Pig Latin and Preaching the Gospel

Before Matt got his mission call, we were constantly plagued with questions about whether or not Matt had received his call. I kept having to tell them it hadn’t come yet, and then they would ask when we thought it would come, and I would say something about maybe this Wednesday or Thursday, and they’d make a polite comment like, “It’s hard to wait,” and I’d have to make a polite comment back, and it just kept on going. It was all too pleasant, and I just wanted to smack people. So finally, I took the initiative and started to tell people that he had received his mission call even though he hadn't, just to head off all of the unpleasant pleasantries. For example, this is what I said to Brother Dubbie, the second counselor in the bishopric, at church one Sunday:

Me: Hey, did you hear that Matt got his mission call?
Br. Dubbie: That’s wonderful. Where’s he going.
Me: Los Angeles Pig Latin speaking?
Br. Dubbie: That’s gr—wait!

Now that he has received his real call, we no longer have to worry about him learning Pig Latin. But the fake mission call got me thinking--what if one of the other kids got called to a Pig Latin speaking mission? Wouldn't it help if he or she was already fluent with the language?

Which is why I have begun to promote the speaking of Pig Latin around the house. Little J and I started the movement to SYL (MTC acronym for "speak your language") during a game of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Go Fish (Oompa-way Oompa-lay (Oompa Loompa) and illie-way onka-way (Willie Wonka) sounded the funniest). At first, it took us forever to put together a small sentence, and then we would have to repeat it several times before the other person finally understood. It seemed like we might never be ready to teach the gospel to the Pig Latin people. But lately, Little J and I have been able to speak more fluently. We seem to be blessed with the gift of tongues as a family in general, because even J-girl and Josh have begun to understand common Pig Latin phrases, such as "Ont-day easel-way eeze-squay e-thay andma-gray" (Don't weasel-squeeze the grandma). While I don’t think we’re quite ready to teach a complete gospel lesson in Pig Latin, I can see the day quickly approaching. We are so filled with the spirit of missionary work.

Apricot surprises

A couple of weeks ago, I risked life and limb to pick some apricots in a friend's tree. While pitting some of those apricots, I cut into one that had an earwig in the middle. It scrambled to get away, crawling towards my hands. It happened so fast that I gave a loud yelp and dropped the apricot into the sink. My skin was crawling as I watched the earwig drop from the apricot into the mouth of the garbage disposal. My yelp was so loud that Josh heard me all the way back in his room, despite the fact that his music was playing. I’m embarrassed to say that I was so completely grossed out that I couldn’t reach into the sink with my bare hands to remove the pit so that I could turn on the garbage disposal and filet the little sucker. Instead, I grabbed the tongs, gingerly removed the pit, prodded the apricot down the drain, and turned on the garbage disposal. It was not very manly, and somewhat out of character for me. After all, this was not the first time in my life that I’ve cut open an apricot and found an earwig.

Chopping the earwig into little pieces did not do much for my psyche, though. I just couldn’t bring myself to cut open any more apricots. I realized that I would need rubber gloves that come up to my elbows before I would be psychologically prepared to face another apricot surprise. So between my psychosis and J-girl’s busy schedule, the apricots never got processed, and instead rotted away in the side room. Josh and I finally threw them away. And that was even traumatic, because I kept waiting for some of them to explode and hundreds of earwigs to pour out of them. Ew!

New extreme sport: bare-handed apricot pitting.

Gloves only make it slightly better.

"Nah, I wasn't scared a bit."

Matt's going to Taipei

Two weeks ago, I went on record and predicted that Matt would get his mission call to the Taiwan, Taipei Mission. I was even willing to bet a week's worth of laundry on my prediction being correct. Of course, no one blinked an eye at that, because one of my regular household chores is doing the laundry. Furthermore, I'm one of those strange creatures that actually likes doing the laundry. All those neatly folded piles of clothes bring me great comfort in my daily battles with a world in chaos.

But I digress. Yesterday Matt got his mission call.

Matt opening his mission call.

Matt reading his mission call.

Sure enough, the old man was right--Matt's going to Taipei, and he enters the MTC on November 17.

Matt and J-girl celebrating the news.

Seconds after this picture was taken, J-girl was sitting at the table and trying to discreetly wipe away her tears. Being a typical mom, the arrival of this letter felt like her son was being taken away from her at that very moment. Me, on the hand, I'm much better at denial. The boy has over three months before he leaves, and I can spend at least two of those months pretending he will be around forever. It's not until I make that trip to Mr. Macs that my chest will start tightening and I'll start wondering how life can go on with one more empty chair at the dinner table.

Oh, and now that I've been proven right, I also want it to go on the record that no one, and I mean NO ONE, has come out and said how incredibly smart or spiritually in tune I am for having correctly predicted Matt's mission call. I know that if I had been wrong, I would have received a lot of (negative) feedback. I think I have earned the right to be called "O great and wise one." You can call me OGAWO for short.

Living with a 'Tween Shark

Little J has always been a bit of a strange eater. When she was little, she used to stuff her cheeks with food and then keep it there for up to an hour at a time, slowing eating it. That’s why when she was three she had six kazillion cavities. Then she went through the light grazing phase, where she would only eat a bite or two in any given five minute period of time, but would eat continually throughout the day. Recently, she has gone through the Glee phase, which means that between bites, she sings an entire Glee song. On Thursday, she was approaching a ratio of three Glee songs to one bite. She knows so many Glee songs that there weren’t any repeats.

If that weren’t bad enough, she has spent Shark Week carefully watching the biting behavior of great white sharks, and she is trying to mimic it. There have been several shows that analyze the great white shark’s biting behavior, how it approaches its prey at high speed, closes its eyes, opens it mouth, extends its teeth, clamps down on its prey, and then tears it apart with side-to-side motions of its head. She has practiced this technique on goldfish, burritos, and strawberries. It is incredibly terrifying to watch. When she eats like the great white, she is truly transformed into a super predator. I turn my head. Floppy whimpers. Of course, she still eats slowly, with an occasional Glee song thrown in. I think she’s the perfect example of what a ‘tween shark with too much access to popular culture would act like. Maybe she’ll be on shark week next year.

Little J building up speed as she approaches her prey.

A split second before the gruesome attack.

Extreme gore!

She thrashes with the prey locked in her jaws.

Shark Week: Where the Sharks Appear More Intelligent than Humans

This week is Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, and it has been difficult to pry Josh away from all of the high quality programming. Some of my favorites:

·      A show about a guy who wants to show the world how harmless sharks are by putting them into a trance-like state, either by turning them upside down or placing his hands right under their snouts. Guess what? It doesn’t work! But then he feeds a shark by hand, and concludes that this proves even more clearly that sharks are harmless.

·      A 20 minute segment about a bunch of guys who are trying to get a great white shark to take a bite out of a tuna on a rope so that they can study the effects of the bite, particularly how big the bite is. Only, the sharks always end up chewing off all but the tail. In the end, they get out the jawbones from a dead great white shark and close it over the tuna to show how big the bite is. Fail!

·      A show about how to survive shark attacks. The retired navy seal, who is constantly jumping into a swarm of sharks, ends the show by locking himself into a shark cage with an eight foot shark. He then shows and explains what to do to keep from getting bit by the shark. He finally wrestles the shark through a small opening in one side of the cage, and I’m thinking, “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do when it happens to me.”

And of course, there are countless other really stupid stunts where divers practically beg sharks to bite them. After a couple hours of these shows, I started to really feel sorry for the sharks, and also to admire them for their restraint. If I were one of the sharks on these shows, I would probably bite someone just to find out what stupid tastes like. On second thought, I don't have to be a shark on shark week to taste stupid. I could just bite myself, since my willingness to sit through these crazy shows suggests I'm not very bright, either.

A Stupid Person at the Grocery Store

We were in line at the grocery store when the woman in front of us asked my daughter where she got her eyes. She'd been watching Little J for awhile, and suddenly began talking to her. Little J immediately sensed that this was a strange woman, as did I. She moved behind me and did not answer the woman. I don't blame her. I had no idea what the creepy lady was asking, either, until she added, "You didn't get them from your dad." Then I knew what she was after. She was making a statement about the racial differences between me and my daughter.

She continued, saying that she bet Little J got her eyes from her mother. Little J slid further behind me, and I smiled awkwardly and gave her an "uh-huh." Even after she commented about how pretty Little J's eyes were, neither Little J nor I felt very comfortable. I think we both sensed that the purpose of the conversation was not about how pretty Little J is. Rather, the purpose of the conversation seemed to be about how Little J's racial mix was unexpected and perhaps disturbing and unnatural. After all, the woman was implying that Little J should have had eyes, and other physical features, more in common with her father.

I have experienced a lot of racism from people when they encounter me (Caucasian) and my wife (Chinese) together. They seem to think that if we were more normal, we would have been able to find someone of our own race to marry. I have learned to ignore such people. But I have a very difficult time refraining from gouging out the eyes of people who extend their racist attitudes toward my children. Yes, my children do not look exactly like me, and yes, they are Chinese-American. Get over it! And by the way, my children are also smarter, kinder, more understanding, more talented, better looking, bilingual, and able to function in two cultures because they are Chinese-American. Deal with it!

Avoiding the Reciprocal Rule

In an effort to curtail name calling in our house, three years ago I instigated a rule that if you call someone a name, then that automatically means the name applies to you, too. The rule quickly became known as the reciprocal rule, and it was highly effective. Within a few days, name calling dropped dramatically, and has continued at the same low numbers since.

Sad but true, I am now clearly the name-calling-est person in the family, which means I bear the brunt of the reciprocal rule. I always seem to be quick with an insult, such as “worthless piece of kid” or “you’re such a girl.” I have taken my punishment without complaint for a long time, thinking that perhaps I would be able to change my name-calling ways and clean up my act. But after several months of being a “dork” or a “stupid piece of stupid,” I’ve realized that I’m too old to be able to change my ways. And I'm sick of hearing Little J say, "Dad, reciprocal rule!" So I've decided to turn to trickery and deception to get out of the rule. After careful thought, I identified a loophole. I discovered that I can preface my insults with phrases that turn my name-calling into hearsay or friendly queries. For example, I could say something like, “some people might call you an annoying twit for doing that,” or, “Don’t you think that makes you a mindless zombie?” And then if they tried to invoke the reciprocal rule, I could act completely surprised and misunderstood, and then passionately claim and defend my innocence. Ah, a foolproof plan at last! Bwa ha ha!

Or at least it seemed foolproof. The biggest problem with the plan is that I keep forgetting to preface my name-calling with the appropriate qualifying statement. For example, I often burst out with something like, “twinky-nosed child” before I even know what I’m doing, and no matter how fast I say, “8 out of 5 dentists claim that you behave like a twinky-nosed child,” I invariably get the reciprocal rule invoked against me, even when I finish my rephrasing well before they shout “reciprocal rule.” Just as I seem to be too old to stop calling names, I also seem to be too old to remember to use the new phrases. So I’ve been successful in avoiding the reciprocal rule about two times.

I need a new plan.

Triop Wars

J-girl took Little J to the Living Planet Aquarium a couple of weeks ago, and together they decided that the time was ripe to raise triops again. J-girl took advantage of me being at work to commandeer the small fishbowl on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, the one that we use to hold the brushes we use for scrubbing dishes. I came home to find the bowl full of water and the brushes lying forlornly on the counter. A day or two later, the triops began hatching. At first there was a lot of interest in the triops. Little J was excited to see which ones would get eaten and which would survive. She fed them regularly and even cleaned the water once. She and J-girl would count them several times a day to see if any had been cannibalized. However, they soon became desensitized to the violence and gradually stopped watching them. Yesterday, as I was washing my hands at the kitchen sink, I noticed that the last one was feeding on the carcass of the next to last one. All that was left of loser was its head. The winner seemed to be eating its brain stem. Yuck!

I mentioned it to Little J, thinking that this was the supreme example of violence that she had been craving ever since she bought the box of triop eggs. She was doing something at the computer and couldn’t be bothered to look. No one else wanted to look, either. It wasn’t because they were grossed out like me; it was because it just wasn’t sensational enough for them to quit what they were doing and walk 20 feet to the windowsill.

That’s the moment I realized that doing science, especially raising triops, was just one more way that Satan is undermining the moral fabric of society. If I had really been paying attention, I would have recognized this sooner. After all, triops have feelers like horns and a long, evil-looking tail. They get more and more red markings as they grow. It’s not much of a leap from there to conclude that they must be the devil’s angels.

We still have half of the eggs left. I don’t think that anyone intends to start the process over again, at least not for a while. Death and carnage is no longer exciting enough to clean out the fishbowl. I’ll wait another week or so, and then I’ll quietly take the bowl back over. Everyone will be so glad they didn’t have to clean up the mess, and I will be glad to get Satan out of my house.

Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

I’ve been running out of creativity lately in primary. I wouldn’t say that I’ve reached the point that I’m boring, but for the past two months or so, I haven’t caused any of the primary leaders to wonder if I’m on drugs. In fact, I’ve been far too normal. I feel like I should always trigger a touch of fear in the primary leaders, leaving them to wonder (and dread?) what crazy stunt I will pull this week, and whether I will finally go too far. But instead, I’ve just been delivering somewhat standard primary chorister stuff. I worry that soon they will start describing me as “predictable,” or worse yet, “pleasant.” Such words should never be used to describe a primary chorister.

So I walked into junior primary on Sunday determined to shake things up a bit. Before the primary presidency could get set, I started teaching the children actions to the words “bees,” “toads,” “mouse,” and “crows.” Then I announced that we would sing the popular children’s song Head, Shoulders, Bees and Toads, ending with eyes, ears mouse and crows. The teachers giggled nervously, Sister Willey gave Sister Stringham that “he’s whacked again” look, the kids enthusiastically bumbled and leaped, and I experienced a touch of renewal. Truly I am most at home in primary when I’m certifiable.

Me and Josh at War

If you happened to spot me and Josh together, you might conclude that he and I are buds. Nothing could be further from the truth. While we pretend that nothing is wrong as we eat meals together or wash dishes, I am biding my time to exact revenge. Here’s why.

About a month ago, while Matt and I were making breakfast, Josh was sitting at the bar playing with a letter opener. As usual, he was swinging it around, doing all different kinds of slashes, and not being very careful because he thought that it was too dull to do any damage. Then, just for the heck of it, he grabbed the milk carton and sliced along its side. It immediately sprung a leak, after which he started to panic because I had seen the whole thing. Of course I wasn’t particularly happy with the situation, and yelled at him. He immediately jumped up, ran into the utility room, and then came rushing back with a roll of duct tape. He ripped off a strip and stuck it over the cut. When my jaw dropped, he explained to me how he had watched a whole episode on Myth Busters about the amazing uses and properties of duct tape. He assured me that the tape would hold and that the carton wouldn’t leak. I showed my confidence by walking over to the pantry, grabbing a large pitcher, and dumping the remaining milk into it. Josh was outraged, telling me that it would have worked and that I ruined his chance to prove it. I listened very sympathetically as I smashed the carton and threw it away.

So then late Friday night, I came into the kitchen and saw Matt pouring himself a glass of milk. On the side of the carton was a huge strip of duct tape. I went stomping through the house to Josh’s room and demanded to know why he had sliced another milk carton. Seriously, the kid is a major menace. He was nearly asleep, but grudgingly got up, came into the kitchen, pulled off the duct tape and then informed me that there was no hole in the carton. I responded by calling him a few names, after which he invoked the reciprocal rule. And since then, the war has been on. It’s a cold war, though, because no shots have been fired since. But believe me, I will get even. And he’ll never see it coming.

Little J Takes Care of Herself

I took Little J to the field by the Second West Chapel so that she could attend her friend Darcy’s end-of-school party. I was not surprised to find that the party was completely unsupervised. Darcy’s parents just dropped the girl off with a couple of coolers full of drinks and treats. There were at least 15 kids there and not a single parent. I didn’t want to completely embarrass Little J, so I stayed in the car. But I parked so that I was in plain sight as a reminder to all that there was a parent around.

The kids spent the first 30 minutes playing football in the field. Little J spent the whole time on the edge of the action doing cartwheels. Whenever the ball came close, she would move to a different deserted spot on the field. I had to admire her tenacity for avoiding any contact with the ball.

There was a boy, whom I later learned was named David D., who started chasing her around the field. He was the biggest kid on the field, while Little J was the smallest. He would catch up to her and then run away. He did this several times. I could tell from watching that she wasn’t liking it one bit. I nearly got out of the car to go have a talk with the boy. I wasn’t planning on scaring him so bad that he would need to go home and change his pants, but I figured I would educate him about bothering a girl who’s dad had nothing better to do than have a man-to-man talk with a clueless boy.

Then a wonderful thing happened. He did it one more time, and just as I reached down to yank the door open, Little J whipped off her shoe and clobbered him. Both he and I were so astounded that she pounded him at least four times before we knew what had happened. Then the boy ran away. He tried to come close to her again a couple more times, and each time she smacked him with her shoe. And she hit him hard. She threw all of her weight into it. I sat back and enjoyed the show, which was pretty short. Within a couple of minutes, the boy had found something else to do, and stayed away for the rest of the evening.

When Little J found out later that I had seen the whole thing, she was worried that I was going to scold her for hitting. I know I should have probably told her that violence was never the solution. But in this case, I thought it was an excellent improvisation. And it was probably a lot less painless to the boy than what my little talk would have been.

Terror in the Swim Lanes

I went to the Scera Pool yesterday to pick up Little J from swim team. It was a bright, sunny day, with swarms of children splashing and swimming, and contented moms sitting on deck chairs. It looked as if all was well. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

When I finally made it over to the lap pool, I spotted Little J in the closest lane waiting for the cool down set. The instructor told them to swim a 50-meter backstroke. The first girl in line immediately shoved off, and that’s when all heck broke loose. Kids swimming the backstroke at that age are worse than drunk senior citizens driving on ice. They were crisscrossing all over the lane, crashing into each other every 10 seconds or so, after which they would make a dramatic course change and 10 seconds later crash into someone or something else. It was horrifying. I saw kids get karate chopped in the face, run into walls, and become entangled in the lane lines.

The coach didn’t even notice that she had just unleashed pandemonium. She worked quietly at her clipboard as the children continued to maim themselves and each other. I thought about politely reminding her that swimming was not a contact sport, but was afraid she’d tell me that the rest of today’s workout was even more violent. So I chickened out and opted for ignorance, which was probably the right move, because Little J didn’t seem bothered in the least about the aquatic bumper cars when she got out. Instead, she busied herself with trying to get me to carry all of her stuff, which I took as a sure sign that she had emerged from the ordeal unscathed.

The mancation comes to an end

I used to think of J-girl leaving to visit relatives in Taiwan for weeks at a time as abandonment. I always ended up with at least some of the kids and both parents' amount of work. Then she would want me to call her every day so that she could tell me about how much she missed me and how hard it was without me, and have me comfort her. Let's just say I resented it a little bit.

But this time was different. I was left with two boys, ages 18 and 15, and by now, they are capable of cooking, cleaning, and generally taking care of themselves. They are actually good company, and we have many similar interests. We didn't have any girls around to corrupt us with their girly ways. And so we lived like guys like to live.

Let me first say what living the "guy life" in our family is not. It does not mean that the house becomes filthy, that we eat out at every meal, that we never have vegetables, that we go camping or fishing or shooting, or that we neglect personal hygiene. We kept the house as clean as it is when the girls are around, ate out only once in three weeks, had vegetables and fruits at every meal, never stepped foot in the great outdoors, and bathed and shaved regularly.

So what did we actually do that was manly, you might ask. Let me tell you. We worked out every day. We moved around the house freely since it was not cluttered by girly craft projects. We played video games when we wanted to. We said exactly what was on our minds when asked what we wanted or preferred, and didn't take offense when others spoke their minds. We watched kungfu movies. We worked side-by-side in the kitchen making cookies. We told stories about the stinkiest gas we had ever produced or smelled. We all got up on time to read scriptures together. Basically, we lived undemanding lives with zero drama.

The girls came home yesterday after being gone for three weeks. We were glad to see them. I listened to Little J for nearly 40 minutes as she showed me the latest additions to her Asian eraser collection. We laughed and joked in ways that I hadn't for 22 days. Then I sat next to J-girl as we watched America's Got Talent. She snuggled into me.  I had to be a little strategic as I tried to find spot on the coffee table for my feet that wasn't covered by Little J's latest craft project. But I also had that content, everything-is-right-again-in-the-universe feeling, which left me not the least bit sad to see the mancation come to an end.

Kids go gangsta!

I thought it was actually a good sign that my youngest son likes to sew. I thought, 'What trouble could he get into on a sewing project?' I didn't think that a trip to Savers to pick up some second hand jeans for a jean jacket could go horribly wrong, but it did.

Josh in size 42 jeans.

Matt in the other pair.

The swag.

Don' wan' nuttin ta do with no gangsta crack!

Signed Confession

I got a message this week from the University Travel Office informing me that I had an outstanding charge on my university corporate credit card that I use for traveling. A couple days earlier I had discovered that my hotel had erroneously billed my card for room service that I did not order. I emailed them about it, and they immediately credited my card for the complete amount. When I went online, the credit for the charge was listed right below the erroneous charge. I decided to call the Travel Office, thinking that I would tell them about the charge and its credit being listed right next to each other, and we would all have a good laugh about how computer systems are so dumb because they don’t catch easy stuff like that. And then they would fix it.

Hah! No sooner had I described the problem then the student employee started to describe in detail the multiple forms and documents I would have to fill out and submit to get my card cleared. My blood started rushing to my head, and at about the three minute mark, I couldn’t take it anymore. There was no way that I was going to spend an hour filling out forms to appease bureaucratic policy. Ten years ago I would have, but at my age, life is too short to waste on idiocy not of my own making. So when she took her next breath, I cut in and told her that this was not my problem, that it was an accounting problem, and that I was not going to fill in the forms. She took me at my word, probably because we academicians have a bad reputation of being unreasonable. She politely asked me to hold while she talked to her supervisor.

I’m sure her and her supervisor had a wonderful chat about my ancestry and profession, after which she came back on the phone and offered to help create the forms while I waited. I conceded. After about 10 minutes, we had things wrapped up except for the final form. To meet the accounting policies, she explained, I would have to write a memo explaining why the receipt was missing. Once again, the blood rushed to my head. “The receipt’s not missing, because there was never a receipt to begin with!” I nearly shout into the phone. Why was I being forced to admit I had a missing receipt when the receipt that was never issued? It was a freakin’ Spanish Inquisition. She was insistent, however, even after she once again pleasantly put me on hold to discuss my ancestry and profession with her supervisor. I realized that if I didn’t do it, someone else in my department would probably be made to do it. So I agreed. She reminded me that I needed to sign it. Like a good child, I promised I would. Before she hung up, she asked me if there was anything else she could help me with. I bit my tongue instead of saying that I didn’t have time for any more of her help.

I wrote out the note explaining why there was no receipt, and resisted the temptation to write a paragraph about the asinine system they were using, reasoning that no one would read that part of the note anyway. All they wanted was a confession, and I delivered. After I signed it, I took it to the student secretary to get it scanned. She informed me that we could email the scanned image directly to the travel office if I knew what the email address was. I told her it is was satan@university.edu. “Wait! Don’t do that!” I continued, “That would probably end up in the traffic office.” She laughed and suggested lucifer666@university.edu. We came up with a couple of other equally appropriate addresses, then finally entered the correct email address and sent it off. I glanced at the clock and congratulated myself that it had only taken 45 minutes to resolve such a difficult accounting issue.

Smoking under the gun

Lately I've had a lot of writing projects, and with those projects have come many deadlines. Like all good writers, I've been forced to take up smoking to reduce the stress and to help me get through writer's block. It's not the healthiest habit, and I've noticed that it's taken a toll on my general overall appearance.

Of course, smoking is strictly forbidden at my place of employment, so I've had to stick to the only brand of cigs that are tolerated by my employer.

Ooh, I feel all of my Spidey senses tingling.

Hope of America

This year’s Hope of America was more eventful than usual. Here are some of the things that happened and what I learned from them.

• We had to have Little J there at 6:15, but the performance didn’t start until 7:30. While we waited, they had different groups of students perform Mexican dances to music that was loud enough to crack my molars. What I learned: the US is now Mexico.
• When I went to the bathroom before the program started, I turned the corner just in time to hear a father ask his son if he was sure he didn’t need to go poo-poo. Then he asked him if he had to go pee-pee. What I learned: raising children is disgusting.
• I thought that since I had to sit through the Hope of America for the third time, I deserved a treat. I ended up paying $6 for a bag of kettle corn. What I learned: we didn’t get Mexican prices when we became Mexico.
• They began the program by presenting the Boy Scout Organization with this year’s service award. The children even sang a song about the Boy Scouts during the program. I asked Little J if she wanted to be a Boy Scout now. She didn’t even bother to answer. What I learned: Little J may be as cynical as I am.
• I tried to take a picture of Little J during the program, but she was too far away—that and I had no idea where she was in the sea of 5th graders. Then I tried to take a picture of the human flag (made up of 5th grade students wearing strategically colored t-shirts), but from my seat in the nose-bleed section, I couldn't get a shot that didn't involve the scoreboard blocking the upper middle of the flag. What I learned: the commemorative photo they make parents buy if they want their children to participate in the program may actually have been a good idea. Now I have to take back my comment about the organizers being something that rhymes with "mapitalist twine." 
• During the middle of the show, they had a drill team made up of women who were 50+ years old perform two dance numbers. What the heck?! We got old folk competing with children for attention? What I learned: the 93-year-old woman who kicked higher than her head and did the splits could probably beat the crap out of me. Little J's quote: “It was impressive, and weird, and creepy all at the same time.”
• Toward the end of the performance, a strong, rank odor wafted over us. Minutes later, the mom in front of us grabbed diaper-changing stuff and lugged her toddler away. What I learned: raising kids is really disgusting.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude by the end of the program for all the things I had learned. The program not only swept us all up in a nationalistic fervor, but also left me with a real hope for Mexico, er, I mean, America. Long live the burrito!

Living in excess

As I entered the Einstein Bagel Shop in Downtown Denver, I noticed it was much more crowded than the day before. The tables were mostly full, and there was a cart in the middle of the room. I immediately could tell by its contents that it contained the possessions of someone who was living off the streets, despite its overall tidiness and worn cleanliness. There were many musical instruments on it, so I thought it probably belonged to one of the street musicians that play on the 16th Street Mall. I got into line, and as I waited, I looked over the contents, trying to identify the different musical instruments based upon the shapes of the colorful, handmade cases that covered them. I could clearly identify a guitar and what looked like a drum or two, but the other shapes were too odd for me to guess their contents.

When I got close to the counter, I focused my attention back on preparing to order my breakfast. The person in front of me was counting change, and when it came time for him to order, he asked to buy one of the miniature bagels on the bottom shelf of the display case. The tag on the window advertised the price as 2 for 99 cents. The worker at the counter informed him that he couldn't buy just one, that he had to buy two. He nodded, politely thanked the worker, and left the line. My heart began to ache as he walked over to the cart and carefully maneuvered the cart out of the busy shop. I felt horrible as I realized that he probably would have no breakfast that day, at least not one that included the incredibly delicious bagels from Einsteins.

While the worker prepared my order, I thought about the privileged existence I live. I recognized that some of what I have is based on my own merit—the decades of hard work I put into education and the menial jobs I worked at to support myself and my family while doing it. But that didn't change the fact that I now live a life of excess. Here I was, living on a generous travel allowance and eating much more than I really needed at almost every meal, while someone who was probably much hungrier than I didn't have the few coins necessary to eat even a meager breakfast. My breakfast of excess this morning cost just $2.14. Surely he was worth that much.

I hurried to catch up with him. I tried to give him some money so that he could buy breakfast, but he said he would rather earn it than just take it. He pulled out a small wooden instrument with metal tines and began to play. To me, it sounded like noise, not music, and I have to admit that I felt impatience. I wanted to get back to my hotel so that I could get ready for the meetings I was going to attend that day. I just wanted to hand him the money and be done. He finally finished. I quickly gave him the money, and then I was off. I didn't look back. My heart had shut tight again, and I walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Certainly nothing had really changed.

Worshipping false gods

I arrived for my conference in Denver on Friday night, and I pulled out my computer to do a little work. No matter what I did, I couldn't get the wireless to work in my hotel. I tried the lobby. I tried the room my friend was staying in, setting my computer in the very place that his computer successfully picked up wireless. I turned it on and off a couple of times, each time trying a few new settings. No luck. I called the technical support number, and after waiting a long time to speak to someone, I inadvertently hung up on the guy after five minutes of unsuccessful troubleshooting. When I tried to call back, the help line kept dropping me. I was ready to pull my hair out. I would have donated a kidney to someone who could fix my tech problem.

As I discussed this situation with my friend, I told him my theory about the two different responses people have when a techie helps them solve a computer problem. The first response is even greater anger once the problem is solved, because if the stupid $&!+$ had set up everything correctly to begin with, then there would have been no problem in the first place. The second response is typically my response, and that is to prostrate myself on the ground and worship the person who was smart enough to fix the problem. People who can fix these problems are like gods to me. And what I needed at that moment was a god. Maybe two.

I know that I should have been more loyal to my professed monotheistic religion—I shouldn't seek out strange gods from strange lands (the IT department doesn't get much stranger). Moreover, it is probably a wise practice to retain both of my kidneys. I felt remorse, and I tried to look for the moral I was supposed to learn from the situation. Maybe I was not meant to fix my computer. Perhaps it was heavenly intervention to keep my computer from contracting a deadly virus. Or to keep me from sending my contact information to Mrs. Martha Darling in Tunisia who needs help moving $4.3 million to the US. Or to get me to exercise a little as I jumped up and down in frustration.

Whatever the reason, the curse was mysteriously lifted Saturday morning, when for no reason I can discern, I was suddenly able to gain access to the Internet. 'Oh, how the penitent are blessed and succored,' I gleefully thought. Then I quickly put away my little impromptu shrine to Buddha and checked my email.

BR Cheap Ice Cream Night

Every year on April 28 Baskin' and Robbins has a 31 cent scoop ice cream night. In order to avoid the crowds, we decided to go early. So we had ice cream for dinner, and dinner for dessert.

Dinner never tasted this good!

Don't you wish you were here?

Mouse Chalk Art

Little J rediscovered the sidewalk chalk today and drew the mouse family. That hot mama mouse looks pretty hot!

Beaver damage

We've recently had trouble with some pesky beavers in our city. No one has seen them, but we're all pretty sure that there has been a rash of drive by gnawings. Animal rights activists have been advocating for tolerance until more evidence has been gathered. The rest of us think that it is time something was done about this outbreak of unregulated chewing. After all, there is already incontrovertible evidence in the PetSmart parking lot—a toppled, gnawed tree. Little J is seen below in a portrayal of how the crime was probably perpetrated.

The beaver poises above its unsuspecting prey.

The beaver decapitates its prey.

The beaver celebrates the wanton carnage.