A Moosebutt View

Pig Latin and Preaching the Gospel

2010-08-17T22:58:00.000-06:00

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

2010-08-15T21:10:00.002-06:00

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

2010-08-12T10:15:00.000-06:00

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

2010-08-08T17:02:00.001-06:00

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

2010-08-06T11:20:00.013-06:00

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

2010-07-31T22:04:00.000-06:00

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

2010-07-29T23:10:00.000-06:00

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

2010-07-14T22:48:00.000-06:00

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

2010-07-11T22:42:00.002-06:00

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

2010-06-29T22:37:00.001-06:00

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

2010-06-15T22:34:00.002-06:00

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

2010-06-09T15:55:00.000-06:00

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

2010-06-03T19:59:00.000-06:00

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!

2010-06-01T18:46:00.002-06:00

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

2010-05-26T17:12:00.000-06:00

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

2010-05-22T09:35:00.001-06:00

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

2010-05-06T13:11:00.002-06:00

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

2010-05-05T13:34:00.001-06:00

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

2010-05-03T16:45:00.000-06:00

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

2010-04-28T20:54:00.000-06:00

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

2010-04-27T21:31:00.000-06:00

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

Beaver damage

2010-04-19T21:45:00.000-06:00

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.

I'm finally a good teacher

2009-12-17T11:47:00.000-07:00

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

2009-12-16T09:57:00.002-07:00

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

2009-12-08T08:28:00.001-07:00

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

2009-11-21T23:52:00.001-07:00

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

2009-11-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-11-14T11:56:00.002-07:00

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

2009-07-27T10:11:00.005-06:00

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

2009-07-19T14:08:00.003-06:00

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

2009-06-18T09:52:00.004-06:00

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

2009-06-13T19:35:00.010-06:00

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

2009-05-31T13:25:00.008-06:00

"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

2009-05-21T19:38:00.004-06:00

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

2009-05-15T18:32:00.005-06:00

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

2009-04-22T17:14:00.003-06:00

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

2009-03-12T09:28:00.005-06:00

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

2009-01-21T20:57:00.003-07:00

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

2009-01-04T17:32:00.002-07:00

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

2009-01-03T17:18:00.006-07:00

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

2009-01-01T21:10:00.005-07:00

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:

Not shaving is the best UNTIL you begin to scratch your face off, after which...
Growing a beard is the best UNTIL you are threatened with losing your job, after which...
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.

Grandma's 86th Birthday

2008-12-22T20:43:00.002-07:00

Grandma celebrated her 86th birthday today. Sandi sent flowers, which Grandma loved.

Grandma wasn't sure what kind of cake she wanted. When I suggested an ice cream cake, her eyes lit up.

Despite the heavy snow storm, we managed to get a delicious cake from Baskin and Robbins.

Grandma blew out all of the candles.

Where's the freakin' rabbit?

2008-10-25T20:03:00.004-06:00

I was teaching my linear algebra students on Wednesday about vector spaces, spanning sets and linear independence. I spent the entire class period working a single problem and making connections between many of the things we had been studying. To demonstrate how useful and correct my methods were, I asked my students to suggest a vector from three-space, and then I proceeded to do the calculations to show just how everything magically works out. Only, with two minutes left in the class, it became clear to everyone, including me, that the numbers were coming out all wrong. It was like building up to the moment when you pull the rabbit out of the magic hat, only to discover that the rabbit wasn't there anymore. Or like doing a magic card trick that goes totally bust:

Me: Pick a card, any card.

Audience member: (Selects a card).

Me: (In a theatrical voice) So your card was....(drum roll)...the ace of spades.

Audience member: Uh...(embarrassing pause)...no.

Me: Oh, crap.

It only took me about 10 minutes in my office after class to figure out what went wrong. I simply forgot to change one sign. 'Hah,' I thought to myself, 'I bet even Newton missed a sign or two in his day.' By the next class period, I was ready with all my computations double-checked. Sure enough, I could make all the methods work for the vector they had suggested. And then just to prove that I had complete confidence that this method would work for any other vector they might give me, I said in my most authoritative voice, "This method would most certainly work for any other vector you'd care to choose." And then to drive the point home even further, I moved on to the next topic in the lesson.

At the police station

2008-10-20T11:04:00.003-06:00

(Me at the police station eying a police line up of yogurt containers.)

Police Officer: OK, take your time. Make sure you get a good look.

Me: Yep, I'm sure of it. That's the one that assaulted me. I had to change my shirt and my pants.

Police Officer: Which one?

Me: My blue checkered one. And it was ironed!

Police: No, which yogurt?

Me: That blueberry one, except he was wearing a pink lid at the time.

Police Officer: Then how can you be sure that it was him?

Me: I remember the copyright tattoo right above that pink flower there.

Police Officer: Hmm. (Then into the intercom.) OK, we're done here. Keep the blueberry one for questioning.

(The yogurts slowly file out.)

College Corruption

2008-10-19T11:15:00.000-06:00

I sent my oldest son to college, trusting that although he would be exposed to many bad influences, he would be capable of choosing wisely. This trust was completely destroyed when my son came home from school with this:

Imagine my concern as a parent. If only he had come home with a pierced ear or a tattoo. No, it had to be much worse than that. As a concerned parent in charge of the family laundry, I felt there was only one responsible course of action left for me to follow--an "accidental" bleach spill.

The Cheesecake Issue

2008-10-16T08:14:00.004-06:00

Living in Utah has taught me that all elections can be boiled down to one or two key issues. For most people around me, these issues are abortion and gay marriage. Any candidate or piece of legislation that is against these two things is instantly credible. There seem to be no other issues worth considering.

I am personally offended by such a close-minded approach to voting. It's not that I mind elections being pared down to one or two key issues. If they weren't, I might actually have to think a little. Who knows what I might sprain in the process. No, the problem with Utah people is that they consistently fail to identify the single most crucial issue facing us--the lack of a Cheesecake Factory Restaurant anywhere in Utah Valley. By those in the know, this is often referred to as the cheesecake issue.

I studiously watched the debate last night, waiting in vain for one of the two presidential candidates to have the moral fiber and courage to address the cheesecake issue. Instead, all I got was a discussion of how to fix the economy, what to do about health care, and a pitiful mewing sound from John McCain about how his feelings had been hurt by John Lewis. No one had the guts to say that all Americans have the right to a Cheesecake Factory. Don't they realize that unless Cheesecake Factories are equally distributed throughout the US, they are implicitly supporting class, race and ethnic warfare? The welfare of our nation is being undermined.

Personally, I love the Cheesecake Factory. They have a huge menu, and the entrees are delicious. Who would have guessed that their non-cheesecake food would be any good? After all, I, like most Americans, would be willing to sit through a mediocre meal for the superb cheesecake dessert. But that just doesn't happen at the Cheesecake Factory. They make sure you can't keep from stuffing yourself with your meal before you try to take on a delicious slice of heaven. There's an issue that I wish my legislators would address.

Honestly, I would vote for anyone who promised to bring a Cheesecake Factory to Utah Valley. I wouldn't even care if they were lying. For me, just acknowledging the existence of this crucial issue would be enough to win my vote. So John and Barack, if you're listening, what me and Joe the Plumber really want is a Cheesecake factory, not tax relief or economic stimulus or health care or affordable education. Appease the sweet tooth of the masses and all will be well. Ignore it, and that sweet tooth might just bite you in the tush.

War of the Worlds Deja Vu

2008-10-14T21:34:00.005-06:00

I took half a day off today because I have a bad cold. It's the first really bad cold that I've had in probably a decade. Usually when I catch a cold, I have much more mild symptoms than anyone else in the family. Today was different. I had a fever and felt like my head was going to explode.

That was not the worst part, though. What I hate most about having a cold is that I begin to emit massive amounts of gross, slimy liquids. Not only is it completely unattractive, but anyone who comes in contact with me runs the risk of becoming mutant slime monsters themselves. People cringe and back away when I come into a room. Some even cover their noses and their mouths with a hand, as if that will really protect them from the slime germs that are buzzing around me like flies around a garbage can. I feel so disgusting.

Sometimes it gets so bad that I think I could rival the dying Martians from War of the Worlds. You know that scene where the walking space ships become vulnerable to human weapons, and one of the machines finally crashes to the ground? And then the door on the machine opens and an alien washes out covered in its own self-produced mucus slime? I felt almost that slimy today. It was as if I was constantly in danger of being washed downhill in my own mucus. YUCK!

Seriously, I'll take an injury over a cold any day of the week. Broken ribs? Immediate sympathy. Back pain? People start doing stuff for you. But a cold? People are only willing to help out if they can keep their distance by using one of those grabber things that janitors use to pick up trash without having to bend over. Even then they are holding their breath and maintaining a crouched position so they can dart away if you start to sneeze or cough. In fact, I bet that right now you are probably leaning away from your computer screen despite the fact that your brain is telling you there's no possible way you can catch my cold through a web browser. Am I right?

All I can do right now is mop up my slime with boxes of tissues and look forward to the day when I am no longer a walking, dripping glob of mucus. And if things get really bad, I'll watch War of the Worlds and be glad that I'm not drowning in my own slime. Yet.

No thanks. Really.

2008-09-30T21:09:00.003-06:00

As Mark and I were riding the bus to school today, the bus pulled up behind a TruGreen lawn care truck much like the one shown in the picture. On the back of the truck was a picture of a large Dalmatian with a sign that read, "I can spray your lawn today." Fortunately, I have a dog of my own, so I don't need to hire someone to come out and spray dog urine on the lawn. But I feel comforted knowing that if Floppy ever died, TruGreen is there to meet all of my dog urine needs.

Noogies on the Loose in Primary

2008-09-23T12:06:00.007-06:00

Last Sunday I was sitting in Primary, the LDS version of children's Sunday school. Little Julia was sitting on my lap, clutching her little stuffed sheep tightly to her chest. She and I have finally developed a working relationship that allows her to be separated from her parents during church. She's a darling little girl, always clothed in a dainty dress with a bow perched in her perfect hair. She's very quiet in class and typically keeps to herself. I can't help but love the kid, though. She's really endearing, particularly when she's amused by something and her eyes start snapping.

I worry about her being in my class, though, since it consists mostly of rowdy boys. Perhaps the rowdiest of them all, dear little Adam, was sitting next to us at the time. He loves to stir up activity by bumping and poking the kids around him. He's not malicious; he never hurts anyone. He just loves action. He also cannot resist a quiet child. So right in the middle of singing time, he reached over and poked little Julia in the ribs. I gave him the, "Keep your hands to yourself, buster!" laser glare as I kept singing. Julia turned her face up to mine, smiled her sweetest smile, and asked me to hold her sheep. I replied, "Sure, sweetie," and took hold of the sheep.

With her hands now free, Julia was ready for action. Usually I see stuff like this coming several seconds before it happens, but this one took me completely by surprise. In one swift motion, Julia swung around in my lap, grabbed Adam in a chokehold, and started vigorously rubbing the top of his spiked-haired little head with her right fist.

I'm pretty sure that my mouth hit the ground. My first thought was disbelief that the little angel knew how to give a noogie. My second thought was even greater disbelief that she knew how to do it well. It wasn't until my third thought that I began to be concerned about poor little Adam's spiked-haired head, which is probably why it took me at least three full seconds to react and drag her off the boy.

After I got her settled back on my lap, I whispered to her that noogies didn't belong in church. With complete confidence and snapping eyes, she whispered back, "Doogies are good." Considering that Adam kept to himself for the rest of singing time, I couldn't really disagree with her.

The fruit flies can die, too

2008-08-28T20:33:00.002-06:00

J-girl has been buying a lot of fruit from local vendors, and along with the fruit has come a massive invasion of fruit flies. Our house gets attacked by fruit flies every August. They start out in the kitchen where the fruit is, and then eventually end up in all of the bathrooms. One year we didn't get rid of them until April.

Instead of buying fruit fly traps or spraying poison, we have opted for a more high-tech approach. J-girl gets out the cannister vacuum and sucks them up. I have to admit that it's kind of addictive, hunting down the little pests and then sucking 'em right out of the air. It's not very practical, though, because it only reduces their numbers for the brief time it takes for the next batch to hatch out.

I've been wondering why we have such a problem with fruit flies and our neighbors don't. Last night I caught one of the little guys and took a close look at it. I nearly screamed in horror when I realized that it was the McCain variety of fruit fly. Being a democrat surrounded by republican neighbors, the fruit fly infestation finally made sense. They're not going away until I finally turn to the dark side and put McCain posters out on my lawn. They may even want me to make a donation to the republican party.

I refuse to be intimidated, though. I figure that they will all keel over and die if Obama wins the election. And if he doesn't, well, it won't matter anymore, because my neighbors will be a lot more difficult to live with than fruit flies.

The ants go marching...into the fires of hell, I hope!

2008-08-25T12:28:00.005-06:00

I've hated ants ever since I can remember. I think they're evil. I smoosh them whenever I can. I want them all to die.

Everyone else I know is either neutral or pro-ant. That's because ants have gotten a lot of good press. Fables such as the grasshopper and the ants depict them as being hardworking, thrifty, and carefully planning for the future. In A Bug's Life, Disney invited us to cheer as the ants broke free from oppression. Every nature show on ants praises their strength and teamwork.

No one is willing to admit the truth about ants, which is that they are the creepy-crawly version of the vulture. They're nature's clean up crew. What's worse is that they have a personal vendetta against humans.

Don't believe me? Then you're just too brainwashed to deal with reality. Think for a minute. When was the last time an ant did you any good? Can't think of a time? That's because there isn't one. Now think of a time when ants caused you problems. Admit it--several instances came to mind, right? Here are some of mine:

Ants used to invade the kitchen pantry when I was little. They would crawl up our legs and arms and bite us as we tried to clean them out.
Ants used to invade my kindergarten classroom. My teacher made us sit on the floor despite the fact that ants were everywhere. It gave me nightmares, and I would wake up in the middle of the night absolutely sure that my bed was crawling with ants.
One Halloween, I vowed to carefully ration my candy so that I would have candy all year long. The ants found my candy stash a couple of months later and I had to throw it all out. To this day I have a hard time believing in food storage.
Ants crawled up one of my friends legs and began biting him in tender places. He had to immediately undress and brush them off. OK, so he was running up and down on their gigantic ant hill, but still, to bite a guy there and make him run around in circles, wildly flinging off clothes in all directions right in front of his sisters and their girlfriends? It's just not right.
Our house was regularly invaded while we lived down in San Diego. They attacked our bedroom, our hallway, and our family room. They weren't as bright as the ants from my childhood, because they pretty much left the pantry alone. Nonetheless, streams of ants across walls and carpets are not acceptable.

In all honesty, I didn't start the war between ants and me. They did. That's why I feel justified in using particularly ruthless techniques against them. Just a couple weeks ago I repeatedly drove the tires of my car over a gigantic swarm of ants on the driveway, laughing demonically as I did so. I left a huge patch of smashed, red-brown ants for the wind to blow away. If only my kindergarten teacher had been there to see it.

Then I could have run over her, too.

Repetitive Clothes Wearing

2008-08-19T20:30:00.007-06:00

My daughter wore the same thing today to her second day of school as she did on her first day. It's not that she didn't have anything else clean to wear. It's that the outfit was her first choice, was free from any large dirt stains, and was already out of her drawers and lying on the floor, easy to put on for a second day of school. It also helps that her mom and dad didn't realize she wore the exact same thing to school a second time until well after the school day was over. We're not really at the top of our game in the mornings at our house.

As the person who does the laundry in the house, I appreciate an extra day of wear in between washes. And yet, I still feel a little uneasy about it all. I was raised with the understanding that you had to at least change your shirt every school day. My mom also insisted that we change our underwear daily, but since she couldn't see 'em, I didn't change 'em. My daughter, on the other hand, regularly changes her underwear and then puts the same clothes right back on. She brags that last year she wore the same outfit to school for an entire week. We didn't even notice.

Some days I find myself wanting to follow my daughter's example. I think to myself, how many days in a row can you wear the same slacks to work? I figure that if a weekend occurs in between two of the work days, I can get at least an extra day of consecutive wearing. I also wonder if it's OK to wear the same shirt twice in the same week. Will people really know that I didn't wash it between wearings? Would they care if they knew?

And every year, I care a little less about the dos and don'ts of repeated clothes wearing. I'm planning on wearing the exact same clothes two days in a row this semester to see if anyone notices. Who knows? By the time I'm in my sixties, I might have narrowed my work wardrobe down to a favorite shirt and pair of pants that I'll wear the entire semester. And then again, my mom might catch wind of it and start showing up to dress me each morning. Even if she does, she still won't be able to make me change my underwear!

Rodent on the loose

2008-08-17T21:33:00.002-06:00

Angel is usually a well-mannered, stay-in-one-corner-of-the-cage type of hamster. While she was at my mom's house during our recent 10 day vacation, she hid the entire time under one large clump of shavings. My mom was worried that she had died, so on the eighth day, she finally dug Angel out to make sure she was still breathing. And then Angel went right back into hiding. When we picked up the cage, the only sign of life was all of the hamster droppings that Angel had managed to kick through the bars. And might I add, for a hamster that is hardly ever seen, she sure produces a lot of poop.

To be honest, I think that Angel is extremely lazy. She won't run on her wheel or in her exercise ball. She doesn't even chew on the bars of her cage at night anymore. She pretty much seems to exist solely to eat, drink and make little grains of black rice.

But deep inside of Angel lives the sole of a rodent. They look docile and sweet, but they are conniving escape artists. Just ask my sister and her kids. While we were visiting them, we regularly saw the pet mouse that had escaped a couple of weeks earlier but had yet to be caught. My sister nearly threw a party the day that her boys managed to chase it outside (some time during the first week we were there), where it dove from the upper deck into the forest, gone forever. Then the degus got out in the garage. It took a couple of days of scheming and plotting by seven boys to corner and capture them. The three boys who managed to do it were instantly elevated to hero status.

Angel herself has managed escapes, albeit not lately. When we first got her, she found a broken bar in her cage and squeezed through the incredibly tiny opening. It took three escapes before we finally figured out her secret. Since then, she has been escape free. And with her lack of desire for activity, I thought her escape artist days were over.

Then Little J decided to buy a new cage at a garage sale. It was one of those plastic jobbies with all the tubes and satellite cages. I have little faith in those cages. They break way too easily, and then you have loose rodent somewhere in the house. With our last hamster, it was loose for nearly a week. It lived under the stove for a few days, leaving a scattering of droppings, and then found a hole in the wood floor that dropped into the gas fireplace in the basement. We found it a couple of days later when we went to turn on the fire. Good thing we saw him scurrying about before we turned up flame.

Back to Angel. Little J and her friend spent a few hours getting the new cage set up and cleaning out the old one. J-Girl declared that she was going to sell the old cage immediately. I told her it was better to keep it handy for when the new cage failed. Both Js looked at me like I had lost my marbles. But when we went to put Little J to bed early tonight so that she would be ready for the first day of school tomorrow, Angel was gone. Sure enough, one of the satellite cages had come apart, and even the laziest of hamsters couldn't resist that. We had no idea how long she had been out or where in the house she might be. We looked all over Little J's room, as well as the bedroom close by, and then gave up. After all, it was the first school night of the year. Fortunately for us, Little J heard Angel scurrying around on a table and managed to catch her. We then duct-taped everything up as tight as we could and then put Angel back into her new cage. I wasn't brave enough to insist on the old metal cage. I know that it's going to take at least two more escapes before either J will admit that the old man might have been right.

Webkinz gets real

2008-08-16T16:29:00.005-06:00

Having an eight year old daughter, there was no way that I could escape the world of Webkinz. If you are fortunate enough not to know what Webkinz are, let me fill you in. They're stuffed animals that have a secret code attached to them that allows the owner to access the Webkinz website and engage in many different activities, including games, to earn cash and buy stuff for the online version of the stuffed animal. A mere $13.95 allows you to own the stuffed animal and play for a year on the website. You can buy a smaller version of the Webkinz, called Lil'kins, for $10.95.

I'm not completely against Webkinz, because a lot of the activities that children can engage in on the website involve logical reasoning, mathematics, and reading. But the cuteness level is way too high for my comfort. That's why I was so excited when Ganz, the makers of Webkinz, announced their new line of realistic, dual use (the physical toy and the online version) animals. It's called the Parakinz line, and consists of all the cute, cudely parasites that are such an important part of our lives.

The first release in the line is the Laughy Leech, shown above. Larger than the real life version, it nonetheless features an expandable outer skin and an inner blood bean bag. Pull the blood bag out of the end of the leech and you have the pre-meal leech. Put it back in, and your leech is well-fed and happy. It's suction cup head comes with replaceable 1/4 inch thick circular sticky pads that can actually make the leech adhere to your skin. This lovable pet also has stitched ribbing on one side that makes it curl around your body as you pretend to let it gorge on your blood. Naturally, this Parakinz allows you to access new parts of the Webkinz website that are not available to owners of Webkinz or Lil'kinz. These new features educate you about all the fun parasites can have with your body. The suggested retail price is only $11.95.

Other parasites planned for the line include the Musky Mosquito, Limber Tapeworm, and Nimble Head Lice. If this line is successful, Ganz plans to introduce a line of keychain bacteria and viruses of some of the most popular human STDs through the ages. Imagine the possibility of owning the lovable stuffed animal version of Syphilis. Also, think about the educational value for the children. The possibilities are endless.

Refrigerator decor

2008-07-09T15:12:00.001-06:00

Refrigerator decor, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Every marriage goes through tough times when both parties have a difficult time communicating. There are some things or topics that just don't get discussed. In our marriage, we don't discuss the large, white refrigerator sitting in the middle of our kitchen. Maybe it's time to see a marriage counselor.

Kitchen horror

2008-07-09T15:08:00.001-06:00

Torn Up Kitchen, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Here's a picture of the current condition of one of the walls in our kitchen. It's freakin' terrifying. Floppy has been hiding out in the farthest corner of the house. I've been hiding out at work. Both of us whimper whenever we have to get close to the destruction. Please, please, please put it back together.

Josh all spiked out

2008-07-08T16:05:00.001-06:00

Josh all spiked out, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

This is what Josh looks like after he goes swimming. With all the construction going on in our house, my hair looks about the same.

Josh wins big at swim meet

2008-07-02T10:23:00.001-06:00

Josh hanging with the swim team, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Here's a picture of Josh hanging on the lane line listening to his swim coach. His little size might make you think that he doesn't stand a chance at the swim meet, but twas not so. He took first in his heat in the 100 free, beating the next closest swimmer by eight seconds. He came in second on the backstroke. Looks like we have another competitive swimmer in the family.

More wedding photos on flickr

2008-07-01T10:57:00.001-06:00

Little J and Chrissy, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Day 32/365: Mark turns 18!

2008-06-25T20:00:00.000-06:00

Mark and the Heath cake, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

He was looking forward to this birthday because he thought it would enable him to legally purchase dry ice. Then Kira had to ruin his dream by telling him that he could have bought dry ice when he turned 16. Oh well, at least there's Heath cake.

I am America, and so can you!

2008-06-25T19:59:00.001-06:00

Mark and Colbert, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

What could be better for your birthday than Stephen Colbert's latest book? Nation, if you're a Colbert Report fan like Mark, there is nothing better.

Day 31/365: Little J tries to dive

2008-06-24T20:00:00.000-06:00

Little J tries to dive, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

I remember how hard it was to learn to dive when I was a kid. For awhile, no matter what I did, I still ended up feet first, head last into the water. Little J seems to have the same problem.

Narration of photo: Little J's teacher demonstrates how to dive. Then she has Little J kneel and put her hands over her head. It doesn't help--Little J still ends up with her head going under last.

Day 30/365: Mark the lifeguard

2008-06-23T20:00:00.000-06:00

Mark on duty at the pool, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Here's Mark at work. I need to get more pictures of him when he's lifeguarding. His future wife will be grateful.

Day 29/365: Ken and Matt

2008-06-22T20:00:00.000-06:00

Ken and Matt, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

These guys are just way too cool!

Day 28/365: Ken and Konnie get hitched!

2008-06-21T20:00:00.000-06:00

Ken and Konnie, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Ken and Konnie finally tied the knot. We're so glad, because we are tired of being caught in the middle of the romance. Ken is our neighbor to the west and Konnie is our neighbor to the east. They are always holding hands and walking back and forth in front of our house. Whenever my kids call out to them as they pass by, they stop and smooch in front of us.

More photos will gradually be made available through this blog and my flickr photostream.

Day 27/365: J-girl has a birthday

2008-06-20T13:12:00.002-06:00

J-girl and her Cake, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

J-girl turned a year older today, and it's just not fair, because she still looks like she's in her 20s. What a beautiful woman!

Day 25/365: New batch of chicks

2008-06-17T20:00:00.001-06:00

Chick foursome, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

My sister Kris has taken to raising chickens lately. She hatched some chickens a couple of months ago using an incubator. Today, she came home with a box full of more baby chicks. She was quick to explain that only 7 of them are hers; she's raising the rest for a friend. Here are four of the bravest. They were the first ones to leave the corner and begin to explore the chicken coop. Too bad they grow up to be stupid adult chickens. They're very cute when they're this little. For more pictures of the other babies, see my flickr photostream.

Day 24/365: End of English language class

2008-06-16T20:00:00.000-06:00

I attended my last class of the Introduction to English Language Course. Now that I know about interdental fricatives and Gricean Maxims, language use will never be the same for me. Now it's on to learning about discourse analysis.

Day 23/365: Father's Day dinner

2008-06-15T20:00:00.000-06:00

My wife and kids made the most amazing Father's Day dinner for me. Mark and Matt made clam sauce, J-girl made a marinara sauce with sausage in it, Josh made an alfredo sauce with chicken in a romano cheese sauce, and Little J made a fruit salad. I had seconds on everything, and had to lie on the couch for an hour before I could safely move.

Highlights from Orem Parade

2008-06-14T20:00:00.001-06:00

Utah parade culture was once again thriving on Saturday evening. Here is just a sample, call it the best of the best.

Yes, if you own a freaky vehicle, you too can be in the parade.

The first martial arts to mix kicks with karaoke. Twice as deadly.
(Yes, folks, she really was singing.)

An old college flame. She hasn't aged a bit.

The theme of this "float" was so subtle I almost missed it. I told my kids that it should have read, "Drink down, throw up." That made the lady behind us snort.

"Some...bank?" Just a step above having the float be sponsored by Honeybaked with the slogan, "Some Ham!" Why didn't Charlotte think of that one?

My personal favorite, the rock bagpipe band.

Day 22/365: Fireworks

2008-06-14T19:59:00.001-06:00

fireworks, originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt.

Death Turtles at Summer Days

2008-06-13T20:00:00.000-06:00

I thought that Summer Days was supposed to be a family friendly event. But guess what they had at one of the booths! Yes, you guessed it—a whole nation of death turtles. Little J was thrilled and started begging for one. Good thing that J-girl stepped in and said no. One death turtle per little girl is enough terror to deal with. If there were two, they might invade the house, and then no place would be safe.

Day 21/365: Orem Summer Days

2008-06-13T19:59:00.002-06:00

Little J loved the swings.

It was a lot more comfortable after the sun went down.

Mmm, cotton candy and caramel apples!

Carnival booths.

Day 20/365: Dashboard Turtle

2008-06-12T20:00:00.002-06:00

dashboard turtle
Originally uploaded by splingermoosebutt

Little J has invented a little game that she likes to play with me. It's called, Stick the bobble-head turtle somewhere in the car where Dad doesn't expect it and watch him freak out. She used to put it on top of the dash, right over the speedometer. The first time she did it, I tried to tolerate its bobbing, beady eyes staring up at me. But after awhile, I could feel the eyes start to bore a hole in my head. I swear it started reading, and then manipulating, my mind. I was totally creeped out. After several chills when down my spine, I finally grabbed the turtle and moved it over to the middle of the dashboard where it was no longer looking at me. I felt immediate relief, as if someone had suddenly removed a pin from a voodoo doll of me.

Lately, Little J has become much more creative in where she hides the turtle. She's placed it down inside the dashboard and in the armrest on the door. Today, however, she went too far. As I was driving down the road and squinting into the sun, I reached up to pull down the visor, and there was the freakin' turtle. I gave out a loud, startled yelp, which was immediately followed by gleeful giggles in seat behind me. Even J-girl started laughing. I grimaced and once again moved the diabolical turtle to the middle of the dash.

I have started thinking that I need to hatch a plot to do the little guy in. After all, it's very believable that he might accidentally fall out of a window or get smashed by a careless teenager. Or perhaps he might start missing his family and feel the need to search them out, sort of like the animals in the movie Incredible Journey, except that this time the mountain lion wins. Hee hee, I chuckle just thinking of the little guy becoming a crunchy mountain lion snack. The only problem is, I don't know where he came from and to whom he belongs. I don't want to break anyone's heart by getting rid of him.

So for now, the twerp is safe. But look out, little shell dude, 'cause your days might be numbered!

Day 18/365: Dragon Boat Festival

2008-06-10T11:11:00.008-06:00

We celebrated Dragon Boat Festival on Sunday. For us, the celebration is mostly about making and eating jungdz, pictured to the right. Jungdz consist of rice, stewed meat, eggs, and mushrooms wrapped in bamboo leaves, boiled, and then steamed. They are a pain to make, but they are very tasty and only have to be made once a year, so they're worth it.

You may be wondering what this particular form of food has to do with dragon boat festival. Let me take a moment to explain.

During the Warring States period in Chinese history (something B.C.), the many different people that comprise the country of China had yet to be united under one ruler. Instead, the country was divided into many fiefdoms, each with it's ruling warlord or king. Each ruler sought to extend his influence and the boundaries of his kingdom. Consequently, the country was riddled with intrigue and constantly changing alliances.

During this time, Qu Yuan, the main character of this story, was the adviser to the king of Chu, one of the warring states. When the king died, his son went against the advise of Qu Yuan and formed an alliance with the king of Chin. This wasn't such a great idea, because the king of Chin was a slimeball and was willing to use any method to extend his kingdom. Qu Yuan attempted many times to advise the new king to break the alliance, but to no avail. Finally, the new king got tired of listening to Qu Yuan and banished him from his court. Qu Yuan went to the countryside and proceeded to write some of the best poetry in all of Chinese history.

Eventually, the Kingdom of Chin took over Chu, just as Qu Yuan had foretold. Instead of reveling in self-righteousness, Qu Yuan became overwrought and threw himself into the river, committing suicide. The people were so upset at the loss of Qu Yuan that they jumped in their boats and raced up and down the river in search of his body. When it could not be found, they took clumps of cooked rice and threw it to the fish so that the fish would be too full to eat Qu Yuan's body. The dragon boat races held during this holiday symbolize the people's efforts to find Qu Yuan's body, and the jundgz represent the rice clumps that were fed to the fish. Cheery little holiday, no? At least the food's good.

Day 15/365: Utah Lake Festival and Fishing

2008-06-07T20:00:00.000-06:00

We took Uncle Michael to the Utah Lake Festival this afternoon. There were lots of different booths, but the one that attracted us most was the face painting booth. Little J decided she wanted to be a blue bunny. The person who painted Julia did a fantastic job.

J-girl and I also got our faces painted, but just not to the same degree as Little J. Mine didn't look very manly, so I decided not to post a picture.

Seeing all the booths on fishing got Josh in the mood to fish, so we went down to Lindon Harbor and fished for a couple of hours. Can you tell that the fish weren't biting?

Bored bunny.

The Norman Rockwell version of Josh fishing.

Day 10/365: Mark gets a tattoo

2008-06-02T20:00:00.001-06:00

To prove just how Asian he is, Mark used tape to create a sunblocked tattoo of his Chinese surname on his arm. A double shift lifeguarding at the Scera pool guaranteed tattoo success.

Day 9/365: Spring on Y Mountain

2008-06-01T20:00:00.001-06:00

The recent rains have finally brought a little green to the mountains. I thought I'd take a picture quickly before it turns brown again.

Day 8/365: Little J on the slip 'n slide

2008-05-31T20:00:00.002-06:00

Summer has officially started! School is out, and so is the sun. There was no stopping Little J from breaking out the slip 'n slide and splashing across the front lawn.

Day 7/365: Mark's Graduation

2008-05-30T20:00:00.007-06:00

I never thought I would be old enough to have a child graduate from high school, but it finally happened. The ceremony was held at 9 AM in the Marriott Center.

Mark saluting his future.

The outfit Matt originally wanted to wear to the ceremony.

All the kids.

Mark picking up his diploma.

Mark with his best friend, Kyler Ludwig.

Congratulations, Mark!

Day 6/365: Steverino becomes department chair

2008-05-29T10:49:00.003-06:00

Day 5/365: Little J and Josh at Carl's Jr

2008-05-28T20:00:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, I promised Little J that I would take her to Carl's Jr. for lunch if she would be a good sport and agree to go to dinner with the family at Los Hermanos. The boys accused me of favoritism, because I would have never made a deal like that with them when they were young. The difference is, though, that when they were young, we went to the places that they liked, so there was no need to make a deal with them. Of course, they don't see it that way. They just see it as Little J getting to go out to eat twice. Josh is still young enough, and more importantly, short enough, to enjoy the playground at Carl's Jr., so we brought him along, too.

Josh making the Carl's Jr. face from inside a tube.

Little J climbing up the slide.

Day 3/365: Memorial Day activities

2008-05-26T20:00:00.001-06:00

Mark finally talked me to going into Saver's today, a second-hand thrift shop. He had high hopes of being able to find all of his summer clothes there, but no such luck. In fact, the only thing that he found was a Whimpey campaign shirt. But for all of us, that made the trip. We tried to find one for his best friend, Ky, too, but no such luck. For more on why we were so excited about this T-shirt, see the following three blog entries that I wrote for the old blog.

We barbecued tonight at my mom's house. Here is Matt demonstrating his grilling skills.

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey and the seven dwarves

2008-05-26T19:59:00.001-06:00

[Originally written August 20, 2007] With the local elections approaching, campaign signs are popping up all over town like hairs on a brute's toes. My personal favorite is the one below:

This sign just makes me laugh. How does someone get elected with the name Whimpey? Isn't this a fairly substantial handicap for a politician? Consider the following phrases that might show up in news reports: Whimpey Campaign, Whimpey Agenda, Whimpey Debate, Whimpey Politician. True, many elected officials are indeed wimpy. And while this may be a desirable trait to be exploited by special interest groups, it is not a characteristic that brings in votes. Voters want politicians with good hygiene, catchy soundbites, and a dogged determination to appear as if they are addressing local concerns. Names like Linda Steele, Luther Standout, and Bob Hatchet convey these desirable characteristics. Mike Whimpey, with or without the J, doesn't.

When I think of the name Whimpey, I think of wilted lettuce, soggy french fries, and people who refuse to pick up their doggie's doo-doo in public places. Whimpey is a better name for a dwarf than for a civic leader. You know, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy, Sneezy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful...and Whimpey. He would be the dwarf that that never went into the mine because he was too scared. Every morning, the other dwarfs would make fun of him by dancing around him in a circle and singing, "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go!" until he wet himself. Then they would go off to dig for gems while Whimpey stayed home to wash his pants and knit oven mitts.

Certainly Michael Whimpey has done his best to distance himself from any of these images. After all, he promises to be a "strong voice." He also borrows one of Eisenhower's successful campaign tricks with the slogan "I like Mike." Still, a name like Whimpey is just too easy for opponents to make fun of:

Opponent: "I don't think the people of Orem deserve a Whimpey city councilman."
Whimpey, in a whiny voice: "But I'm a strong voice for the people."
Opponent: (Singing) "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go."
Whimpey: (Runs for the restroom)
[Everyone laughs, even Whimpey's wife and dog.]

Mike, have you ever considered a name change?

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey and the seven dwarves, take 2

2008-05-26T19:58:00.000-06:00

[Originally written August 21, 2007] Comments to the last blog entry really cut me deeply. I never realized that I didn't have a tagline until it was pointed out to me. The closest I come to a tagline is "dessert before dinner," but that's more of a principle to live by then an actual tagline. I had also forgotten that my name brings to mind the image of a hairy bazootie. I hang my head in shame.

I also didn't recognize my hypocrisy until it was pointed out to me by Anonymous and Oats. I personally know the pain that comes from having your last name made fun of. When my best friend Tinkersot Baboonloogies and I were in third grade, a nasty girl named Nancy Jones made fun of our names. She used to come up to me and say, "Were you named after your facial features or your personality traits?" Bratty Bobby Smith used to shout, "Your mother wears moose antlers to bed," every time I came up to bat. I spent most of the evenings of my childhood crying myself to sleep.

And now it is clear that I have caused similar pain for others. Never mind that the regular readers of my blog know better than to take anything I say seriously. Joking words can be deadly, too. Thus, I have decided to revise my story of Whimpey and the Seven Dwarves to assuage the pain of my gentle readers.

Whimpey was not a cowardly, yellow-bellied, whiny dwarf. He was adventurous, stockily built, with a strong voice for the people. Instead of being afraid of the mine, he was the first one in the cave every morning and the last to leave, spreading echoing choruses of "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go." His coworkers wished that he would do more mining and less voicing, but they overlooked his faults. Then one day, his strong voice caused a cave in that nearly killed Grumpy. Having taken all the voicing he could stand, Grumpy strangled poor Whimpey. Then as not to be wasteful, the seven dwarfs ate him for dinner. That is when they came to the unanimous conclusion that they liked Mike, I mean, Whimpey.

And so we see that the name Whimpey is an honorable surname, one that brings forth friendly images of echoes and barbecues. Thank you, Anonymous and Oats, for the opportunity to rectify my previous indiscretion.

Old Moosebutt: Whimpey defeated by not-so-Whimpey opponents

2008-05-26T19:57:00.000-06:00

[Originally written November 7, 2007] The election results are in, and it is clear that the people of Orem do not want "a strong voice for the people." Michael J. Whimpey, the man who dared to ask others to "like Mike," was soundly defeated in local elections yesterday by Black, Seastrand, and Hernandez III (sort of like Rocky III except without the mohawk-sporting, bejeweled Mr. T). Analysts point to the loss as strong evidence that even a well chosen slogan cannot overcome a disastrously discrediting surname.

"I really thought that in the end it wouldn't make that much difference," said Whimpey in response to the suggestion that his last name might have been an insurmountable obstacle to winning a seat on the Orem City Council. "I did everything else correctly. I had a slogan. I handed out buttons. I used power yellow as a background color on all of my signs. I strongly refuted all assertions that I was the eighth dwarf. I don't see what I could have done differently."

"He could have changed his last name," stated Margaret Black. "Not that that would have changed the election results," she clarified. Black wooed voters with her searing, acrid criticism of the other candidates. "I wanted voters to perceive me as the anti-Whimpey," she confided.

Seastrand and Hernandez declined to comment on Whimpey's surname, although they both chuckled when questioned. Sumner, on the other hand, expressed relief that Whimpey had not won. "If Mike had beat me, I would have felt like a real loser. After all, in this city, only a corpse would have lost to an opponent whose last name reminds the voters of the democratic party. And even then, the election would have been close."

"I'm not a democrat," squealed Whimpey in response. "I am a republican. I drive a Hummer. I voted for school vouchers. I dressed up as the Governator for Halloween. You can't get any more republican than that."

"Whimpey doesn't even know how pathetic he really is," responded acid-spewing Councilwoman Black. "The wimp wouldn't last a week in the pressure cooker we refer to as the city council. The first accusation of accepting a bribe or misappropriating funds would have him wetting his pants." That brought on another round of chuckles from Seastrand and Hernandez. Then the three turned and walked off toward city hall, whistling 'Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work I go' as they left.

Day 1/365: Open Season

2008-05-24T20:00:00.001-06:00

Today was the official first day of the season for garage sales. In our family, the season lasts until Labor Day weekend. My garage sale finds for today were some education books and a Voice Male CD. Little J and I are looking forward to a good season.

Clothes shopping with teenage boys

2008-05-22T11:26:00.005-06:00

Today's tidbit of wisdom: Good looks and thinness are wasted on the young.

I took the boys to Old Navy last night. I usually enjoy taking the boys clothes shopping, because they always look good in whatever they try on. Shopping for myself, however, is depressing, because no matter what I try on, I still look fat and old. I had high hopes for this trip, too. Last year we were able to buy all the summer clothes for the boys in just one trip to Old Navy. I figured that with a little luck, we could do the same thing this year.

The boys were not cooperating this year, though. Mark decided that he wasn't buying anything until he had a chance to shop at Saver's, the local second hand clothing store. I tried to convince him that it was OK to buy a couple of things new, but he was having none of it. I suggested some particularly fashionable selections, and all he did was complain about the prices. Wake up, kid! That's MY job. You're the one who is supposed to be begging me to spend money on you. Matt finally talked Mark into buying something from the deep discount rack by promising Mark that he would wear it occasionally, too. Oh, and Mark did pick out two pairs of flip-flops (2 pairs for $5) to wear for lifeguarding.

Matt refused to buy any shorts because they all flared out a little at the knee. There was no way he was going to be caught wearing shorts that didn't fit tightly and go straight down his legs. He also refused to buy any shirts that weren't at least a size too small for him. After all, what's the point of working out if you can't wear shirts that display every muscle in your shoulders, chest and back? Josh and I started making fun of his need to show off his boobs, but even that didn't cause him to change his mind. And even more frustrating was that he wouldn't even try on some cool shorts with fish skeletons on them, despite his frequent admissions that I pick out the coolest clothes for him. If I was young and skinny, I would have bought a pair for myself.

Then there was dear ol' Josh, the kid who couldn't even tell me what color of T-shirt he liked. And when I asked him what kind of shorts he was interested in, he told me that he wanted some that were "just like" the pair of painter jeans (long pants, not shorts) he was wearing. When I began showing him the various styles of shorts he could choose from, however, he quickly ruled out any type of jean shorts, cargo shorts, or canvas painter shorts, despite the fact that these were the closest styles to what he was wearing. It became very apparent that "just like" didn't mean the same thing to him as it did to me. I gave up trying to interpret his teenage-ese and just grabbed one of everything in his size. He decided that he wanted the cargo shorts that didn't fit him and that would likely slide right off his butt if he put so much as a dime in one pocket. He wouldn't consider wearing a belt, so I vetoed that pair. Then he vetoed the one pair that fit. I guess we'll call it a draw.

I tried to look at the bright side as we left the store. I had saved a lot of money. I had the flip-flop situation for my oldest under control. My weight lifter would be able to model his sculpted bosom. And my youngest child wouldn't have to wear shorts that fit him. It may be the closest thing I get to a victory this summer.

The Mutha of Band Concerts

2008-05-20T11:36:00.006-06:00

Before I begin this entry, let me first assure you that I love music, that I'm grateful my child is playing oboe and enjoying it, and that I think school band programs are generally a good idea. Of course, it is always possible to turn something good into an instrument of mass torture, which is what my child's band director did last night. Here's what happened.

We arrived 20 minutes early so that the boy could be there to warm up and get settled. Never mind that he wasn't going to play for an hour. He still had to be there early. While the boy slunk off to the band room, my two other kids and I tried to get into the auditorium, but it was locked. I should have realized that the locked door was an attempt by God to protect me from what was soon to happen. Unfortunately, I didn't recognize that the locked doors were a form of divine intervention. Instead, I wandered over to the band room, entered the auditorium through an open side door, and then went to the back of the auditorium and let the crowds in. Not only did this seal my own fate, but also the fates of all the other innocent parents of band members. We were like lambs being led unknowingly to the slaughter.

The first hour of the concert passed relatively painlessly, because I had brought a novel and read it during the beginning bands. My kids had been less wise, and they were wriggling and texting in their seats. And then my oboe player came on stage with the orchestra, and I had to put my novel away to maintain my "good father" status. The orchestra director, however, recognized that it had already been a long evening, and he kept his part of the program moving quickly. The orchestra finished in less than a half hour, and then the symphonic band came on the stage.

I was feeling hopeful at this point in the concert, because there were only four pieces left on the program. I thought that perhaps the concert might finish in less than 2 hours and 15 minutes, the previous record for the shortest band concert. No such luck. Not only were each of the pieces long, but in between each piece, the director talked and passed out awards. Unlike the orchestra director, the band director seemed to have no sense of the amount of time he was wasting and the growing restlessness in the audience. My two children were beginning to mutter threats and complaints after each song or presentation. But the band director droned on. To make matters even worse, all four of the pieces he selected were contemporary pieces—you know, the kind of pieces that are so dissonant that you can't tell if the musicians are playing the notes correctly. We spent nearly the whole time squirming in our seats. The only thing that kept my head from exploding was an occasional oboe solo. I seriously don't know how the kids survived.

Perhaps even more annoying than all of that, though, was the screaming that went on when certain people received band awards. The worst was the lustful screaming for Brayden Santos. The girls behind us seriously screamed his name for two minutes, repeating over and over again how hot he was. I nearly stood up, turned around and screamed back, "Brayden's mine, you whore!"

The concert finally ended at 9:40. We had been there for 3 hours. I thought Wendy's frosties and frosty floats were in order. When I got home, my wife, who has not attended a single high school band concert all year long, asked me why I was so cranky. I told her that she would soon find out because next year was her turn to go to the band concerts. Then, out of pity for her future suffering, I let her have some of my frosty.

Prom Pictures 2008

2008-05-12T13:50:00.013-06:00

My two oldest boys went to prom this year. I've learned that being the father of the boys means I don't get to take any pictures of the boys with their dates. Here is a picture of my two boys in black along with their friend Kyler from next door, taken just before church started on the following day. Kyler refused to wear his rented tux to church, so he wore his grandfather's tux instead. Also, he wouldn't give me a normal smile.

Okay, Ky, you can't produce a normal smile, but you feel comfortable doing this? You're going to need a really, really good campaign manager if you're ever going to be president of the US.

Here's a picture of Matt with his good friend Samantha. I told him that when he marries her, we will put this picture up at the wedding and pretend that she was his prom date. Samantha's mom thought I was hilarious. Matt thought I was so funny that he was ready to walk home.

Yep, they're good lookin' guys. No way to help that.

"Ain't a just irresistible?"

"I'm waaaaay cool in a tux."

"I'm too sexy for my vest, too sexy for my vest, too sexy -- no jest!"

"Cut! And that's a wrap!"

"Just practicing for my next Bond film. Hope Samantha's the Bond girl."

Mothers and yellow jackets

2008-05-11T19:30:00.006-06:00

I have many thoughts about mothers today, but one memory in particular stands out. During one summer in my mid-teens, I went with my family to Silver Creek Falls, a state park in Oregon with miles of trails to several beautiful water falls. As we hiked along the trails, we took a small path through fallen trees and bushes down to the creek to see if we could find any crawdads. On the way back to the trail, my brother, sister, and I inadvertently stepped on a rotten log as we walked along the path. By the time my mother, little sister, and father came along, there was a cloud of insects swarming over the log. They thought the insects were mosquitoes. As they walked through the swarm, they discovered that the insects were actually yellow jackets who had come out of their nest in the log to defend their home.

The yellow jackets immediately attacked, stinging all three people. My father let out a loud whoop, yanked out his white hanky, and swatted yellow jackets as he ran at top speed up the trail to get away from bees. My mom, on the other hand, grabbed my little sister and carried her away from the nest as fast as she could. Along the way, she flicked bees off my sisters body with no regard for the bees that were crawling under her own clothes and stinging her. As soon as they got away from the nest, my mother stripped my sister to her underwear so that she could get at the bees that were still stinging my sister. She used her bare hands to comb the bees out of my sister's hair. It wasn't until after she had rid my sister completely free of yellow jackets that she realized there were yellow jackets in her own clothes and hair, too. And still, as she killed the yellow jackets that were stinging her, she took breaks to comfort and calm my screaming little sister.

For years us kids would laugh about the spectacle of seeing my father yelping, jumping, and waving a white hanky as he ran up the trail. It wasn't until many years later, though, that I came to fully appreciate the other half of the story, the way my mother determinedly fought and killed the yellow jackets that were tormenting her child without any regard for her own pain and wellbeing. On this mother's day, I honor all mothers for their courage and devotion to their offspring, and particularly my mother and her sacrifices for me and my siblings.

More valuable than I thought

2008-05-01T10:30:00.007-06:00

I was checking out the CNN website this morning when I learned that dinosaur poop from the Jurassic period recently sold for $960 at an auction. What an inspiring story! I thought that poop was generally pretty worthless. For example, just the other day I bought a 20 lb bag of steer manure for $1.29 at Lowe's. That means that I could buy 744 bags of steer manure (close to 7 1/2 tons of cow pies) for the same price as the dinosaur poop. That just goes to show how much poop appreciates over time.

That got me thinking about investments. Let's say I sunk $960 into steer manure and then held onto it for another 130 million years. Assuming a relatively conservative inflation rate of just 2% compounded annually, I used the following formula to find the net worth of this poop in the year 130,002,007:

When I tried to use a TI-89 to compute the value, it immediately kicked out the symbol for infinity. Being a math teacher, I knew that couldn't be right. Sure, it might be a big number, but there's no way that it could be infinitely large. So I went into work, booted up Mathematica, a high-powered mathematics application, and reentered the formula. I got the following answer:

Basically, my poop investment would be worth $20,479,554,970,775 followed by an additional 1,118,012 zeros. Talk about leaving a legacy for your posterity. And the beauty of the whole plan is that the crap I collect doesn't necessarily have to be cow manure. Let's say that I decided to stockpile all the dog droppings from the backyard. Or maybe I can save up all the poop from baby diapers in our neighborhood. Whatever. I just need a lot of crap and a place to store it. Then wait 130,000,000 years, and Eureka! (No pun intended.) I'm rolling in the dough.

My new mantra: When life gives you crap, make fossilized crap! And then sell it!

Graduation

2008-04-30T09:42:00.000-06:00

I've long realized that I don't have the proper attitude toward graduation ceremonies. I just always thought that I would eventually be converted to the correct perspective. And yet it still hasn't happened.

When I graduated with my Ph.D. from San Diego State University, there were at least ten beach balls bouncing throughout the auditorium at any one particular moment. No one paid attention to the speakers, and often there was so much cheering that you couldn't understand what was being said. Clearly everyone was excited about being there, but there also seemed to be some concern by the administration that the excitement not be allowed to grow too long before letting everyone out. Consequently, every part of the ceremony was kept short and simple. After it was all over, friends and relatives commented that it was the shortest, most unruly graduation they had ever attended. There was nothing reverent or dignified about it. And that's why I absolutely loved it.

Since then I've attended several graduation ceremonies at my school. Every time we enter the giant auditorium, we walk under a big sign that says, "Maintain the dignity of the ceremony." And then we quietly file in, cram ourselves into chairs spaced for 10 year olds, and try to stay awake for the 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 hour ceremony. We listen to grand talks about proud morals and high ideals. We clap politely after stuffy musical numbers. We are reminded that we should give back to the university, and are assured that both large and small checks are welcome. Finally, after the row of speakers has been exhausted and our perspiration has soaked through our clothes and caused our robes to cling wetly to our bodies, we stumble out. I swear these ceremonies are more like a funeral than a graduation.

I'm not sure how much longer I can "maintain the dignity of the ceremony" without going insane. Every time I walk under the sign, I have a new idea for what would really spice up the ceremony. One year it was to attach pipe cleaner antennas to my graduation cap. Last year it was to hide a squirt gun in my sleeves and squirt graduates as they marched in. This year I was wishing that I had a package of balloons that I could blow up and then let go of in the middle of a particularly boring talk. The thought of a deflating balloon spinning spasmodically through the air and letting out a loud raspberry as it deflated was so delicious that I actually snorted during the President's address. I covered it up by pretending I had a cold and regularly sniffing for the next five minutes. I think it worked, because the people sitting on either side of me starting leaning away from me.

For all of you out there who have a difficult time controlling your exuberance at graduation ceremonies, I salute you. Thank you for your cat calls, air horns, inflated surgical gloves, and irreverent signs. You inspire me.

New funny blog

2008-04-30T08:00:00.000-06:00

A good friend of mine has started blogging, and her stuff is very funny. Check it out on notthemotheroftheyear.blogspot.com.

And here's today's lineup...

2008-04-27T09:47:00.001-06:00

I went to a wedding reception on Thursday evening. Steverino's oldest daughter got hitched. Considering that Steverino is one of my closest friends, and that I know all of his family fairly well, walking through the reception line should have been a breeze. After all, Steverino and I have been in so many different situations together, and I have never once been at a loss for words. In fact, some of my best lines have come from those situations, including my online persona of Splinger Moosebutt. But stick him in a tuxedo and place him in a wedding reception line and all of a sudden I don't know what to say.

As I approached him, my mind was racing for just the right line. I kept drawing a blank, so in desperation I went with something like, "Lookin' good." How lame is that? Guys who are close show that closeness by always leading off with a jab, like, "Wow, did your mother dress you for this?" or "I've seen two-month old corpses that looked better in a tux than you, and they only had half their teeth." Then he'd say something like, "Not even my mom would have dressed you in what you're wearing," or "Keep it up and you'll have similar dental problems as your two-month old corpses." And then we'd chuckle, each knowing that our friendship was solid.

But lead with a line like, "Lookin' good," and what's he supposed to say? "You, too"? And pretty soon we'd be sounding like two women at a Relief Society function. Oh, the shame, the absolute humiliation! Nothing can ruin a friendship between guys faster than civility.

In my opinion, wedding lines may be the biggest reason why guys dislike wedding receptions. Once the guy is through the line, he can dig into food and ditch his date for the companionship of other like-minded guys who are either "fixing up" the married couple's car or planning how to slip the groom an extra-large, glow-in-the-dark con...uh...condominium just before he cuts the wedding cake. Now there are some great ways to strengthen guy relationships.

Personally, I think that guys should be exempt from the wedding line if small talk is expected. If we could go through the wedding line and just high-five everyone, or perhaps act like our favorite animal and then have a competition between the bride and groom to guess what the animal was, the wedding line would be a lot less traumatic. Guys might begin to have a whole different perspective toward weddings and marriage in general. At the very least, the groom's father should provide a bowl with slips of paper in it containing suitable statements to say as the guy goes through the line. As the guy approached the line, he could just grab one of those slips of paper and go with whatever it said, knowing fully well that everyone in the line would not blame him for whatever came out of his mouth, because it wouldn't be his fault. It would the groom's father's fault! And nobody really likes him, anyway, because he doesn't really even do much for the wedding. A perfect solution.

So Steverino, now you know what to do for the next wedding reception. Or you could just have someone waiting at the entrance to direct me straight to the cake. That's probably your safest bet, anyway.

Preparing against the day

2008-04-18T12:22:00.001-06:00

I've recently become addicted to Trolli sour brite crawlers. It would be a bad thing, except now I get my daily recommended values of Yellow 5, Red 40, and Blue 1. Everyone knows that it's hard to find a reliable source of Blue 1. Now I have one.

I became addicted to TSBCs on my trip to California to attend my grandfather's funeral. Before then, my traditional travel candy was good and plenty. But on this trip, I found myself devouring pack after pack of these little goodies. I couldn't help myself. The Blue 1 had me hooked. And I am still craving them, even though the road trip has long been over.

Now I'm constantly seeking a cheap source of my drug of choice. I went to Wal-mart two weekends ago and found them on sale for 79 cents a pack. I grabbed every pack they had. It wasn't rational. I just had to have them all. And when I was about to run out of them, J-Girl bought five more packs from Smith's. She had to pay 99 cents a pack, but she had no choice—Wal-mart has been out of TSBCs every time we've gone there since I last cleaned them out. I'm beginning to suspect that there might be other addicts out there. Or maybe there is some cartel at work trying to artificially jack up the prices, like OPEC. Or it could be the wheat shortage. After all, the bag contains the warning, "Packaged on equipment that also packages products containing traces of milk, egg, wheat, peanuts, tree nuts, and/or soy products." As wheat prices soar, it can no longer be cheap to find wheat tainted packaging equipment, with or without the appropriate "and/or."

I interpret all of this as a sure sign that I need to stock up on TSBCs so that when famines and pestilences come, me and my family will be fine. I'm going to start building a TSBC storehouse. I think I'll put some malt balls away, too. And maybe even some "and/or" wheat tainted packaging equipment.

Questions in the bathroom

2008-04-16T09:15:00.000-06:00

Being male, I am no stranger to men's restrooms. I understand a lot of the unwritten rules. I know not to talk to people who are peeing next to me. I try to leave an open urinal between me and the next guy whenever possible. I don't assume a wide stance in a stall. And I recognize that even if me and a friend should enter a restroom at the same time, we are nonetheless doing so as separate individuals and not as a group. Going to the restroom is considered a solitary activity by men.

Despite my deep understanding of the social practices involved in using a men's restroom, I have lately experienced restroom behaviors that I think fall into the gray area. For example, on several occasions I have been minding my own business, focusing my attention completely on the tiles directly above the urinal I'm using when the guy next to me rips one loud enough to rattle the light fixtures. Admittedly, the bathroom is the appropriate place for such behavior. But shouldn't you take a stall if you're intent on blowing a hole in your shorts? At the very least you should give some warning that an explosion is coming, such as coughing, shuffling your feet, or yelling, "Fire in the hole!" I wish those guys had.

And then a couple of weeks ago, I was washing my hands when the guy in the corner stall got a phone call. To my surprise, he answered it, which didn’t technically violate the no talking rule since the other party wasn’t in that particular bathroom. However, when he had to ask that person to repeat him- or herself each time a toilet flushed, I got a little creeped out. It felt so dirty.

Perhaps the most startling behavior, though, happened a few days ago when the guy in the stall next to me suddenly started whistling the theme song from Star Wars. What’s up with that? What's he doing that made him think of that particular song? Destroying a planet with his deathstar? I quickly finished my business before I had to witness the destruction. He was still whistling it when I left.

All of these recent experiences have made me realize that bathroom etiquette for the male is not as clear cut as I originally thought. Someone needs to come forward and address these issues, setting the record straight for the rest of us. Until then, however, please keep your movie theme music to yourself. And if you hear flushing on the other side of a phone conversation, be sure to wash your hands after you hang up.