My Las Vegas 2010-2011 Bucket List

As a teacher, I still measure life using the academic calendar. Every August brings a new beginning and June a new ending with July serving as a temporary hiatus from reality. The 2010-2011 school year marks my fifth year in Las Vegas. Over the past four years, living in Nevada has evoked emotions ranging from disgust to rage to indifference to tepid acceptance. Everyone is well aware that according to the "original plan," I should have been out of here two years ago. Combine a slumping economy and the incestuous hiring practices employed by many Minnesota school districts and you will understand the reason I am still hiding in Las Vegas. I have decided that maybe, just maybe it might be time to embrace my adopted home for what it is and find reasons to love it. For this reason, I have developed my Las Vegas "Bucket List" for the 2010-2011 school year.

1. Have my picture taken at the "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign.

2. See a show or two or seven. "Zumanity," "LeReve," and "The Lion King" top the list.

3. Become a homeowner or at the very least begin renting my own place again.

4. Host a sophisticated adult cocktail party at my new place.

5. Spend a night at a NICE property on the strip. (Imperial Palace, you need not apply.)

6. Run a 5K. (October 9 is the plan)

7. Go to dinner at a NICE restaurant at a strip property.

8. Fit into a pair of size 32 jeans.

9. Go to a pool party and not frighten people if I remove my shirt.

10. Weigh less than 200 pounds for the first time in my adult life.

11. Lay the groundwork to start my masters.

Wish me luck!

What Makes Me Happy

What Makes Me Happy?

I am often times accused of being too bitter and sullen for my own good. I think there might be a valid point in such an assertion. The lens with which one chooses to view the world often defines a their outlook on most matters. Often, my lens has a hint of bitter with a little frustration mixed in. However, amazingly enough there are things in the world that make me happy. I decided to change my normal tone for just one day and compile an official list of just five of the many things that bring me joy. The fact that there are at least five things in the world that make me happy might be a tough pill for some of you to swallow.

1. My Job

The fact that I am a young, single, childless male floating in a sea of married, motherly women each day makes me feel a little alone at work. However, that is truly my only major complaint. This is far outweighed by the fact I get to spend the day with 18-25 little people who nearly worship the ground I walk on. (I may possibly have a God complex. That is something that will be discussed later.) Unlike a corporate job, my efforts do not line the pocket of some sort of higher-up, useless management figure. With teaching, there are some sacrifices in the compensation and respect departments that come with the territory. I have been described as “just” a teacher a few times, which cut a little deeply. To that I say there is some great talent involved in getting a kindergartener to whole-heartedly believe anything and everything you say. It takes even more talent to teach them to read.

2. My “Other” Job

Why have I worked at my part time clothing store job for over three years? I know it isn’t the amazing pay or the close proximity of the store to my home. The forty percent discount on zany and witty graphic t-shirts loses it luster after awhile. I think what does it for me is the Zen-like sense that comes over me when I realize that as a part-time employee I have very few pressing responsibilities. I pick the clothes up off the floor and slap some new price stickers down once a week. Someone else is in charge and I am just along the ride. It is almost like a temporary vacation from adulthood. Great work if you can get it.

3. Hiking

There is an egotistical part of me that finds pleasure and happiness in my supposed superiority to others. One place where this personal attribute rears its ugly head is in my love of hiking. I hike because I enjoy solitude and scenery. I also hike because I know others cannot and will not. When I stare down from a mountain peak, I know that I have made it and you haven’t.

4. No Doubt prior to “Rock Steady”

Before Gwen Stefani felt the need to teach us all how to spell “bananas,” she was a member of a little band called No Doubt. No Doubt was awesome until the released “Rock Steady.” They dumped the horns and sold out to the pop crowd. When I listen to “Open the Gate” or “Bathwater” I descend into my little fantasy of playing the euphonium in a ska cover band. Some dreams, no matter how outlandish, should never die.

5. Going to the movies alone

I had a girlfriend in high school who insisted on making out during movies. I refused on the basic principle that I had paid good money to WATCH the movie. There are dark rooms available all over for free. When I first moved to Vegas, I became an active moviegoer because it was something to occupy my time in my complete absence of friends. Movie night has evolved into a ritualistic back up plan when I have little else going on. The great part of a solo date is that there is never an argument over what movie to see and no one to pass judgment upon me for purchasing the nine-dollar box of Skittles. With this said, I’d gladly cancel movie night by myself if the right person wanted to tag along.

My Deprived Childhood

I like to claim I had a deprived childhood. Somehow my parents kept me from developing into a full and complete person because of the numerous joys that I missed out on during the 18 years I resided with them.

However, deprived is far from the truth. My parents always kept a roof over my head and I had more toys than I knew what to do with. As the recently unearthed photos from my younger ages proved, food was NEVER in short supply in the Asplund house. Overall, despite a few bumps and lumps, I feel I turned out just swell.

Deep inside, I always wondered if there was SOMETHING that I missed along the way. Every so often I encounter a reminder of my supposed deprivation and wonder, “What if?”

Slip and Slide
Recently, I overheard a near tantrum thrown by one of the neighbor children. Apparently this child had his heart set on going to the YMCA to ride the waterslide, but his parents were making him settle for the Slip and Slide they had hastily set up in the front yard. The child was less than amused and he was expressing his displeasure in an unholy combination of screams, yells, cries, and possible convulsions.

I wanted to run over and tell this child how lucky he was to even have a slip and slide. Growing up, water play for my sister and I consisted of leaping over a lawn sprinkler in my parents sand-burr infested front yard. Every other trip through the sprinkler had to be followed up by a de-thorning of sorts.

Then one day my sister and I saw the Slip and Slide commercial on television. We HAD to have one. There was much begging every time we loaded up the Ford Taurus to head over to the old, dumpy Target on Coon Rapids Boulevard. The answer was always no. My sister and I were defeated.

Then came my sister’s creative idea. We would combine an old brown tarp we found in the garage and the sprinkler into a half-assed Slip and Slide. The idea seemed great in theory. Unknown to us what the fact that the woven plastic texture of the tarp was nothing like the smooth, frictionless high-tech plastic of the store bought Slip and Slide. After five tries my sister and I neither slipped, not slid. Our bodies were covered in red welts that took on the same grid-like relief of the old brown tarp. We left the tarps on the lawn and sulked with defeat back into the house. We would never slip, nor slide.


Kohl’s and Cool Shoes
For the most part, I avoid shopping at Kohl’s. I usually only visit Kohl’s when basic clothing and household needs arise and I feel to lazy to drive to the actual mall. Kohl’s should appeal to my sense of value, and their business model affords one the opportunity to purchase a wide variety of household and clothing needs at reasonable price points. They do offer some fashion-forward merchandise, but to access it one must dig through piles of non-humorous Family Guy t-shirts and shoddily assembled Daisy Fuentes handbags.

Residing deep inside me is the sadness that always resulted from my childhood back-to-school shopping trips to the now-defunct Kohl’s store at the Northtown Mall. I was convinced that my elementary school social ills had only one cure, cool shoes. Not just any shoes, but a pair of Nikes. After all, blaming my lack of friends on my shoes was much easier than admitting to the fact that I was (and still am) a complete dork.

To this day, I have an exceptionally wide foot and off-the-shelf Nikes will not fit me. As a child, I prayed that my wide foot would go away and I could magically become the cool kid with Nikes. Sometimes I would feel angry at the Nike company and their narrow shoes, as I felt the were conspiring to squelch any hope I ever had of ascending through Westwood Elementary’s social caste system.

Each year’s trip to Kohl’s would end with me resigning myself to a pair of British Knights or even worse: a pair of Avias. Nikes would mean playground games of four square and possible admission to the fringes of the cool kid table at lunch. Avias meant playing tetherball by yourself and dining alongside the creepy kid who I am pretty sure is on one of those sex offender registries now. I still long for some Nikes and hope that I can finally be accepted amongst the cool kids.


Starter Jackets
To match their Nikes, all of the cool kids at Westwood Elementary had Starter jackets. The usual suspect teams were the Chicago Bulls, Charlotte Hornets, and Dallas Cowboys. If I couldn’t have cool shoes, maybe I could have a cool jacket.

Starter jackets were also newsworthy because supposedly elementary-aged children were being shot over them on a daily basis. My mother was convinced that a Starter jacket would lead to my eventual mugging on the sketchy and dangerous sidewalks of Blaine, Minnesota.

I take comfort in knowing that the Starter brand has fallen from its former glory. Walmarts across the country are now loaded to the gills with $7.96 Starter workout shorts. A fitting punishment for the company I blame for keeping me uncool in the 1990s.

The Slap Bracelet
In third grade, everyone who was everyone had a slap bracelet or two. I did not own a slap bracelet and again I was on the outside of trendy looking in. My mother did not believe in spending money on such ridiculous wastes.

Soon after the craze began, the news media exposed the dirty secret behind the snap bracelet. The snapping action was created by a sharp piece of metal embedded inside the bracelet. The news warned that the metal would slice open the hands of unsuspecting children, leading to nearly instantaneous death by exsanguination. Not only were the bracelets a waste of money, but my mom also had media hysteria on her side when she said no.

My deprived childhood is now expressed in writing. Writing is far cheaper than a therapist's couch. Will you be my friend, even if I shop at Kohl’s and lack a Slip and Slide?

Pie Shop Therapy

An afternoon of running errands with Great Grandma often entailed some sort of trip to Baker’s Square. The meal was usually mediocre, but the pie that followed was always amazing. As the years went by, I started doing the driving instead of Great Grandma. What never changed is that Great Grandma ALWAYS paid.

Great Grandma said that she needed to pay for the meal because she was using my gas as I drove her about. Of course, she usually insisted on stopping at Costco on the way home so she could fill my gas tank as well. “You’re in college,” was her usual excuse.

I graduated from college and moved back in with my parents and Great Grandma after my efforts to find a full-time teaching job fizzled. There was still lunch and pie, but never at my expense.

I managed to land my first full-time teaching gig in 2005, few days before Christmas. The next day, I took Great Grandma on an excursion to finish her gift shopping and of course we needed lunch and pie. I figured today would be my treat, as I was excited about my new job and I wanted to celebrate.

In my attempt to pay, I was slapped by Great Grandma and informed that I was unable to afford to take people to lunch “on a schoolteacher’s salary.” The Saturday trips to Target and the hair salon continued and still I never paid for lunch and pie.

The school year wound to a close and I was informed that my services would no longer be needed in Becker, Minnesota. Clark County had impeccable timing, having their early offer of employment waiting for me in my mailbox the day I received the axe. Another new opportunity was upon me and there was another reason to celebrate. However, Great Grandma still insisted on paying for lunch and pie on those trips to Baker’s Square.

With my relocation to Nevada in 2006, the trips to Baker’s Square were relegated to three or four times a year. I would gladly give up a day of each of my visits to take Great Grandma shopping or to the hair salon. Still, the lunch and pie was on Great Grandma. “You need to live on that schoolteacher salary,” she often said. I often wondered if she thought that I was completely destitute and living in a cardboard box. In fact, she still insisted on slipping me grocery money each time I came to visit. I would always try to refuse, but she never had it. “It’s a pity what they pay you schoolteachers,” as she forced the money into my hand.

This past Christmas (2009) came along and I struggled for days trying to figure out what to get Great Grandma for Christmas. At the age of 93, she quite possibly owned everything. Finally, I decided that her gift would be a certificate declaring that we would go to lunch at a restaurant of her choice at my expense.

Unfortunately, the scheduling never quite worked out and the lunch did not happen during my Christmas visit. The night before I flew home, Great Grandma reminded me that in fact owed her lunch and that she would be “collecting” during my next visit to Minnesota. Great Grandma hellbent on receiving her lunch and pie, even if it meant a little chunk out of my “pitiful schoolteacher salary.”

Great Grandma never collected upon her gift. She passed away on March 22, 2010. In true form, she slipped me a little cash on the way out. This time in terms of the down payment for the house she knew I wanted to buy.

Today I decided it was time for that last lunch with Great Grandma. I walked into Baker’s Square. I imagined Great Grandma next to me, with the tops of her white curls barely grazing my shoulder. Inside I found a restaurant far worse for wear than I remembered. The carpet was fraying, the woodwork warped, and the booth cushion was being preserved through duct tape.

I made my selections from the tattered menu and found enjoyment in my over-grilled sandwich and salty-bland canned soup. There wasn’t a story that I had heard hundreds of time over coming from the other side of the booths. Yet I still performed the exact pattern of convincing “I am kind of listening, even though I have heard this story more times than I can count” head nods.

After the mediocre meal came the pie. Even though it was served on a chipped and knife-scratched plate, it was still every bit as good as I remembered.

I left a ridiculously large tip for my server, settled my bill with the cashier, and walked out of Baker’s Square. I had proved my point. I could in fact afford lunch and pie on my pitiful schoolteacher’s salary. Somehow, I suspect that Great Grandma is still going to find a way to pay me back. It was just her nature.

Why I am Not Excited About Surgery

For all of you who are unaware, I am scheduled to have a hernia repaired at St. Rose Hospital’s Siena Campus on June 30. I have been openly advertising this event for some time, not out of an attempt to garner sympathy, but rather an attempt to make sure I go through with it.

I keep telling myself that the more people I tell about my upcoming chopping, the less likely I am to chicken out. This is because I will reach a point where telling a large number of people that I am a pussy will become more painful than the actual procedure, guaranteeing I will go through with this needed repair.

This whole journey all started with a visit to the doctor last month. I did not want to go, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I informed my doctor of some back and stomach pain as well as some swelling I had had been experiencing. Like magic, I discovered I needed surgery. Needless to say, I was not pleased.

It took me about two weeks after noticing the pain and swelling before I finally stopped trying to explain away the symptoms and left it up to a professional. I am notorious for taking this approach with my health. Last summer I had a bout of severe chest pain that ended up being nothing of consequence. However, I didn't know this for sure for quite some time. I had delayed the obvious course of action, a trip to the E.R., for three days out of fear. At one point I even told myself that the chest pain could not possibly be serious because I wasn’t dead yet.

When I wasn’t trying to explain away my symptoms, I was using WebMD to try to find some sort of self-diagnosis. In my distorted world this seemed like a much better choice than visiting a doctor. Obviously the search feature on WebMD could tell me something that a doctor with years of education could not. Plus, if I didn’t like the initial diagnosis, WebMD had hundreds of other possible ailments to choose from.

I typed in “abdominal pain, back pain, swelling” and was greeted with a slew of possible death sentences. Due to my knowledge of anatomy, I could easily eliminate ovarian cysts, uterine fibrosis, and premenstrual syndrome from the equation. Take that, seven years of medical school! However, given my frequent sudden and sullen moodiness one might wonder if premenstrual syndrome is completely out of the picture.

I swiftly clicked through the pages of WebMD until I came to the obvious diagnosis. I had cancer. There could be no other explanation. Of course, this was before I came to the realization that EVERYTHING is a possible symptom of cancer according to WebMD. Headache. It’s cancer. Stomachache. It’s cancer. Mole on your skin. It’s cancer. Red, puffy eyes. No it’s from allergies or pink eye. It’s cancer. Hangnail. You have the cancer. (This is not to make light of a terrible disease that has impacted so many lives, but in most cases, including mine, the culprit is something far less menacing and I blame WebMD for creating mass hysteria. Of course, I was completely floored when my doctor insisted on running a couple tests just to confirm my problem wasn’t cancer.)

After the doctor armed me with a real diagnosis, I expected to find some relief. I didn’t have cancer and the news of a hernia brought with it visions of a swift and routine repair. Then I realized I had no idea exactly what to expect out of this whole situation. The idea of surgeons, scalpels, anesthesia, and needles suddenly became overwhelming. I had seen enough Inside Edition and Dateline NBC exposes to know about failed anesthesia, incompetent doctors, and medical tools being left inside the incision. I was going to wake-up mid-procedure to a butter knife-wielding chimpanzee hovering over me and he was bound to leave a bedpan or two inside my incision.

Once again, I turned to the Internet to answer my questions. Searches for “hernia repair” soon became searches for “anesthesia death” and “filing a malpractice lawsuit.”

I figured my consultation appointment with the surgeon would somehow ease my fears. It didn’t. During the visit I was asked to fill out a stack of paperwork that prominently featured all of the possible complications of my surgery. I guess I was somewhat displeased by the fact that death seemed to be a running theme. I ended up asking the doctor what the risks were if I decided not to have the surgery.

I was informed that the small defect in my abdominal muscle would grow, leading to more pain and swelling. Then came the kicker: parts of my intestines could migrate through a bigger hole, become trapped. This would lead to internal gangrene and possible death from an obstructed bowel. I then that I realized that this hernia business was going to get me no matter what. I signed the consent forms and scheduled the procedure.

So here I am, four days prior to surgery. I’m scared and all I really want is a hug and some Xanax. Everyone and their mother knows about my upcoming procedure, so I can’t chicken out now. On a positive note, like Jiffy Lube, the surgeon has asked if he can fix anything else that he finds to be in need of repair while he is tinkering around inside me. I can take comfort in the fact that not only will the surgeon repair my hernia, but I he is going to top off my fluids and switch out the air filter while he’s in there. Unfortunately he charges a lot more than $19.95 and there a lot of needles involved. Crap.

Delusions of Granduer

Take away the palm trees and mountains, but leave behind the garish strip malls and you will see Las Vegas is a lot like Des Moines or even (gasp!) Sioux Falls. In college I often pretended to be too good for Sioux Falls. After all, someone as talented as me has no place in South Dakota. I am somehow better than suburban monotony. Yet, I find myself a minivan’s length from the monotony cliff right here in Sin City.

I often daydream that my life as a suburban kindergarten/first grade teacher will somehow be interrupted when someone discovers my true talent. Often that hidden talent has something to do being a writer, stand-up comedian, or something equally unlikely/absurd. I will fondly look back on my “teaching days” as I milk it for material on my newfound journey that forces me to reside in a substandard apartment in Los Angeles or New York.

Watching Judd Apatow most often instigates these momentary absurd fantasies. Visions of performing stand-up comedy and co-starring in a movie with Jonah Hill occupy my brain. After all, I feel sharing a hairstyle with Seth Rogen makes me just as talented as he is. (I’ll just conveniently overlook the fact that Seth is rich, Jewish, and funny and I am none of those.)

Another hallucinogenic culprit tends to be written word. These fantasies happen less often, as there is nothing inspiring about my usual reading fodder: the riveting teacher’s manual that accompanies the Harcourt Trophies series. However, when I pick up David Sedaris I find myself thinking that my family is semi-functional enough to find their way into my creative essays. Even further, I know that with a little coaching I could find myself on NPR sounding rather pretentious and sharing my highbrow humor with the world. Whether or not this path would be more enriching than becoming Seth Rogen-esque is debatable. Either way, both non-realities seem much more appealing than my day-to-day reality as “Mr. Asplund.”

It’s not to say that teaching is a bad choice or a decision I regret making. With that said, I have never felt the near-religious calling to the profession that was described to me in my college preparation. I do not consider myself some sort of financial martyr who has taken a vow of strict middle-classerty in an effort to mold and shape the minds.

I do not adorn my teacher desk with the typical trinkets with inspirational sayings about my impact on the future, partially because I am not the “inspirational” type and partially because reminders of my large scale potential for impact scare the living crap out of me. To be truly honest, I am still unsure why I am a teacher. However, I seem to be reasonably successful at it and I find a certain level of contentment in coming to school each day.

Whether it is Sioux Falls, Des Moines, or Las Vegas I will still live the mundane life. I will comfort myself with the knowledge that I am none too shabby at playing the role of suburban teacher and maybe it is just where I am meant to be. Yet Seth Rogen and David Sedaris are still out there, tempting me to hotwire that minivan and head east/west to live out a ridiculous dream.