Terror in the Swim Lanes

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

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

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

The mancation comes to an end

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

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

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

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

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

Kids go gangsta!

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

Josh in size 42 jeans.

Matt in the other pair.

The swag.

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

Signed Confession

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

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

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

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

Smoking under the gun

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

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

Ooh, I feel all of my Spidey senses tingling.

Hope of America

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

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

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

Living in excess

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

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

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

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