A Real Conversation

[After having watched a trailer for a show who’s leading actress is Zoe something.]

Me: Have you ever noticed that everyone is named Zoe these days?

Little J: No.

Me: [Pretends to take a puff on a joint, and then hands it to Little J.] 

Little J: Are you trying to burn me?

Me: No. Do you want some?

Little J: No way. I don't want the black lung.

Easter Silver Lining

My favorite things about the days following Easter: discount Easter chocolate, leftover ham, and deviled eggs. Not surprisingly, it's all about food.

Latest Favorite T-Shirt

Thanks to my sister in Olympia, I have a new favorite T-Shirt to wear:

Chalk Circles

BYU Student 1: "Apparently if you draw a line with chalk, ants won't walk over it."

BYU Student 2: "They're Karl G. Maeser ants."

Perhaps one of the most famous stories told on BYU campus it the story that illustrates Karl G. Maeser's sense of integrity. According to legend, Karl G. Maeser said the following:

"I have been asked what I mean by 'word of honor.' I will tell you. Place me behind prison walls--walls of stone ever so high, ever so thick, reaching ever so far into the ground--there is a possibility that in some way or another I may escape; but stand me on the floor and draw a chalk line around me and have me give my word of honor never to cross it. Can I get out of the circle? No. Never! I'd die first!"

While I can appreciate the intent of this quote, I also wonder if it is overly celebrated. Wouldn't it just be better to say that he made a mistake and that it was stupid to stay in the circle and die? Isn't it better sometimes to be reasonable than principled? Isn't our willingness to say we are wrong and make changes every bit as worthy of celebration as zealous portrayals of virtue?

A Brief Encounter with Hinduism

Our new neighbors finally moved in this past weekend. They've been remodeling the house for several months, making changes in the upstairs and remodeling the basement. They announced last week that they would be holding a special house blessing ceremony on Saturday, and they invited everyone in our cul-de-sac to attend. Wanting to be a good neighbor and being somewhat curious about Hinduism, I accepted their invitation.

When Mark and I got there, the Hindu priest was still getting set up for the ceremony. We were invited to take a tour of the house, and I was shocked to see that it was completely furnished. I had talked to the father a couple of times during renovation about helping him move everything in. I hadn't seen any signs of moving, no moving truck or furniture vans. I was expecting the house to be completely empty. But it wasn't. Somehow they had moved in. Perhaps it was in the dead of night to avoid making their neighbors feel the need to help? I'm not sure. Let's just say that it was the first clandestine move I've ever (can't say seen) known about.

When we were invited to the ceremony, we were told that it would last two hours. I didn't understand at the time how it could possibly last that long. I thought that they were perhaps overestimating. They weren't. I didn't realize just how many gods they had to address in the ceremony, and each god had to be given its due attention. We watched forever as the priest chanted in a sing-song voice and family members tossed different objects onto the altar. Not understanding very much about what was going on, I was surprised that I still felt somewhat connected to the ceremony, absorbing the cadence of the prayers and the spiritual energy of the believers. While I clearly felt like an outsider, I connected with the way the religious ceremony bound the neighbors and their friends together. It was energizing and relaxing at the same time. Eastern religions seem to give me that feeling.

Competing Pessimism

It's been drab and gloomy all over Utah Valley for a couple of months, and then, *pop*! In the space of five minutes, there were suddenly flowers. The daffodils were opening in the flower beds on the southside of buildings. The apricot trees were blooming. Students were sitting on the lawn with jeans rolled up to their knees.

True to our pessimistic personalities, Steve (my good friend who shall remain nameless except for the Steve part) and I saw this as a sign of impending doom. "We're not going to get any apricots this year," Steve said to me. "Unless I put a giant parachute over the tree. And since that would totally depend on me to make it happen, it won't."

"It's already warming up and we're not even to April yet," I said. "We'll probably run completely out of water by July. Everything's going to dry up this summer, including me. Me and the fish will be flopping helplessly in small puddles of mud, eyes being burned out by the sun, gasping for air and hoping against hope for rain."

Other people were just enjoying the flowers. Silly, stupid people.

Look out, Ginny!

I think that the spring weather is starting to get to me, because just yesterday I took a look at my bookshelf and decided that there were some books that I no longer needed. I cleared off a stack of books about 2 feet tall, and then called my local book dealer to stop by and check out my stack.

I get several offers each year from used books dealers who are willing to grease my palm with cash in order to pick up the textbooks that I get gifted. In the past, this money has financed my malt ball addiction. But when the bookstore stopped stocking malt balls, I began to question the practice of selling the textbooks. It always feels a little slimy when I sell the books to the dealers. They aren't really welcome on campus, and when they do business, they always come into your office and make sure the door is shut behind them. After they scan your books with their handheld scanner/computer, they pull out a huge wad of cash and peel off the right amount of bills. I guess it's what you should expect when you deal with an illegitimate market.

Anyway, of my 2-foot stack, the dealer only wanted two books. Figures. But I didn't complain when he handed me $32 and left me with nearly the same sized stack. That's when I decided that I would put the books outside my office with a sign that said, "Free books!" Just because I couldn't get cash for them didn't mean that I wanted them back on my shelves.

When Mark stopped by later and saw the stack of books, he was highly alarmed. Looking through the titles, he accused me of trying to pull a Lucius Malfoy, sticking some poor soul with the equivalent of a Tom Riddle Diary. He said that any day now we would find dead chickens and messages written in blood on campus. I've never been accused of dealing in the dark arts before, and I'm pretty sure that it will enhance my image as a mathematics teacher. I may even start calling my classes "succumb to the dark arts."

Puzzle Frenzy

I probably haven't mentioned that our family has been fairly active in doing puzzles lately. We got into the habit of doing puzzles during the Christmas break, and we've often had a puzzle going under the see-through plastic covering of our kitchen table. Little J and I are the most devoted puzzlers, working a little bit each day. Josh only gets involved when a particular puzzle catches his eye. Everyone else pretends for the most part that the puzzles don't exist.

Strangely, when the end of a puzzle is in sight, everyone starts getting involved. I will work virtually alone for hundreds of pieces at a time. About the time that there are 300 pieces left, Little J starts getting more interested. Then when there are about 50 pieces left, everyone comes over and the frenzy begins. When we finished one off this weekend, it got so crowded that I was completely squeezed out. Everyone was fighting over putting in the last piece. J-girl always tries to put in the last piece, and if she isn't successful, she will take out a piece and put it back in, claiming that she "finished" the puzzle. Then Little J usually starts shouting that it's not fair, and Josh grabs for his own piece to put in last. I just quietly leave the room shaking my head. I don't want to be around when there's blood in the water.

Pig Latin and Preaching the Gospel

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

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

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

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

Apricot surprises

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

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

New extreme sport: bare-handed apricot pitting.

Gloves only make it slightly better.

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

Matt's going to Taipei

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

But I digress. Yesterday Matt got his mission call.

Matt opening his mission call.

Matt reading his mission call.

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

Matt and J-girl celebrating the news.

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

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

Living with a 'Tween Shark

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

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

Little J building up speed as she approaches her prey.

A split second before the gruesome attack.

Extreme gore!

She thrashes with the prey locked in her jaws.

Shark Week: Where the Sharks Appear More Intelligent than Humans

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

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

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

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

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

A Stupid Person at the Grocery Store

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

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

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

Avoiding the Reciprocal Rule

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

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

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

I need a new plan.

Triop Wars

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

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

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

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

Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

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

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

Me and Josh at War

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

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

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

Little J Takes Care of Herself

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

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

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

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

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

Terror in the Swim Lanes

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

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

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