random anxieties of existence

I just finished possibly the best pecan tart I have ever eaten. It was crumbly, but it was oh so delectable. Yesterday night I went downstairs to cook a late supper, settling on my usual fare - microwaved hot dogs on bread with a cheese slice. Upon entering the kitchen, I noticed that on the stove-top were a fantastic-looking pie with crumble on top, which I found out later to be peach pie, and a pan of melt-in-your-mouth pecan butter tarts. Now, I would like you to get a glimpse of how much I like butter tarts. Years ago I decided it was a prerequisite that the woman I was to marry had to know how to make butter tarts. That's how much I like butter tarts. Since then, reason has poked its hideous little head into the play-pen of my mind and has pointed out that perhaps this is a superficial and idiotic prerequisite to have, so I have dropped it as a requirement. Anyway, so I was there nuking my very unhealthy dinner in the microwave, and Trina comes upstairs to check on her ...

Understanding my distaste for unexpected expenditures, you can imagine my discomfort taking Arfy to the mechanic. As a general rule, though, if your car's radiator fan is not working and you can't drive more than 15 minutes without overheating and having your coolant boil and explode out of its container, and if overheating can cause your engine to warp and seize up, rendering your car useless - it's probably a good time to see a mechanic. In the case of a mechanic, the unexpected costs are generally the result of finding out that your car will explode into a million pieces unless you have this, this, and this replaced. In my case it was probably true. I think that's why I tend to have an overwhelming urge to put off going to a garage for as long as possible, basically until even I can tell I'm not going to last long driving the car, because I know they're going to tell me something is more wrong with my car than I first thought.   "How are you?" ...

I'm part Scottish, but sometimes I think I must be full-blooded. My proof for this is an intriguing cost-saving substance called "skim milk powder." While all other kids growing up 'got milk,' my sisters and I were sat in front of an over-diluted pail of this watery white substance that had the audacity to claim the name of 'milk' while every sense receptor on my tongue screamed the falsity of such an association.  For the longest time I probably wondered if my mom merely printed her own blue bags with 'milk' written across the side wherin she could deposit these powdery grains of dried food colouring, because I had never seen one of these bags outside of our house on God's green earth. To this day I haven't seen anyone actually drink the stuff besides the Dow clan, but I have seen the odd bag here and there, tucked in the deepest, darkest corners of grocery stores. I think they're made just for my mom, though. Possibly by my dad, who...

Today I had the privilege of going to a conference in Toronto with Dave Hood and Dan Carlson, two guys that I respect for their fellow geekiness and love of books, theology, philosophy, history, and literature/language.   The keynote speaker was Ravi Zacharias , a tremendous speaker and apologist who not only has a captivating intellect but also a stunning delivery of profound truths. During one session that he wasn't speaking I was coming in a little late, so I slipped around back of the pews in the large church auditorium and into my seat. As I'm rounding the back of the pews to come up the far side of the isle, whistling the song that everyone else is singing (don't ask my why I was whistling... I really have no idea), the door opens and who to my wondering eyes should appear but Dr. Ravi Zach, with a faithful minion at his side.  I go further up to my seat and, little do I know, this white haired Indian man is following me. I sit down. He sits down. Beside me. O...