loganandliz.com: the mishaps of the mr. and mrs.

A friend of ours recently invited us to join them and their kids on an outing to Six Flags Great America. Apparently, the secret hasn’t gotten out that the park isn’t terribly crowded on the Fourth of July and that the lines are pretty short of most of the rides. Until now.

I’ve never really been what you would call an amusement park enthusiast. In fact, I’m quite a wimp. Dating back to my childhood I would always see the danger or risk involved in situations; I’d stand by while others put their life on the lines by riding attractions such as Gravitron at Aurora Farmer’s Fair. And I certainly wasn’t all about the idea of being harnessed into a fast moving contraption that’s barely affixed to its track.

Liz, however, loves roller coasters. So it’s something that I’ve been trying to make a little more effort at. Living dangerously, if you will. I didn’t want to go with our friends, though, and let their girls (ages 8 and 11) see me wuss out. That’d be almost as embarrassing as the time that I cried so loud at the doctor’s office when I was getting a shot that you could hear me in the waiting room. Oh, I was also 18.

I’ve always wanted to go to Cedar Point, and thought that it would be a great weekend trip for the two of us. It’s not a horrible drive, and it’d feel like a mini-vacation. I skimmed through their website, looking at what they had to offer. I typically like to read about the specific rides (checking up on safety and construction, of course) and I came across the following policies regarding guests of exceptional size.

Due to rider restraint system requirements, guests of exceptional size may not be accommodated on some of our rides. This may apply, but not be limited to, men who exceed 6’2”, or those who exceed 225 pounds, have a 40” waistline or 52” chest or females who exceed 200 pounds or wear size 18 or larger. Each person has different body proportions so it is not possible to list exact size and weight.

Seriously? I am fat. I definitely fall into the category “of exceptional size.” But 6′2 and/or 230 pounds. That’s hardly of exceptional size. My brother-in-law Steve is probably 6′2, and he might wear a size medium. Not so exceptional. My brother Ryan has to be close to 225 pounds, again, not so exceptional.

While I’m not trying to be an advocate for obesity or preach for fat acceptance in America, I do feel that the restrictions of Cedar Park’s policies are a bit exceptional. I–for one–am not amused.

I didn’t rule out a trip to Cedar Point altogether. Shortly after I read up on the size policies, I stumbled across a section of their website titled, “Adventures in Food.”

Fun, Food and Drinks | 1 Comment »

What follows below was by far the greatest conversation overheard on the scanner during last night’s tornado warning. (We’re fine, by the way)

Dispatcher:  We’ve got a report of a disturbance at Clinton and Adams. A homeless man is running down the street–shirtless–drinking heavily, and shouting, “The world is ending, the world is coming to an end!”

Police Officer: He might be right!

Dispatcher: Well, just follow him. He’s going to the end of the world. Apparently.

Police Officer: Great. I think I’m going with him.

Life | 3 Comments »

I try to donate to charity whenever possible. Liz and I are especially big supporters of The Leukemia Lymphoma Society, for which she completed a triathlon, and The Cure Starts Now, a non-profit organization started by a Cincinnati family after their daughter’s heartbreaking battle with brainstem glioma. What I’ve noticed, though, is that once you donate to one of them you’re on the mailing lists of all of them.

At least three times a week I get solicited by a story of a child battling an illness. And while I want to help each and every one of them, I simply can’t. It’s guilt-trip marketing, but with an emotional touch.

The one strategy that some organizations use which is 100% guilt trip (minus pulling on your heartstrings) is sending me my very own return address labels. Puppies. Kittens. Birds. Ziggy. Flowers. Patriotic flags. I get them all. And guess what–I use them. Without sending a donation in return.
I used to have a guilty conscience about using them. But then I reasoned with myself. I said, “Self, they’ve already printed these labels. And they’re custom-made with your name and mailing address on them. So, who else could make use of them?” The answer always came down to no one. So, if I didn’t make use of them, they’d go to waste.

I’ve had a complete change of heart. I can’t bring myself to use the majority of them on real mail, but I have no problem slapping a hydrangea label bearing “Mr. Logan Cummins” in the top left-hand corner of my student loan payments.

But you know what’s even better than free mailing labels? Some organizations actually include a nickel along with the labels. I think the reasoning is to illustrate that for as little as a nickel a day you can make a difference. So now, I’ve not only saved on mailing labels, but I’ve also gained 1/20th of a dollar for my own fortunes.

What a steal.

Cheap | 3 Comments »

I do not like shaving. I feel like it takes a very long time, and it’s pretty pointless. The day after, you can barely tell that I even took the trouble to do so. And by the second day I’m forced to repeat the entire process. Unless day two happens to roll around on a Friday morning, and I’m gearing up for a nice, long weekend of going “dirts.”

On my days off from shaving, you can catch me rocking a bit of stubble, or as some refer to it the 5 o’clock shadow. It’s not that I love the look of stubble, and I don’t particularly enjoy the feel of it. During my day off, I start to sprout these long, dark hairs from a particular spot on my face. The spot resembles a mole only without the pigmentation. We’ve always referred to this spot and/or its hair growth as my Ds, a shortened version of the word disgusting.

The Ds have always been a touchy subject for me. I don’t like the way that they look, and I’ve always tried to keep them out of the visibility of others. One day in high school, I was driving to school and realized that the Ds had sprouted out. Desperate for a remedy, I scraped up two dimes from the ashtray/coin holder, and pressed them between by index finger and thumb of my right hand. With just the right angle and amount of pressure, I was able to use the dimes a la a pair of tweezers. With a firm grasp on the individual D, I yanked the first one out. I’m not going to lie, it hurt. Like a bitch. You know what they say though; no pain, no gain.

I continued plucking the Ds until I had cleared up the entire patch. Proud of my McGyver-style problem solving, I have since used the dimes (Other coins can be used if dimes aren’t available and you find yourself in a–um, pinch. I’ve also used pennies and nickels, but would not recommend attempting this feat with quarters until you’re at an advanced level) to pluck the Ds and gain an extra day between shaving.

Take this advice to heart in an age where beauty tips are a dime a dozen.

Life | No Comments »

One of my favorite blogs on the Internet is Stuff White People Like. A witty collection of entries centered around the pretentious possessions and personal beliefs that make us positively Caucasian. And I never really stopped to think about how white I truly am, until I assessed my surroundings tonight. Let’s take a look.

For Father’s Day, I got my dad (and myself) a pair of tickets to see the Cubs take on the Cincinnati Reds at Wrigley Field. Wrigley truly is a vintage ballpark, capturing the era of baseball bygone. Coming from Cincinnati where tickets aren’t such a commodity, it was cool to be part of the atmosphere at Wrigley. It was packed full of a combination of drunken, over-age Frat boys, tourists, and die-hard Cubbies fans.

You’d think being so close to Lake Michigan you’d get a nice lake breeze up in the bleachers, but it was hot as balls. I went practically straight from work and didn’t have time to change into shorts like I had hoped to. Don’t worry, I did rock the New Balances. I really wanted to get a retro-feeling “Fukudome is my Homie” t-shirt, but my cheapness won out. The same applied to my insatiable hunger when it came to getting a chicken sandwich from the concession stand.

But we picked the perfect night to go. It was Whole Food Market night at Wrigley. So, the first so many people through the gates got a savings coupon and a recyclable shopping bag co-branded with “Go Cubbies” and Whole Foods messaging. For those not up on Whole Foods, it’s the world’s largest and most expensive retailer of natural and organic food. I digress. Because everyone else got there so early, we didn’t actually get the Whole Foods bag. I spent a few innings with my eye on the one under the guys’ seats in front of us. So my dad did what any loving parent would do, and he lifted it straight from under their seat as we made our 8th-inning exit.

All in all, my first trip to Wrigley was very enjoyable. I’d highly recommend checking it out, and I’d love to go back. Only maybe a little later in the season when it’s not so hot and humid. I know that it gets a bit chilly in the fall here in Chicago, but if the temperatures dipped that low, I could throw on my North Face jacket. And if that isn’t enough, I can always seek solace in the Starbucks just around the corner.

Fun, Life, Internets | 1 Comment »

Ah, summertime. Time for grilling out, baseball, and–for those in the academic world–summer vacation. But with the good comes the bad. Sunburn. Extreme heat. And smog. Which brings about one of my favorite stories from childhood.

When my brothers and I were old enough to stay home without the supervision of a babysitter, I was sort of in charge. And when you have three kids, it’s almost a sure bet that whenever a situation arises, it’s going to be two against one. Such was the case when Ryan really wanted to go outside to play. Brent and I would usually overrule with a 2-1 vote, deciding instead to enjoy the chill of the central air. Hey, tough break, but we live in a democracy.

Every once in a while I’d start to feel a bit guilty about telling Ryan that we weren’t going to go outside in the stifling heat so he could ride his bike, play baseball or whatever else it is that kids do outside. So, I created a scapegoat: smog.

Ryan couldn’t have been older than 7 or 8, and he had no clue what smog was. But, we could always count on Kit Andrews and the Channel 12 newsroom to confirm that there was indeed a smog alert in effect. So, Brent and I put our evil brains together and explained to Ryan exactly what a smog was. We explained that a smog was a small, yet fast, bird-like animal that would chase and attack children when they were playing outside. And often times they could be found in rural areas, such as Southeastern Indiana. And it worked. We relied on the smog alert to keep our lazy butts indoors day after day. But all good things must come to an end.

One evening Ryan was outside playing after my mom and dad were home from work. He came running in the house, crying hysterically. My mom thought that he’d hurt himself and asked him what was wrong. “I think I just saw a smog!” he managed to say, still in hysterics.

After he had settled down and explained the entire story, let’s just say that one thing was crystal clear. Brent and I were jerks. And mom said that we had to start going outside with Ryan so that he wouldn’t be stuck in the house all day long. Our evil plan had fallen through.

Unless–wait. Hey Ryan, on the news they said that there’s a good chance of developing a case of melanoma from being in the sun today.

Life, Family | 5 Comments »

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.

Life, Cheap | 3 Comments »

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.

Tito | 6 Comments »

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.

Life | 2 Comments »

photo credit: SDHS website

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.

Food and Drinks | 3 Comments »