Essays Out of Left Field

Intro

Out of left field is American slang meaning unexpected, odd, or strange. The phrase came from baseball terminology, referring to a play in which the ball is thrown from the area covered by the left fielder to either home plate or first base, surprising the runner.

—Wikipedia

Did I just start my book with a definition from Wikipedia? Yes, I did. This book only gets less credible from here.

The saying out of left field is meant to describe something unexpected or surprising. From a baseball perspective, however, it doesn’t make much sense. I don’t understand why a runner would be surprised by a ball coming out of left field. The only way the ball could come from left field is if a ball was hit to left field in the first place. A runner shouldn’t even begin to advance on the basepath until they know where the ball was hit. That’s sort of a baseball 101-level lesson.

When a ball is retrieved and thrown in from left field, it shouldn’t be any more surprising than if it was thrown in from any other part of the field. Out of center field. Out of right field. Out of deep short. . . . None of these should surprise the runner unless that runner was a daydreaming 7-year-old who was forced to play Little League by his parents. Perhaps if a volleyball was kicked out of left field, it would be a bit unexpected to a runner on the basepaths.

The saying out of left field indeed seems questionably derived. Yet the phrase still resonates with me. To me, out of left field represents finding the odd, unexpected, and random in otherwise ordinary circumstances—The weird things that happen in everyday life. That brings us to the following collection of essays.

These essays are based on original works, written and published (in a real magazine, even) between 2016 and 2023. I was optimistic that compiling and publishing these essays would be my path to fame and fortune. However, after some brief research, I discovered one should only expect success from publishing personal essays if that person is already a New York Times bestselling author or a member of the Royal Family. To be clear, I am neither—unless I have royal lineage hiding in my mostly Norwegian and somewhat Swedish heritage. Despite my near-zero chance of success, I’ve decided to publish and move on with my Scandinavian peasant life.

I trust you will find some of the following tales heartwarming and perhaps even comforting. I was once told my essays were like Chicken Soup for the Soul. I don’t think that person had ever actually read my essays or any Chicken Soup for the Soul books. I’m not even sure they knew how to read at all. Nevertheless, I accepted the compliment and continued sharing anecdotes that connect with people on a deep, emotional level. My essays aren’t quite as wholesome as chicken soup. And they generally don’t target a body part as critical as one’s soul. But I think it’s reasonable to liken my essays to SpaghettiOs for the Pancreas.

Sure, they are slightly less nourishing and they target a slightly less significant part of one’s self. Still, they are caloric and could be mildly beneficial under the right circumstances.

(If I ever write a follow-up to this book, it will likely be titled SpaghettiOs for the Pancreas.)

These essays are based on ordinary, everyday circumstances. Yet you will hopefully find elements of surprise and curious unfamiliarity—Like through the use of the phrase curious unfamiliarity. The stories are meant to be interpreted as humorous, inspirational, and educational essays. However, if you find them neither humorous nor inspirational nor educational, simply consider them regular essays. The stories contain observations on politics, fatherhood, and growing older. I also discuss Emerald Ash Borers, the concerning chicken population, and collecting 55 gallons of dog poop. You’ll read stories about growing up on the farm, camping, and the time I almost got hit in the head by a falling lightbulb. You know what, you can just read the table of contents instead of me describing each essay in paragraph form.

The essays are mostly disconnected, random thoughts that don’t tie directly from one story to the next. There isn’t even a specific order they need to be read in. However, I do recommend reading in normal front-to-back order, because that is how normal humans read books. If you read them in some other random order, it will be difficult to place a bookmark to determine where you left off and where you should continue. (This is the kind of inspirational and educational guidance you can expect from the following essays.)

Many of the stories—probably too many of the stories—contain sports references to help express the message I’m attempting to convey because I don’t really understand much about the world unless I can relate it to a sport. You might find these essays unexpected, odd, or strange. You might feel like they came out of left field. And you would be right.

Buy in Bulk

I don’t mean to flaunt my affluence, but I really enjoy my membership to one of the local private clubs in town. It’s not that I’m anti regular folk, but sometimes it’s refreshing to mingle with people I relate to—those of my class and status. Sometimes it takes the exclusivity of a special club to limit exposure to the riff-raff who simply won’t appreciate the opportunities and entitlements I have rightly earned.

Oh, I’m not talking about golf courses and swimming pools. The club I’m referring to is the bulk discount warehouse shopping club.

These are indeed exclusive clubs with exclusive benefits. You can only qualify for membership if you are a small business owner, a military veteran, a teacher, a student, someone who owns a cat, know someone who owns a cat, or know someone who can spell the word cat. Actually, the only requirement for membership is to pay a small annual fee. Then, with that privileged club membership, you have access to . . . buy stuff. And oh boy, do these clubs have stuff?!

There may be some readers who are unfamiliar with the bulk warehouse club lifestyle. I’ll enlighten:

Let’s say you’re out of pickles. It’s a precarious pickle predicament, but one that is easily remediable. You make a quick trip to the market to restock. Typically, you replenish your pickle supply with a 16 oz jar for $3.79, or $0.23 P.P.P. (Price Per Pickle). The bulk warehouse store, however, only sells pickles in 55-gallon drums for $1,338, or $0.19 per pickle. Naturally, after calculating the PROI (pickle return on investment), you go home with the barrel of pickles, set for life. You contemplate how the pickle industry can survive this unsustainably discounted offering. You purchase an extra-large mocha latte with organic soy milk and an extra shot of espresso from a local boutique coffee shop to celebrate all the money you saved. Plus, this seems like an appropriate luxury beverage for someone of your exclusive and privileged stature.

The warehouse club is where you find all the things you never knew you always needed. Every trip enlightens you on the specific gaping hole of materialism you didn’t realize was burdening your lifestyle. The club can easily fulfill your weekly grocery list and more.

A 50-pound bag of rice? Check.

20 pounds of ground beef? Check.

Box of 10 avocados? Check.

Kayak? Check. Wait, what?

Gun safe, pergola, hot tub, snow tires, 7-night stay at a Cancun resort, milk, eggs, and bread. Check, check, checkity-check . . . ah, lists are just a starting point anyway. This shopping cart should have independent suspension and anti-lock brakes.

Like many of my random stories, bulk warehouse clubs have a fond tie to my childhood. I initially dreaded shopping at the club with my mom. Until one day I discovered they sold entire boxes of baseball cards, of course at a handsome discount compared to single pack value. I broke into a cold sweat when I computed the wax pack math:

Only 27 cents PER PACK?! This can’t be possible!

I convinced Mom the BOX of baseball cards was a necessary investment opportunity for our family. From then on, I was hooked.

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Today, I’m feeding my own family of five. I now realize man can’t live on baseball cards alone. A man (and his family) needs stuff. Lots of stuff. Luckily, the warehouse club has stuff, packaged in excessive quantities.

Peanut Butter. We need a 5-pound tub of peanut butter. While that may seem excessive, that’s only 1 pound of peanut butter per person—my weekly quota. Peanut butter containers without their own gravitational pull simply do not suffice. Even if not eaten, a giant tub of peanut butter could be creatively weaponized in the event a child gets accidentally left home alone over Christmas and has to defend himself and his property against a team of incompetent bandits.

Cheese. My eldest child sprinkles shredded cheese on everything like fairy dust, making all foods taste magically delicious. We buy enough jumbo bags of cheddar they could double as flood prevention around the perimeter of our house. Running out of cheese is a crisis not worth flirting with. Move over, beer fridge! A dedicated deep freezer used exclusively for shredded cheese is a completely reasonable and justifiable asset.

Toilet paper. I don’t feel compelled to explain the need for this product. Families go through a lot of toilet paper. It’s just a fact of life. There is no shame in purchasing toiletries and personal care products in public. However, there’s no distinguished way to roll through the warehouse club with 10,000 linear feet of toilet paper.

Want a sure-fire way to run into your ex-girlfriend? Toss a couple 36-roll packs of toilet paper in your cart and you’ll be sure to reunite in the next aisle. If this happens, ignore the urge to explain yourself. Do not give in to the impulse to justify the volume of your purchase, nor the fact you chose to go with the generic brand instead of the well-known, luxurious 3-ply, ultra-absorbent paper. Even if that more expensive luxury brand is the same kind your ex’s new boyfriend, Gary always stocks in his downtown loft apartment. You are a successful, well-adjusted adult. Your choice of toilet paper is strictly based on personal preference. It has nothing to do with the fact that the generic paper was on sale this week. And never mind the additional discount from a coupon clipped from the newspaper fished out of your neighbor’s recycle bin. (This was strictly a theoretical example.)

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While this type of shopping experience is overwhelming for some, I thrive off the challenge of collecting as many bargains as possible for my family. I’m a modern-day hunter-gatherer, determined to provide sustenance and necessities for my brood.

It takes a special kind of man to navigate the intricate nuances of wholesale shopping. Changes in weekly discounts and offerings create a shifting landscape that can confuse and outright discourage a lesser-prepared hunter. But the unpredictability is what I am built for.

My wife questions whether this level of zeal is required for the straightforward task of fulfilling this week’s clearly defined grocery list. It’s almost as if she doesn’t trust me to shop alone. Halfway through my excursion, she’ll text me a friendly reminder:

Just stick to the staples.

Staples?! Ha—that ship sailed by aisle 2! Speaking of, I wonder if they have sailboats on sale this week? And we’re probably out of staples. And staplers. And paper which might require stapling together.

Despite my vast experience and typically composed performance, sometimes the excitement of a new bargain can fog the memory. This disruption in composure can cause what’s known as O.I.A.B.T. syndrome. (Oops, I Already Bought That.) During a recent trip, I forgot I had already purchased a 3-pack of giant contact solution bottles . . . twice before. Now I might as well just swim in the stuff with my eyes open. Maybe I can give away bottles to trick-or-treaters next Halloween.

Discounts and excessively packaged items are expected in wholesale shopping. (Like a three-pack of toasters, BUT for the price of two!) However, free samples are the definitive perk of any warehouse club. As you roll through the aisles, a team of recently un-retired women offers this week’s discounted food items. Each has a kindness in their eyes mixed with a subtle, yet ruthless saleswomanship. Their convincing tactics are shrouded in mystery. You can’t tell if they are fighting for a commission to supplement their paltry Social Security check, or if they are funding a second condo in the Bahamas.

Rationality is completely abandoned on free sample day. I’m never quite sure of the appropriate level of politeness required in this unique social situation. I feel guilty if I gobble down one server’s offering, but refuse the neighboring sample. What if the sample is their own personal recipe? I wouldn’t want to be rude.

A ruthless elderly saleswoman, quite possibly named Ruth, asks, Would you like to try a gluten-free bologna pesto egg roll?

Uh . . . sure, I’ll try one. Wow, you can really taste the lack of gluten. Oh, they’re on sale today? Well, I guess I’m getting a pallet of these tasty treats.

Free Sample Day is a slightly less awkward version of speed dating, but ultimately more expensive and often resulting in greater long-term commitment.

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After traversing every single aisle and end-cap, I always arrive at the checkout counter with a sense of pride. I earned this privilege. I worked hard and trained diligently for the right to sacrifice the majority of my weekly paycheck for things that I didn’t need.

Even though we don’t own an essential oil diffuser, the gallon of lavender/rosemary oil in my cart represents my status as an exclusive club member. Theoretical aromatherapy is perhaps the ultimate display of prestige.

But as I dwell in a sense of excessive but discounted opulence, I concede that my weekly shopping experience won’t be necessary forever. Some day in the not-too-distant future, I’ll have fewer reasons to buy in bulk. One by one, the kids will move out. My impulse buys will be harder to justify. Soon, a 16-oz jar of pickles will suffice.

Until then, I’ll cherish my membership in the club and honor it like the land of milk and honey. (Check and check.)

Skamantha

We’re heading into the cool, crisp days of fall in South Dakota, so I guess it’s time to winterize the