Big Bones and the BMI That Never Stood a Chance

My mother always had an explanation ready for why I never fit the BMI chart. She didn’t need science or statistics — she had something better: maternal confidence. She’d look at me, shrug like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and say, “You just have big bones.”

That was her entire medical opinion. No copay required.

And honestly, she wasn’t wrong about the spirit of it. I’ve never fit the chart. Not as a kid in a small Christian school where the gene pool was basically a puddle. Not in the country high school where the puddle got wider but not deeper. Not even after Basic Training, when I briefly achieved the closest thing to “normal” the BMI would ever allow.

My job growing up was simple: be big, look athletic enough, and protect my brain from whatever forces were trying to keep it from reaching its potential. After Basic Training, the weight came back like it had been waiting in the car the whole time. It’s been remarkably consistent ever since. My clothes from years ago still fit. My doctors have stopped giving me the “you should lose some weight” speech. At this point, my body is about as predictable as my electric bill or my bedtime.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that not fitting the chart doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. Sometimes the chart just wasn’t designed with you in mind. Sometimes the chart is wrong. Sometimes the chart needs to mind its own business.

Everyone has something that knocks them out of the norm. Mine just happens to be visible on a scale. Yours might be hiding in your personality, your habits, or that one hobby you don’t tell people about until you know them well enough.

These days, my attempts to lose weight fall into the “sure, why not” category. Occasionally I even “sympathy diet” with my wife when she decides she likes food more than me — which isn’t true, but chocolate is a close second. Mostly, though, I’ve learned to lean into the areas where I can be judged on merit instead of metrics created to make everyone feel like they’re supposed to fit into the same box.

I’m not my BMI. I’m not my weight. I’m not even my mother’s “big bones,” though I’ll admit the line has aged surprisingly well.

So no, I don’t fit the chart. I probably never will. But the chart never really knew what to do with me anyway.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

The Hot Tub Hero (Or: Why I Should Never Be Left Alone With a Bucket)

Yesterday’s grand group project quickly devolved into a solo mission of poor life choices.

The original plan was simple: freshen the hot tub water by draining 50% of it. In my head, I had a literal squad of “strong young men” to handle the heavy lifting. Specifically, my son and two local hockey players. But as it turns out, young athletes are surprisingly fragile, and my son has this pesky habit of “working for a living.”

Between one hockey player claiming the “achy flu,” the other nursing a wrist strain from the weekend’s festivities, and my son refusing to fake the “Super Bowl Flu” just to haul water for his old man, I was left as a department of one.

The Methodology of a Madman

There were two ways to handle this.

  1. The Siphon Method: This involves a hose, gravity, and the vast amount of patience required to watch water move at the speed of a tectonic plate.
  2. The “Active” Method: This involves a “big strong guy” (hypothetically) dipping 5-gallon buckets into the tub and marching them to the driveway like some sort of suburban sherpa.

Being famously impatient and unwilling to have the tub out of commission for more than a couple hours, I chose the bucket brigade. I figured I’d just use my knees, stay balanced, and knock it out.

Math vs. Reality

Why was I doing this? Because of the cyanuric acid, or as I like to call it, “The Chemistry of Too Much Fun.”

I filled the buckets in groups of four. I told myself, “This isn’t so bad,” for exactly three minutes. Then, reality set in. My math was optimistic: in a 400-gallon tub, four 5-gallon buckets should be 5% of the volume. Simple, right?

Wrong.

  • My Chest: Started screaming by the third round.
  • My Shoulders: Notified me they were no longer “willfully participating” and were now working under extreme duress.
  • The Water Level: Decreased at a rate significantly slower than my remaining will to live.

I started taking “strategic breaks” to play chess on my phone, watching my near-retired body slowly go on strike. It turns out that 5% math only works if you fill the buckets to the brim, which I stopped doing about ten minutes in because water is heavy and I am a mortal man.

The Merciful End

Eventually, my wife appeared and pronounced the project “done.”

Was this because we hit the 50% mark? Or was it because she reached her limit for my “exhaustion whining”? The world may never know. By that point, the water was too low to even get a full scoop. I didn’t “quit”—I simply decided that my time was no longer being spent effectively.

Lessons (Hopefully) Learned

Next time, there will be a pump. The process will look like this:

  1. Attach hose.
  2. Turn on pump.
  3. Read a book for two hours.

The only muscle I plan on straining next time is my eye muscles as I scan the pages of a novel while a piece of $50 machinery does the job I was clearly never meant to do.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

Grills, Grandkids, and the Smoke Detector Saga

The Great Grill Misstep

Last night started innocently enough: we grilled up a feast of brats, hamburgers, and some andouille sausage. As usual, after taking the meat off the grill, I cranked up the heat to incinerate any lurking germs. It’s my personal version of a germ exorcism. Normally, I remember to turn the grill off afterward. Normally.

Fast-forward 18 hours. I’m feeding my granddaughter a bottle, gazing out the back window like a serene caretaker, when my brain suddenly asks, “What are those heat ripples coming off the grill?”

Cue the realization.

I stepped onto the porch, and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I never turned the grill off. The gas knobs were still wide open, and when I lifted the lid, I was greeted by a mountain of white ash. My grand plan to “clean it later” was quickly followed by a mental debate: Do I tell my wife about this? Spoiler alert: keeping secrets isn’t my strong suit.

Smoke Alarms: The Plot Thickens

Barely an hour later, with my granddaughter swaddled and happily snoozing in her crib (a rare victory in our new “Grandpa’s 30-hour-a-week daycare” schedule), I finally sat down at my computer. That’s when it happened. The smoke detectors went off.

At first, I thought, Oh no, not this again. A few months ago, we had a smoke detector malfunction, and the screeching symphony was unforgettable. Hoping for a quick resolution, I checked the baby—still sound asleep—and sat back down.

Then the alarms screamed again.

The baby stirred, letting out a pre-nap protest, while my heart sank. Time to play Smoke Detector Roulette. Armed with a ladder, I started disconnecting units. Which one of the seven is the ringleader? Who’s the boss of this noise parade?

Two attempts later, I finally silenced the screaming. Relief washed over me. Then paranoia set in: What if this wasn’t a malfunction? I rushed to check on my granddaughter. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. She woke up soon after, demanding bottle number two, blissfully unaware of Grandpa’s mini heart attack.

The Reconnection Gamble

Once the baby was settled, it was time to reconnect the smoke detectors. Hooking them back up wasn’t the hard part—my fear was that one rogue detector would throw a tantrum in the middle of the night. And let’s be honest, my “middle-of-the-night hugs” are more like aggressive shoves.

Theories and Lessons

So, what triggered all this chaos? My best guess is that the unvented grill might’ve released something the detectors didn’t like. Or maybe it was dust. Or humidity. Or, let’s face it, the universe just wanted to spice up my day.

Whatever the cause, I’d like to file a formal request with the smoke detector gods: next time, can you schedule your shenanigans around the baby’s nap?

In the end, I learned two things: always double-check the grill, and never underestimate a smoke detector’s ability to keep life exciting—even if it’s at the worst possible moment.

Please Pass the Andy: A Branson Brew-tale

We were still figuring out the breakfast routine at our Branson hotel—you know, the kind of operation where half the guests are still wearing pajama pants at 9:30 a.m. and the other half are fighting over the last pre-wrapped blueberry muffin.

While my wife held the line like a buffet champion, I took on the critical task of table scouting and coffee procurement. Mission: caffeine.

At the coffee station, I patiently waited for the staff member who was restocking styrofoam cups—a noble cause. Once the cups were unlocked from their plastic prison, I did what any caffeine-conscious adult does: filled two cups halfway. One half with regular. The other half with decaf. Because I like my heart to beat with enthusiasm, not sprint toward cardiac arrest.

Trying to be helpful, the staffer tucked herself out of the way… directly in front of the decaf. Classic move. When she noticed, she smiled and said,
“You know how iced tea and lemonade is called an Arnold Palmer? We need a name for half-caf, half-decaf coffee.”

Without missing a beat, I agreed—because that’s a brilliant idea and my caffeine-deprived brain wasn’t ready to debate anything.

As I moved on to cream-and-sugar land, she came back and asked,
“Sir, what’s your name?”
I told her, “Andy.”

She grinned. “That’s the name! From now on, half-caf/half-decaf is officially an Andy.”

So there you have it. The next time you need just the right balance between hyper and nap time, order yourself an Andy. Born in Branson. Destined for coffee shop chalkboards everywhere.

You heard it here first. #JustAndyThings ☕

Billet Life: Hosting Hockey’s Next Generation

This is the first of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card.

Slapshot Supervisor

Being a billet parent is like being a cross between a dorm supervisor, a hockey team cheerleader, and an all-you-can-eat buffet manager. It’s not a job for the faint of heart, but it’s one filled with laughter, camaraderie, and enough hockey talk to last a lifetime. Here’s what it’s like to open your home—and your fridge—to junior hockey players.

What Is a Billet Parent?

We’re not coaches, and we’re not just landlords. A billet parent provides a home for junior hockey players, typically aged 17–20, during their season. These players are chasing their dreams of making it to college hockey and beyond, and we get a front-row seat to their journey. For a small stipend to cover food, water, and endless snacks, we become a temporary family for these young athletes.

Fast Facts About Junior Hockey Players

  1. Age Range: Most players are 17–20, though some turn 21 during the season.
  2. Goal-Oriented: Their primary aim is to earn a college hockey scholarship, adjusting their plans as the season progresses.
  3. Agents: Many players have “agents” who assist with trades and team placements, though the details often remain a mystery to us.
  4. Parent Connection: While we provide day-to-day support, the boys usually stay closely connected to their families.
  5. Cultural Mix: Players from Minnesota are often grounded, while those from boarding schools can bring quirky habits.

How It All Began

Our billet journey started during the fall of 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. A friend from Minnesota connected us with a young player who needed a billet home. We filled out the paperwork, welcomed him in, and haven’t looked back since. Now, six years later, we’ve hosted players from as far away as Canada and beyond, first with the Lone Star Brahmas in Texas and now with the OKC Warriors in Oklahoma.

The Players We Host

Over the years, we’ve housed a variety of players, including:

  • Returners: Familiar faces from previous seasons.
  • Newcomers: Boys trying out for the team or moving up a level.
  • Short-Term Guests: Players staying for just a week during tryouts.
  • Mid-Season Additions: Players cut from other teams, looking for a fresh start.

Some stay a week, others the whole season. It’s always a revolving door of hockey bags, sticks, and personalities.

Why We Do It

This isn’t just about hockey—it’s about building relationships and shaping young lives. Here’s why we keep coming back:

  • Meaningful Connections: While we don’t expect lifelong friendships, we treasure the bonds we form. A quick text on their birthday or after a big game keeps the connection alive.
  • Faith and Values: As Christians, we aim to model kindness, integrity, and hospitality. We say grace at dinner and welcome the boys to join us at church (though they rarely do).
  • Food, Glorious Food: Feeding teenage hockey players is no small feat. We often serve big breakfasts on game days and keep the pantry stocked for the team’s bottomless appetites.
  • Shared Moments: From listening to their hockey banter to watching them grow, these moments make it all worthwhile.

The Unknowns of the Season

Every season brings its own set of surprises:

  • Will all three of our initial players stay, or will we be making airport runs for mid-season replacements?
  • Will they be adventurous eaters or stick to pizza and burgers?
  • How many extra players will show up unannounced for dinner?

One thing’s for sure: by spring, we’ll have a house full of memories and an empty fridge.

Final Thoughts

Being a billet parent is a unique and rewarding experience. It’s not without its challenges—like constantly restocking snacks or navigating the occasional personality clash—but the joy of watching these young men chase their dreams makes it all worthwhile. Whether we’re hosting three players or twelve, we’re proud to play a small part in their journey, one slap shot at a time.

Reunions, Regrets & Redemption: A Farm, a Will, and a Trust Walk into a Field…

The Family Reunion I Almost Didn’t Go To (Again)

Every year, they host a family reunion. Every year, I come up with 37 excuses not to go. I live a thousand miles away, it might rain, and honestly, there’s some 30-year-old emotional tumbleweed I still haven’t cleared.

Let me explain.

When I was a kid, my dad died in a car accident. Thankfully, thanks to his planning, we were financially okay. Fast-forward a decade, and his mom—my grandmother—passed away. When her will was read, everything went to my aunt and uncle. My siblings and I? We got a polite “we didn’t forget about you” check that wouldn’t cover a decent pair of work boots. It felt like my dad had been erased from the family tree—just a footnote, if that.

I was hurt. Deeply. I even wrote a letter to the family, probably powered by equal parts early adult rage and grief. I’m not even sure if I sent it. This was pre-email, so hitting “Send” meant licking an envelope and risking real-world consequences.

That’s the baggage I’ve carried into every reunion invite since.

But last weekend, I went. And I talked to my cousin—the one running the family farm. We talked land, legacy, and something called a Family Farm Preservation Trust. It’s a plan to protect the land for future generations, keeping it in the family—even the asterisked ones like me.

It’s not a magic fix, but it was a meaningful moment. One that maybe—just maybe—makes next year’s reunion a little easier to show up for.

Because sometimes healing starts with a conversation… and maybe a trust.

Confessions of a Title Tinkerer: How a 40-Year-Old Business Card Inspired My Latest Obsession

The card that I have been thinking about the past few decades. How could I put my spin on it?

When Inspiration Strikes (And My Family Worries)

Sometimes, I get so laser-focused on a project that my family starts giving me that look. You know, the one that says, “Are you okay, or do you need an intervention?” Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve finished the 1.0 version of my latest obsession. And no, it’s not a new app, a groundbreaking invention, or even an NFT. It’s… a business card.

But not just any business card.

Blast From the Past: The Original Card That Started It All

Back in the good ol’ days of selling cell phones—closer to 40 years ago than 30—I came across a business card that stuck with me. It was a bold, hilarious card with no contact information, clearly a joke (or maybe a way to avoid being constantly called). But it wasn’t just a joke—it was art. It described someone’s services in a way that was both ridiculous and oddly compelling.

Fast-forward to today, and this quirky little card still “lives” rent-free in my brain. So, naturally, I decided to create my own version—a card that reflects my personality and skill set, but with a nice guy twist.

The Creative Process: When Chatbots and Family Weigh In

Crafting my own version of this card wasn’t as simple as slapping a few titles on a piece of cardstock. Oh no. It became a full-blown project. Here’s what went into it:

  1. Family Feedback:
    • I tested multiple titles on my family, only to get vetoed with comments like, “That’s not you,” or “Please don’t put that on a card.”
  2. Chatbot Creativity:
    • I fed some titles into a chatbot, asking it to come up with catchier versions. It responded with alliterative gems and ideas that screamed, “Include me!”
  3. Trial and Error:
    • I experimented with formatting, swapped titles in and out, and gauged success based on whether a title made me laugh or at least smile.

The result? A business card brimming with quirky, creative job titles that feel just right.

What’s Next: Titles and Their Stories

The card itself is done, but the project isn’t over. Each title on my new business card represents a different facet of who I am, and I plan to write a post about each one. These posts will:

  • Explain why I chose the title.
  • Dive into how it reflects my personality, skills, or sense of humor.

It’s a mix of self-reflection, storytelling, and (hopefully) entertainment. Entertainment or not, I am going to write them anyway. 🙂

The card I ended up with. It is the 1.0 version. I may shuffle a title in or out. Wherever the 2.0 version goes, I have a good start!

Father’s Day: Same Tune, New Dance Steps (and a Double-Fly Finale)

Father’s Day this year had all the usual suspects—family, food, and a flurry of “Happy Father’s Day” messages—but also a few new twists that made it stand out. Here’s the recap from the Dad’s-eye-view:

Family Greetings: The Modern Medley

  • In person: Two kids, now in the same city, delivered their best wishes face-to-face—always a treat.
  • Remote: Another kid texted (he’d visited the day before, so he gets partial credit).
  • Combo platter: The youngest offered a text/phone hybrid greeting. Due to half the family being present during her call, her full “Father’s Day” enthusiasm was politely restrained. (I’m saving up for the encore performance.)

Highlight Reel: Dad’s Day Moments

1. The Double-Fly Clap of Legend

With my son as witness, I pulled off an Olympic-level “clap” maneuver—taking out two flies at once.

  • No fly swatter, no problem: Just raw dad reflexes and an innate sense for dramatic timing.
  • Aftermath: Flies disposed of, hands scrubbed, and my son reminded that Dad’s still got it.
  • Flies’ perspective: Worst Father’s Day gift ever.

2. The Men’s Choir: Not Quite the Tenors

At church, all the men got a front-row seat in the choir area.

  • Songs sung: Zero, unless you count my “joyful noising” (which the congregation might not).
  • Dress code: Just face forward at an awkward angle—wide shoulders are a blessing and a curse.
  • Practice required: None, unless you count my wife noticing my unorthodox posture.

3. Wicker Assembly: Dad vs. The Allen Wrench

Outdoor furniture assembly—round two, or, more accurately, round two out of four.

  • Muscle strain: Apparently, the Allen wrench is mightier than the sword…and my lower back.
  • Recovery time: Longer than it used to be, but I still have two chairs left (and plenty of excuses).
  • Note to future self: Next time, consider a nap before assembly.

4. Grandpa Duty: The Sleep Whisperer

After grilling chicken and enjoying dinner, I settled into my most important role—grandpa.

  • Game night: The rest played “Exploding Kittens” while I deployed my legendary baby-rocking skills.
  • Battle of wills: Granddaughter resisted, but ultimately surrendered to sleep, confirming my status as the Baby Whisperer (Retired, but still active).

Looking Ahead: Future Traditions

  • More grandkids? Bring them on—there’s always room for another lap.
  • Father’s Day traditions: If assembling wicker furniture is required in the future, I’ll propose that as my only contribution (with a generous side of supervision).

Here’s to Father’s Days that are the same, but a little different, every year—just the way I like them.