!” then you start to reign it in a bit.

The Frozen movies actually have some pretty solid jams, and Trolls is a musical triumph. Over time, my critical mind has opened a bit. I’ve embraced music that would have gotten me fired from the radio station, but rest assured I’m still racing to connect my Spotify library first when we get in the car.

Exhibit 3: Dairy Products (mostly cheese)

Lord have mercy the cheese. I can’t say that my single days ever involved a cheese board, but here we are. That fondue pot we thoughtlessly registered for is now a staple in the pantry. Needless to say, my dairy product paradigm has shifted on its head.

 Allow me to  recite the inventory of our refrigerator at this exact moment: Cottage cheese, 2 packs of string cheese, cheese dip, cream cheese, muenster slices, 2 lbs of grated parmesan, 2 blocks of mozzarella, havarti slices, shredded cheddar, feta, pimento cheese, ricotta…I’m tired of typing, and I bet you get it by now. I never knew the genre could be so versatile, for the whole of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

When I heard of the dairy industry’s recent decline, I slept well knowing that we are doing our part to supplement the demand curve.

Exhibit 4: Pee Pee Shame

I thank God every day for having a penis. It is a much more convenient and efficient lifestyle. Getting ready in the morning, packing for trips, and purchasing clothes are all very simple undertakings. So, understandably, I was rattled a bit once the shaming began.

Allison and I are constantly reminded that there is no privacy in this house. A locked door or missing parent is simply an excuse to raise more hell and bust down the barriers between. Unless they are deeply unconscious, there’s a very good chance our poops, showers, and mommy/daddy special time will be interrupted.

It was Maggie who hurled the first insult. As detailed above, my visits to the restroom are seldomly uninterrupted, so Maggie took an opportunity to examine my unorthodox standing method and deem it “super gross.” Her feedback included commentary on “peeing out of (my) front butt” which was obviously hilarious. She quickly got Libby onboard with her hate mongering, so now the mere sight of me taking a leak elicits all kinds of chastization from the duo. With a few months of therapy, I’ll get beyond it. 

Exhibit 5: Toilet Paper

When you get married, there are compromises to be made. Two people will never perfectly align on every single thing, so you meet in the middle…except in those areas where you totally don’t. In the early days of my life with Mrs. Chapman, I wondered where all the toilet paper went. Then I helped create two more females. What used to last me a week will barely survive one day. It’s uncanny. Call me frugal, but even a big situation is likely a 10 square commitment. Somebody report back and let me know what the deal is. I tried to ask one time but was growled at.

Exhibit 5: Feelings

Historically, I would classify myself as “emotionally challenged.” The Chapman method, which has served to give several of us hypertension, is to internalize your feelings. I can recount many instances where my mother incurred serious wounds or was presented with really heavy situations, and just got on with it. The most I ever remember Brenda crying was when she backed into my sweet ‘95 Ford Mustang (a gift for my 16th birthday) and dented the fender. She was so upset that I got an aftermarket spoiler added at the body shop.

Fast forward to February 2015. Allison and I are hosting a Superbowl party at Chapman HQ. Maggie is 3 weeks from debuting on the scene. Toyota’s commercial that year featured a father and his daughter through the years. When the flashback ends, dad is crying in his Camry while dropping his adult daughter off at the airport. She is waving goodbye and departing for her assumedly dangerous military posting. Y’all, I totally lost it.

These days, it doesn’t take much. Old photos of our children, commercials featuring Sara McLachlan and sad puppies, Queer Eye reveals - all guaranteed to make me well up.

Yet, even with this heightened sensitivity, I still manage to hurt little baby feelings on a daily basis. My children’s responses to adversity and what I consider to be proportional reactions are usually way off. Therefore, I am often called  “mean” or generally accused of lacking the appropriate amount of empathy. My snuggles are also apparently second rate.

Last week, our family was at the pool. For Maggie, the time had come to offload her floatation aids and swim like a big girl. It was a goal we had pushed her to take on, and things were going well in the shallow end. Then, she slipped off a raft in an area where it was just deep enough to scare her a bit. Maggie was rescued immediately, but that didn’t keep her from elaborately expressing her dismay to the entire pool-going audience. 

Her immediate intent was to find the nearest exit and retreat in embarrassment, screaming dramatically with a face full of tears. But the gates were child proof and after the first one failed to yield, she furiously tugged on it like someone auditioning for the part of “desperate prisoner.” Over the next minute, she made a full circle of the facility, applying the same over-exaggerated theatrics to each locked gate and the distance covered between. Each failed attempt only brought out more emotion. It was made so much worse that we couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all.

Here’s the thing, though. That same child came back the next day with a vengeance. She established her own training regiment, setting increasingly more challenging goals along the way. By the last day, she was swimming like a fish, having conquered her fears and the deep end. I couldn’t have been prouder. 

And that’s why having a family full of ladies is pretty great.

*Gooch was an influential house party band formed by my roommate and I. We were terribly awesome

Distractions in the Time of Quarantine

It is a weird time to be alive. Whatever your perspective on the current happenings, we can all agree that 2020 has been challenging. With so many days of the same, everybody is looking for ways to get outside of the bubble and try something different. Our family has embraced this idea to the fullest, so I thought it might be fun to share our distractions. Chronicled below are my efforts to maintain sanity and keep things interesting around the Chapman house. 

Costco Bacon Bits

Love is a hard thing to explain, especially when it is between you and a very large package of meat crumbles that are somehow perfectly safe at room temperature. 

My introduction to this wonderful product came at the Chili Cook Off. Playing to the potential needs of the crowd, our team stocked up on the Costco double pack of bacon bits, as they complimented our southwestern chicken chili. The stinging disappointment of going home award-less wore off quite quickly when I was sent home with 5 pounds of unused bacon bits.

They were a revelation. The days following were certainly a “where have you been all my life?” honeymoon. Omelettes, salads, sandwiches, pizzas - you name it. Bacon, if you haven’t figured it out yet, goes well with just about everything. Easily accessible bacon that you don’t have to cook is a full-on heart attack enabler.

After about a month of delightful overindulgence, we had a family intervention after my children demanded a side of bacon bits with their dinner.

Making Bread

For the record, I was cranking out Sourdough weekly before it became the hobby du jour for everyone who was stuck at home with nothing to do. Rather than bore you with how fulfilling it is to bake homemade bread, we’re going to talk about what I do with it: create some amazing sandwiches. 

Alton Brown is a saint for many reasons, but his directive of applying mayonnaise to the outside of the bread was a particular game changer for me (and my waistline). It’s way better than pan frying with butter. Precisely at 11am, nearly every weekday, I bounce up the stairs and make a variation of the following.

I slice off some thick rounds of my honey sourdough and apply mayo to one side of each while an array of delicious deli cuts (usually smoked turkey + ham) and cheese get cooking in the pan. As the cheese starts to melt, all of the contents are folded together in order to mirror the shape of the bread.

At this point, both pieces of bread are added, mayo side down, to the pan. Working quickly, I pile the meat/cheese party onto one of the slices, topping with banana peppers and mustard. Once the naked slice of bread starts to brown a bit, you complete the sandwich and turn everything over to cook for a few more seconds. Slice that sucker in half, enjoy, and report back with how much I’ve altered your sandwich worldview.

Excessive Pacing

After reading the previous two sections, you must be wondering how I’m still alive. After all, we’re on month four of this lifestyle and I appear to be consuming a wild amount of saturated fats. I’ve found that the counterbalance for an iffy diet and 4pm happy hours is NEVER SITTING DOWN. In the last week, I’m averaging well over 10 miles per day on my feet…and it’s almost entirely in circles around our living room. Frankly, I have no idea why Allison hasn’t killed me yet. Our house isn’t huge (100 laps ~ mile) so you can hear every stab reverberate across the floorboards. This 717 mile challenge seemed daunting at first (average of 5.2 miles/day) and then I realized I go completely bonkers when cooped up inside all day. 

Planting Things

This hobby had all my attention for the first two months of shut-in life. We were going to live off the land. I was reading up on local chicken law. Much was accomplished in the days of clearing hillsides, filling up planters, and germinating seeds. It was all good fun for our entire family. But then we got to the part where we’re just watching it grow. Can’t they grow any faster!? I was beaming with pride when our first potato popped up…and then some cherry tomatoes appeared…a little bit of lettuce…yeah that’s about it. With any luck, we’ll have two ears of corn by 2021. Hey, at least I’ve got a sweet compost pile going that occasionally occasionally wafts the worst smell in the world onto our back deck.  

The oddest part of this whole experience is that my oldest child, who would prefer to live her life on French fries, has taken to making daily snacks out of the herb garden. I like cilantro, basil, oregano, mint and rosemary in my food, but handfuls of the raw stuff wouldn’t be my preference.

This could potentially be a potato I put in the ground and forgot about.

Purchasing New Friends

COVID-19 has made us so bored with one another that we needed someone else to play with. We are officially cat people now, because there are two of them. They outnumber the dog, who is less than pleased with her current situation. Petrie McFluffins Chapman made his debut almost three weeks ago now. He’s already slacked my entire company, played music through my headphones while I was on a call and decorated himself with a pink marker.

Cultivating Fungi

I’m filing this under its own section, simply because it was a separate (and stranger) operation. When you tell someone you have a box of mushrooms sprouting in a basement closet, their mind usually doesn’t go to Portobello. But here I am, giving a daily spritz to a musty cardboard box full of dirt. Unlike my outdoor farming efforts, I had detailed instructions with this kit, and it was basically dummy proof. Once the little white nubbins started appearing, they got huge in a hurry. Did they taste amazing and fresh, you ask? A mushroom is basically natures death sponge, so I’m having a hard time picturing the freshness. It was pretty excellent popping some of my homegrown sautéed mushrooms onto a super delicious sandwich, though.

Update - we have realized that the box, with its second growth of nubbins emerging, is starting to attract a large quantity of flies. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Rock Crystals

Our first “how the hell are we going to distract our children?” impulse purchase was a rock crystal growing kit. This sounds fancy and scientific, but it’s basically some volcanic rocks and a sugar solution that grows in different colors on each. Gratification was nearly instant, as the colorful crystals sprouted almost immediately. Being our first family project of the quarantine, it was prominently featured on our countertop. That is, until I decided to touch a few crystals (after telling my kids not to). They crumbled all over the place. Daddy ruins all the fun.

Cup of Caterpillars

Gotta love this concept. Company ships you a cup with 5 tiny caterpillars and enough food to get by. Until time comes to take the top off and prop up their attached cocoons, you and your children simply stare at this cup of caterpillars on the counter. What they didn’t show us in the promo picture was the unbelievably gross web of poop that envelops these little creatures gorge themselves. It got to the point where the cup was disallowed from dining areas. Anyone that caught a glimpse of the mini poop factory was guaranteed to lose their stomach.

Our girls were quite interested from the start, and we were a bit distressed to leave the chrysalises dangling from their stand as we left for a quick getaway to the lake. Not one to let 5 emerging butterflies loose in a cat-populated house, I left them to break free on the back porch. When we returned, they were all gone. Having not actually seen any butterflies matching their description as of late, they either took off on a migratory path somewhere else, or they made for a nice bird snack. I guess we’ll never know.

Hope you find plenty of enjoyable new distractions in this interesting time. I’m off to load up an Amazon cart full of bird watching accessories.

Chappy Does an Ultramarathon

I was puking my guts up two hours into a 30 hour adventure back from India. 

Turns out that maybe you shouldn’t try every kind of alcoholic beverage right before hopping on your 3am flight out of Chennai. It was a wedding reception, mind you, and my body was barely holding on after three days of festivities. The drinks were free, and after giving a pretty decent toast (including a Civil War joke and the phrase “total badass”) to the happy couple, I decided to get in the spirit of things.

It was somewhere around the third trip to that Qatar airliner bathroom where I hit a real low point. Having been to college, it was fairly clear to me what the problem was. Good luck, though, convincing a flight attendant from Qatar that you are just “sick like that night we chugged Jose Cuervo” instead of a Coronavirus host. This was about one week to the day before things really started shutting down worldwide, and there were a lot of nervous people in transit.

I needed to hydrate, start getting a few snacks in my belly, and find any motivation to get through two more layovers and another 24 hours of airplane food riddled with curry. Luckily, I was getting to the meat of an audiobook by David Goggins called “Can’t Hurt Me.” He went from over 300 pounds to one of the best ultramarathon runners in the world. David completed his first 100 miler on a whim and quickly worked his way up to the most absurd endurance challenges known to man (Badwater 135, 24 hour pull up record).

I love a good motivational story, and this one made me feel like a proper weenie for the comparatively trivial foot races (and hangover recoveries) I have completed in my many years. I’ve participated in two marathons, four halves, a handful of challenging trail runs under 20 miles, but that is the extent of it. For a while now, it has felt like I was on the downslope to dad bod mediocrity.

Having grown a smidge wiser in my late thirties, however, I’ve started contemplating the enjoyment of thoughtful exercise. Running has always been a competitive thing for me, but what would happen if I just strapped on my CamelBak and didn’t care about splits? I could listen to more motivational audiobooks, relax a bit, and head off into the woods for a few hours. Maybe long distances wouldn’t be so terrible if I simply slowed down.

Upon my return to Alabama, I put this idea to the test. The quickly hashed out goal was to jog more than an hour, but ten miles was looking like an easy task until I almost pooped in the neighbor’s bushes at mile 9.8. Time to carefully walk it home without anyone seeing where my right hand was positioned.

Next thing you know, the calendar was marked for a local trail race in May. It had a 10k, 50k and 12 hour all-you-can-run event. Seemed like a mid-range option was notably absent, but I had two months to sort out the details. Then everything got canceled…

Thankfully, the concept of “Virtual Races” started to catch on, and the organizers eventually pivoted to an online event. Participants could run wherever they want, simply sending in a GPS file of the effort. To further embrace the theme of social distancing, my uncharacteristic optimism had me thinking about a loop that would keep it all on our property. I’ve really lost it now!

Outside of a few casual mentions and putting in for a vacation day, I didn’t really tell anyone what I was doing. My parents would undoubtedly give me a speech. The neighborhood running group would call me stupid. It was best if I didn’t set myself up for failure. 

Speaking of failure, I did one hour long run around my house loop and it suuuucked. 30 feet of elevation change and tricky footing over the course of a 200 meter loop gets old very quickly. I needed every break I could get, and 250 of laps around my hillside lot was a death wish. At least I was starting to get practical.

As the week of the race approached, 9.8 miles was still my longest training run. But that didn’t stop me from deciding 6 hours of effort would be my self-imposed cutoff. If I made it to 50 kilometers, then it would be considered a success. That’s an 11:23/mile pace to all of you viewers at home. 

I awoke at 3:45am that Friday morning. Everything was laid out. With Vaseline applied, an audiobook specifically about running ultramarathons downloaded, and a last-minute safety poop in the books, I shuffled out to the street. For giggles, I sent a “before” selfie to our WhatsApp group of dude friends. When my Australian buddy (probably drunk at the time) immediately chimed back with interest, I felt obliged to continue updating the boys on the hour mark. Let’s do this thing before I fully awaken and realize what is happening.

Hour 1

Having wisened considerably on my route, I knew there would only be a few places in the neighborhood of Vestavia Hills where I could keep things flat. My first destination, the high school parking lot, also had lights that made running at 4:30am seem less ominous. The first hour was run entirely in a circle on the flat part of that parking lot, but I changed directions a few times to spice it up. I was enjoying the audiobook and keeping a comfortable pace around 9 minutes. A quick walking break for snack number one with hour 1 complete. 6.8 miles down.

Hour 2

Since this was initially on the schedule as a trail race, I felt obliged to go off-road for the middle part. Sunrise lighting my path, I headed down to our nearest park for a delightfully shaded forest loop. Things were continuing to go uncharacteristically well (no emergency poops yet), but my average mile pace was going up slightly due to the terrain. Did I mention the humidity? Even though the temp outside was sparingly mild, I started to realize that my water supply wasn’t going to last very long. Piling on to my paranoia was the fear that I had fallen behind a bit on snacks. When you are burning around 1,000 calories per hour, replenishing 100 at a time with GU packs won’t work indefinitely. Doubts  began to creep in as I eclipsed the first half marathon in just under 2 hours. Friends, who were now up early with their kids, filled the WhatsApp discussion with encouragement slash comments on how sweaty I was.

Hour 3

I knew hour three would be tough, namely because I was now clipping off distances my legs hadn’t experienced in over 10 years. The halfway mark would also offer up a good indicator of my chances to hit 50k within 6 hours. I had resolved to run (let’s call it a jog by now) until the end of hour 3 to give myself a chance. Leg cramps popped up, unfortunately, and that objective was not achieved. I knew it was in my best interest to get back to the house ASAP to restock. 19 miles in as I walked the only notable hill back up to our street.

Hour 4

This is precisely when the situation went pear-shaped. You might be thinking “Hey Chappy, what’s 12 more miles after you have gone this far?” While your optimism is appreciated, dear friends, I was in a very bad place. My body started to cramp in brand new ways. It was all I could do to ascend the 6 steps to my back deck. While I was bent over, struggling to refill the CamelPak and screaming obscenities, my lovely wife opened the back door to greet me. “You should stop. Just stop. This is obviously a terrible idea” she encouraged. I’m sure the visual was unsettling, and frankly, I was a broken man. My midsection was locked in one giant cramp, and I felt like a muppet achieving the simplest of tasks.

At this point, rain was falling and there were still 11 miles remaining.  I’ve never DNF’d a race in my life. Despite the fact that I had basically concocted my own twisted challenge in this scenario, I was hoping the Advil, pickles and most of a water bottle would lend a hand. The focus now was to just keep moving, whatever that meant. I grabbed all the remaining stock and set out for another hundred or so loops around the high school parking lot.

As a forgettable 60 minute period concluded, I had only added 4 more miles to my total. It was going to be close…

Hour 5

Due to the rain and general lack of optimism, I had failed to update my dudes since the 19 mile mark. Messages like “Chappy, proof of life please” kept popping up on my watch. I was 100% walking at this point and my average pace was climbing beyond the mid tens. Advil helped as it started to kick in, and so did some solid food. I resolved to not leave it all up to the last hour, and so began running the slightly downhill side of the parking lot loop. I looked up and opened my mouth for rain as a feeble attempt to save my onboard water supply. Without an easy way to refill, I knew this would have to last me to the finish. Slowly but surely, I started to find a rhythm in my jog/walk approach. I was somewhat pleased with my resolve when I finally told the crew that I was 27 miles in. This was doable.

Hour 6

50 kilometers equates to 31.16 miles in America units. My watch readout only goes to tenths, so I had planned to bank an extra .1 at the finish for a secure grand total of 31.2 miles. The rarely seen Optimistic Chappy came out for a bit as I stared down the final 60 minutes. Cramps returned, but the mileage eclipsed in hour 5 had proven that this hybrid approach was fast enough to get there. My desire to get it over with pushed the jog section further. I had eaten all the snacks, including every edible part of an apple, and my water supply was seriously low. The watch became my obsession, as each tenth slowly ticked over.

The thirty mile mark got me all emotional, because I could taste it by that point. I thought about my girls, who were surely disappointed I hadn’t done this all in our back yard. The impending cold beer and pizza also might have had something to do with it…and I was totally going to load up some extra shredded cheese.

After a few more loops of the parking lot, it was time for the short trot back to our house. My parents, who still didn’t really know what I was doing, casually called as they were out running errands in the Friday morning rain.

“Hey, whatcha doing? Sounds like you are out running” remarks Brenda. “Well, funny story,” I began. “About to finish my first ultramarathon. I’m at mile 31, with .2 left to go.” My Dad couldn’t help himself with the obligatory “Please be careful and don’t hurt yourself.” 

“Dad, I can literally see the house at this point. I’m done. No need for speeches.” “Just take care of yourself, is all I’m saying.” as he still couldn’t help himself. “Ok, I’m going now, parents. Going to wrap this thing up, eat all the pizza, and drink all the beer.”

With that sign off, I decided to run the driveway with intent, and heard sweet little voices yelling “Daddy, Daddy!” as I hit the virtual finish line with 15 minutes to spare.  It was over, and even as the cramps all came back at once, I couldn’t have been much happier on my wobbly legs…

Almost two weeks have passed since, and I don’t have any lingering injuries. Seems that being a jogging/walking enthusiast has its benefits. I’ve ridden the wave long enough to sign up for another virtual race -   commitment that somehow spans 717 miles over 140 days in the spirit of Forrest Gump. You might say it is a fitting next step. We’re over two months into spending nearly every waking moment in the same place, and I can go as slow as I want. Maybe I just feel like running…

*Many thanks to Southeastern Trail Runs & The Trak Shak for being awesome*