I'm finally a good teacher

I finally had a semester of teaching that I think my college would approve of. I admit that my colleagues would probably feel that I wasted a lot of time during the semester trying to help my students develop understanding of linear algebra, even though I had lots of evidence that they were learning the material better than any of the students in my previous nine classes. My students consistently performed well on tests and quizzes, and during group work in class, they expressed powerful insights into the material. I thought perhaps I was actually figuring out how to make the content of the course more accessible to students. I expected a strong performance on the final, particularly since the problems and questions on the exam were similar to the questions and problems on previous exams, as I had warned students they would be. I was ready to give out some of the best grades I have ever given in a linear algebra class.

But then a miracle happened that redeemed my teaching--my students bombed the final. I have no idea what happened to my bright students. They stumbled over problems they had successfully completed on previous exams. They overlooked conditions that we had discussed on at least four different occasions in class, both in small groups and whole class discussions. After I applied a fairly merciful curve to the final, the overall grades in the class were still a disappointment to me. I had expected that my students would do so much better than they had.

To my college, however, the overall grades of the course are resounding proof that the course was good. Recently when talking with the deans, a colleague asked what the deans thought of the teaching in our department. Rather than talking about the many innovations we have implemented or the overwhelmingly positive student evaluations we receive semester after semester, the deans instead chose to criticize our department for giving higher grades than any other department in the college. I should have expected that type of response, but at the time, it caught me off guard. I have this silly, naive notion that higher grades indicate that students are learning and understanding more than if they had lower grades. In other words, shouldn't high grades be a good thing? Shouldn't that be a natural phenomenon that accompanies good teaching?

But no, I'm wrong. A good course is one where many students fail, most get Cs and Ds, and none can ever mention the name of the course again without a shiver of dread going up their spine. That's a good course, because it's rigorous. And because it's rigorous, the only way students will survive and pass the course is because they learn the content. Or so the theory goes. And a wonderful byproduct of such a course is that it separates students so that we now know who deserves future opportunities and who doesn't. Never mind that perhaps many more would qualify for future opportunities if we focused more on actually helped students learn rather than making sure we sort them for employers and graduate school admission committees. Oh, there I go again with my wrong headed thinking. Stupid liberal tendencies.

At least this semester, though, I can pride myself on doing a good job in my class. I gave low grades, so my course must have been rigorous. Of course, I'll probably get good teaching evaluations from the students, like I usually do. Only this semester, my colleagues will attribute my high ratings to a good sense of humor rather than a propensity to give out easy As. No harm done, because I've become one of them. I've kept the system intact, perpetuated inequality, earned the respect of my colleagues. Of course, they'll wonder why I don't join them in bantering about the poor quality of students I've had this semester, and instead choose to sit in my office, lights off, staring at the wall. And in my darkened office, I'll continue to wonder when any of us will be smart enough and care enough to really make a difference in the lives of our students.

Spies at work

I found this photo on the webpage of my place of employment, along with the question about whether these people are spies or not. Seems that underground remnants of the KGB have been successful in establishing a cryptography class at my university, and now they are openly training their young spies!

What is really disturbing is that the two women in this picture have actually worked as my TAs during the past year. I ask myself why they would want to work for me, of all people on campus. And then I made the connection--I am one of the few openly liberal people at my work, and I would be a natural sympathizer for their leftist cause.

Holy James-Bond-butt-kicking Russian spies! The commies are after me!

The Snowman Song

During the past few days, the first big snow storm of the winter season has moved through Utah Valley. I knew this storm was going to hit about a week before it did, because that's when I led the kids at my church in singing the snowman song.

I discovered the powers of the snowman song during late November of last year. Lawns across the valley had gone brown either from drought or frost. It was hard to say, because it had been a particularly dry fall. I decided to do something about it, so I had the kids at my church sing the snowman song forwards and backwards. I think it's the backwards rendition that makes it a particularly powerful spell. Anyway, during the next four weeks, we had five major snow storms. By the time the fourth one hit, I was wishing our song didn't have such powerful mojo. But I couldn't think of how to reverse the spell, since we had already sung the song in both directions to invoke the storms. We just had to suffer through it all.

This year's fall produced the same dismal looking lawns, so I once again took the weather into my own hands. Only this time I decided that maybe I could could temper the onslaught of storms by having only some of the kids sing the snowman song backwards and forwards. So I had only the older kids sing it during their singing time. But then the older kids also wanted to sing the lightening song*, and the scientist in me just couldn't resist performing the experiment. So far, we've had one big storm with no electric effects whatsoever. However, if we get a huge storm that knocks out the electricity, I'm not taking responsibility. After all, it was 11-year old Alex's idea. He made me do it.

*The lightening song is sung to the tune, Rain is Falling All Around, and the lyrics are as follows:

Lightening's striking all around,
On the housetops, on the ground.
Lightening strikes me on the head.
Now I'm falling toasty dead.

Try it with your kids. I guarantee that even the boys will be singing.

Look at the moosebutt on that one

J-girl and I were at Albertson's today getting a discount turkey. All we had to do was buy $25 of overpriced groceries and then we could buy a turkey at 38 cents per pound. You don't have to buy much at Albertson's to make it to $25. We got a little exuberant (they had diet vanilla coke on sale!) and ended up buying $55 dollars worth of groceries, which naturally led my wife to haggle for the right to buy a second turkey at the same discounted price. I looked at the three guys behind me in line and shrugged my shoulders. I was all too aware of my responsibility as a guy not to make any other guy spend a second longer than was necessary in a grocery store. In their eyes, the only right thing would be for me to assert my commitment to law, order, and minimal line wait times by telling the little lady to back off. I'm sure they would admit, however, that if they were in my shoes, they would feel just like me—much too cowardly to stand between the little lady and a discount turkey. Nonetheless, they still expected better of me, and I could feel the pressure and animosity. I stared at my shoes, inwardly reeling at the bitter waves of resentment being sent my way.

Finally J-girl and the cashier agreed that J-girl would be able to get a second discount if she broke the purchase into two transactions. Oh-oh, I thought. That was the worse case scenario. Those guys behind me were gonna have to wait for us to get a second turkey and then wait to have the cashier split up the groceries and ring up everything again so that it turned into two transactions that totaled more than $25 each. That's when I felt the really hostile vibes. I could tell they were silently cursing me and questioning my manhood. They were sure that I must be a eunuch to let the line get held up like this. I smiled weakly at the cashier as my wife went to pick out a second turkey. I would have gone to get it just so that I could be away from all the resentment. However, both J-girl and I are clearly aware that me being a guy means that I'm too gender-handicapped to be able to pick out a turkey. So off went J-girl, leaving just me, the cashier, and the three eunuch haters.

As the other guys were watching my wife leave and silently cursing all women and their pitiful, spineless husbands, the cashier asked me if I would be willing to donate to the Utah food bank. I grabbed onto her offer like the life line it was. This was my chance to demonstrate that I wasn't eunuch material. Using standard guy reasoning, I quickly deduced that a contribution to feeding the hungry would easily compensate for my line-stopping treason to guy-kind. Even if the guys behind me didn't see that I was stamping out hunger, the fact that I was actually making a purchase would force them or any other guy to admit that I had a had a right to still be standing in front of the register.

So I told her I would be glad to contribute, after which she grabbed one of the preprinted donation forms and scanned it. Sure enough, the guys noticed that something had been added to the total bill, and while they continued to shuffle their feet and sigh heavily, I felt the hate waves lessen. I smiled a little, at the same time hoping that J-girl would hurry so that the amount I had contributed would balance my register-hogging debt to society. If she wasn't quick enough, I admitted to myself, I would probably have to make another contribution just to keep things even.

I was still trying to reason through how much a wasted minute at the register cost in terms of dollars in food bank donations when the cashier handed me the donation form and asked me to put my name on it. Let me explain that all of these places that accept donations have the annoying habit of displaying the forms on the store walls, proudly showing the names of the contributors. This practice is the main reason I refuse at times to donate. All of my dealings with the public are guided by a single metaphor: the nail that sticks out gets hammered. OK, sure, it's probably overly pessimistic, and may in fact be largely untrue. But it works for me. I try to avoid being noticed for anything, good or bad. I am always happy to  blend into the background. But writing my name on some stupid form to be seen by lots of people I didn't know was not my idea of blending. I stood there at the register, uncapped black sharpie in my hand, wondering what to do. I was already inconveniencing the cashier, so I didn't want to make a scene. Instead, I quickly scribbled my online name—Moosebutt—onto the form and handed it back to the cashier.

J-girl still wasn't back, so the cashier had nothing better to do than read the name on the form. She glanced at it with bored eyes, started to put it down, and then looked again. She looked back up at me, catching the laugh that was on its way out, and turning it into a smirk on her now attentive face. I was about to explain why I chose to write that particular name, but before I could say anything, she shook her head, looked back down at the form, and chuckled. Then she looked back up at me, eyes snapping, her lips noticeably pinched tight to hold back the zinger that was on the tip of her tongue. I looked down at my feet, and we stood like that for nearly a minute until J-girl finally showed up with the second turkey. Then the cashier scanned the turkey, inserted a key into the cash register, and punched in the code to allow the purchase of the second turkey at the discount rate. The groceries didn't have to be split up, and nothing had to be rescanned. The guys behind me sighed in relief. As quickly as I could,  I swiped my credit card, gathered the bags, and grabbed the receipt, my eyes glued to the floor the entire time. As I turned toward the exit and the cashier wished us a good day, I swear I could feel her smirk as she considered whether my butt was more similar in size to an elk or a moose. This only served to convince me that my metaphor for governing public relations was spot on.

Revenge of the pork taco

I decided on Sunday to make pork tacos (authentic local pronunciation: tack-ohs). Unfortunately, I didn't get the roast into the crock pot until 12:30, which wasn't enough time to force it to submit to being shredded at 6. I had people who needed to be places soon thereafter, so I quickly threw together a completely different dinner (spaghetti and meatballs, cauliflower, french bread, sliced apples), the whole time being careful not to step on Little J and her science project that she was gluing to a display board in the middle of the kitchen floor (the "perfect" wide-open space, she claimed). Despite scientific evidence that men cannot multitask, I somehow managed to make dinner as I jumped over and stepped around the display board,  granting glances and nods of approval to Little J every 30 seconds as she told me to look at what she had just glued to the board, simultaneously interrupting my teenager's monologue of his college social life with frequent questions (to show that I was listening), regularly glaring at the other teenager (to try to curtail his "clever" running commentary), and occasionally making sympathetic noises in response to Swine Flu Mary's (a,k.a., J-girl) groans of misery (to acknowledge that yes, this was indeed the worst illness that could be inflicted on humans and that, yes, it must be truly awful because she had fallen asleep twice during the day--never mind that that's my average score for a single sacrament meeting). I wanted to kill the pork roast, which, as it turns out, wasn't actually pork but beef instead. Yes, it was one of those peaceful, spiritually renewing Sabbath evenings.

The upside of this whole pork taco debacle was that the "pork" was finally cooked enough for tacos on Monday night. Only, it didn't die quietly. This time it sought its revenge on Josh. Halfway through the meal, both Josh and I noticed that he had huge splotches of taco juice all over the upper right shoulder of his sweatshirt. Neither of us had any idea of how it got there. He took his sweatshirt off (yeah, I know, dumb idea), only to get more juice on his shirt with streaks running down his left forearm and ending in a puddle of juice surrounding his left elbow. Josh started panicking and making squawking noises as soon as he realized the taco juice was after him. Being filled with charity and family unity because it was Family Night, the rest of us sprang to his rescue by laughing and mocking him. J-girl tried to explain to us how all of this happened based on her newly gained scientific expertise from this semester's Physical Science 100 class. Just to be on the safe side, we waited a good hour for the juice to cool and "deactivate" (Josh's term) before putting the leftovers away. We had learned that you can never be too careful when it comes to dealing with taco meat.

Swine flu comes home to roost

Yesterday (Friday) we learned that J-girl has swine flu. We probably should have known on Tuesday, because that's when she came down with the symptoms that she didn't tell anyone about. You'd think an ex-nurse would have a little more common sense about her own health, but she doesn't, even after all of the hype surrounding the swine flu. I should have known better, though, than to think that this would make a difference in her MO. Every time she gets sick, she never considers taking medication, going to the doctor, or getting extra sleep. She just keeps going until she either collapses or I notice that she is sick and prompt her to do something more responsible. Her response to these promptings is typically, "Oh, yeah, why didn't I think of that?" I constantly ask myself the same question.

You're probably thinking that she keeps going because she doesn't see any alternative. But I've learned that usually isn't the case. Her main belief is that no matter what she does, she's going to feel miserable anyway, so she might as well get something done at the same time. I'm somewhat sympathetic to that line of reasoning, but I don't see why that means she doesn't need to take medication or go to bed early. Sometimes I wonder if her insistence to keep going is a form of denial.

Whatever her reasoning, our family now clearly falls into the non-flu-fighters category. After J-girl was diagnosed, Mark admitted that he might have had the swine flu earlier. Of course we didn't know because, like his mother, he didn't bother to tell anyone that he wasn't feeling well. Josh had swine-flu like symptoms, but he got over them in two days, so I thought it was something less serious. Floppy's been eating like a swine, and so have I, so I'm thinking the only one who hasn't been infected yet is Little J. And of all of us who were infected, only Josh stayed home. We seem to have been doing our best to make sure that the epidemic continues. Floppy even tried to sneak out in public by climbing into the minivan while everyone was unloading the groceries. It took us over an hour to find him.

I'm not sure what we can do to repay society. I've thought maybe I'd make an extra effort not to burp or fart in public. Or perhaps I could make an attempt to eradicate the dandelion and clover infestation in our front lawn. But after further thought, I realized that if I did any of these things, I would stop making the people around me look so good. So I've decided to exert a great amount of self control and do nothing—well, almost nothing. If you do end up getting the swine flu, what I intend to do is take the fall for it. Go ahead and to tell everyone (over the phone) that we gave you the swine flu and that you're staying home so as not to stupidly pass it on to others. The increased esteem your friends will have for you should make us about even. Maybe you'll even owe us a little, in which case I expect you to back off a little in burping and farting in public.

Promise of Youth

I sit in the third row of Primary, waiting for the cue to start my show. In front of me sits a mom and her toddler. The child, never motionless, shifts, pulls, pokes, turns, sits, stands, constant movement in her mother's arms, face set in concentration, long lashes covering eyes that always look down. Suddenly she flops down on her belly and slides to the floor. In a few short seconds, she moves right to my side and extends her stubby arms for me to hold her. I lift her up and hold her so that she can stand on my legs like she stood on her mother's. Her legs go limp as I set her down, and she sits on my lap, her round face turned up toward mine. Then with no warning, she spreads her arms, leans into me, and clutches her arms around my pot belly. My arms instinctively wrap around her, and I look down with a sudden ache of love at the soft yellow curls and pudgy rolls of baby fat on her arms. I catch a whiff of baby shampoo and soap, and then she is sliding off my legs onto the floor, moving again with downcast eyes, face set in determination at the carpeted aisle between chairs, the warmth of her sudden affection still resonating through my chest. For a moment I forget my own brokenness and bask in the bright hope and wonder of her youth instead. If only, I think. If only. I watch her toddle away, and I ache once again as the warmth inside begins to dissipate.

Living with a dying grandmother

It's surprising that I could have spent so much time with my grandmother and yet not really have known her. While growing up, I visited my grandparents frequently, and occasionally stayed with them on my own. My grandmother was always content to let my outgoing grandfather run the show and take the major role in our interactions. I know that my grandmother loved me, though, because she always made sure I was comfortable and well fed. Whenever we were with her on a trip, she made sure that meals were planned and restaurants picked far in advance. Food was never left to chance. To a hungry teenager, that was important.

After my grandfather passed away, my grandmother came to Utah. She was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's Disease. After a long respiratory illness, she came to live with us. We thought that she might die in the next month or so. Instead, she seemed to rebound, and for the next four months became an important part of our family.

Some moments stand out:

• Christmas lights on Temple Square: Grandma trudged through the cold air using her walker and grinned like a young child at the beautiful lights. She also loved the apple pies we got at McDonald's afterwards.
  
• Sourdough pizza Mondays: Grandma loved to help make meals. We loved it when she put the pepperoni on the pizza because she always piled it on. She loved to eat the pizza, too, and almost always ate four or five pieces.
• Running errands: Driving with Grandma always made me see things anew. She grew to love the mountains, and every time she saw the snow covered peaks while driving with me in the car, she would gasp and exclaim how beautiful the world was. It warmed my heart each time, helping to ease the pain of seeing her health and memory decline.
• Gentle conversations: Grandma taught me the joy of talking about the things that are present and close by. We would talk about the warmth of the sun on our backs as we walked, the flowers that poked through the snow, the strange ice formations made by the slanted winter sun in the snow piles by the walks and drives, the warmth and softness of the Floppy's fur.
  
• Eating out: Grandma's favorite activity was going out to eat. She loved buffets. She could really put the food away for a tiny 85 year old woman.
• Ice cream: Grandma's favorite food was ice cream. The easiest and surest way for us to show love for her was to buy her ice cream. She loved ice cream her whole life, and by the time she came to live with us, she no longer had to restrict her intake of her favorite food. But she didn't like eating ice cream alone. I gained at least a couple of pounds while she was here just from all the ice cream we ate together.
  
• A new side to Little J: Grandma had a special relationship with Little J. She would let Little J help her and tell her things that she would not accept from anyone else. Little J spent hours helping Grandma eat breakfast, move around the house, and find interest in day-to-day life.
  
• Floppy's friend: No matter how bad things were for Grandma, she would not forget Floppy. She regularly checked to see that he had food and water. She let him out several times during the day. She would bend over, risking personal harm, to fill the food dish or clean the water dish. She never complained when he climbed on top of her. They spent hundreds of hours being couch and bed buddies. And when her memory was especially bad, she would follow him around the house, always trusting him to lead her to where she needed to go.
  

Taking care of Grandma brought feelings of joy that frequently warmed and filled me completely. I connected with her at times on a level that felt like old friends, a relationship that seemed to stretch beyond the present to both the far past and distant future, as if this were but a moment among many pleasant moments we had known and would know together. Although her illness had changed her personality a lot by the time she moved in with us, I'm grateful that I got to know her in at least one phase of her life. All the scary and hard times we experienced taking care of her made those good moments even more precious. Toward the end they seemed like fragile, almost illusory gifts that we dared not inspect carefully for fear that they would transform into her bouts of rage, frustration, impotence and fear.

Along with joy came sadness. Watching my grandmother's health and mental state deteriorate before my eyes crushed my understanding of human life. I began asking the questions to which I thought I already had answers. I struggled to see the beauty in the snow-covered mountains because I couldn't see past the devastation in front of me. I questioned the reality and promise of the good moments. They seemed unreal compared to the darkness of pain, anger, and fear.

When I heard that my grandmother passed away last Tuesday, I did not cry. How could I grieve death when life contained only horrors for her? I hope for her that death comes as a release from living hell. I hope that she and Grandpa are together. I hope that they both know how much I love them. And one day, maybe soon, maybe in ages, I'll sit with her again and we'll continue our conversations of the present and close by. We'll feel inside, once again, that connection that transcends the bounds of mortal life, and we'll rejoice.

I live next door to a genius

I opened up Facebook today and once again faced the ad for the IQ test. That's when my suspicions were confirmed.


My neighbor is a freakin' genius, but her daughter is dumb. Sorry Konnie, but Facebook doesn't lie. (Obviously it might have been different if you're mom had married someone smarter.)

Making the world a McBetter place

McDonald's has finally come out with a product that makes any situation better: it's the line up of McCafé products. For example:

machine gun

machine guné

death

deathé

puke

puké

poop

poopé

Finé!

Her face says it all

"What? You're taking a picture of me? I had no idea!"

"It's hard being this adorable!"

"I HATE this boy!"

"I can act dead standing up..."

"...or lying down. (Note the open eyes--they make it more realistic.)"

Caught unaware.

Josh joins Buddhism

It's official. Josh is Buddhist.

Josh was talking to one of his friends at school who naturally assumed that he was a member of the majority faith in our region. Without missing a beat, Josh corrected his friend and let her know that he is in fact a Buddhist. She was shocked, and began questioning him about his beliefs. Of course, not being an active Buddhist, he didn't know the answers. That didn't bother him much, though, because he is exceptionally good at making stuff up. She believed every word that came out of his mouth. I'm sure she thought it exciting and refreshing to have a Buddhist friend.

But then things got a little awkward. You see, after pondering the situation for a week or two, his friend finally realized that she had a wonderful missionary opportunity. She started inviting him to church. He refused the first time, saying that he had to go to the Buddhist church on Sunday. She asked him how often he went, and without really thinking it through, he said he went about once a month. So then she began to work on him to come to her church on one of the other Sundays of the month. He finally got tired of trying to put her off and instead told her that he actually was a member of her faith after all. This was an extremely effective ploy, and she hasn't invited him to church since. I think his ruse will work as long as she never sees him in Buddhist robes. And since he's still too short to wear his brothers' hand-me-down robes, I think he's safe--at least for another year or two.

Wedding receptions promote thoughts of sin

Wedding receptions make me think that breaking the commandments might not be so bad. I'm not talking about your wedding reception, of course. I just loved that one. No, I'm talking about all the other wedding receptions that I have to attend.

My biggest problem is that I'm a wedding reception dork. I don't know what to say to the bride (Hey, it's really great he didn't knock you up first) or what to say to the parents of the groom (I heard [groom's name] has a good chance of beating that drug charge). Half the time I don't really even know anyone well enough to do more than speculate about the weather (There's a tornado warning in Eastern Kansas, can you believe that?). And talking about the weather at a wedding reception is a major faux pas.

All of my wedding reception dorkiness leads to major embarrassment, and yes, down right humiliation. Why couldn't the bride's mom put together a bunch of inane little sayings on business card size slips of paper that would allow dorks like me to read off something that shows class and good breeding (I saw cousin Jimmy at Del Taco and he said y'all we're getting hitched for tax purposes. I knew y'all was always big on screwing the gov'ment.).

Instead, I find myself wondering how nice it would have been if the bride and groom had just moved in together, sparing everyone the cost and discomfort of a reception. Or what if there was a little bowl of Valium at the door? A couple of those, and even if I was dorky, I wouldn't remember it the next day. How about a nice alcoholic beverage?


Let's face it, me at a wedding reception is just not pretty, no matter how you slice it. So if you're working with a guest list and you just don't know who to cut, may I suggest you place I nice thin line through my name? You'll be doing everyone a favor, I guarantee it.

Earth Day 2009

I think the whole earth day thing is a good idea. We'd all be better off if we took good care of the planet. I actually even want to support it. But I've come to the conclusion today that I have a long way to go before I can say that I'm earth friendly. For on this very day, I broke the following taboos:

• I called the black, medium-sized ants in my bathroom bad names, and then squished them with my finger and washed them down the sink. I just can't think friendly thoughts about ants. These ants are particularly annoying, because they don't have the common courtesy to come out in large enough numbers so that I can tell where they're coming from. So I am continuously squishing their scouts. Hope to piss them off enough to evoke a full scale war.
  
• I sprayed a half-built wasp nest off the side of my house. I hate wasps even more than ants. Couldn't kill the wasp that was making the nest, though, even though I ambushed it three times. Darn sucker can take a lot of water and still fly away. But I did manage to squirt down a couple of yellow jackets, which I promptly squished under my sneaker. Ooh, that brings me even more happiness than squishing ants.
  
• I created environmental hell by barbecuing hamburgers. Yes, I know that this is a double sin, because cows produce a lot of the greenhouse gases, and the smoke from my barbecue looked like a two-alarm fire. I tried to compensate for this by not emitting my own methane, but failed. Make that a triple sin.

Poor mother earth.

Small Dog Syndrome

Recently as I was searching for a small dog for Little J, I ran across a few articles about Small Dog Syndrome (SDS). Signs of SDS include being yappy, nippy, aggressive, hostile, possessive, jealous, and demanding. I had read only a few paragraphs before I could no longer deny the truth--Little J has a classic case of SDS. The evidence:

Claiming the human: Dogs with SDS are very possessive of their human and want constant attention. They sit on their human without asking, demand to be petted and entertained, and growl when others try to usurp their position.

Comparison: Little J sits on me all the time, even though she is nine.

Warning: Dog handlers note that humans let dogs get away with this type of behavior because humans think the dog is showing love. But they're not showing love, they're just claiming space and asserting dominance.

Sleeping positions: Dogs with SDS always seek the most comfortable place to sleep, often on the human's pillow.

Comparison: Little J is always trying to sleep in my bed because she thinks it is the most comfortable place to sleep.

Warning: Dog handlers claim that the most comfortable sleeping position always goes to the pack leader. To let the dog claim that spot is to allow the dog to become the pack leader over the human.

Jumping up on humans: Dogs with SDS jump up on humans whenever they want.

Comparison: Little J is always trying to jump up into my arms and to get me to hold her.

Warning: Dog handlers suggest that humans let little dogs get away with this type of behavior because it is cute and because they interpret the dog's behavior to mean that the dog is glad to see them. However, for dogs, jumping up is a sign of dominance. So when the dog jumps up on the human, the dog is claiming the position of pack leader.

Leading while walking: Dogs with SDS will always walk in front of the human while on walks, instead of beside or behind the human. They will sniff and relieve themselves where ever and whenever they want.

Comparison: Little J usually takes the lead position during walks. Although she has yet to relieve herself during a walk or sniff at trees and fire hydrants, she nonetheless wanders off the sidewalk and investigates whatever interests her.

Warning: Dog handlers insist that pack leaders are the ones that lead in a pack walk. When the dog asserts his place as being in front, he is claiming to be pack leader.

Conclusion: Little J has SDS.

Recommended procedures: Reassert my position as pack leader by making her eat after I eat. Make her obey a simple command, like "sit," before giving her food, playing with her, or taking her on a walk. Take her for a pack walk at least once daily, making sure that she either walks beside me or behind me. Use my finger to poke her when she sits on my lap until she moves off. Do not allow her to eat whenever she wants.

Sounds like good advice to me.

Revenge of the Squirrels

As if global warming and the recession weren't bad enough, now Americans must deal with an even greater threat--flaming squirrels.

In October of last year, a New Jersey woman was attacked by a kamikaze squirrel. As she sat in her Toyota Camry, a flaming squirrel fell onto the hood of her car, slipped into the engine compartment, and set off an explosion. Fortunately, the woman survived the attack. On the other hand, the car was completely destroyed. Even Japanese engineers, as clever as they are, never foresaw the possibility of a brutal flaming squirrel attack.

And just today, another flaming squirrel set fire to a field next to an elementary school in Jones, Oklahoma. In a clear case of escalation, the squirrel seemed to be targeting children. Once again, no human lives were lost, largely due to the heroic efforts of local fire fighters.

It seems that the squirrel population is no longer content with raiding bird feeders and boy scout back packs. They are now involved in terrorism, too. Despite the recent destruction by the increasingly hostile squirrel population, the US Government is still refusing to take them seriously, as was clear from President Obama's failure to address the growing problem in his recent inaugural speech. Hopefully we won't have to wait until a flaming squirrel takes down a skyscraper before we take this threat seriously. The US cannot afford to face another 9/11.

I'll take your word on that

We came out of church today and it was bitter cold. The roads were solid sheets of ice and the wind was blowing. Little Julia, the same girl known for spontaneously dishing out noogies in singing time, was wearing a thin little coat over her dress as she crossed the parking lot. I asked her if she was going to walk home, and she said that she was. I encouraged her to get a ride home with her parents so she wouldn't freeze to death. She gave me a fearless, toothless grin, and said, "I won't get cold. I could take off all of my clothes and be naked in the snow and I'd be all right." I didn't have anything to say to that. Knowing Julia, she might actually be speaking from experience.

Marianne's Birthday Party

Little J's webkinz pink poodle Marianne had a birthday today. Of course she felt the need to throw a birthday party. So she invited all of the girls in the neighborhood who owned webkinz to come over for games, cupcakes, and lots of very loud talking. It was a huge hit, and most of the girls stayed much longer than anticipated.

Webkinz owners deep in the middle of a game of Monopoly.

Kara trying to decide whether to buy a house or not.

The banker, Little J, following the action.

Not shaving, growing a beard, and staying employed

I began the Christmas break by taking a stand against shaving. After about three days, people started asking me if I was growing a beard. I assured them that I wasn't. I got a lot of strange looks. For most people, not shaving and growing a beard are the same thing. For me, not shaving means not using the razor at all for a period of time. Growing a beard, on the other hand, requires occasional shaving. Consequently, not shaving is much better than growing a beard.

Despite how much I enjoy not shaving, about Day 9 I had to shave my lower neck to keep myself from scratching raw sores in my neck. This led to further reflection, in which I concluded that growing a beard, while not as glorious as going without shaving, is nonetheless easier than shaving every day. Below is a picture of me in the beard growing phase.


The beard growing phase, however, must come to an abrupt end on January 5, because I cannot go to work with a beard and remain employed. I realize now that I have a somewhat circular value system related to shaving:

1. Not shaving is the best UNTIL you begin to scratch your face off, after which...
2. Growing a beard is the best UNTIL you are threatened with losing your job, after which...
3. Shaving everyday (and being able to go to work) is the best UNTIL the next break from school comes along, after which... [return to #1].

I realize now that peace, harmony, and happiness come from following the shaving cycles of the universe. I'm having a total zen moment.