In almost a year of marriage, I’ve learned that part of the honor of being Liz’s husband includes a tiny portion of serving in a personal assistant style role. Apparently inherited from her dad, Liz has a strong dislike for talking on the phone. This includes tasks ranging from attempting to make changes to insurance policies in her name to trying to describe her symptoms of illness to our primary care physician to even making appointments at the female doctor. The rule on the latter is that if any questions arise, she has to swoop in and save me.

In addition to scheduling any of the appointments, often times I’ll need to remember and remind her of the upcoming appointment. As you can imagine, I’ve developed a rapport with most of her doctors and/or their office staff. One doctor actually corresponds via e-mail! Liz and I both forgot about an appointment that she had with him. I was reminded when I received a billing statement from him with a $60.00 “No Call, No Show” fee. I can’t tell you how much it hurt to write that check.

When the time was approaching for her next appointment, I e-mailed him and asked him to confirm the date and time of her appointment. He wrote back that it was Tuesday at 5 PM. This struck both of us as odd given that his office isn’t open on Tuesdays. So, I wrote back and used the Internet emphasis by way of caps lock. TUESDAY at 5PM? His response was yes.

When we got to his office on Tuesday at 4:57 PM (and if you know us, this is a feat), the door was locked and his lights were off. I reached for the tool I can’t live without, my BlackBerry Pearl 8130–available exclusively at Verizon Wireless–and shot him another e-mail:

Dr. [last name]-
Per our e-mail last week, we are here for Liz’s appointment on Tuesday at 5PM. You, however, are not here. So, I guess we’re even on the $60.00 “No call, No show” fee.

Thanks,
Logan

Before we were back to our apartment, he wrote back. He apologized a few times, and said that he meant to say Wednesday at 5PM. He had gotten the dates confused. Liz went back to his office the next day for her regularly scheduled appointment, and when she returned home, presented me a check for $60.00 from the doctor’s personal checking account.

A good doctor is like money in the bank. A ballsy personal assistant, however, is priceless.

My brothers Brent and Ryan came to visit this weekend. While it was very nice to see them and we had a lot of fun on their short–yet sweet–visit, one memory particularly sticks out as unexpected and funny at the same time.

Brent used to work at The Real Estate Book in Greater Cincinnati. He casually asked if we had the publication in Chicago. We do in fact have The Real Estate Book and Brent wanted me to walk with him to the nearest publication stand to get a copy. A multi-tasker at heart, I wanted to take Tito outside to answer nature’s call at the same time.

After we got the books, we were walking back towards our building. As we approached the 7-Eleven in the next block a woman yelled out “OHMIGOD, IT’S A CHI!” The closer we got, the more and more ridiculous she got. She practically sprung herself upon Tito, petting him and spouting off full-on baby talk.

“I’m a chi mommy,” she explained. She continued the discussion and asked a series of questions about Tito. I’d answer some and Brent would chime in as well. As her friends came out of 7-Eleven she stood up to walk away. She leaned in to Tito’s face, petted his head and said, “Enjoy the rest of your walk with your daddies.”

After she walked far enough away to be out of normal (read: not Brent’s) whisper range, Brent looked at me. His eyes were as big as silver dollars and he whispered said “Daddies?” I just shrugged it off, and explained that it’s not entirely uncommon here like it may be in, say, Moores Hill.

One thing’s for sure, though. Just like when she shared a room when we were young. I call dibs on the top.

Bunk, that is.

Throughout life, we receive little morsels of wisdom. Sometimes it’s unsolicited advice from a stranger at a bar. We’re mentored by our co-workers and supervisors. Lessons from teachers give us the foundation to set out and achieve the goals attainable within our God-given potential. And we learn to live and love, laugh and cry from experiences with friends and family.

One of the most intriguing pieces of advice that I’ve received was, “Fake it ’til you feel it.” It’s a take on the slogan “Fake it ’till you make it,” which is commonly used as a means of treating depression or to help new members of Alcoholics Anonymous. According to David Brant, the phrase means “…take something that feels impossible, or at least completely unnatural, and pretend that it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world for you to be doing, and hope that, eventually, it will become as easy as you’re pretending it is. And, hopefully, the strain of pretending won’t ruin your life.”

The word hopefully is key to the aforementioned statement. I’ve been told to lean on this theory for quite a few things. Enjoying work. Sticking to a diet. Religion. Becoming a fan of someone you hate. And I’ve tried it. Let’s look at the results:

Enjoying work? I mean, as much as someone can enjoy work, right? Mildly successful. Sticking to a diet? Not so much. Religion? I’m a lot better than I used to be on this one. Becoming a fan of someone that you hate. Turns out, that’s easier said than done.

But, I guess a 50/50 split isn’t horrible.

I think that I might try renewing my subscription to this life philosophy to see if I can yield better results. For the next 30 days, I’m going to “fake it ’til I feel it.” It’s worth a try, I guess. After all, life’s nothing more than a big work, anyways.

Anyone who has lived within the limits of our school corporation has tasted the deliciousness that is what we’ve coined a specialty cake by Deb. Deb was your everyday Southeastern Indiana mom–a very nice mother of 2. Supportive of the pee-wee football league and Bobcat basketball. And to top it all off, she could made a mean cake. People lined up to participate in our school carnival’s cake walk, hoping to get their hands on one of her culinary creations.

My dad’s 50th birthday was our first personal interaction with one of Deb’s cakes. Brent and Deb’s son Cory were in the same class and had become friends so my mom contacted Deb to make a cake shaped like a woman’s torso, complete with a couple of C-Cup mounds. Don’t worry, she was wearing an itsy-bitsy, sugar icing bikini. The cake was a hit, tit-illating all of the guests’ taste buds.

Fast forward to 2006; I was turning 26, and decided to throw a self-important White Trash Bash theme party. Complete with a woman’s torso-shaped birthday cake sporting a Rebel flag bikini. Brent and Cory–once BFFs–had gone their separate ways. This stemmed from an incident where Cory’s new clothes and shoes were “ruined,” falling victim to a water balloon fight during Brent’s 8th-grade graduation party. However, Brent put their personal differences aside, and was the bigger person. He enlisted the help of the white pages, and began a relentless voice mail campaign to try and get his big brother a specialty cake by Deb for his 26th birthday. His persistence, however, didn’t pay off. We had to reach out to another vendor for our cake. And no, it wasn’t as tasty.

We were convinced that perhaps specialty cakes by Deb were no longer. Increasingly busy in her new position as an office secretary at our local high school, maybe she couldn’t find the time to take care of both tardies and taste buds. We knew it wasn’t anything personal. Until today, that is.

Jody sent me an e-mail directing me to pictures from the high school’s 30th birthday celebration. The main photo on the website outlining the festivities featured Deb, showcasing a suite of sweets she had baked and garnished in red, white and blue. It seems that specialty cakes are indeed alive and well, but Deb enforced her reserved right to refuse service to anyone.

Specialty cakes by Deb has definitely left a bitter taste in my mouth.

28. Frighteningly close to 30. Which is inching towards 40. And it actually happened over a week ago. I’m getting slow in my old age. My birthday has come and gone with many fun gifts, surprises, and well-wishes. I actually made out like a bandit!

Thanks to a gift from Liz, I’ve joined the Wii revolution. And I’m not as Wiitarded as I once thought! Wii sports is a blast; it captures the fun of bowling, golf, baseball and tennis without the nuisance of being outside. If they had this when I was in middle school, perhaps Mr. Tyler (our PE teacher) wouldn’t have hated me as much.

I also got a kick-ass digital camcorder from my parents, a ton of gifts from Mom and Dad B and Steven (Justin Timberlake Future Sex/Love Sounds Tour Live from Madison Square Garden DVD, Cubs t-shirt and hat, a WWE book, more Skyline Chili than our cabinets will hold, Singstar 90’s), two new summer outfits from Brent and Ryan, monies from Dave and Leann, and Cranium from Robert and Georgia.

And what good is a birthday without a birthday feast? And feast we did! Liz and I took mom and dad to Brazzaz, another Brazillian Steakhouse with the unlimited meat skewers. I know, we should try some other restaurants once in a while, but I’m just a carnivore at heart! And we topped that off with a chocolate fudge cake that Jody sent via GoCakeGo. It’s essentially an entire birthday party in a box–complete with confetti! After that was gone, we enjoyed signature Funfetti cupcakes with Rainbow Chip icing throughout the remainder of the weekend.

So, another year older, a few pounds heavier, and more gadget-savvy than the 27 years prior, happy birthday to me. Thanks to everyone for such a great birthday.

P.S.- Planning is underway for my 30th birthday party. No details yet, but this is my very own spin on MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen!

P.P.S.- Flickr and I are having a fight right now, but pictures to come.