Four Perspectives

Change

2012-01-23T07:30:00.003-07:00

Nearly every day, I drive down a particular road to reach my home, Perrowville. We pronounce it "pear-a-vil" here in our Southern parts, but that's kind of beside the point of this story. Toward the end of this road, before I make the right-hand turn onto Coffee, which is "my" road, our Pearavil tops a slight hill and makes a gentle curve around to the right, and a driveway springs up on the left. Fields, which usually lay pale and fallow without so much as a cow to dot their expanse, fold out on either side of the drive, lined along the road by black board fence. The drive itself travels back into the depths of the fields until no longer visible, the house hidden from sight by a distant treeline.

There was, until fairly recently, a lovely old cherry tree on the left-hand side of the driveway, and a low, whitewashed brick wall that curved along either side in invitation. The tree budded in spring, its gnarled old branches curving low and heavy over the wooden slats of the fence and asphalt, and turned pink and riotous quickly thereafter. It was was thick and green in summer, and shed beautiful burnished tears in fall. In winter it was a skeletal and oddly elemental part of the landscape, the branches twisted and reaching out, it seemed, to say hello as I drove past.

The wall was its companion. Some of the bricks were loose and unmortared, crumbling in places. The base was no longer fresh and white but stained with dirt and age. They were a picture--the wall, the tree, the drive, the fence--a snapshot I framed in my mind each and every time I topped that swell and drove past that residence.

Until recently. It happened in stages. First, the tree. I came home one day and it was gone. Not even a stump to mark its passing. I felt an almost physical pain at its passing. Next, the wall. The wall took a little longer. It was removed first from one side of the driveway, and then, several days later, the opposite. Neat scars of red dirt where once the wall had rested--tombstones in reverse, I remember thinking.

Around a month or so later, construction began on pillars. I've been watching their progress with interest. They're mostly up now--a stucco-look, with iron protruding, I suppose for some sort of gate that may eventually be erected. There are plates inset, with the name of the farm inscribed.

They're pretty. They bespeak wealth, and class.

But they're not an elegant, elemental old cherry tree, and a wall that has witnessed thousands of passers-by. I miss them.

Christmas, in January

2012-01-07T09:13:00.001-07:00

I made a promise this year…

That promise was NOT to take down any of my Christmas decorations or the tree until it snowed.

To me, it seems that Christmas and snow are synonymous; snow is the proverbial icing on the cake when it comes to Christmas. It’s the glittery star placed on the pinnacle of the tree. Snow is the marshmallows floating in a cup of steamy hot chocolate.

Unfortunate for this holiday, there wasn’t any icing, glittery stars, or marshmallow froth.

To be honest, it was kind of a letdown.

However, when I awoke this morning, I had a migraine. It wasn’t yet light out, and I stumbled downstairs for some new medication that I got from my neurologist yesterday afternoon. When I got to the kitchen, I glanced out the window to see that it was lighter than it should have been at this early hour.

I drew in a gasp of wonder.

Crystalline flakes were drifting from the skies, and the park behind my house was laid out before me, beneath a blanket of snowy white.

I watched the snow for a few moments and felt a smile creep up my cheeks.

I ignited the lights on my Christmas tree, and I sat in my living room with a slew of music from the holidays wafting about the house.

And so this morning I share the photo I captured, and a playlist of Christmas music just for you.

Merry Christmas…but better late than not at all.

Love That Kid

2011-11-06T20:04:00.009-07:00

Here's what I've been up to the past six months...his name is Truitt:

Although I certainly didn't intend for it to happen in quite this fashion, he's kind of taken over our lives. It's All Things Truitt here in the White House.

And that's okay, because we've managed to journey from the hellish land of colic to a veritable funhouse. Truitt is a jolly baby, most of the time, which is fabulous because it helps the fact that he refuses to sleep during the day.

He has just started his attempts at crawling, which are hilarious to watch.

Who can resist a bear on the bootie? Not me.

In all seriousness, we've been busy. To give you the short version of the past six months:
--Truitt arrived.
--He cried.
--He puked.
--I did massive amounts of laundry.
--He cried some more.
--He puked some more.
--I washed more clothes.
--He cut some teeth.
--He stopped crying when he received his share of magic fairy dust.
--He started to chortle at the dog.
--And recently he started trying to crawl.

That's pretty much it. And, oh--he believes he can fly. He believes he can touch the sky.

It's Been A While

2011-10-20T08:37:00.000-06:00

I logged onto Blogger and was given a quiet reminder that I had another site.

This site.

Ah life, with its intricacies, business, and all of the things that make it what it is. I guess it’s safe to say that with my job, my photography, and the myriad of everything else, Four Perspectives has taken somewhat of a backseat in my life lately.

…oh, it’s still here, it just now sits on the proverbial back burner of all the things I need to do and accomplish, never seeming to be that pot I notice to be boiling over and in the need of the most attention.

When I saw that the last post on this site was a month ago—mine being back on September 1st—I was thinking that something most certainly needed to be done about this.

And so I am.

I awoke this morning with a feeling that autumn has now kicked into full swing, and it’s always at this time of year I’m given a reminder of what life is—what it could be—and what it isn’t. It’s a changing of the guard and movement into a holiday adorned with rich colors and a season festooned with a chill in the air and heaps of leaves to wade in up to your ankles or knees.

I love this time of year…I long for it like oxygen, but I don’t wish for the long, cold of winter to be here. I would wish for the fall season to last a little bit longer though and give me the world adorned in her best fashions.

In honor of this, I wanted to build you a list of tunes for the season…list of music to share the feeling of wonderment that I do at this time, but unfortunately, the songs were not available on Playlist for a readily made alliance of awesome. To remedy this, I decided to upload a few tunes to my server and link them in, but I soon found that the songs I linked had already been blocked due to copyright restrictions.

Oh, my friends…for this I apologize.

So for you I had an autumn playlist, which should have filled beyond brimming with forty to fifty songs, but instead has only about ten. This is unfortunate because I felt that these captured something about the season…that magic and feeling autumn brings; after all, you probably know that there’s not too many autumn carols out there.

Because I can only I give you what I can in the playlist, I will tell you the names of those which I cannot give.

Deal?

Happy autumn, and Happy closing of the year.

- Teachinfourth

This Time of Year - John McCutcheon
The Silver Run - John McCutcheon
Is My Family - John McCutcheon
Soup - John McCutcheon
Wintersong - John McCutcheon
Waiting for Snow - John McCutcheon
Mending Fences - John McCutcheon
Closing the Bookstore - John McCutcheon
When Fall Comes to New England - Cheryl Wheeler
If These Walls Could Speak - Amy Grant
Let it Fall - Sean Watkins
When You Come Back Down - Nickel Creek
See Right Through You - Jerrytown
River - Joni Mitchell
Southbound Train - Julie Gold
Island of Time - Patty Larkin
I Have a Song - Lucy Simon
Sweet Baby James - James Taylor
You've Got a Friend - James Taylor
Copperline - James Taylor
Song for You far Away - James Taylor
What About - Peter Breinholt
Teeming Autumn - David Tolk
Autumn Road - David Tolk
Holocene (edited) - Bon Iver
Can't Find My Way Home - Blind Faith
Set the World on Fire - Britt Nicole
You've Got a Friend - James Taylor

A Fancy or a Feeling?

2011-09-15T20:55:00.010-06:00

If there were no God, there would be no Atheists. ~G.K. Chesterton

So I was talking to a friend the other day about God.

This friend is kind of wishy-washy about religion and actually professes to be leaning towards atheism. By the way, this friend was not Teachinfourth – just in case ya'll were wondering after his searching for God post awhile back -although we have spent a fair amount of time sorting through faith,belief and other such ethereal topics. Anyway this mostly atheist friend was trying to explain why believing in God just doesn’t make any sense to him. He believes that people just use God as an excuse to explain whatever coincidence they want to explain. He is an atheist on logical grounds – there is just no proof that God isn’t just a figment of mankind’s imagination.

I have to say that he is right. Believing in God is entirely illogical…and I like to think that I’m a pretty logical person.

But I believe in God anyway.

Now, I do not have a perfect faith, but I do believe there is a God and that there is a plan.

I was trying explain my faith as we were talking and I hit upon this analogy. Of course I didn’t think of this analogy until the day after our conversation…it would have been much cooler and more satisfying if I could have formed this argument in the moment of debate…but whatever.

Here’s what I think…

Belief in God is all about feeling and intuition in the same way that being a parent is all about feeling and intuition.

I mean, when you have a new baby there are times when you simply don’t know what it wants. You’ve fed it, changed it, burped it, rocked it, sung to it, and the baby is still crying. Because you hopefully want to be a good parent (and because you really want to get some sleep), you keep trying to figure out what your baby wants. Through trial and error you slooooowwwwly come to recognize the signals that your baby is throwing out there. You can tell the hungry cry from the cranky cry. You can tell the “I’m just throwing a fit” cry from the “something is really wrong” cry.

Now to anybody else a baby crying is just a baby crying - could mean anything or could mean nothing. But to you, the parent who has spent hours and hours and days and years studying this child, that cry means something…something specific.

Can you prove it?

Well…maybe not.

But you know what you know and you feel what you feel whether it’s logical or not.

Believing in God is a quest. A quest for a feeling that helps you find answers to questions that, like your baby's cry, only you might understand. It takes a lot of time and a lot of practice but eventually, slowly, you start to recognize the signs...and then maybe even start to sleep through the night.

Of Mice and Me

2011-09-02T09:47:00.005-06:00

Women are afraid of mice and of murder, and of very little in between. ~Mignon McLaughlin

So I’ve had to take kind of a mental health month away from several of my normal hobbies and pursuits (like blogging) this month. My mom had to have hip replacement surgery. This is a relatively common yet still pretty serious procedure that, I’ve learned, has a fair amount of post-operative what-nots to go along with it. All in all things have gone pretty well, Mom is recovering well…and I have discovered that I was absolutely right when I decided that nursing was not the profession for me.

I’ve also discovered that Doctors and Nurses and Physical Therapists and the like often use the very same tone with their patients (and the family members of their patients) as did Ebay’s Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Jones. I’m not saying this is a bad thing necessarily. Hip replacement surgery is generally performed on folks of…shall we say advancing years, and taking a tone reminiscent of Mr. Rogers is actually very soothing and reassuring…but also slightly comical…at least to me.

In other news, we’ve been hit with pestilence of biblical proportions at our house this week. Ok, ok…maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit. But on the same night Ebay and I discovered, seriously, the largest spider ever seen in captivity on our living room wall. And simultaneously, while we were arguing about who was going to deal with super-spider (Ebay is just no use as a man when it comes to spiders), a mouse ran along floorboard of the very same wall!!!

What the freak!

Now I don’t really ever like spiders much. But I don’t mind mice out in the woods and fields and in Beatrice Potter books. But I seriously don’t wanna live with ‘em!

This is the first mouse we’ve seen since moving into the house, so hopefully it’s just a solitary rodent soul looking for seclusion, or facing some initiation into a mouse fraternity perhaps. But whatever the reason, we’re having a visit from the Orkin man tomorrow ‘cause I already have enough trouble sleeping at night as it is without mice dreams and spider nightmares. Not to mention that my mom is using a walker right now. Running, screaming and jumping on the furniture to get a way from a mouse (or spider) while using a walker after hip-replacement surgery might cause the nice Mr. Roger-esque Physical Therapist to alter his soothing tone…don'tcha think?

Thinking of Home

2011-09-01T20:24:00.002-06:00

I’ve been dwelling lately.

I’ve been thinking about Cloverleaf Beach on the Columbia River.

It’s been on my mind for the past several weeks.

I do a photo meme each week and someone posted a set of images from a trip they took. One of the shots this week reminded me of this little beach I went to all throughout my growing up which is located in Eastern Washington.

The funny thing is that I started to dwell on this even before I saw the image…the photo just made it more pronounced for some reason. This week I started to catch faint whiffs of pine needles and the scent of river air occasionally as I made to go into my house or left my school in the late afternoon/early evening sun—though no pine trees were nearby.

It’s odd, really...after all, I haven’t been to Cloverleaf Beach in years.

If it was feasible, possible, or in all reality if I were able, I’d drive there tonight and sit on the beach. I’d take off my shoes and soak my feet in the cool water. I’d lean back and gaze out at the expanse of the river, allowing the gentle lapping of that shimmering water against sand to ebb and wash away the dust and worries of everyday life.

I’d breathe in the sweet scent of pine pitch heavily laden in air.

I’d soak in the heat wafting from the sand, and burrow my fingers underneath its coarse grains.

I’d listen to the rippling of the water and the cries of birds as the creaking of the old floating dock as it moved about in the center of the swimming area.

I’d wait as darkness fell and the chime of crickets swept over the area like the gentle rolling of thunder down distant canyons.

I’d feel as if I were home.

Saying No

2011-08-30T07:00:00.004-06:00

I finally self-diagnosed myself with a condition I’ve long suspected that I’d been the carrier for.

Over the span of years this ailment has had ample opportunity to gestate, grow, and mutate into something far more perpetually grotesque than what it originally started out as: something innocent and benign…and I’m sure that there are those out there that would have originally called this a blessing; however, it grew into nothing shy of an obscenity over the blight of years. In fact, I have a feeling that some of you may be carriers of this particular disease as well:

The inability to say no.

I remember being asked to do things for work, family, church, friends, and various others that I didn’t mind in the slightest over the years. When asked if there were any volunteers, I found myself suffering from what some have been known to call, ‘helium hands,’ and the willingness to help out when nobody else seemed to be willing.

This was all fine and good—well, for a while.

I learned something important about myself over the years, though. While it’s good to help others in need, there comes a time when one needs to realize their own limit, and admit to themselves—and to the world—that they are not the Superman everyone might think they are, especially those of us who are perfectionists with Narcissistic tendencies…such a dangerous combination; I don’t know what Mother Nature was thinking when she threw those two permutations into the mix.

So, here I start off with perfectionism? And you ask me to do something on a grand scale? If it isn’t grand to begin with, chances are…I’ll try to make it become so.

I remember my second year at my local university when they needed someone to take charge of the children’s carnival for Fall Fling. Nobody would head up the program and it seemed that it was doomed to be a failure. However, somebody mentioned that Teachinfourth was in the Elementary Education Program and therefore, he would be a prime candidate for the job—after all, that makes sense doesn’t it?

Without a team of any sort at my disposal, I went about organizing a program I had no experience at. I spent countless hours planning, replanning, organizing, reorganizing, working, reworking, stressing, restressing, panicking, repanicking, and so on, and so on - all with a very limited budget.

And then, when things finally reached their worst, I turned to a few of my neighbors to help me out because I couldn’t take on a venture of this magnitude completely on my own, and not have it totally blow up in my face.

I think I might even have generated a stomach ulcer or two…but the night’s festivities were festive, and the fun was fun. The kids loved it.

Then I stayed and cleaned up everything afterward.

Fast-forward ten or so years into the future, when I finally came to the realization that it’s good to sometimes tell people no. After all, there would be times that to someone else—a simple job or task—that for somebody else (like myself) who needed it to be perfect—it would take hours until it was done right. While that other person simply wanted it done, I would want to make sure it was done with grandeur and awesomeness.

In other words: all they wanted was Panda Express, I was wanting to give them P.F. Chang’s and Cheesecake Factory for dessert.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are times I still say yes.

Friends come and ask me to take photos.

I love photography, you know.

But there are times I tell people no to sessions as well.

I simply do not have the time or energy to devote to them with being a full-time teacher, blogger, person and everything else in my life that is spinning about me. I have to think about my sanity…sometimes. Besides, I’m really not looking for helium hands anymore; I let the air out of those things months ago. I really don’t need relapse…or another intervention.

The Post About the Next Post

2011-08-24T06:00:00.001-06:00

I’ve decided to change it up a bit this week—for next week. This week’s post reflects what next week’s post will be. Please let me know what you’d like me to write the next post about from the available list. The choices listed are either the titles, or a phrase which will be used in the said post.

Thanks,

Teachinfourth

Fake it Until You Make It.

It was like a scene out of Lord of the Flies.

And so I said No.

A Funeral for Myself.

The Polaroid.

I’m an Addict.

Cranyons.

The Attic.

The Exhilaration of Life

Photo garnished from www.ivanwalsh.com

Hansel, Gretel, and Katy Perry

2011-08-16T16:21:00.000-06:00

I stood in the midst of my classroom yesterday afternoon, feeling lost—somewhat akin to the mood I imagine lingering about Hansel and Gretel as they found themselves disoriented deep in the forest and surrounded by wild and ferocious animals.

I sank into one of my student’s chairs.

I’d worked at the juvenile detention center for a hefty chunk of the summer, and spent a good portion of it putting my classroom back together again—all the king’s horses and all of his men had nothing on me, I’ll tell you that. However, even after hours of work, there were all of those little things that never seemed to find their places. At home, I’d automatically shoved them into the junk drawer where they’d magically find their way into another day’s adventure at some clandestined future moment, when they were most desperately needed…like the room of requirement at Hogwarts.

Alas, my classroom was not Hogwarts.

…at least not yet.

There would be no sorting ceremonies, quite simply I was Hufflepuff…I took everyone, not the brave, not the crafty, or the most clever...I would take the lot: the hodgepodge mix of what makes a classroom what it is.

If I had a choice I think my classroom would be Slytheryn. It seems that the Slytheryns always seem to have the most fun.

I arose from my student’s chair and looked longingly at my empty Dr. Pepper cup from Walker’s Gas Station down the road from previous working visit.

Okay, Teachinfourth…work. You’ve got to get to work…

Into the playlist went a repeated sampling of Katy Perry songs and I tried my best to find my way out of the forested jungle of my classroom.

My desk is still a pile of the unknown, but the rest of the classroom looks pretty great.

Tomorrow is ‘officially’ my first day back to work for meetings and such, through truthfully, I’ve spent a good chunk of the summer there. However, I’m still hoping that the trail of breadcrumbs will lead me to where I need to be before Thursday’s Back to School Night. After all, all of those little wild animals will come, whether or not I’ve found my way through that dratted forest…

Who Are You?

2011-07-26T08:00:00.002-06:00

A weed cannot stop being a weed

It is simply what it is destined to become.

A thistle cannot become a rose.

A skunk cabbage cannot change to a rhubarb plant.

They are what they are.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately, and how we cannot alter the fact that we are human beings; we cannot change that we are people any more than any other creature can change its species or genome.

There is something that we can change, though. We can change our nature. We can alter the decisions we choose to make from day to day…we can decide how to treat others around us.

There is nobody that controls our destiny.

We are whom we decide to become.

Who are you today?

Image garnered from here.

"Gluten" for Punishment

2011-07-15T11:06:00.004-06:00

In order to change we must be sick and tired of being sick and tired. ~Author Unknown

So, awhile back I wrote a piece called “Requiem for the Perfect Chips.” It was about one of our favorite little mom and pop Mexican restaurants and how they changed their wonderful chips. Well I think that now I’m going to have to write a requiem for pretty much all of my favorite food.

Here's why.

I just haven’t been feeling quite right over the past little while, extra extra tired, extra extra cranky and some other kinda weird girl stuff going on if you know what I mean. Since it was time to go to the doctor anyway, I got the number for this super efficient Nurse practitioner that kind of goes beyond the normal screenings to check for hormones and allergies and stuff like that.

So along with all the embarrassing girl check-up things, I had a bunch of blood drawn so they could test it for all this other stuff. Well, I just got the results back a couple of days ago and while there’s nothing terminal or anything, I believe that my life (or at least my eating habits) has just changed forever.

First of all, I found out I have hypothyroidism which means that my thyroid gland isn’t producing enough of the hormone that it is supposed to efficiently run my metabolism. I’m actually a little bit gratified to hear this because I’ve felt for a while now that I diet and exercise and diet and exercise with about as much result as an iceberg at the North Pole (a pre-global warming iceberg that is). Second, I’m apparently super anemic. I’m told that normal iron levels are around 120 (I don’t know 120 of what…grams, milligrams, parts per 1000?) but that my iron level is at a 7. My vitamin B12 level should be 1200 and it’s 400. My vitamin D level should be 80 and it’s 17. Sounds like it’s amazing I could even drag myself to the doctors appointment doesn’t’ it? So needless to say I’ve got a thyroid prescription and I’m also taking a bunch of vitamins and I’m probably looking at having IV iron infusion therapy too.

But on top of all of that…actually adding to all of that is the fact that my blood tests show that I have food allergies. I haven’t been aware of any food allergies in the past. But I’m one of those lucky adoption kids and I just don’t know anything about my family medical history. Superdude has allergies. He is allergic to Penicillin and super sensitive to different kinds of soaps and detergents. I told the super-efficient Nurse Practitioner about this and she said that if one of my kids has allergies, chances are that I probably do as well. So she added that to my blood panel and found that I am allergic to Gluten…wheat gluten…as in bread, pasta, crackers, cookies, pies, cakes and pretty much everything else that makes life worth living. Add to that that I’m also allergic to eggs which are in the cakes, cookies, pancakes not to mention breakfast burritos and pretty much anything at IHOP. And then just to top it off I’m allergic to Cow’s milk. At first I thought, well, ok. I don’t really drink that much milk anyway. But then it started to hit me…yogurt, cheese, pudding, chocolate, butter and worst of all ICE CREAM (WAAAAAAAHHHHH!!).

I’ve only had a couple of days to absorb this and I’ve really been trying to focus on the positive…you know, focus on all the food that I can eat rather than on everything I can’t. Rice is still ok; Corn is on the good list. All the fruits and vegetables of course…including potatoes, which means French fries (whew!) But I did my first round of Gluten-Free shopping last night and it’s pretty bleak. First of all – Holy-Super-Expensive-Food-Batman! I bought a little loaf of gluten-free bread for almost $6. It feels like cardboard and tastes like sand. I think I’m pretty much going to have to look at it as just the best way to convey peanut butter into my mouth (but without milk, why bother eating a peanut butter sandwich?).

In reality, even though I’m fussing and pouting about this I really am going to hit it hard. I’m going to give this gluten-free, dairy-free thing a serious try and see if it works. See if I feel better, see if I lose weight, see if I have more energy and focus and all of that.

To be honest though….I’m already starting to dream about Ice Cream.

Muddy Feet

2011-07-07T21:46:00.000-06:00

GUEST BLOGGER: Rebeckah

Rebeckah is a 35 year-old mother, social worker, and photographer. She enjoys spending time with children. She believes that every person can make the world a better place by being kind. Rebeckah lives outside of Philadephia with one husband, one kid, and one cat. She also enjoys raquetball. You can find more of her at Life with Kaishon.

You know those days?

Those days when you have a ton of things to do for work; when none of it is making sense?

When it is raining and dismal outdoors?

This is what happens to Kaish on those days:

Seriously.

On a sunny, happy fall day, when muddy feet would make me smile, they are nowhere to be found!

But when I up to my eyeballs in paperwork, when I am racking my brain about what to make for dinner, when I am popping Advil like jellybeans…

This happens!

And he WALKS through the house to show me.

I kid you not!

Now, I would like to say I handled it with grace and love.

I did NOT!

I yelled.

I think I scared the neighborhood kids.

Oh well...

After we got out to the garage and started getting clean, I got nicer : )

and I smiled.

And I listened to the story of how they were playing at the ‘pond’

(which is really a sewer…in case you were wondering)

when Kaish fell in.

I thanked God for the precious boy he gave me!

The precious, wonderful boy!

The boy who loves mud!

And then I did something that always makes me smile!

I forced them to let me take a picture.

Only Shoshi complied!

Did you play in the mud when you were young?

My Daddy used to take us out to the edge of the cornfield in the summer after it had rained.

That mud felt glorious!

I have to ask my Mom how she felt about clean up!

I am sure she was DELIGHTED...

Two Days Late and A Dollar Short

2011-07-07T10:04:00.000-06:00

Teachinfourth, here it is a Thursday and you are finally posting? What’s up with this?

Yeah, I’m a slacker…tends to happen on occasion with all of us, doesn’t it? My dad used to call it being a day late and a dollar short.

In this case it’s two days late…and probably two dollars.

In the pregnancy world I’m told that this is not so much a big deal – you know – being two days late, but this is Mel’s day. I guess it’s a good thing I had dinner with her the other night, and we had a great time enjoying each other’s company, so I figure that she won’t mind…of course I didn’t ask her permission though.

I guess a good thing she and I are such great friends.

Good friendships.

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately.

It seems that the older I’ve been getting, the more selective I’ve gotten in those I include in my circle of ‘good’ friends. That circle appears to get smaller and smaller all the time, too.

Of course, when I was in elementary school the circle was HUGE. My attitude back then was something more like, I’m having a birthday and I want the WHOLE WORLD to come (after all, more guests = more presents) but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that my circle of friends has diminished drastically. Not that I don’t have friends. But those that I choose to hang out with on a regular basis seems to have declined drastically over the passing of years.

I was thinking of this the other night when I went through my Facebook account and deleted all of my contacts, everyone, even my family members. I remember thinking that I didn’t have anywhere near 600 friends and that some of these people were simply those I’d pass on the street and wave to, and probably not have more than a two minute conversation with.

I couldn’t even pass the Facebook test with some of them.

It felt liberating. Nobody could say that I’d simply deleted him or her and was a jerk; after all, I’d deleted everyone.

Today I’m up to somewhere around 150, people started to notice that I was no longer their contact and I’ve started to get some re-requests. However, this is still a far cry from where I started.

I’m comfortable having fewer friends.

I’d like to have five gourmet chocolate chip cookies rather than an entire boxful of those that just aren’t quite so delicious.

So, I’m two days late.

And probably a dollar short.

Well, that’s what my dad would say.

But at least I have some good friends.

And it’s a Thursday.

My Nephew, My Uncle

2011-07-01T08:00:00.012-06:00

GUEST BLOGGER: KAREN

Karen is not a teacher, but she hopes to be one when she grows up. If she ever gets around to it. In the meantime, she enjoys life in Southern California, spending her free time at Disneyland, and watching the Angels play baseball. Despite her proximity to Los Angeles, she prefers gazing at the stars in the sky to the stars of Hollywood, and her blog A Peek at Karen's World, is as random as she is.

The Nephew will be 6 in a few weeks, but most days you’d swear he was closer to 40.

Since I have no children of my own, it has long been my mission to become the undisputed Favorite Aunt. The fact that he doesn’t have many to choose from is beside the point.

To firmly secure my position of favored relative, I recently spent an entire day with The Nephew, in which I learned a valuable lesson. The lesson being that he has now come to that age where he’s decided that if you don’t agree with him, it’s because, clearly, you didn’t hear him.

(It’s scary how much this kid and I have in common.)

We were in the car. I took him to a movie. Part of my quest to be the Favorite Aunt included introducing him to his first Jim Carrey flick. Sadly, he didn’t enjoy it as much as I did. But at least he liked the penguins.

As we were driving, we passed a miniature golf place that also has a few roller coasters perfectly visible from the freeway.

“Whoa! What’s that place?” His eyes were wide with wonder.

“Scandia,” I answered, thinking that he might still be too young to have any real fun there.

“No it’s not,” he said. “That’s the berry place.”

The berry place?

“What berry place?” I asked.

He started to hum something that reminded me of a TV commercial.

“Are you talking about Knott’s Berry Farm?

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s Knott’s Berry.”

I smiled at him and shook my head. “No, buddy. It’s not Knott’s Berry Farm. That place is called Scandia.”

I thought his five year-old sensibilities would know I was telling the truth, but he was sure he knew better. It’s weird because stubbornness doesn’t run in my family AT ALL…

He insisted that it was, indeed, Knott’s Berry Farm even though he’s never been there and has no idea what it looks like. “You aren’t listening to me,” he said. “That’s Knott’s Berry Farm. You don’t even know.”

It should be noted that I was perfectly aware of how silly I sounded, arguing with a boy fresh out of kindergarten. But he needed to KNOW that he was WRONG.

Finally, he said, “Okay, it’s not Knott’s Berry Farm.” I sighed with relief. “It’s The Mountain.”

He was referring, of course, to Magic Mountain. Which is some 60 miles away and another place he’s never been.

“[Nephew], listen to me. That is not Knott’s Berry Farm. It is NOT Magic Mountain. You are wrong. It’s called Scandia. I don’t know why we’re even arguing about this.”

Silence overtook the backseat. He stopped talking and I was relieved to think he had finally understood and started to believe me. And then I heard singing. I glanced into the rearview mirror to see him sitting there in his booster seat, feet kicked straight out in front of him, his hands crossed over his chest. He rocked back and forth, singing:

“What’s wrong with Kaaaa-ren?

Why isn’t she listening to me?

Does she even HEAR me?”

I heard, all right. Loud and clear.

He may be nearly 5 going on 40, but I’m 34, going on 4.

Maybe I should start calling him my Favorite Uncle…

Life in the South (of Utah)

2011-06-28T21:55:00.000-06:00

I moved to the covered front porch and sat on one of the rocking chairs, letting the cool evening breeze cool my skin as I gazed out over the deep auburn glow on the rock cliffs of the eastern ridge, rising up like a tidal wave above pecan trees lining the opposite side of the road. Earlier today the neighborhood trees had been buffeted quite a bit by a gale and Michelle’s youngest mancub – a few years older now since the last time I’d written about him (well not counting the post from last week) – had run amongst them though neighbors’ backyards as they rained down pecans by the fistfuls upon him from the blustering winds.

But, as night falls, all is now calm and still on the street before me.

A few birds chirp as a light breeze stirs the leaves slightly. The laughter of a few neighborhood children drift up the street as the chime of crickets join the thong. The last few rays of sunlight wink out of sight and the blanket of night wraps itself around the neighborhood.

From under the covered porch I sit on a rocking chair, smelling the night breeze and relishing in its coolness as the night as the pale glow of accent lights twinkle green, red, yellow, and blue—changing colors like lights on a Christmas tree.

My phone is silent.

My wireless is haphazard at best.

I’m more or less cut off from the world at large.

It’s a good – as well as different – feeling.

I lean back in the rocking chair and close my eyes.

Life is wonderful...

Feminine Mistique

2011-06-24T13:07:00.005-06:00

One is not born a woman, one becomes one. ~Simone de Beauvoir

So I mentioned a few weeks back that I was indulging in some massage therapy to help with…well with tension and the tight back muscles that come with all that. I don’t do it as much as I probably should. I really only do it as often as I can afford, but it has really helped and I can certainly feel when it’s getting to be time for another massage.

Now this is massage therapy, so there’s a certain expectation that it will be pretty “New-Agey” if you know what I mean. There are scented candles and a lot of books about cleansing your energy pathways and centering your chi or whatever. I find it a little abstract and ethereal sometimes – but who am I to judge? My back hurts, these people can help me so bring on the ocean wave music and green tea extract. But this last time I got some news that has stuck with me some over the past week or so since my last massage.

It’s pretty standard that my left side is more sore and tight than my right side. I haven’t really been able to pinpoint exactly why, but when I think back I believe it has ever been thus. This last time though, perhaps because I hadn’t been there for awhile, I was quite a bit tighter than usual and my massage therapist really had to work the lower left. At one point she said she was just going to step out for a minute. I thought from all the effort she’d was putting in that perhaps she was just tired and needed a break. But no, she wanted get her reference book and check out something about my body. Of course with my face squished into the face holder donut I’m thinking “Oh crap, what has she found back there?” When she came back she announced that the tightness on the left side in the lower back and hip area means, according to “the book”, that I have issues with femininity and could in fact be suppressing my femininity.

Issues with femininity?

Suppressing my femininity?

What does that mean?

I think I’m ok being a girl. I mean, I was a tom-boy growing up, but I wasn’t so much a tomboy that I didn’t enjoy getting a new dress. I’ve never been a really girly-girl, but I’ve always been ok being a girl – I’ve never wanted to be a boy that I can recall. On the other hand I don’t paint my nails. I don’t have my ears pierced. I don’t like wearing jewelry, I don’t like wearing floral patterns….or any patterns at all really. But on the other hand I enjoy making flowers and jewelry for other people to wear (like every other gay designer in the world come to think of it). And hey, I also own a pair of red suede pumps with 3 inch heels. I don’t take them out for a test drive much, but I enjoy looking at them from time to time (possibly something else I have in common with gay designers). I’m not currently married but I have been…twice and I don’t believe I’ve switched my gender preference without my knowledge. Daniel Craig + Russell Crowe+ Mr. Darcy still equal swooney heart palpitations. On the other hand, being single – let’s face it - I probably am suppressing something.

I must say all this confliction has been very vexing and hard to navigate. So maybe I should try a weekend of Bridget Jones’ Diary and Gilmore Girls and see how my back feels then. Or maybe I’ll just go shoe shopping - that's a pretty girly - feminine thing to do. And if I don't actually carry my 900lb purse that generally hangs across my left shoulder, perhaps then I'll start to feel more feminine.

The Mancub - Appropriate Decisions

2011-06-21T10:02:00.000-06:00

The other evening I ventured into the living room with my laptop from the home of my friends down here in Hurricane, Utah. On the flatscreen was a movie I’d never seen before playing vaguely from somewhere in the background as I rhythmically typed away at the keys of my blogpost for today. Everyone else had left the room with the exception of Michelle’s youngest mancub. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the movie, but working on my post when one of the characters said something.

It was the one particular word that caught my attention.

This isn’t a word one uses in civilized conversation. In fact, this isn’t a word one uses in any type of normal conversation.

The mancub looked at me.

He asked me what that word meant.

A blankness flashed across my mind.

This was not a topic to be broached by someone to their friend’s kid because the subject matter. Heck, this wasn't even covered in the 5th or 6th grade maturation sessions at my elementary school.

I made ready to deflect the boy, letting him know that he should ask his dad at a later time what this particular thing was, but the mancub seemed to catch the gist and said, “Oh, I get it…this is something inappropriate, isn’t it?”

I concurred with the statement and felt a rush of pride in this boy as he went on to say, “Then I don’t think this is a movie we should be watching,” right before I was about to suggest changing to something else.

We watched The Incredibles instead.

I’m still proud of him for making that decision - and for parents who teach their children about making appropriate decisions...even when they aren't always there to help them do it.

Four Overly P.C. Parents of First Graders

2011-06-17T08:00:00.001-06:00

GUEST BLOGGER: CHEESEBOY

Hello, my name is Cheeseboy, but it could be 'Teachinfirst', as I teach first rather than fourth grade. But I'll tell you what, you can call me Abe. I like to blog. I blogged on my very first try, too. You could read more of what I've written over at The Blog O' Cheese, but only if you're awesome like that...

Dear Principal,

It has come to my attention that a first grade teacher at your school is having the students sit on the floor "Indian style". I'll have you know that my child is 1/16 Cherokee Indian and I find this deeply offensive.

Further, I'd like to point out that it is a complete misnomer that American Indians sit with their legs crossed all the time. Look, they have chairs just like everyone else. (Yes, occasionally they do sit with their legs crossed on the chair, but that is generally the exception, not the rule.)

I implore you to require this teacher to stop using this horrifically offensive phrase. I'd never ask children to sit "White Man Style"! (Sitting like you are watching a NASCAR race while eating mayonnaise with a Hooters waitress in your lap.)

Thank you for your time,

Beatrice Footinmouth
1/8 Cherokee Indian
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Dear Principal,

It has come to my attention that a teacher at your school has recently replaced the phrase "Indian style" with "Crisscross Applesauce". I would like to voice my concern regarding this issue.

My name is Chris Kelley and I was one half of the 90's rap duo "Kriss Kross". My daughter is now in the class that this phrase is being used. I have to say that I am deeply hurt and offended by this. During our band's heyday, we never once sat on stage with our legs folded. That would have made for a very awkward moment.

I would appreciate it if you spoke with this teacher and told her to stop using this offensive language.

Thanks,

Chris Kelley
Jumper

PS: I would also like to express my dissatisfaction with the removal of "backwards clothes day" from the school calendar.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Principal,

My son recently came home from school and told me that his teacher asked him to sit "Crisscross Applesauce" on the floor.

My name is Dale Mott, owner of Mott's Applesauce and I can assure you that we did NOT intend our applesauce to be spread on the floor and sat in by a bunch of children. I presume that you will remedy this situation.

As a thank you, I have included a free sample of our sauce.

Thank you,

Dale Mott
Owner, Mott's Applesauce
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Principal,

My name is Gerald Smartington, CEO of "Frankleton's Pocketless Pants".

In the last couple weeks, my daughter has come home from school complaining of her teacher asking her to "sit on your pockets". I'll have you know that my daughter does not own a single pair of pants with pockets on them.

I am deeply offended by the use of this phrase. What ever happened to sitting "Indian Style" or "Crisscross Applesauce"?! I think you will find that as our business booms more and more of your students will not have pockets on their jeans.

Unless you remedy this problem, I will have my lawyers look into what can be done.

Thank you for your time.

Gerald Smartington
CEO, Frankleton's Pocketless Pants

Eating Our Words

2011-06-14T08:00:00.000-06:00

Have you ever said something before and then immediately regretted it?

I know that I have.

I think there have been times in each and every one of our lives that we’ve said something that we wish we could take back; however, once we’ve said those particular words, it has already become too late…they suddenly become history. The terrible thing about words is that they also seem have a way of coming back to haunt us…

You see we live in a world where much of the communication we have is shared verbally, as well as with the written word. Obviously you must be a person who shares things with written words because you’re reading this blog post. But how often have you been reading something and then had to reread, positive that you must have read it wrong? After all, there’s no way that somebody would have written that and put it out there for the entire world to see.

Yeah, you know the kinds of things I’m talking about.

Sometimes these choice little tidbits have been put on peoples’ blogs, or on their Facebook statuses, and these individuals were seemingly confident that the person they were writing about would never see them.

But like I said before, words have a way of coming back to haunt us.

My good friend, Karen, from A Peek into Karen’s World once said, “We've gotten so used to our LOLs and JKs, and hiding behind a computer screen that we often forget [that these] there are real people on the other side with real feelings.‬”

Now, I’m not saying that we should sugar coat everything we write, but we really should be more careful that the things we put online aren't things we wouldn't be willing to say to someone else face to face. Chances are, our words will come to find them somehow, and then have a way of coming back to us as well.

I think of Madonna, a woman known for her singing for the past few decades – but slightly less well known for the books she’s written for children. One book Madonna wrote a few years ago is set in 1949 and is titled, Mr. Peabody’s Apples.

Mr. Peabody is a baseball coach and teacher in Happyville, USA. One day, he finds himself coming to an empty baseball field and wondering why. One boy, Billy, the batboy, approaches him with a desolate look letting him know that another student spread a rumor that Mr. Peabody was a thief after he’d seen him taking apples from a local market.

Mr. Peabody was instantly judged by the people of the town—and most of them started to avoid him after that. Mr. Peabody decides that he needs to show this rumor-spreading student, Tommy, that what matters is the truth – not how things might simply appear. He teaches Tommy a lesson about how important it is to carefully choose our words and to not cause harm to other people around us.

The lesson is simple, and yet powerful…like feathers in the wind.

We use words to communicate each and every day. I know that I do. I try to make it so that I choose my words carefully.

Do I always? Unfortunately not.

Am I trying to do better? Absolutely.

In the words of Thumper’s mother from the movie, Bambi, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

What wise words indeed.

Merely Surviving

2011-06-12T17:49:00.003-06:00

I watched the film version of Cormac McCarthy's The Road last night, Truitt snoozing docilely in my lap and the kids playing Battleship in the other room. I'd read the book several years ago, working my way through it fits and starts, unsettled by the sadness of its story and message. It's one of those works, though, that deserves a second, closer look. There is so much there in way of character and symbol, image and theme.

The film version was no less beautifully "written" than the text, the actors and cinematography all poignant words on the screen. There was this one scene that tugged at me, a flashback where the protagonist recalls a pivotal conversation with his wife. In it, she raises the question of survival in their post-apocalyptical world. They live in a world where humanity is all but non-existent, and existence itself is marked by constant struggle for food, shelter, and protection from bands of cannibals. As a mother, she comments that the day their son was born was both the best and worst day of her life. She means to end her life as soon as she has the opportunity.

"It is not enough," she tells her husband, "to just survive." Unspoken is her desire to live fully, and see her son live as well.

Later, as they make their way through a barely recognizable ash-strewn world toward more southerly climes, the father pauses for a brief stroll through memory lane in his old childhood home. While his son looks on in confusion, he touches a doorframe that bears the faint measurements of a growing boy. He reveals the holes in the mantle where stockings once hung. He traces the pattern of a sofa cushion lovingly. His son,though, does not and cannot understand his attachment to these things. He has never known this childhood. His own has been filled with tramping through a barren world, scavenging for meals, flinching from human contact. He does not know what it means to have holidays, and relationships, and comforts.

He knows how to survive. But is he truly living?

It's hard to envision a world such as this. As a mother, I hate to think of a time when my children would need to be consumed with survival over living. There's a Suzy Sunshine part of me that holds on to a faith in the greater good of the human race...I have to believe that we wouldn't simply give way to that tiny terrible ego that's in us all, but would instead take whatever circumstances we were dealt and turn survival into living.

Whoa...unto the Hypocrite

2011-06-12T00:19:00.004-06:00

Your religion is what you do when the sermon is over. ~Quoted in P.S. I Love You, compiled by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

It’s ironic that we have a kind of heavenly theme going on here at Four Perspectives this week. Ironic because I’ve been thinking a lot about something that we talked about in my Sunday School a few weeks ago. I say my Sunday School class because I actually teach the class which is, again, ironic since I’m not really convinced I understand the gospel well enough to teach it to anyone else. But it’s the 14 to 18 year-olds so we can kind of…learn together.

Anyway, we’re studying the New Testament this year, which I have found to be a little tricky sometimes to translate into teen-speak. First of all the speech patterns in the New Testament are just hard. I don’t know if it’s the translation from Latin or Greek or whatever language it was originally written in to English, but it can be very stilted sometimes and awkward to read. I’ve always kind of thought of it as the scriptural equivalent of reading Shakespeare. Plus it’s hard sometimes to get the kids to engage in what is essentially a history lesson about the life and ministry of Christ. There’s not always a general theme of the day, sometimes it’s just a story about what happened and what he did. But on the other hand it’s the first time I’ve had to teach the New Testament, chronologically that is, and studying it has given me a lot to think about. Some of these thoughts coincide nicely with acceptable doctrine and some others probably veer off a little into blasphemy. Ok, maybe not blasphemy, but certainly occasional irreverence.

For example, I’ve mentioned before that I’m still not sure I agree with the Lord’s chastisement of Martha when all she wanted was for Mary to help her out a little bit. But through more reading I've realized that maybe the problem wasn’t so much that Martha wanted Mary’s help, it was that she was judging Mary for not helping – which I have to admit sounds familiar. I find myself wondering too with all of the blind people that Jesus heals, did they ever have a hard time adjusting from being blind to suddenly having their sight? They don’t really mention that anyone freaked out. And not that they wouldn’t have been grateful, I’m just saying it must have been tremendously disorienting.

But none of that is actually the thing I’ve been thinking about. A few weeks ago the lesson was from Matthew 23. In this chapter, Jesus is dressing down the Pharisees for being hypocrites. The Pharisees were the chief priests and elders of the Jewish people. They were pretty critical of Jesus because he was very unorthodox; healing people on the Sabbath, not stoning the woman taken in adultery and generally just for claiming to be the Son of God. But rather than worry about what the Pharisees thought of him, Jesus pretty much spent the whole of Matthew 23 telling them that everything that they are doing in their lives to show how righteous they were to the world was complete crap. It was crap because their intention with all of their tithes and offerings sermons and prayers wasn’t to prove their devotion to God, but for all of their works to be seen of men.

The dictionary says hypocrisy is pretending to be what one is not or pretending to believe what one does not. I think that anyone who has ever been involved with any organized religion can sometimes pretend to believe something that you may not have a sure knowledge of. Sometimes we go along with tradition or convention because it is simply the easiest thing to do. And I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing to do – it’s just difficult to sustain. Eventually performance needs to converge with belief otherwise the devotions and offerings become hollow and can turn into something we do just for the admiration of other people.

But with all due respect to Jesus, I also think that sometimes it can be the other way around.

In my readings about hypocrisy for this lesson, I came across an idea: hypocrisy is the opposite of integrity, which is not just honesty but unity of personality. I found myself wondering, do I have unity of personality? Do I behave one way with some people and another way with others? I have to say….I think I do.

I have a friend that is going to come and teach at the detention center school for a few weeks this summer. He’s a little apprehensive about this because it’s a completely different venue than he’s used to plus it’s, you know, it's a detention center. So I asked him to come by so I could show him around a little bit, he could meet some of the guys and just acclimate a little bit. This friend has known me for a long time and knows that I am not what you would call a jolly soul. I am not Miss Merry Sunshine. It takes a concentrated effort for me to shake off the little black rain cloud, put on a happy face and not just find a shadowy corner from which to observe and make sarcastic (and sometimes snarky) comments. I mention this because as I was introducing him to the guys he saw me being, well, other than I usually am. I was happy, I was smiling, I was, dare I say, friendly. He mentioned this as we were walking back to my office – as in “who the heck are you and what have you done with Mel? I have to admit that he was right. I decided a while ago that the guys have plenty of other people in that environment to tell them what is wrong with them and that it just wasn’t my role add to that. So, I do make a concentrated effort at work ( with the students anyway) to be cheerful, engaging, encouraging, happy and generally happy to see them.

But does this make me a hypocrite?

Technically I suppose it does. It’s definitely schizophrenic Mel syndrome and not unity of personality. But I like to think it helps the guys…and I think it helps me too. I have a quote hanging up in my office that says; Misery is easy. It’s happiness that takes work” and I do have to work at being happy. But with this job I have incentive to make that effort at least a little bit every day and I find that it has been good practice.

Jesus said to the Pharisees in Matthew 12:25 that Every city or house divided against itself shall not stand. I believe that – I really do. Actions should converge with beliefs just as faith without works is dead. But just maybe, even though I'm faking it a lot of the time, if I keep working at it, the happier house will be the one that becomes stronger and that will be the one that will stand. Even Jesus might approve of that kind of hypocrisy.

Garage Sales or Garage Swaps?

2011-06-10T08:00:00.022-06:00

GUEST BLOGGER: Nancy

I blog about the blessings and absurdities of everyday life. I am a writer, a reader, a bike wife, a mom, and a music fan. They don't call me Aunt Blabby for nothing...

Looks like spring has finally come to stay. The robins are chirping, the allergy-prone are sneezing, and every weekend the street corners in my neighborhood are blooming with garage sale signs, as households attempt to part with the detritus of another year of American accumulation.

I understand the concept of a good, sinus clearing garage sale, one that leaves the seller (slightly) enriched and clutter-free. It's just never been the outcome of any garage sale in which I've participated.

When I was growing up in suburban upstate New York, the Neighborhood Garage Sale was one of the social events of the year, a day where everyone sat out in their driveways in folding chairs and making change from a shoebox full of cash, all the while yelling affectionate insults at their neighbors about the quality of their items for sale.

On the appointed Saturday morning in June, nearly every driveway in the Virginia Colony subdivision was filled: racks of outgrown clothing, bikes with bent frames, boxes of books and record albums. Like lions stalking a slow-moving antelope, cars that we didn't recognize would cruise slowly up and down the streets before we'd even opened for business at 7:30 am, stopping with the wheels on someone's lawn to issue forth a passenger who would examine a floor lamp or treadmill before hopping back in to move on down the line.

My mother had a pricing system honed through years of practice. Each item had a little white rectangular tag marked with the initials of the family member who'd put it up for sale, and the price. The cashier on duty (also my mother) would take the buyer's money, peel off the label and stick it on the appropriate page in a wirebound notebook, one for her, one for my dad, and one for each of the three kids. Over the course of the day, as the hagglers descended and tried to talk us down on price for wilted stuffed animals and rickety chairs, I'd sneak a quick glance to see how much I'd earned.

That number in mind, I'd hop on my banana seat bike and cruise up and down our street trying to figure how I could blow my newfound fortune on something else. Maybe Carol Flannigan is selling her 10-speed, or Lizzy Cooper is finally parting with her Madame Alexander dolls! If there are parents and educators out there worried about the deterioration of a child's math skills over summer vacation, I heartily recommend setting the child loose on a garage sale with a budget of $7.89. They'll be doing long division and multiplication like MIT students in no time, figuring out how to get spend every penny of it (but not a cent more.)

The trouble is that as the day wound down, the parents began doing the same thing. Mom would stroll off down the street to see what was happening at the Melich's house, and when she got back she'd tell Dad to go take a look at the table that was still sitting in the driveway over at the Crane's, wouldn't that work better in the upstairs hallway than the one they already had? In the meantime Mr. Meyer would stop over and take a couple of swings with the aluminum tennis racket Dad was selling, mentioning how his old racket got broken when his son used it as a golf club. "Got change for a $5, Nance?" he'd ask, reaching into a worn out leather wallet.

By the time the sun set on our community garage sale, our neighborhood would have completed a massive transfer of goods, with a net change in wealth of exactly zero. It was Potlatch, Rochester -style.

Which is why I don't do garage sales. I can't afford that kind of de-cluttering.

Are You there, God? It’s Me, Teachinfourth

2011-06-07T08:52:00.001-06:00

I’d always been taught that there was a God.

I’d been told that he was our Father. I’d been taught that he lived in heaven and was always looking down on us, giving us help and guidance along the journey we take along this road known as life.

Without question throughout my adolescence I believed this. I never doubted that God was there; I never mistrusted that He wasn’t. I knew that He was orchestrating the pathways of the stars and planets - The Creator, The Navigator of the universe itself, intertwining our lives together in a masterpiece we would someday look upon and understand the true beauty of...

That is, until recently.

Now, it wasn’t as if I woke up one day and simply decided that God did not exist; it wasn’t anything like that…it was that I just started to wonder when I looked up into that big space above me.

I think it may have started with the death of Arlene.

I remember it like yesterday, sitting alone with her in the silence as the minutes passed on. In one of her more lucid moments she looked over at me and began to cry. “I don’t want to die.” She whispered, the tears flowing down her cheeks.

I cried, too. Knowing that there was nothing I could do as the cancer slowly ate away at her body from the inside out.

I was powerless.

She was scared.

And so was I.

After an excruciating few weeks she was finally whisked away from this mortal frame, and I was left behind.

I think that it is in moments such as these that people seem to find themselves dithering one way or the other. They either seem to find solace in the belief in the afterlife, or they carry a bitterment and anger directed toward the heavens – possibly even to question the very existence of a higher being. Perhaps the need for a God.

I recall a scene from the movie Signs when Mel Gibson’s character, Graham, is consoling his brother, Merrill, when he is in a moment of distress. In his character’s words:

People break down into two groups. When they experience something lucky, group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them. Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance...what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?

As the years compress themselves together like the body of an accordion, I find myself slipping from one group to another. I discover that in my life, though having traveled a myriad of pathways and scores of years, I find myself wanting more, wanting the knowledge it to be deeper than it was.

I look at the heavens; I think of a world where there is no God.

It is a terrifying thought.

I have no voices that speak to me. I have no angels that descend from the heavens bearing tidings. I see neither grand miracles nor seas being parted—making way for me to pass through as the armies mount behind me.

Yet, I look upon the world around me, I see the looming splendor of the majestic mountains. I breathe in the heavy scent of lilacs and stand beneath the towering Redwoods. I feel the warmth of the setting sun on my face as it turns to gold and melts into a skyline of liquid indigo and buttery maroon. I stand at the edge of the ocean and feel the salty air as it coats my nostrils and the waves pound upon the shoreline and reverberate in my chest. I gaze at the billions of stars as they burst forth from the shadowy skies like handfuls of glitter blown about by the winds of spring. I stand in the midst of a thunderstorm as the rain drenches my skin, feeling the torrential downpour saturate me as the ominous clouds twist and moil overhead and jagged streaks of lightning shatter the skies.

I’ve been taught that God is our Father. I’ve been taught that he lives in heaven and is always looking down on us, giving us help and guidance along the journey we take along the road known as life.

Without question throughout my adolescence I believed this; I never doubted that God was there. I never mistrusted that He wasn’t; I knew that He was orchestrating the pathways of the stars and planets - The Creator, The Navigator of the universe itself, intertwining our lives together in a masterpiece we would someday look upon and understand the true beauty of…

I Love You. Please Go To Sleep.

2011-06-03T07:45:00.004-06:00

Dear. God.

And I don't mean that in the irreverent "OMG!" sort of way, but rather a prayerful, on-my-knees sort of way.

It's been nearly three weeks since Truitt was born. I haven't had a nap since the Tuesday after I came home, which would be...let's see...precisely ten days ago. Do you realize what ten days with no nap feels like when your child does not sleep at night? He alternately smiles (and I am thoroughly convinced it is not gas, but a precocious sense of the absurd), coos, fusses, screams, guzzles milk, poops, pees, blinks, watches CMT, sticks his hand down my shirt to grope me, and pees or poops some more, necessitating another diaper change. This is usually around the time he falls asleep, naturally. All of this generally occurs over the course of a two hour span of time, two to three times per night.

I can't nap during the day because there's just too much to do--laundry, making bottles, picking up yesterday's mess, making supper--all of this to take care of the other members of our family and just to keep myself sane with some semblance of order, honestly. And to keep it real, Truitt really doesn't sleep all that much during the day, either.

I am coming to the realization that I was pretty spoiled with Autumn and Lawson as infants. They were what I'd term "low-maintenance." They'd be finished with a bottle within ten or fifteen minutes and you could lay them down in the crib, where they'd drift sweetly off to sleep for another five or six blissful hours. Not so with Truitt, this child of my heart. He clings to contact, falling asleep in my arms and jerking to instant alert upon being laid in the crib, demanding that I spend just a little more time holding him, even as my back aches, and my arms feel like spaghetti, and my eyes are heavy with three a.m. grit. I almost wonder if the urgency of his need isn't linked somehow to the power of my own longing for him all those months ago.

I know God is smiling at me, full of gentle good-humor when I feel like screaming in the middle of the night, "Was it really necessary for you to fill your britches right then? Couldn't you save it for, say, the five a.m feeding?" He's smiling, and in the face and form of that wriggling baby is the knowledge sent: this too shall pass. So enjoy it.

There's Something About Lilacs

2011-05-31T08:24:00.004-06:00

I was driving home from work a week or three ago.

Not a big surprise when you think back on my biking episode—which is the reason why I’ll probably stick to driving to school for the rest of my life. On the particular route I choose to take each day, I pass numerous yards with large green bushes decorated with enchanting purple blossoms around this time of year.

I just love these purple blooms with the aromatic scent that seems to saturate the cotton-fluff air, and is one of the most telltale signs of the shifting of spring to summer.

Now, I’m not a big flowery kind of person; I mean sure, flowers are nice, I enjoy seeing from time to time, but that’s about it. Yet, with these tiny, lavender blooms there is something more. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the elementary school I attended when growing up had several large lilac bushes lining the front of the building. Maybe it’s because they’re the same color as the huckleberries we went out to pick high up in the summited mountains, or even quite possibly it’s because they remind me so much of Shasta grape soda, and the ‘Purple Cows’ my family used to make on occasion instead of root beer floats.

Nonetheless, I’ve always enjoyed the scent of these violetish flowers that usually seem find themselves spent by the end of May.

There’s just something about that fragrance…

Not long ago I was driving home late from work and found myself passing by numerous bushes of varying shades and hue. Realizing that I simply couldn’t stop in someone’s yard and pick these, I enjoyed them from a distance—and yet I longed for that lilac-y smell. That’s about the time I noticed a few wild bushes growing next to the freeway—two or three of differing types. I pulled my car off to the side of the road and picked a couple of the clumps.

They smelled like childhood.

I took them home and put them in water but was discouraged to discover that they only lasted two days before they wilted and were lifelessly gone.

Such is the fate of all wonderful things.

So now I think that maybe it's time to invest in a real-life lilac bush…or perhaps a good air freshener, after all, it will probably last longer.

Oh, and just in case you were interested...I’m posting over at my own blog today, too.

The first photo is courtesy of yours truly while the second was pilfered shamelessly from http://www.myrecipes.com

Complimentary Complaints

2011-05-28T23:28:00.002-06:00

What flatterers say, try to make true. ~German Proverb

I find that I don’t know how to take a compliment. I was complimented some yesterday so this has been on my mind today.

Working where I do, at a detention center school, it’s important that the students have a lot of positive reinforcement when it is deserved and it is equally important, helpful and generally just an all around good idea for the students to be able to show their appreciation for those around them as well.

Towards this end, at the close of every term we have a little ceremony. The teachers give awards to the students for various achievements and then we bring some kind of food for the guys. Since they basically eat “school food” for 3 meals a day and are teenage boys, any kind of alternative to the regularly scheduled menu is always welcome. Since I like food, I have a lot of experience in preparing food and I have been a mother to teenage boys, I generally take on the task of bringing in the fun food.

This makes me very popular with the teenage boys….at least once every term anyway.

On the side of earning the compliment, I do try to make a good effort with the end of term food. We had the latest party yesterday morning so I (with Ebay’s help) spent several hours the night before making giant breakfast burritos. Last term we had a nacho bar, and the term before that I brought in J-Dawgs (which are some of the greatest hot dogs ever created). In short, I like to make these parties something the guys can look forward to - a break in the regimented detention center routine.

I believe that effort is important.

I’ve come to believe over the years that it is important to put as much effort as possible into programs for young people and for the young people to see the effort and hopefully realize and believe that they are worth it. And also hopefully remember to pass it on - you know, pay it forward someday.

So the guys are always enthusiastic and complimentary about the parties – which is just as it should be and I appreciate it, I really do. But strangely it also makes me uncomfortable. Even though I recently read some advice about how to graciously accept compliments (ironically on a website about social anxiety disorder) as weird as it sounds, I’d really almost rather just drop everything off and not come back till the next day. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I’m uncomfortable because secretly I know I’m really doing it all for me. Doing nice things for these guys, especially for these guys, makes me feel happy. It makes up for all the parts of my job that I don’t really like all that much. So yes, I spent hours cooking 5lbs of hashbrowns, 5 dozen eggs and 10lbs of sausage. But it also gave me an excuse to get away from thinking about the data entry and the spread sheets for a few hours. So guys, if you liked the burritos - I’m glad and the effort was worth it for me…and so are you.

I Don't Have it in Me

2011-05-17T06:00:00.014-06:00

Usually I go the other direction and link from my other blog to my post here at 4p; however, with the composing of the post last night, I realized that I simply don't have enough in me to write anything else this morning.

Really.

However, I'd like to cordially invite you to join me over at Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living today.

I think you'll be glad you did.

Just know though that I'm totally biased...

D-Day

2011-05-16T06:24:00.004-06:00

It's D-Day. (That's "delivery day," for those unfamiliar with my shorthand.)

Finally. This has seemed the neverending pregnancy, welcome and longed for but exhausting all the same. (I now know why women are more fertile in their twenties.) To make matters even more interesting, we learned that Truitt was breech around six weeks or so ago, and while we've tried just about every method out there, it seems, to get this little stinker to turn, he seems to be pretty happy just where he is. So today Dr. P will at long last remove him from his happy place and make his mommy very thankful indeed.

As much as I am anticipating not being pregnant anymore, a caesarean is an interesting, and not-exactly-fun thing to look forward to. Both Autumn and Lawson were accommodatingly head-down, and thus their births were simple and "natural" by comparison, if you discount the epidurals. I was standing in the kitchen last night at quarter to twelve, chowing down a bagel with cream cheese and around a gallon of grape juice, because I'm not scheduled for surgery until mid-afternoon and I can't have anything to eat or drink after midnight. (As if that bagel will really last until lunch time...) It's traumatic, people. Denying a pregnant lady food? Barbaric! If I hurl on you by accident, I'm apologize profusely in advance.

I'm also being deprived of my usual morning shower....blech. It wouldn't bother me so much, except there are no lotions or deodorants allowed after a shower the night before. Instead, you have to use these really nifty wet wipes laden with some sort of cold, sticky anti-bacterial mess that will hopefully protect me from staph. That's the theory, anyway.

While I must also avoid any attempts at making myself more lovely with the aid of cosmetics, I am permitted to brush my teeth--provided I don't accidentally on purpose swallow any of the toothpaste in an effort to quiet my growling tummy. Clean teeth: that's a good thing. You can handle anything life throws at you provided your teeth are clean, right?

Into the midst of all of these terribly inconvenient deprivations, though, will rise a thin, welcome cry. Into the painfully bright lights of the operating room will emerge a baby, blinking angrily at being pulled so summarily from a warm, dark womb into such a cold new world. It's okay, though. Although I won't be able to hold him for a few hours, his daddy will be there to soothe those wounded feelings.

All in all, pretty worth the loss of a couple of meals and a single hot shower.

Spring Fever

2011-05-13T11:32:00.001-06:00

Swallow your pride occasionally, it's non-fattening! ~Author Unknown

So I don’t know what it is about me and exercise and me and nature. I just don’t have the best luck with either really. With exercise I am a clutz, I am a spaz, I tend to hit myself in the head with the 10lb weights while doing reps. I tend to run into the edge of the pool while doing the backstroke. I tend to fall off perfectly amiable treadmills (although it was already running and it was DARK.) And with nature, it tends to lure me in with its seductive sensory pleasures and then poke me in the eye with a sharp stick.

I had a run in with both of my arch nemesis (or is that nemesi?) the other day when I decided to go for a hike in the foothills above my neighborhood. We’ve had such a long cold spring around here -I was still scraping snow off of my car not more than 10 days ago. But a couple of weeks ago we finally hit a few days of sunshine. It wasn’t really warm, but at least there was a few hours of direct sunlight here and there between the storms and I just really wanted to be outside. So because of my spring fever delusion, I hit the Bonneville shoreline trail. This is a trail that extends horizontally about 100 miles along the mountain bench formed by ancient Lake Bonneville. It’s a pretty wide and well-used trail and when you’re up on it you can see the whole valley laid out before you. If you’re lucky you can see the clouds and rain rolling in over Spanish Fork while the sun is still shining off the lake near Saratoga Springs.

Now the trail does extend horizontally along the bench, but it still goes up and down - kind of like a like a ribbon in the wind - so there is some good up-hill cardio-vascular opportunities followed by some welcome down “recovery” hills (as I like to call them). Once in awhile you’ll come across a little side trail that extends above the regular trail and kind of goes around the cardiovascular uphill challenging part. Other lazy hikers, like myself, have obviously decided over the years that they just can’t face another up and downhill challenge and have elected to find a pathway that goes around it. The main path is plenty wide enough for a couple of hikers to pass each other comfortably. But the go-around-lazy-trails are only one-person-wide and, since you’re basically walking sideways on a mountain, they’re also a little bit tilted.

So again, there I am hiking along and since the weather is so unsettled, I pretty much have the mountain to myself – not a lot of other hikers. Since I am there to exercise, on the way out I stayed on the main trail and just powered through all of the cardiovascularly challenging up and down hills. But on my way back I got a little lazy. I’d already been up the hills and down the valleys all the way from Slate Canyon to the Y and when I came to this one particular hill/valley combo…I just didn’t wanna (insert whiney voice here). I saw the easier go around path and I took it -ok? But I wasn’t the only one who took the easy path. Ironically, after being alone on the mountain for the past hour or so, I met another hiker coming my way. A young man walking the opposite direction came to the easy-trail split on his side about the same time that I did on my side and he obviously had the same lazy impulse that I did. The lazy path wasn’t wide enough for both of us to pass so as we met in the middle, one of us was going to have to jump off the path to let the other pass. Because he was apparently a nice young man (and probably remembering something about age before beauty) he stepped off the path (on the up hill side) and let me walk past. Unfortunately as he did that, he knocked some rocks onto the narrow path – a path that was only about a foot wide. Well, we can’t be having rocks on the one-foot slightly tilted path – that’s just not safe. So as I got to the knocked-down rocks, I tried to sweep them off the trail with the side of my foot...and I really should have known better. I really should know that I need both feet to walk, especially on a narrow tilted trail and any side-ways motion with my foot was going to upset the balance…well, my balance anyway. As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, my effort at trail restoration set off a chain of events that sent me falling hiking boots over hoodie about 10 feet down the slope. The wide trail below stopped me from rolling all the way back down into town and I landed with a thud right on my fanny pack. Once I caught my breath I looked around for witnesses - specifically the young man who’d passed me (and let’s be honest, the one who was really at fault here). I saw him in the distance still hiking along the trail. Luckily he apparently hadn’t seen me tumble down. Or, had seen me and, perhaps worrying about having to administer some sort of emergency cpr/mouth-to-mouth action, decided to just keep on trucking. Either way once again I was embarrassed. Once again I was bleeding. Once again I’d ruined a perfectly good pair of pants (with holes in the knees not the other…well anyway), and to top it off my brand new fancy insulated non-recyclable water-bottle went rolling off down the hill and landed who knows where.

I limped my way back to the car not seriously injured, but seriously re-thinking my commitment to nature and to exercise and faced with the acute knowledge that I seriously should have known better.

Then I took myself out for ice cream.

What's Up

2011-05-12T07:56:00.001-06:00

*By the way, if anyone left a comment on this post previously, it was deleted in the big Blogger fiasco on Wednesday/Thursday. I would never delete your comments! They are what make my posts even more awesome.

If you don't hear much from me over the next little while, I apologize.

You see, May is totally kicking my rear and June decided to get in on the party.

I get to attend a seminary graduation, a kindergarten graduation, a 6th grade graduation and a high school graduation all within 2 weeks time. (Any other graduations someone forgot to tell me about?)

There are 5 performances on schedule, at least 3 class parties, two banquets and a plethora of end-of-the-school-year activities.

We are going to have out-of-town visitors twice. We get to pack and get ready for a family road trip and then a family reunion.

I get to attend a 3-day interpreter conference (not gonna lie - I am SO excited for this one!).

Four of my family are running in the local 188-mile Ragnar Relay. There will be cross-country practice every morning and basketball camp for a month.

My oldest starts college AND turns 18 (in that order).

Then, of course, we get to live our everyday lives amidst all of this glorious chaos - piano lessons, grocery shopping, chores, breakfast, lunch and dinner... you get the idea.

Don't get me wrong - I totally asked for this life and I thrive on it. (Kind of. Sometimes.)

But life's getting crazy over the next little while and I just wanted to say that even if I'm not posting all the time, I still love you. (Or I at least kind of like you.)

HAGS,
Gerb

(p.s. HAGS is the new LYLAS or KIT of yearbook signing. In case you were wondering.)

Broccoli for Breakfast

2011-05-10T12:00:00.000-06:00

There’s something about my life; in fact, it’s something that I should probably blame on my mom. Funny I should do this two days after the holiday on which we celebrate motherhood in the United States…

You see, when I was growing up my mom never seemed to make anything delicious for us to eat. Oh, I’m sure she did – and probably often – however, it always seemed that mealtimes were inundated with things such as lentils, split pea soup, corn beef and cabbage, and other various foodstuffs that were sure to make one cringe at the word ‘dinnertime.’ Lunches had my lunchbox at school frocked with rice cakes slathered with Adam’s no-stir peanut butter and sugarless jam or honey, ‘healthy’ crackers, a piece of fruit of some type, and a bottle of all-natural juice.

As a consequential result of this, I would often be found trading my apple at lunchtime with JK Walters for her Hostess Fruit Pie. A definite Covey Win-Win (though more a win in my general direction in my eyes).

When I grew up and moved out on my own, I found myself seeking out the things that were always more or less forbidden to me: candy bars, ice cream, white bread, and all of those other wondrous things that make your taste buds go ‘ahhhh.’

Unfortunately, I found that I stopped eating vegetables as often as I should as well.

Oh sure, I ate the obligatory amount of salad or other greens at buffets or at dinner parties, but when it came to eating on my own, places like Taco Bell and foods such as Cinnamon Toast Crunch don’t offer much in the scope of vegetable smorgasbords.

Well, I knew that something had to be done; after all, I knew that I hadn’t been eating as healthily as I should have been for quite a few years; so I decided to start eating broccoli…

for breakfast.

You heard me correctly; I have been having broccoli and cauliflower for breakfast.

Yeah, sounds pretty gross, doesn’t it? While it’s not your usual breakfast fare, to someone who’s not keen on vegetables, it’s become a good way in which to get those vegetables ‘out of the way’ first thing in the morning and then not worry about them the rest of the day.

But wait, teachinfourth…you just eat broccoli and cauliflour? Nope. I also drink a couple of different juice concoctions followed by a can of V8 vegetable juice.

Is it a delicious breakfast?

I’ll be honest: No. However, the bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch afterward tastes like manna from heaven in comparison.

So, in the grand scheme of things I find myself getting my five a day…just all at once.

Image garnered from reason.com

Karen Carpenter

2011-05-03T06:30:00.002-06:00

I’ve been thinking about Karen Carpenter lately.

Strange that she’d be on my mind. I never knew her. Our paths never crossed in life; well, other than a few songs on the radio – or during the a cappella sessions during the long bus rides in elementary school, all of the kids belting out the lyrics to “On Top of the World” to the extent that our lungs would allow, as the bus wound its way through the towering pines and rolling hills of Summit Valley, Washington. The very air around us seemed to breathe in the exhilaration of life itself.

It was such a long time ago, really. So it seems odd that Karen Carpenter would be flitting about in my head this morning.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that this particular song was used in the latest Shrek movie…quite fitting, really, considering the mood they were trying to engender with the music and Shrek’s feeling of pure, unadulterated delight at being a feared ogre once again.

Brilliant says I.

As I think about this song, another Carpenter’s hit that comes to mind as well which captivates another feeling altogether…a feeling of gloom of sullenness as the first strains of the music begins (I tried to embed the video clip, but it has been disabled by request, you’ll need to click here to access it; the clip is from one of my favorite movies of all time).

“Rainy Days and Mondays” – “On Top of the World.”

Here they are, two songs in such in stark contrast to each other which seem to paint alternating pictures between two diametrically different feelings...almost like the proverbial Ying to Yang.

It’s a little bit funny, too, a friend and I were chatting about this yesterday evening…about those particular days we all seem to have when “sometimes [you] want to quit, [and] nothing ever seems to fit…” and those other days when “there’s wonder in most everything [you] see.”

It’s so strange that we feel both of these things; sometimes within’ moments of the other. One moment the world is our oyster, and the next it is the bane of our existence. Just why is this?

Attitude?

Altitude?

Focus?

A current choice that we make?

All good ideas I suppose.

I hope that each of us - myself included - can remember that tomorrow is another day, that we all have amazing things about us, too. Yet, even with all of this amazingness inside, we will all still have mountains to climb and valleys to traverse. One day we'll find ourselves standing on a Monday in the rain without an umbrella, and on another we'll be looking down from the highest peaks to the world below us.

After all…

We. Are. All. Awesome.

And while I might not have a letter in the postbox waiting for you to help brighten your day, I do have a little sompth-sompthin for you. It’s been around for a while, I’ve seen it numerous times – and you probably have, too; however, it’s most certainly worth seeing yet again.

Happy Tuesday, to you.

Image source

Fine And Dandy

2011-04-27T23:55:00.000-06:00

I was wondering recently if there is a place on our planet where people are frustrated by all of the grass that is crowding out their dandelions. Do they apply grass-killer, hoping that the bright yellow flowers will be spared?

I've never really been a fan of dandelions before, but they somehow transformed into a thing of beauty when they were presented to me in small bouquets grasped in the two little fists of my proud 4-year-old girl and her cute little brother.

How could I turn away such a treasure, gathered in love with me in mind?

I think we need to look at things through a child's eyes more often. I think this world has all sorts of beauty that we have learned not to see.

Call me crazy, but I think dandelions get a bad rap. And I've got two little people here at my house who would be happy to back me up on that.

Dirty Cars

2011-04-26T06:00:00.003-06:00

I cleaned my car a week or so ago.

Mostly.

It’s a little bit funny; you know my car never gets all messy at once. It’s something that seems to sneak up on me a little bit at a time, like drifts of snow that, as they gently fall, get deeper and deeper. Before I know it, I have a full-blown blizzard on my hands.

And me without a snowblower…

I’ve discovered that my car is the same way.

It starts off clean. It’s beautiful, really. Then something seems to happen along the way where little bits of this and that seem to creep in, finding their way onto the backseat, the spaces on the floor, and generally cluttering up the entire thing. Pretty soon there is so much nothing all over the place that I really feel overwhelmed at the prospect of cleaning it all out.

So I don’t.

I had a couple of students who approached me the other day. They were pretty excited as they proclaimed, “Mr. Z, we saw your car in the parking lot.”

“Oh, you did?” I responded.

“Yeah, it sure has a lot of stuff in it…it looks kind of like your desk.”

Ugh…the humiliation of the messy car and all the junk I’d let pile up over the months of winter.

So, I cleaned my car. The funny thing is that it didn’t seem to take very long, either. After taking out a few empty boxes, some shirts and various whatnots, the ‘filled-up’ spaces began to empty themselves out quite quickly. Soon I found myself with a ton of room – as well as a backseat for others to sit upon should I so choose to give someone else a ride.

Now, I just need to worry about that desk in my classroom.

Oh well, there’s no sense in praying for miracles that just won't happen…

Image garnered from here.

Mother Bear

2011-04-21T22:41:00.007-06:00

Beauty isn't worth thinking about; what's important is your mind. You don't want a fifty-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head. ~Garrison Keillor

So I went with Ebay to a concert the other day.

We were standing in line to have our tickets scanned and in front of us about two spaces was a group of 4 or 5 teenage girls - my guess is somewhere between 15 and 18 years old. They were kind of standing in a little semi circle as we all stood in line so that a couple of them were facing the people behind them – which included Ebay and me.

After a minute or two in line I notice the girls whispering to each and looking at us – well not at us really as much as they were looking at Ebay.

Checking him out really.

The two girls facing us whispered back and forth a little then kind of leaned over and whispered to the girls who’s backs were to us. Sure enough, one by one they each turned around briefly and surreptitiously scanned my baby boy. Once they all got their initial look they all kind of kept finding reasons to turn around or quickly glance back and then whisper even more to each other – glance/whisper, glance/whisper, glance/whisper.

I was a little taken back I have to admit. Now I’ve always thought that Ebay is a cutie, but I’m his mother – I’m supposed to think he’s cute. I glanced over at him and tried to evaluate him objectively.

Casual but stylish outfit. Artfully tousled hair. Startlingly blue eyes.

Oh Crap…I think he may be crossing over from merely cute to handsome.

It sure looked like those girls thought so anyway.

I was hit with a strange mix of feelings I can only describe as proud-stage-mother combined with protective-mother-bear. On the one hand it was nice that these girl's thought Ebay was cute enough to check-out. But I found myself wanting to prowl back and forth protecting my cute cub. They can admire from afar – but don’t get too close and for Heaven's sake no touching! How does Brad Pitt’s mother deal with this kind of thing? Ok, maybe not Brad Pitt…Zac Efron perhaps (in right light) …with Justin Beiber’s squishy cheeks.

At this point I glance over at Ebay to see if he’s noticed this female phenomenon.

Oh yeah, he noticed.

He noticed but to his credit he was also being totally cool about the ogling and acting like he didn’t notice by casually checking out something on his phone – possibly his own reflection?

Ebay was still standing next to me - and because I didn’t want to totally embarrass him and since he was already looking at his phone, I pulled mine out and sent him a text.

Mom Text: Looks like you have fans?

Ebay Text: Yeah.

Mom Text: Does this happen to you a lot?

Ebay Text: Well, sometimes. A girl sent me her phone number through the drive-thru Tube at work the other day.

Mom Text: Well, that’s.... flattering.

Ebay Text: I thought so.

Mom Text: Did you call her?

Ebay Text: No – I was flattered but kind of freaked out.

Yeah, I can relate.

Making Magic

2011-04-18T22:19:00.004-06:00

I’ve been thinking about magic lately.

No, not the type of magic that Hogwarts seems to evoke, or the type that comes from wands or spells, but the type that is created by the places and people around us.

You know, the magic of believing.

I took a trip to Disneyland this past week. It’s been dubbed The Happiest Place on Earth, and I found myself wondering just why that is. What makes Disneyland this Mecca of wonderment and delight that brings us to a belief that it is a perfect place?

I think it is really all about attitude.

When on this last trip I noticed something about most of the employees who worked at the Magic Kingdom…it didn’t matter if it was the person sweeping up bits of trash on the streets, the woman selling Churros in the broiling sun, or the operator of the ride listening to It’s a Small World playing incessantly for eight hours straight.

They all smiled.

They all had a cheerful attitude.

They all seemed happy.

I wondered about this as I wandered around the park and noticed that there was a type of magic generated—it even seemed to exude from every brick and causeway.

It was from the smiling.

It was from the friendliness.

It was from these—such little things—that make such a big difference.

As I walked by one of the doors labeled, “Cast Members Only” it opened and a man walked out. On the inside of the door was a sign that I only was able to read the bottom part of before it closed which read something along the lines of, Remember to SMILE!

I thought of this as I walked through the park and noticed that, with the exception of only two employees during the entire visit, everyone seemed to be in a great mood, and were bent and determined that all of the guests there would have a wonderful time.

At one point I even approached three of the cast members standing by the Matterhorn and said, “Everyone here at the park is so friendly and helpful…you all seem so cheerful and smile, too. Do they tell you to smile all the time?” The three young men all looked at each other, then back at me, and continued to smile.

My suspicious were confirmed.

But what did all this smiling and cheerfulness do for all those who were visiting?

Well, I know what it did for me. It was magical. It made the visit something so much more than it might have been otherwise.

At the end of the day I was waiting for the shuttle to take me back to the hotel; I watched a few of the Disneyland cast members as they walked past on their way to their vehicles. They looked completely exhausted.

I thought of what I must look like when I leave school at the end of each day…

I could so relate to how these individuals must have felt…putting on the show, becoming sage on the stage, being the person who tries to be positive and fun the entire day, trying to be the teacher who makes education a fun experience…and while I love my job, it certainly does take a lot out of a person and at the end of seven plus hours working with my motley little crew of fifth graders I crawl out to my car completely exhausted and ready to collapse.

Most days I work at Disneyland; I know this because there is magic…but only when I choose to create it.

“Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections.”

—Unknown

By the way, I posted over at my own blog today, just if you were feeling saucy…

Second photo courtesy of visitingdc.com

History is now

2011-04-10T22:42:00.005-06:00

Civilization is a movement and not a condition, a voyage and not a harbor.

Arnold J. Toynbee

I haven’t been a good blogger lately because I’ve had a lot of papers to write for school - most of them about different social problems currently facing the United States. For these assignments I'm supposed to identify the underlying cause of the social problem, categorize it within the discipline of sociological theory and then discuss different methods to resolve or alleviate the problem. I’m sure this won’t come as a huge galloping shock to anyone, but there’s an awful lot of problems out there and I don't mind telling you this hasn't been a whole lot of fun.

It's really been kind of a depressing process to dive head first into discouraging pool of society’s ills. It’s easy to be overcome with a feeling of futility and hopeless melancholy by the sheer volume of troubles that threaten to swamp society’s boat. Those of us that come from a Christian tradition have grown up with the looming specter of a biblical Armageddon. And as I read through what feels like millions of articles about the millions of problems in the world, it’s hard not to think about that knock, knock, knocking on the world’s door.

But it’s too hard to get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other if you’re always worried about the future of the world. As a student of history (really I am…literally a history student) I’m actually comforted by the fact that the worlds been a mess for a really, really long time. There really hasn’t been any point in history when things have been idyllic. Well, if they were idyllic for some, they were oppressive and stifling for others. And so it is now. We are faced with so many problems - drug abuse and crime, war and poverty, immigration and strife, racism and discrimination, homelessness and unemployment to name just a few. But it is encouraging in a way to remember that now it’s just our turn - this is our time and our problems. It is our turn to strut and fret our hour upon the stage and see what changes we can make. After all, History never looks like history when you’re living through it.

The Deadline

2011-04-05T21:49:00.000-06:00

I’ve always detested deadlines.

There’s just something about them that seems to make my stomach cringe and makes me recoil at the thought of having to have something completed by a certain timeframe.

It reminds me of school.

Homework.

Timecards.

Blogposts.

Yet here comes again another Thursday - well into the PM hours - and I’m writing my post via the light of my laptop screen at the kitchen counter, when I think I’d much rather be crawling between warm covers and nestling down for the night.

But I instead choose to spend it with you—and a playlist full of Elton John tunes.

It snowed two days ago.

The night before I deleted all of my friends on Facebook.

It was like a new beginning. The world – and my profile – was arrayed before me in a wonderful landscape of shining white. I looked through my dirty windows into the outdoors and saw the gloriousness of the world, and knew it would probably be the last time I’d see snow up close and personal for the year until this next winter.

It was a welcome visitor.

I put a pan of rolls into the oven and let the scent of them baking permeate the house like the strains of a fine orchestra. It wasn’t long before they were quickly devoured with deep wells of butter melting like rolling sunshine over desert sand.

Pure, unadulterated deliciousness.

I thought of writing a blog post for Four Perspectives, but there was a certain program on television that just couldn’t wait to be viewed. Surely blog posts could wait.

And so it did.

Which brings me to now…

And to here.

To you and to I.

Thanks for spending the evening with me.

Me, and my deadline.

Goodnight.

Photo Credit.

Playing Catch Up

2011-04-04T08:30:00.003-06:00

Okay, so I think I've done a pretty good job of not boring everyone with every little twinge, spasm, ache, pain, anxiety, thrill, and so forth during these past seven or eight months. That I've managed to do so by posting once per trimester...well...we all have our coping mechanisms. Right? Anyhoo...I had a little break in between classes, and thought I'd give everyone the third trimester update. Months eight through ten (yes...there are ten months in a pregnancy) Pretty.Much.Suck. Let me count the ways.

Big. Ungainly. Awkward!

Your thighs persist in chafing p.c., not understanding that they should just get a room. A big one.

Every Braxton-Hicks sends you running (...er...make that shuffling painfully) to the clock with a piece of paper and pen, convinced that This.Is.It.

Lower back pain.

Cankles.

Heartburn.

Bending over to...umm, let's see...put on socks, lotion up cankles, clip toenails, shave...is an exercise in asphyxiation.

Nesting. As in: must clean inside of washing machine, oil cabinetry, and steam clean carpets NOW, regardless of the fact that...

...energy levels are non-existent.

Popped belly buttons.

People think you're hormonal. Just because you wig out every now and then. Honestly!

Now, if you just loved being pregnant, even during the home stretch, I've already had my puking episode for the day, so feel free to confess all.

All that aside, it is the home stretch, and it can be pretty cool, too. Baby showers, baby clothes, baby stuff...naps that offer thirty minutes of oblivion, and strangely enough, a huge awareness of and appreciation for all that the body is capable of.

Without getting too mushy, the ability of this machine that is my body to grow and nurture a life and soul separate from my own is incredible. It's inescapable, felt in every labored breath and round ligament pull...seen in the skin that roils and ripples with every hiccup or full-body shift.

So....seven weeks and counting. I'm cool with that. Cankles and all.

Go Ahead - Make My Day

2011-03-30T18:14:00.001-06:00

As I drove up to my house early this evening I saw a cluster of smallish people outside my front door.

When they turned and saw me they ran towards my car - and they weren't even my offspring. They were some of my favorite kids from our neighborhood.

"Hey, Sisto Bwack!" Super C yelled as he ran to me. "These are for you! For your birfday!" He and his brother, along with N~, handed me a bag filled with treats. "Thanks, guys!" I said. "This totally makes my day!"

"Guess what else?!" Super C asked with all the excitement that could possibly be contained in a 6-year-old body. "N~, do the bark!"

N~ looked at me with a sly grin and let out a few barking noises. "Can you be-weave it?!" Super C asked. "It sounds like a REAL dog!" N~ then turned to Super C and said, "Do the burps!"

Super C produced a series of quick burps-on-demand. "Isn't that awesome?!" N~ proclaimed excitedly. "It sounds like REAL burps!"

The treats were fantastic, but nothing compares to the method of delivery.

Kids. Are. Awesome.

The Bob Principle

2011-03-29T06:00:00.001-06:00

There are a few individuals in life I've met who seem to carry a chip on their shoulder, they find fault with everyone and everything around them, they seem to personify The Bob Principle in a way that I'd never dreamed possible.

Recently I learned that there is another aspect to this principle to which I'd never before really given a thought: "When EVERYONE has a problem with Bob, Bob is usually the problem."

Here's to you, Bob.

Unexpected Gifts

2011-03-25T10:50:00.002-06:00

Music has always been a part of me and a part of my life in a large way. Somehow, the people who I become good friends with always seem to be people who share this passion for music. It is as if we are drawn to each other somehow. I like to imagine that perhaps there are two dimensions which co-exist in this world - the dimension where we all live and interact with each other as well as a higher dimension where people are uplifted, inspired, moved and influenced by music.

When I was a junior in high school I was a member of a choir called Aristocracy. The teacher, Mrs. Jensen, decided that for the last half of the year we would have 'secret pals' in this choir. The plan was for each of us to secretly leave small notes and gifts in a large box labeled "Secret Pals" for the person whose name we drew.

I was excited about this plan. I hoped and maybe even silently prayed that I would draw the name of my friend Debi because I knew everything about her and could imagine all sorts of perfect little surprises that I could gift her. But really, everyone in this choir got along well - perhaps because we co-existed on that higher, music-infused dimension, so I wasn't too worried about whose name I would choose.

I pulled a slip of folded paper from the bowl on top of the piano and went to a corner of the room where I could peek at the name of my secret pal. It was Richard Yu.

Richard was probably the most quiet and shy of all the members of Aristocracy - pretty much my loud, attention-seeking opposite. He mostly kept to himself so I didn't know much about him. Initially I will admit that I was a little disappointed to have chosen his name, but that quickly changed.

At first I did not know much about Richard aside from the fact that he liked to sing, so I would leave him things like candy bars and gum - you know, the sort of things that it was safe to assume most teenagers could appreciate. Eventually, as I watched him and got to know him better, my gifts became more personalized. He became someone I considered to be a close friend even though he did not really know much about me or who I was. I saw that there was more to him than was perceived in a glance.

One thing I loved to do for my friends was to share music. I would sit next to my pale pink radio with a blank tape in the cassette deck and press the record button when one of my favorite songs would play. Once the tape was filled with good music I would make a copy for myself in our dual-cassette deck stereo and gift the original to a friend. After one especially good weeks' worth of recording I decided to gift my tape to Richard.

I was so excited. This tape was definitely one of my best - it contained songs from Depeche Mode, REM, The Smiths, The Cure, U2, Pet Shop Boys and UB40. I wrote a note to him, explaining that these were some of my favorite songs, along with a 3x5 card which listed each song and artist. I watched the next day as Richard checked the secret pal box and picked up the gift I had left him. I wondered what he was going to think.

A week later I found something unusual in the choir room - a gift labeled "For Richard Yu's secret pal". I waited until everyone had left the choir room at the end of class and then retrieved my gift and quietly slipped it into my backpack. During lunch I opened the note taped to the top of the cassette-shaped package. It read,

Thank you for sharing your music with me. I want to share my music with you also. -Richard

The tape had a label which read: Beethoven. I wasn't sure what to think. This was definitely not my typical genre of music. In fact, I could not remember ever listening to any classical music before. I placed the cassette and note back into my bag and forgot about them until a few days later when another note waited for me:

Did you like the music I left for you? I would like to hear more of your music. Thank you, Richard

When I got home that day I listened to the music of Beethoven for the first time. And I cried. There was something so beautiful in the way that the music flowed and swelled. There was such passion and emotion in this music that I had never taken the time to listen to! It helped me to understand Richard on a different level, somehow. I made a copy of another one of my tapes, this one with more of a variety of music from artists like Cowboy Junkies, Michael Jackson, Violent Femmes, They Might Be Giants, Journey, The Church and Def Leppard. I wrote a note thanking him for sharing the classical music of Beethoven with me and told him that it brought tears to my eyes.

This became our method of communication over the remainder of the school year. He shared his music with me - pieces by Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart, Pachelbel and Handel - and I shared my music with him, everything from Anything Box to Morrissey to Oingo Boingo.

It was difficult to see him in the halls and not talk about the music he gave me. I wanted to yell out, "Richard! Vivaldi's Four Seasons is my new favorite! Thank you!" But I couldn't reveal who I was until the end of the year. I often wonder if he knew anyway because of the way I tried to include him more in what was going on with the choir.

When our choir sang at Disneyland that spring and were free to explore the park for the rest of the day following our performance we split into smaller groups. I noticed Richard was standing alone at the outskirts of the groups and pointed him out to my friend Debi. "Let's have him join our group," I said. "Hey Richard!" Debi called to him. "Come with us!" He smiled shyly and joined us as we walked toward our first destination, Space Mountain. We each took turns choosing which ride was next and when it was Richard's turn he said, "I don't know. I have never been here before." We were all incredulous. Growing up in southern California, Disneyland was a regular destination for most teenagers. We all pitched in and got him some mouse ears with his name embroidered on the back and had the best time enjoying Disneyland through the eyes of a first-timer.

On the bus ride home from our day at Disneyland I asked Richard what his favorite thing was. "The music!" he told me. "There was music everywhere!" I had never really noticed that before, but when I thought about it, he was right.

When the year came to a close and it was time to reveal our secret pals, I gave Richard a tape I had purchased called 'The Best of Disney'. We thanked each other for the music which had been shared. But really, how could I thank Richard for all that he had given me? The true gift was my new ability to see beyond stereotypes - in music and in people.

Richard and I have not stayed in contact over the years, but I think of him anytime I hear a now-familiar classical piece of music or discover a new artist that stirs my soul or when I befriend someone who I might have otherwise shied away from.

Richard, wherever you are, thank you.

P.S. (Added on July 1, 2011)
Look what I found on my friend Kendra's Facebook page! This was the day. Awesome.

The Space-Time Continuum

2011-03-22T06:55:00.000-06:00

I’d been fully prepared to write a post last week when I started a Time Machine backup of my Mac. As it was running, I decided to update some of my program components and settings. In honor of Daylight Saving Time, I started to mess with the date and time. Mostly it was just for fun—but in the midst of a backup, this was a bad idea. For some reason, in changing the date while backing up, Time Machine decided that my entire hard drive needed to be backed up on my external hard drive, taking some five or six hours and several programs were deleted from my Mac including both the Microsoft and Adobe suites, and a few other apps along the way.

I panicked when I arrived at school and realized that I had no access to Microsoft Word. It was at this point that I became aware just how dependent I’d become on this program in my day-to-day utilization of it at work. I felt completely Macless for nearly an entire day.

I texted a neighbor friend for help.

“You did WHAT?!” was his immediate response to my dilemma. “You destroyed the time-space continuum! You never change the date while running a backup.”

All day long I worried; I figured that in the least that I would have to reinstall an entire operating system, load up utility software and drivers, and then run updates until the cows came home; however, with the Time Machine option, with a few clicks, each of the missing programs was easily restored back to their original locations with no residual problems whatsoever.

The universe was saved and so was I. Thank goodness for the ability to ‘undo’ the butterfly effect on both time and space before it had the opportunity to do any real lasting damage.

Thank goodness for Macs.

Love and Basketball

2011-03-20T17:14:00.004-06:00

Talent is an accident of genes - and a responsibility. Alan Rickman

Ebay and I had fun reading over Gerb’s post about Ashley.

When both Ashley and Ebay were little people, we also lived in Gerb’s neighborhood and Ashley and Ebay were buddies. Ebay says that he feels a little bit responsible for Ashley’s great basketball career – like he helped a little bit.

He helped because Ashley always wanted to shoot hoops and would recruit Ebay for games of HORSE. Ebay would oblige and…..lose every single time. Eventually he refused to play HORSE and would only play PIG so he could get the butt-kicking over with a little faster. Ebay likes to think that it helped to Boost Ashley’s basketball confidence to kick his trash every day. It helped to validate that she had some mad basketball skills and should definitely keep it up and definitely move on to more challenging HORSE opponents than Ebay. I think it also helped Ebay to realize that sports just weren’t going to be his thing and he should keep up the search for is own talent.

I’ve been thinking since reading that post that it’s nice when your interests and your talents converge. Ashley loved basketball even as a little kid, and luckily she has the physical affinity to be great at it too. Not that she didn’t practice her little blond head off, I’m just saying she had the brain and the body to mix with all that hard work to be a really good ball player. It’s harder when you love something, but don’t have the talent for it – whether mental or physical.

If, for example, I had wanted to be a world-class ballerina, it probably wouldn’t have been in the cards for me. Even if I had started dancing at 3 years old and dance danced every day for the next 20 years, I would probably still not have joined the ranks of prima ballerinas…unless there was a famous ballet about Hobbits. But I'll bet I would have learned a lot along the way.

I think if you have love for something you should keep doing it, talent or not, because sometimes just the effort is everything and you never know where it will lead. But when talent, ability and a love for something come together – it really is a beautiful thing.

Way to go Ashley.

On Being Cheerleaders

2011-03-16T13:50:00.001-06:00

photo from here

I love my neighborhood.

One of it's finest features, as in all great neighborhoods, is the people.

I have one across-the-street neighbor in particular who I have loved interacting with over the years. Initially it was just watching her as a smallish person, hearing the well-worn basketball as it would beat against the concrete while she practiced dribbling and shooting in her driveway. Ashley was an awesome little kid who was much more comfortable in tennis shoes, knee-length shorts and a Scooby Doo t-shirt than the other girls her age who wore cute bejeweled sandals and pink everything.

As Ashley grew older her basketball practice paid off - she played in some city leagues and eventually made it on to her high school's varsity basketball team. I don't think it's much of an exaggeration to say that she was the star... and we were all proud of our Ashley.

Well, Ashley grew up. She graduated from high school last year and signed on to continue playing basketball for a college in Colorado. Everyone missed Ashley - but we were in luck. Her team was coming here, to Utah, to play against two of the local universities! The excitement in our neighborhood was palpable. Ashley was coming home!

As my oldest kids and I walked into the game, we were thrilled. There, filling the stands for the away team, was Ashley's own personal cheering squad! There were signs! There were custom-made t-shirts!
Girls who had played basketball with her in high school, neighbors, family and friends all yelled and cheered our hearts out for #4. We talked to each other in excited tones over how amazing Ashley was and what a thrill it was to watch her play college ball. Any time she had the ball in her hands, her cheering section went wild. We jumped to our feet when she threw a pass. We pumped our fists and shouted for joy until our throats were sore when she made a shot. Any time she was on the bench we all screamed to put her back in. The crowd had a fever, and the only cure was MORE ASHLEY!!
The local university's team had never seen anything like it. There were more fans for the away team than there were for the home team. Why? Come what may, we were there for Ashley! She could do no wrong and we loved cheering her on through it all. TEAM ASHLEY!

Wouldn't it be awesome if each one of us had such a cheering squad? Can you imagine what it would be like if no matter where you went there was someone there to encourage you, pumping their fists in excitement and letting you know that they believed in you and knew you were capable of anything you wanted to achieve? I wonder what it would feel like to have such incredible support in everything you chose to do.

Hey! Why wonder? Why imagine? Let's do it!

If we could all offer this kind of acceptance, encouragement and unconditional love to our family, friends and even strangers that we encounter, the possibilities of what each of us could achieve are endless.

I'm the head cheerleader for team YOU.

GO YOU!!

Red Lights and Destiny

2011-03-13T23:10:00.013-06:00

Our destiny hides among our free choices, disguised as the free-est of all. ~Robert Brault

Spoiler Alert: Mel reviews and discusses the new movie The Adjustment Bureau and might accidentally blow a central plot twist for you. Reader beware

So I took myself to the movies last Friday night. I don’t usually mind going to the movies by myself. I’m generally confident enough sit alone in the dark the best part being, of course, that I don’t have to share the popcorn. But then again I usually have the good sense not to go to the movies alone on a “Date Night.” Talk about a hyper-single-awareness evening. And to top it off I went to see The Adjustment Bureau, which, as it turns out is quite the romantic movie. But despite the fact that it was a romantic movie and I was surrounded by romantic couples which only served to heighten the single-awareness, I actually still really liked the movie. It felt like kind of a cross between Sleepless in Seattle - the idea that the person that you’re meant to be with is out there somewhere, and City of Angels - the idea that angels are around us helping to keep things on track…with a little free will and It’s a Wonderful Life thrown in there for good measure.

The premise of The Adjustment Bureau is that there is a plan written for everyone (in what appear to be those black and white student composition books) and everyone’s plans kind of interconnect to affect the course of the world. And, as we go along through life there are “adjustment angels” that kind of nudge us along in the direction of the plan. So, for example let’s say you have plans with friends for the evening. Your drive home from work usually takes 15 minutes. But on one particular day you hit every red light along University Avenue which means that you’re running late and are not going to have time to make dinner before you meet your friends at the movies. So you decide, because you’re running late to stop at the new hamburger place up the street where you meet the new waiter (or waitress depending on your gender preference) who turns out to be the love of your life. You marry and have 4 kids, one of which turns out to discover the cure for the common cold. Now, were all those red lights just chance or, what is the Adjustment Bureau angels making sure that you followed the plan they had laid out for you and thus for the world? As the movie previews show, Matt Damon wants to be with Emily Blunt but the Adjustment Bureau doesn’t want that to happen because if it does she will never reach her potential of being a world famous dancer/choreographer and he will never reach his potential of becoming the President.

So it sounds like the “angels” are looking out for what’s best doesn’t it? Well, this is where the tricky part comes in. Who’s to say which plan is the best? How do we know which is the best “potential” to have realized? If the main characters are apart they achieve fame and success. But if Matt’s character is with Emily’s character, he will be happy and it will be enough. He won’t feel the drive and determination to keep looking for more and trying to win just one more election.

I thought that was an interesting question. We all have endless potential and endless directions that our lives can take and who's to say which path is the best? Who can say if it is the better life to become famous and powerful or to toil in anonymity but raise a good family and have a happy home? I think it’s good to have goals and it’s good to want to achieve things, but I also think that a truly valuable life can come in all shapes and sizes.

So go see The Adjustment Bureau, I think you'll like it. Plus it will give you something to think about that the next time you’re hitting nothing but red lights – both literally and metaphorically. Maybe your potential is about to find you, but maybe you’ve already chosen it for yourself - special notebooks and fate of the universe be damned. Just be sure to take someone with you on a Friday night.

Contentment

2011-03-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

There are a thousand things I should be doing tonight. I think of them all as the wind howls and mutters relentlessly outside my house. I can hear it like the lonely souls of those long-gone moaning from the darkness beyond the street lamps.

The rain continues to drizzle from a torrential sky as I sit here on the couch with my laptop striking the keys, their rhythmic beats sounding out a cadence of thought.

I have been thinking a lot lately about contentment; I have also been thinking of how I have not been allowing myself to feel so, either. I remembered someone once telling me long ago to, “be grateful for what you’ve got,” and I realized that I hadn’t been. I had – more often than not - found myself looking at so-and-so or what’s-their-face and all that they seemingly had…you know, their this, their that, or their other, and wondering just why that wasn’t me. I saw myself noticing all of those things – all that I felt I so rightly deserved in life, and wondered why I wasn’t in the same position that they were…

In reality, life seemed pretty cruel sometimes.

I was walking through the hallway at school recently and another teacher said, “You don’t seem to smile as much as you used to.”

I think this teacher was right.

I then realized that I wasn’t allowing myself to feel a sense of accomplishment, success, and contentment for that which I do have. It was then that I recognized that I needed to do better.

I really do.

I need to take the time to notice those things that I do have. Those things I am capable of, those things I do do really well. All of those things in life for which I should be grateful…

I sit here on the couch typing as the wind blows outside my windows; it whispers in the night as the strains of David Tolk sift through my living room. I ready to switch off my computer, go to bed, and awaken to a new day, a day for which I will strive to feel contentment.

"The world is full of people looking for spectacular happiness while they snub contentment."

-Doug Larson

I'll Be Darned...

2011-03-04T21:29:00.009-07:00

I went to a general store but they wouldn't let me buy anything specific.
~Steven Wright

There’s a lot of things in the wide world of consumerism in America that just aren’t worth the money. That $40 jar of magical face cream that supposedly erases years of wrinkles might not actually do anything more than a $3 jar of Noxima and a good nights sleep (do they still make Noxima?). But once in awhile you come across something that – I’ll be darned - does exactly what it says it does.

Here's a few that I've found.

For example, a few months back I switched the mascara I was using. I have to get to work pretty early in the morning which means that I’m getting ready for work when I’m not really all that awake. I do my hair and put make-up on and all that, but for some reason, possibly because I’m not really awake yet, my eyes just really water a lot. So I was looking for a waterproof mascara that actually stayed on, but wasn’t so hard on my eyelashes (waterproof mascara can sometimes be kind of like putting varnish directly on your eyes – kind of harsh). So I picked up some Almay Nourishing One Coat Waterproof Mascara which supposedly is long wearing but also helps repair lashes - and I’ll be darned if it didn’t do the job. It stays on my weepy eyes pretty well plus my eyelashes have really thickend up since I started to use it.

Since Superdude got married, Ebay has a bathroom to himself (what a luxury) and while he likes it to be clean, he doesn’t much care for actually cleaning it - and heck if I’m going to do it for him. So he invested in the Scrubbing Bubbles Automatic Shower Cleaner and I’ll be darned if it doesn't actually really keeps the shower clean. You just press the button after the shower and the Scrubbing Bubble foam sprays all over the shower disolving everything away – whadda-ya-know?

Another product that has worked for Ebay is Proactiv. I know, I know, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting an ad for this magical anti-acne triple combination - and that always kind of makes me suspicious. Ebay’s skin was never terrible, but it was bad enough to make him feel uncomfortable. We tried several things over his teenage years and eventually decided succumb to the advertising pressure and try the Proactiv. And I’ll be darned if it didn’t do the trick for Ebay. His skin got worse before it got better just like the literature said it would, but since then, his skin has really cleared up so that he’s just about too handsome to live with.

A few blogs back I wrote about buying a whole bunch of totes to help organize stuff. As part of that purchase I bought some Space Bags. You know those bags you put stuff in then suck the air out of so the stuff takes up less space? Well, I’ll be darned if those things aren’t just awesome! Because of all of the years of youth theater I’ve done, I have some really random items to store (styrofoam rocks and the like) and with these bags you can take what goes into 4 or 5 boxes (depending on the size bag you’re using) and put them into just one bag that just takes about two inches of space in the closet (horizontal space that is). Ebay used them too for packing on a trip he took recently – Genius…really.

And finally, I have a pillow top mattress which means that the fitted sheets have a hard time staying on. That is they did until I bought these little tubie looking things called The Sheet Holders (from Target if I remember correctly). You just pull the sheet down so it is even with that little piping edge that all mattresses have. Then you slip the Sheet Holder over the sheet and the mattress edge and I’ll be darned if it doesn’t just keep the sheet right in place. And the best part is they’re only about $5 for a set of 4.

So there’s just a few unexpected items that worked as advertised for me. I’m still in the market for some kind of face cream that moisturizes and improves the texture of my skin without making me feel like I’m wearing Crisco…and hopefully doesn’t cost $40 a jar. In the mean time I think I’ll try a good nights sleep.

Cupcakes and Crusties...

2011-03-01T00:01:00.002-07:00

My got a call from a friend of mine the other night to go out on a cupcake run at about 8:30. You see, my friend – who will remain anonymous so as to protect his identity (got you covered, Marc) - is a chef and has an obsession for these things – plus the fact that his wife had a craving.

I threw on my jacket and met him outside. I hopped into his car and we sped off to the Sweet Tooth Fairy – the place his wife loves - only to discover that they were closed for the evening.

“Ugh, were can we get cupcakes now?” He asked and then added, “Good cupcakes.” Before I could mention any of the local grocery stores with their whipped lard frostings of nastiness.

“There’s a place I saw the other day over by Brigham’s Landing,” I said, “The Cocoa Bean…or something like that.”

We sped across town to find the small café-like shop where, upon walking in, we were greeted by the other patrons with disdainful, crusty looks…it felt like they were prejudging us, and deciding that we just weren't quite worthy of the high caliber cupcakes of said establishment. They returned to their whispered conversations but continued to shoot us covert looks from over their laptops and mochachinos.

What the heck was up with these people?

We bought a half dozen assorted cupcakes and then walked out to the car, still catching the crusty glances from the people in the café.

When we arrived back at my friend’s house, he proceeded to tell his wife about the strange reception we’d received from the regulars. Upon hearing the story she simply asked, “Well, did you guys walk in holding hands or something?”

That’s when it hit me…two grown men walking into a custom cupcake café at 8:30 at in the evening…without a woman in sight?

Yeah, enough said.

Image shamelessly shanghaied from: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/

The Best Kind

2011-02-24T23:10:00.015-07:00

Nothing but heaven itself is better than a friend who is really a friend. ~Plautus

I was watching an episode of Seinfeld the other day. It was the one where Elaine had a cool new boyfriend and George took a liking to him too because he was so cool. The cool boyfriend was kind of a cool skater/rock climber kind of dude and George had kind of a man-crush on him. He started dressing like him and talking like him and trying to make sure they had their own one on one buddy time - even volunteering to make sandwiches to share on their adventures. Well, as usual, things didn’t go well for George. He ended up being the cause of this cool guy falling off the climbing wall (because he was trying to hand him a sandwich) and the Cool Guy decided that poor George just wasn’t chill enough to hang with him – even with the sandwiches.

I’ve had cause to think some about friendship over the past couple of weeks and just what makes a friendship satisfying or…un.

To me the very best kind of friend is someone I have a great time with, someone I can laugh with (I mean really laugh).

My best kind of friend is one with whom I can have open conversations, and who will prove loyal.

My best kind of friend appreciates my good qualities but also tries to help me mend my negative qualities - kind of the personality equivalent of the friend who’ll tell you when you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe.

My best kind of friend encourages an honest and open dialogue and will volunteer to give (as well as receive) feedback and advice about different aspects of life not only because they care about me, but also because they want positive things to happen in my life.

My best kind of friend is a source of inspiration and motivation and we can hopefully learn from each other’s mistakes.

This kind of friend is very rare and hard to find. If you’re lucky you have this kind of relationship with a sibling or a parent. If you’re really lucky you can find this kind of friend in your husband or wife. And sometimes you just luck out and this kind of friend finds you.

Sometimes though I’m forced to remind myself that these are things that I enjoy in a friend – but not everyone wants the same thing that I do or sees a friendship in the same way. Sometimes I guess we can all feel like George Costanza, trying to force a certain level or kind of friendship on someone (sometimes friend, sometimes family) who just isn’t interested.

This situation kind of played itself out for me the other day while I was having (or trying to have) a conversation with a friend. It reminded me of the movie Surrogates. There’s a scene in the movie where “real” Bruce Willis is trying to talk to his wife through her “Surrogate-self.” You know from watching the movie that the surrogate operator can just disconnect from their surrogate unit at any time by simply removing their neurological stimulator control headpiece thing; and when they do remove it, the surrogate just shuts down. So “Real Bruce” is talking to “Surrogate Wife,” but she gets exasperated with him and shuts down her unit. So there’s poor “Real Bruce” trying to extract an emotional response from a completely disconnected party – let’s just say I could relate.

It’s all kinds of adjectives – sad, embarrassing, exasperating, awkward to assume a level of friendship and emotional intimacy if both parties aren’t willing to engage. I guess the thing to try and figure is whether it's ok to keep pushing or whether I should just take my sandwiches and go home.

Full Circle

2011-02-24T12:40:00.001-07:00

Today we found out that my oldest son was accepted to the university that he has dreamed of attending for as long as we can remember. He called us from school to tell us the good news right after opening his acceptance email. (Email? What happened to acceptance letters? Man, am I old.)

I am so excited and proud and absolutely thrilled for him! In Allen's family there is a history of college graduates. In my family, however, there is not. College was something that my smart friends did. I didn't even consider applying to any big colleges or universities when graduation approached. I wouldn't have even known where to begin at the time.

I have learned since what a difference it makes to have a degree and I knew from the time that my kids were very young that I wanted them to continue their educations beyond high school graduation. Allen has jokingly reminded me of the time when our oldest boy was still in diapers and I broke down in tears when we were working on our budget. "What's wrong?" he asked. "We will never be able to afford to send our kids to college!" I cried in despair. It's a funny story, but that is how long I have been determined to provide this opportunity for each of our children.

And now - well, we did it. We really did it.

The Blogging Line

2011-02-22T21:38:00.002-07:00

There is a certain line people need to decide for themselves when it comes to blogging. It’s the personal line where we determine how much information we allow the world to know about us. We choose exactly how much knowledge we’re going to let the world be privy to.

As I’ve explored the blogging sphere, I’ve discovered some people who seem to put absolutely everything out there. Each and every aspect of their personal lives, their families’ habits, their children’s nuisances, and the faults of their spouses are made readily available for all the world to read. Sometimes, there are things these people wouldn’t tell their own mothers which seem to be shouted out behind the cloak of anonymity (or not so anonymousness) of the Internet and blogging. I can’t tell you of how many times I’ve inadvertently run across those who’ve written about having ‘procedures’ done, about certain conditions that are better left unsaid, or even use language that borders on an R-rated movie thrown out like confetti at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

I have to ask myself in all these cases…just why is this? Why do people feel that they need to tell their lavatory stories and share sometimes personal and intimate details of their lives with a world of strangers?

Some would argue, “But I’m sharing it with my friends.” Or, “My family reads my blog.” But, unless your blog is set to private, your family is most certainly not the only group of people that might be tuning in.

You know, I remember back when I was a kid. My parents bought me a baseball cap with my name on the front. I was so thrilled. I wore this hat each and every day. One day my sister and I were sitting in the back of our pickup as our parents went into the local nursery for plants for the garden. As we both sat there, bored, a man and woman walked up to us. The man looked at me and said, “Hey, how you doing, Teachinfourth?”

I was shocked. How had this man known my name? Being all of but 6 years old I looked at him curiously and decided that I must have known him. After all, he obviously knew who I was. If he’d have told me that I needed to go with him, I probably would have – after all – he knew my name.

I smiled at him and he and his wife smiled back. I then asked, “How do you know my name?”

To this, the man pointed to my hat. “Your name’s on your cap, son.”

I still think back on that and realize the error of my parent’s ways when buying me that hat – of course, some may argue that it was a simpler time and bad things didn’t happen to people. Maybe they’d be right…or maybe it just wasn’t publicized as much either.

Now, don’t think that I’m not advocating a cease-fire from blogging – heaven forbid! I love this medium of communication far too much…my point is, too much information can be a dangerous thing. Sometimes, I think people feel that they need to out-do each other in the realms of blogging. Some of them seem to think, “Well, if I write about this, then people will want to read what I am writing because it’s personal, on the cutting edge, risqué, or whatever.”

I just don’t know…

When I began to blog a few years ago I had to decide for myself just where that line of personal information started, and where it stopped. Even back in 2007 I decided that there were certain posts that would never see the lit-up screen of another’s computer; after all, some experiences were just too personal.

There have been times where I have written a post and then thought before I hit that ‘publish’ button. Sometimes, they’ve gone into drafts and have never been seen again. Those things which I do allow to be published on a personal nature have always come after deliberation and deciding of whether or not I really want that information out there.

Well, this is about it. I have nothing else to say on the matter tonight. Perhaps I will in the morning after another read, but to be honest, I am comfortable with what I’ve said.

And with that, I’m ready to hit the ‘publish’ button…

Image source: http://www.cartoonstock.com/

Oh, get over yourself

2011-02-17T12:35:00.010-07:00

I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory. Bella Swan, Twilight, Chapter 1, p.6

Why is everybody always hating on Twilight?

There seems to be this huge backlash of Twilight haters, but somehow the novels have sold millions and millions of copies. Nobody admits to having read the books or even seen the movies but, again, millions and millions of dollars.

So I'll just step up here and say "Oh, get over yourself!" I've read Twilight and so have all of you.

And let me just also add that it’s a romance novel, it’s supposed to be schmaltzy and sappy. It’s supposed to be full of dreamy, moony images of the perfect boy because the main characters are teenagers.

Therefore the target audience is teenagers and more specifically teenage girls. I think that, just like Disney Channel Shows like Hannah Montana, Twilight tapped into exactly what teen-age girls dream about (or preteen in Hannah's case) – the perfect handsome boyfriend that desires you above all others but also makes you feel protected and loved – I only wish I’d thought of it first.

Now before the backlash hits. I’m not saying that The Twilight Saga is great literature (after all, I just compared it to Hannah Montana). But I also don’t think you shouldn’t have to apologize for not always reading great literature. I’m all for Dickens and Hemingway and Austin and Twain…but OY! Once in awhile give me a deck chair, a tall glass of something cold and a completely frivolous paperback with Fabio on the cover (Ok, I may be exaggerating a little bit there). And I’m not saying that every teenage girl dreams about having the perfect boyfriend…except that…yes, I guess I am. They may not admit that they dream about it, they might not dream about it all the time, but even the most motivated, active and well adjusted girl in the world, somewhere in the back of her mind thinks about cute boys and what it would be like to have the perfect boyfriend. And if that boyfriend can be super-cute, have enough money and drive a nice car – all the better.

I’ve heard some folks complain that Bella is boring and doesn’t have a personality. I think she does. I think she’s just quiet and bookish and has had to be the mature and organized one to help out her ditsy mom - not every heroine needs to be Elizabeth Bennett or Kathy in Wuthering Heights. Bella is a girl that thinks and feels that she is ordinary – sub ordinary even, without realizing that she’s actually extraordinary. That’s not so unusual for teenage girls. I’ve hardly met any young women that see themselves clearly enough to realize how extraordinary they really are.

I’ve heard some folks complain about the morality of Twilight that it’s too caught up in the longing and passion Edward and Bella feel for each other. But do we really think that teenagers aren’t aware of longing and passion? I think maybe the shipped sailed on that a few millennia ago. But I also think the whole Twilight Saga is about restraint. Edward wants Bella - he wants her bad in every physical way possible for a boy…and a vampire. Even when he gives up trying to stay away from Bella, Edward’s whole motivation is to protect her. He protects her from the truck that almost slams into her, he saves her just in time from the bad guys in the big city (because of course he followed her and can read their minds), he protects her from tumbling down mountains and falling down stairs, but mostly he protects her from himself and his desires. Edward has these intense desires that even Bella doesn’t always help him restrain. But, after about 100 years of being 17, I guess Edward has more self-control than the average Junior in high school because nothing really happens – even when Bella wants it to. Edward reigns in the passion because he really does love Bella. In most boy/girl scenarios it’s the girls that have to put the brakes on. The fact that the boy applies the brakes in this case makes Edward a pretty rare role model in modern media. The last book in the saga Breaking Dawn does get a little racy by comparison. But it’s nothing too descriptive and it all happens after Bella and Edward are married. And even then, there’s some serious fall-out/consequences that happen from consummating human and vampire love – talk about a cautionary tale.

Anyway, the exquisite angst of it all did get to be a little much for me (that whole period in New Moon when Bella is depressed – Oh BUH-rother!) but then again, I am not the target demographic. So even though I couldn’t fully inhabit the characters, it was just a relaxing read and a pretty good story. And sometimes letting your mind float to a world inhabited by vampires in love is fine - it's just fine. And I boy do I wish I’d thought of it first.

Boys Vs. Girls

2011-02-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Over at my blog, Life As I Know It, it's Q&A week. Readers ask questions and I give answers. To every question. Guaranteed.

This post is in response to my friend Rebecca's question:
If you had all 10 boys or all 10 girls, instead of some of both gender, which would you choose?

Why didn't you just ask which were my favorite, my boys or my girls? I guess you pretty much did. Well, let me put it this way...

My girls share most of my interests, such as thrift store & bargain shopping, baking, sewing, singing and collecting shoes. So I choose girls.

Boys are much easier to shop for because they'll wear their jeans and tennis shoes until they're falling off or won't fasten anymore - plus they'll wear whatever I buy for them without complaint to avoid a shopping trip. So I choose boys.

I can not attend scout camp with my boys who love to get dirty and wear the same clothing (including underwear) all week but I can attend an awesome week of fun mingled with spiritual growth at young women's camp with my girls. So I choose girls.

Boys have short, almost maintenance-free hair. If they give themselves a haircut, no problem. A quick all-over buzz with the clippers and we're back in business. So I choose boys.

Two words: potty training. I choose girls.

Two words: potty humor. (I'm easily entertained in this regard.) I choose boys.

How would you answer Rebecca's loaded question?

Why Teaching?

2011-02-15T06:00:00.001-07:00

“Mr. Z?”

I turned to my student who stood before me. “What’s up?” I asked, putting aside the papers I’d been correcting.

“Did you always want to be a teacher?”

I sat back in my chair. “Why do you want to know this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve just always wondered.”

I took a deep breath. Now, just how to answer this? Should I be honest? It would probably be much more fun to tell him that I’d considered becoming a mortician or perhaps a professional food taster.

I went with honesty.

“No, I could get another job if I had wanted to. In fact, wanted to be an author…or maybe a movie director.”

“Really? Can teachers do that?”

“Yep, it’s perfectly legal.”

My student walked away, shaking his head saying something like, “Whoa…I didn’t know that.”

It was this small conversation which brings me to today’s blog…just why did I choose teaching out of all of the professions I could have for my life? I’ve thought about that question quite a bit over the years to tell you the truth. I believe it stems back about forty or fifty years ago when I was a missionary. I had been sent to Missouri with the idea that I would return to Washington after two years and become a successful author, touring around the United States to promote my new books and to do signings. Of course, there’d be the world premieres of movies my books had been adapted into…in fact, I had already completed over half of a screenplay for “Take the Long Way Home.”

Yes, I was going to be famous.

While living in Poplar Bluff (Pop-lar bluff…not Pop-U-lar Bluff) one of my friends and I started volunteering at Sacred Heart Catholic School. My friend and I helped out in many different classrooms from 1-6^th grades, however, it was here that I became acquainted with Ruth Trotter, first grade teacher extraordinaire.

I wish there were words to express how I felt in the presence of this woman. She was nothing short of amazing.

I looked forward to working each week with the kids at SH, but none more than the 1^stgraders of Mrs. Trotter’s classroom. On every visit I’d be tutoring kids on Math facts, fluency, or reading aloud to them. It was a high point of each week for me, and the more time I spent in Mrs. Trotter’s presence, the more I began to realize that I loved teaching.

When I was moved to another area (after 9 months) I couldn’t foget the experiences I’d had in working with students and how much fun it was. When I came home another 9 months later, I enrolled in college to finish my general education classes. When thinking of career paths which I might follow, only one stood out.

Education.

People have often asked me why I decided to become a teacher. I’d often joke that it was for the big money to be made, and all of the single female teachers. It really isn’t though. It’s for the students I get to see grow on a daily basis. Some of these kids take a little bit longer than others, but I see nearly all of them grow and change. They come into my classroom as little kids, and leave as middle-schoolers.

I will forever be thankful to the teachers I’ve had in my life which made a positive impact on me.…Otamay Hushing, Robin Flickinger, Sherri Frizzell, Ed Mooney, and most importantly, Ruth Trotter. As I look back on old photos of my first days as a teacher, I think of these kids who are now much older than they were as 3^rd or 4^th graders. I think of these students, who one day, when somebody asks them, “Who was your favorite teacher?” Will respond…

“Mr. Z.”

Thanks, Mrs. Trotter.

My friends, Jan and Hazen.

One of my "first" teaching experiences.

Father Mike McDivitt, Hazen, and I.

Sacred Heart Catholic School.

Circumstantial Evidence

2011-02-11T16:39:00.012-07:00

There's a world of difference between truth and facts. Facts can obscure the truth.

Maya Angelou

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, we had a dog – a Black and Tan Coonhound to be precise. To be even more precise, it was actually my brother’s dog - Britain was her name. I can’t really remember why he named her that – probably ultimately to annoy my British mother.

Britain was a good dog. Long hound dog face, long floppy ears, friendly and affectionate. But she was also a hunting dog. That’s what she was bred for and that is what big brother was training her for – as a bird dog for hunting. The idea here being that the hunter would shoot the bird and the dog would either go get it and bring it back to the hunter, or if she couldn’t retrieve it, she would stay by it and howl about it until the hunter found her (rather like what you would hope to happen with a lost two year old come to think of it). So Britain definitely wasn’t one of those house-friendly-sleep-in-a-cute-little-basket kind of house dogs. She was messy and slobbery and really did much better out of doors. But the problem was

that when she was home alone in the backyard she would mournfully howl for hours and hours, which for some reason the neighbors didn’t like (go figure). If she was in the backyard and we were home, it was ok as long as we said hello every once in awhile she was content. I guess she just felt better knowing someone was around. So because we didn’t want all the neighbors to hate us, we had to make a place for Britain inside. That place was usually in the kitchen because; as I said she was messy and liked to chew things. Even in the kitchen we had to kind of fortify and dog-proof the place since Britain was really prone to some typical canine curiosity like going through the garbage or trying to see what was on top of the table. To prevent Britain from ransacking the house while were gone; we had kind of a tall wooden gate that we would brace in front of the kitchen door. It was too tall for her to go over and too heavy for her to go through. My mom was very particular about the barricade and understandably so because boy! That dog could really make a mess. So it was super-important to fortify the kitchen whenever we left Britain home alone. She actually still howled a little bit when we first left the house. But, being inside it wasn’t as loud for the neighbors and she would eventually give up and take a nap (also kind of like a two year old come to think of it).

As I said, I was about 10 or 11 at this time and was either in the last part of 4th grade or the early part of 5th grade (I can’t quite remember which). My school would sometimes have Saturday classes in different kinds of recreation and sometimes performing arts areas. I think it was volunteers that would come over from BYU on Saturdays for about a month at a time. Sometimes it was flag football, basketball or volleyball. Sometimes it was tap dancing, ballet or modern dance. And sometimes it was baton twirling and cheerleading.

Let me just do a little sidepiece here about baton twirling. When I was growing up there were 3 major parades here in Provo – the 4th of July Parade of course, a big Christmas parade and then in the Fall was the BYU Homecoming Parade. It has dwindled quite a bit in recent years. But when I was a kid it was every bit as big and event as the other Provo parades. But the thing I liked about it best was all off the BYU performing groups that would march in the parade. There were the folk dancers with their colorful international costumes, and the square dancers with their puffy skirts (the girls anyway) and tap shoes clogging along University Avenue. There were the cheerleaders and the Cougarettes of course (like the drill/dance team). Also the giant Cougar Marching band and in front of the whole procession were the three (sometimes four but usually just three) baton twirling majorettes. These girls really had it going on. They had the blue and silver sequined leotard and the tall white boots. They usually had their hair piled up in a beehive hair-do (seriously, year after year after year – it must have been a tradition for Beehive- state majorettes or something) and these girls were bad with a baton. There was the whole flurry of twirls to the front, to the side, to the back. But the tosses were the most awesome (seriously, they were). They would get this thing twirling so fast it was just a blur and then fling it 15 or 20 feet in the air. Then while still marching, spin around, do a skip, a cartwheel and still catch it sometimes behind their back! As a little girl sitting on the curb with my feet straddling the ditch it was some mesmerizing stuff I can tell you. So when the BYU Baton twirlers were coming to teach a Saturday Class at Timpanogos Elementary I was there!

Ok, now back to the dog. One Saturday my mom and brother had to go somewhere but I wasn’t going with them because I was going to walk to the school for my BYU Baton Twirling class. I was happy, excited and maybe even imagining my hair piled high in a beehive. Mom and Big Brother left first and I can remember some serious reminders from my mom to “put that dog in the kitchen before you leave.” Yeah, yeah, I know, I know I wasn’t going to forget. So the time to leave came and I pulled the reluctant puppy by the collar into the kitchen, pulled the gate closed and braced it securely. Giving the sad Britain a pat on the head I locked the front door with my key that I kept on a crochet cord around my neck and marched myself out of the front door baton in hand heading for class. Of course the sad howling started as I left and I could still hear it as I paraded up the street. I even remember stopping on the corner about ½ a block away amazed that I could still hear the faint mournful howl – that dog had some lungs.

I went to class and all was well. Well, actually I got bonked on the head a couple of times by a wayward baton but you are supposed to suffer for your art right? When I got home though, my mom was waiting for me at the door grabbing my shirt collar and yanking me roughly into the house. The living room was a wreck. Brittan had gotten a hold of a foam couch pillow and ripped it to shreds. She had knocked over the houseplants that sat on the coffee table in front of the living room window obviously having jumped up on the table to see out of the window so besides the broken houseplants, there was a trail of potting soil across the carpet and out into the hallway. Britain had also tried to eat one of the houseplants – which apparently didn’t agree with her because she had thrown-up in the middle of the floor too.

“I told you to put the dog in the kitchen!” My mom screamed at me.

“I d-d-did.” I stammered back.

“Then how did all of this happen!” said Screaming Mom.

“I….I…don’t know…I put her in the kitchen…I heard her howling…” I stammered again.

“Don’t lie to me!” sputtered Screaming Mom.

“I’m not….I didn’t….I did…” I coughed out starting to cry. “Did she knock over the gate?

“No she didn’t knock it over! The gate was still behind the door – it hadn’t been moved! Screaming Mom spat out.

I was in some serious trouble here. Trouble that I didn’t deserve could see no way of getting out of and had no explanation for. I looked helplessly at Big Brother who was standing there with a kind of “boy are you screwed” expression on his face.

“Did you….?” I started to ask Big Brother.

“Don’t you blame him!” Screamed Mom, grabbing my by the shoulder and spinning me around to face her. “We came home at the same time! Now you get this mess cleaned up and don’t even think about any more baton lessons. You’re grounded for a MONTH!

Long story short, I still have no idea what happened. I clearly remembered (and remember still) locking up that damn dog and hearing her howl as I walked down the street. My brother swears it wasn’t him - that when they came home the gate wasn’t up and the dog was roaming freely through the house. I was overcome with the injustice of it all. I had been falsely accused with no opportunity for recrimination or redress. My baton twirling career (such as it was) came to a screeching halt (didn’t matter that I’d paid for the class with my own babysitting money) and I couldn’t do anything but homework and extra chores for a month (actually 6 weeks because about a month later my mom and I had an argument about the actual date of “the incident” – an argument I lost).

This memory came to mind because if something that happened at school this week. Someone was accused of something that they didn’t do. Nothing too dark or sinister – just kind of awkward. Circumstantial evidence had piled up, but luckily events unfolded that proved that it was all just a big misunderstanding. In my case it was all a big misunderstanding too with, I’ll grant you, circumstantial evidence that was quite damning. I can’t really blame my mom for being mad and not believing me. It certainly seemed like she had this one down cold. But certainty or not I think this event was kind of a turning point for what became a rough relationship for my mom and I.

I was always very adamant about my side of the story and tried often to talk to her about it. I knew what I had done and I knew that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I had done what I was supposed to. But even though I stuck to my guns, she refused to talk about it and never really trusted me after that - and who can blame her? After all, what’s worse than an apparently adamant pathological liar? Sadly even after I was grown up and you have those talks with your parents about the things you did as a kid they never knew about (like teenage Ebay and Superdude driving my new car to Park City while I was at Girl’s camp :-/ ). Or things you got in blamed for that were actually the dog or…I don’t know…space aliens possibly? She still never believed me and eventually didn’t remember the incident well enough to care. But, as a kid, I could never get past the hurt that she wouldn't talk to me. She didn’t even try to listen, try to believe me, and at least consider an alternate possibility. Or if she thought I really was lying, why I kept at it so resolutely – wasn’t that at least worth a conversation?

I really don’t mean that as a grudge. After all there isn’t a parent in the world that hasn’t blamed a kid for something that they didn’t do. And most of us justify it with “Well, if they didn’t deserve it this time, they deserved for another time when I didn’t catch them.” But all I know is that it was definitley a turning point that put us on the no-communication relationship road from which we couldn’t seem to exit. And I don’t think all the broken houseplants or baton lessons in the world are worth that.

Fleetwood Mac

2011-02-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

Have you ever listened to Fleetwood Mac?

I have.

Some of my fondest memories of this band are listening to them on the trips we’d take out to the river, or visits my grandmother’s house. My dad would slip the tape into the car stereo as we drove the miles to either one destination or the other. It was because of this that Fleetwood Mac, and more especially their album, Rumors, came to be somewhat a tether to my childhood and to good memories of the past.

Tonight I sat at my laptop and fired up iTunes as I worked on various items. As I looked at the window before me, I saw - staring back at me from the smorgasbord of songs - a Fleetwood Mac tune or two nestled amongst the various and sundry. I clicked on one of the songs and it wasn’t long before I thought back on those times – the simpler ones when it was others that made life’s major decisions for me; back in a day when I was dependent upon my parents; lodged back in a time when the greatest worries I had in life were whether or not Maye Clamm really liked me or not, and wonderings of if my goldfish was going to still be alive when I got home from school that day.

I also thought about my grandmother.

I thought of her little house and the flowers she grew around it. I remembered the distinct smell of canned cat food and the red kitchen counters. I thought of the secret second drawer down which was always filled with candy – it was like a treasure chest of sugary goodness.

It’s funny that in the ensuring years from those moments, the songs did not change. Oh, the medium changed – the mode of delivery – but not the songs themselves. So instead of cassettes or records we now use CDs and Mp3s, but the music is constant.

The music is still the portal. It is still the conduit into yesteryear.

For quite some time I listened to my favorites from the album – some more than others – and thought of a time in my distant past.

Today I am grateful for music.

Kicking and Chortling

2011-02-07T19:24:00.003-07:00

I'm sitting here trying to watch The Bachelor (what is wrong with me that I still watch this show?) and simultaneously attempting to compose an essay on the New Testament canon-- which isn't a great combination to begin with--when all of a sudden the belly starts dancing.

Forget the canon and Brad Wommack...I can't ignore the belly when it begins its weird internal tango...immediately, the shirt comes up so I can see the skin rippling and popping in time to a music that I can't hear. It never gets old.

It began a couple of months ago as faint "popcorn" bursts deep within. Now, as muscles strengthen and bones continue to form, it's more like a persistent little alien is working on making his presence very known. Although a little disconcerting, this is one of my favorite things about pregnancy--right up there with seeing the baby on ultrasound and hearing the heartbeat.

Truitt started making his presence known in church service Sunday morning, and for a while I contented myself with just resting a hand lightly on my stomach and pretending to pay attention. Lawson was sitting on Duane's lap next to me, pretending he was still little enough to take a nap in church. I took his hand and placed in under mine, holding it there for the few seconds it took Truitt to kick strongly.

He chortled. There's no other word for it. He gasped, snatched his hand away, and chortled with delight.

Love it.

A Tight End

2011-02-03T11:55:00.005-07:00

Don't let your mind bully your body into believing it must carry the burden of its worries. ~Astrid Alauda

I have a close personal relationship with tension. There’s always the emotional tension that comes from…you know…life (especially my life it seems) plus I do have a special gift for worrying and I sometimes have a hard time slowing down, giving things up and taking time to do nothing at all. Because of this close personal relationship with tension I seem to have found certain places on my body to just carry it around with me all the time. I get some really tense muscles in my neck and shoulders, but especially my lower back is the place I really pack it in.

As I said, I’ve felt it for years, but as the years pile up, I’ve struggled with this more and more. I have tried to alleviate the tension with Yoga and different stretches and workouts. They work ok, but sometimes I’m cranked up too tight to really be able to participate fully in the Sun-moon-saluting-soldier pose or whatever it is. I’ve done the massage thing a few times here and there over the years and that has helped the most. But the problem there is that massage just not cheap - at least not cheap enough for me. I just haven’t had (and still don’t have) the excess fundage for such an extravagant self-indulgence.

But a couple of weeks ago my body really started rebelling. I had apparently reached the limit of the tension I could stuff into my lower back and had really started doing a pretty good Quasimodo impression (you know –The Hunchback of Notre Dame?) When any walking around was required I actually sort of looked like a cross between Quasimodo and a geriatric duck (The Hunchback of Notre Duck?). My body was basically telling me this is all I can take and I can’t take no more – it was time for a sacrifice.

I’d been saving up for a while for a new coat. Winter and cold doesn’t usually bother me too much and I can usually get by with layers and jackets. But it’s been a pretty darn cold winter around here this year and I’ve been feeling the absence of a good coat. But with my hunchback duck-walk it was pretty clear that if I didn’t start taking care of myself, I wouldn’t be going anywhere that required a coat. So I decided to blow my coat money on a series of massages (like I said, a real sacrifice).

As you might imagine from my self-described tension addiction, I am just repressed enough to have some hang-ups about massage. First of all there’s the whole nudity (or near-nudity) issue. I know you’re mostly all covered up and draped except in the areas they massage therapist is working on. But still, under that I’m naked under a sheet in a room with a stranger. And then there’s being touched in a fairly intimate way (for me anyway) by that stranger. On the other hand I guess I’d rather have it be a stranger than a friend …I guess. Now I know these people are professionals and it’s like going to a doctor or a chiropractor. To them we’re just another body - like an auto mechanic working on a Buick. But to me it’s still someone massaging my butt which is a fairly familiar act (I apparently have a lot of tension in my gluteus maximus – a literal pain in the butt...go figure). But because I had come to the point of walking through Quasi-duckland every day, I was compelled to summon my inner reservoir of maturity and made the first appointment.

The Therapeutic Massage and Wellness Center is a very nice place (University Avenue in Provo). It’s full of just he kind of new-age sights and scents one expects from massage therapy. To be honest though massage tables, anyone’s massage tables always kind of worry me. They look kind of like a piece of plywood across two sawhorses (albeit decoratively carved from polished wood in Sweden or somewhere) and I can’t imagine that they’re going to be strong enough to hold me. Then there’s the little donut looking headrest thing that you get to squish your face into while they’re working on your back. I come out having lips like a blowfish for at least a little while after a massage. The music also cracks me up. It’s always a mix of ocean waves and Native American Pipes or running brook and soothing piano. I’m not complaining. It is soothing. But I can’t help but imagine (while my faced is squished into the donut) who are the musicians that create “massage music?” Then I also wonder does the masseuse just get sick of the “Soothing Sounds of the Pacific” after awhile? Do they crank up the ZZ Top or Mettalica when no one else is around?

Anyway, I’ve had 3 in my series of massages now and I feel so much better that I think I’m going to have to find a way to stick with this – self-indulgent or not. I’m not sure yet exactly what I’m going to have to give up on the other end of the budget to make massage therapy a permanent part of my life…food…haircuts…car payment? Of course if I do give up my car and have to start walking everywhere, at least I’ll be able to stand up straight.

Different Is Good

2011-02-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

pic from cute_wallpaper.com

I recently did a post on my own blog where I listed a few of the books I've read over the past month and then asked for some good recommendations. One book was named repeatedly and given glowing reviews - and I could not wait to get my hands on it!

I got on the waiting list for this particular novel at the library and within a week or so it became available. I started to read it almost as soon as it was placed into my hands, excited for the adventure that awaited me within its pages.

Well. About 30 pages into the book I was thinking, "It must be starting slow. It's going to get good, I know it!" So I kept reading. And I kept thinking it was going to, at some point, become the amazing story I had envisioned. When I made it to Part 2 I realized that this book was not going to even come close to meeting my expectations and I put it down - for good.

Does this mean there was something wrong with those who loved the book and suggested it to me? No. It also doesn't mean there is anything wrong with my own taste in literature. It simply means that we have different opinions. And you know what? Different is good.

Different is what keeps life interesting.

Legacy

2011-02-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

leg·a·cy [leg-uh-see] n. plural -cies. What one leaves behind; their gift to others.

I was asked by a friend, not long ago, what I would want to be remembered by—you know, my legacy.

I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t think her question warranted an answer, but rather because I found myself becoming deeply lost in this topic. After all, when I thought of a legacy, I was somewhat at a loss. Just what would be my offering to the world and those that I love? What is it that I would want others to conjure up when they dig into the past annals of memory where I am someplace buried after I’ve departed?

My mind drew up a blank—as blank as—well, words fail me; I was just blank. I thought of the various things that this legacy could be, and realized that I simply had no idea.

When I was a kid, more than anything I wanted to be a movie star, and be able to leave a pop-culture ridden life behind for others to envy. People would watch “Star Trek—The Next Generation” and see me as the intrepid child star—who cared about that Will Wheaton kid when they could’ve had me? Back then, that seemed to be a pretty good legacy to leave behind. After all, popularity is always a good thing, right?

With the passing of a year or two, I found myself instead thinking of legacy in an entirely different matter. I would be a writer. A writer whose books were so popular that sales were only trumped by that the Bible itself—after all, I didn’t want to become more popular than deity.

Heaven forbid.

The years moved onward, and I again found that I was again changing.

One day, I decided to be a teacher.

Why? Oh, there’s a whole story behind that…one I have hinted at and mentioned before. And it becoming rapidly late, I don’t wish to reiterate it here and now. Suffice it to say, I became a teacher.

But what about your legacy, Teachinfourth?

Ah, yes. There is that question again…

Today I think of the students I teach year to year; those I try to make a difference in their lives. I thought of my family members and the friends that I love. I thought of my long excursions out on vast deserts. I thought of my faith. I thought about my photography. I thought about my writing.

Then it came to me. It’s not what I leave behind when the days of tomorrow have passed, but it’s what I am living today…my living legacy. That ‘gift’ which I give back to the world, the heirloom I pass down to as many as I can—

I am a teacher.

Ideas Over Substance

2011-01-28T00:33:00.007-07:00

Indecision may or may not be my problem.

Jimmy Buffett

I had one of those seriously bad headaches today. You know it’s going to be a bad one when you actually wake up with an aching head.

My head probably hurts because I just haven’t been getting enough sleep this week (or water – see last week’s post) . I’ve been up late every night because I’m getting ready for decorating the local high school gymnasium again. It’s a fun challenge, but it does…you know…take some time.

Anyway back to my headache. It’s Thursday, my day to post and I’ve attempted several topics several times only to be thwarted by headache apathy and decorating overdose. The following are several topics that I almost wrote about today and may, in fact write about in the future – a preview of coming attractions if you will.

Ebay and the Big Balloon

Ebay’s adventure trying to get a giant 3 foot balloon home from the party store after having filled it with helium so we could “practice” for our event decorations. Long story short – big balloon – small car – freezing cold night - funny picture.

Where’s my Flying Car?

A book I’ve been reading called The Next Hundred Years about author’s predictions about the coming century – political, economic, social etc. It’s interesting to realize where the world was at the beginning of the last century, what the prevailing opinions and political powers were and then see how events actually unfolded. I don’t think we can really conceive of where the 21st century will take us.

The Fringerator

And while I’m doing the time warp, there’s a show called Fringe that I’ve been totally getting into. It’s about a parallel universe, almost the same as this one but not quite. My inner geek just totally comes out when it comes to time travel or any kind of parallel quantum universe.

The Redwood Forest

It seems that I spend an awful lot of time at my job working on projects and proposals that don’t really get very far. There’s a lot of Chiefs where I work and the decision making tree is akin to a giant redwood. It takes a lot of time to go up and down the tree before any kind of decision can be made. Needless to say, I find this trend frustrating because I often spend hours on a project only to have it get stuck on a lofty and unused branch of the tree never to be seen again. But I ran across a quote by John Quincy Adams when he was asked if he was ever frustrated by his constant effort to abolish slavery with little or no success. He said “Duty is ours; results are God’s.” Not that I’m fighting slavery in my job (although I can claim a certain moral outrage sometimes when working with those who work with Juvenile Delinquents). But I am constantly striving for a better attitude (because the alternatives are either violence or medication) and this quote has stuck with me lately.

So there you go. My blog post about all the things I could have written about today, didn’t write about today, but may yet write about in the future.
But for now…it’s late again, my head still hurts and I need to sleep – perchance to dream about next week’s perfect blog-post.

The Sweetest Thing

2011-01-26T20:20:00.000-07:00

There is something about having a new baby in the house that I can only describe as magical.

I'm not sure if the love that everyone has for this newest tiny human being in our family just spills over onto everything else, causing a general feeling of happy contentment. Maybe it's just a peaceful feeling that comes about from seeing a smallish someone who is just starting out in this life, perfect and new. Whatever it is, these feelings seem to have permeated our home over the past few weeks and it has been bliss.

I love this poem which we found in the life history of Allen's maternal grandmother. I think she captures perfectly what I'm trying to say.

You're Welcome

You're welcome little stranger babe,
As welcome as the spring
That drives the winter gloom away
And brings the birds to sing.
The boon of love you brought to me
Was like a gift divine
To build and hold us heart to heart
Forever, baby mine.

I love being a mother. Again.

Flashback - Being Versus Doing

2011-01-25T19:29:00.000-07:00

I wrote this post on my other blog two summers ago, during one of the most difficult trials of my life. I am choosing to post it today simply because I have been thinking a lot about Mom lately. I have also been thinking about the trials we all face in life and wish we could hide away from.

Sometimes, there's really nothing one can do; they can only be...

The June wind stirred the chimes out on the front porch, its six notes sounding randomly in that sorrowful soundtrack life seems to have been writing this past week. For some of us, this is not the fairy-tale story or that one with the happy ending.

I stumbled into the bathroom this morning and saw the image of a young old man staring back at me from the mirror hanging above the sink. The few grey hairs I’d been noticing lately seem to have multiplied tenfold, and the lines which previously had been weakly etched across my face now seemed to line it like that of a well-used roadmap.

Life was a highway—I was a municiality.

My mother lie in bed, her breaths coming in labored gasps. She took hold of my hand and gazed at me through her one good eye. Every breath she took I was sure was to be her last.

“Bummer,” she croaked from somewhere deep in her throat, attempting a smile in one of her lucid moments—which were rapidly becoming more and more infrequent.

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Really, it was.

The grip of her hand tightened around mine. How many hours had I sat here? I’d lost count. The only way I’ve been able to even track the days was by reminding her every time she woke what day it was, what time it is, where she was. She doesn’t ask, but I tell her all the same. If it were me, I’d want to know.

The worst part is that emotion—that dreadful little feeling of helplessness, that deep understanding that there is nothing I can do—I can only be. Doing is the easy part; it’s the being that is the hard thing.

It’s so much easier to run someplace, to buy something, to go on an errand; but to simply be there…that is the hard part. To be there when her eyes open, to see her when she smiles or grimaces, murmurs disembodied thought, and falls back asleep; and through it all, to not have the ability to stay the inevitable.

She asked today, “Am I going to die?”

“We all are,” I responded a few moments later, choking on my sullen reply. “All of us will one day die.”

There have been days now, days when the bitter fount of tears has been emptied and dried. Tears become no longer an option; they become something more of a luxury, like a well run dry in summer’s oppressive heat.

In the quiet of the back room I held her hand, the hot tears stinging my cheeks yet again from sources unknown. She continually faded in and then out of consciousness, her requests slogged and pieced together in a mismatch of jumbled words.

I simply held on to her hand; I could only be…there was no to do.

I found myself becoming angry at God in watching this suffering go on without recourse; I found myself questioning that which I knew—that which I’d always believed. If God really were merciful, he should either heal her, or let her die.

God—I unpremeditatedly decided—was cataclysmically cruel.

I felt a nettling anger surge within me, bitterness directed at heaven itself, at the God who allowed such suffering.

“What is your faith made from?”

I was taken aback at the thought which pervaded my mind—a whispered rivulet.

What? I thought in return.

“This is but a moment of time; if you remember, My son suffered for a moment, too.”

But that’s different, I countered. You’re God.

“Not while he was on the cross…she has you, but My son was left alone—if you remember. Now you have the smallest idea of what it was like for Me when he was helpless, and I could only watch when he was crying out in anguish.”

Then let it be finished. I thought. Let it be finished.

“When it’s time.”

The oxygen machine continued to drone in its rhythmic pattern as I held onto Mom’s hand.

For now, I can only be.

Toxic Waste

2011-01-20T22:24:00.005-07:00

Eat right, exercise regularly, die anyway. ~Author Unknown

So I’ll bet you’ve all be wondering how my diet is going. Well, some days it’s going great! Absolutely A+-who-needs-willpower-you-can’t-tempt-me-with-your-pitiful-Cherry-Garcia great. And then there’s the other six days of the week.

Seriously though, I am about 6 weeks out and I’ve lost 10lbs. OK, 9.4lbs as of this morning…but my hair was wet. I am glad the scale is moving slooowwwly in the right direction, but 9.4lbs really isn’t all that much to brag about. I know that I could be doing better (mmmm….butter).

I know, I know… it’s a matter of building and cultivating good habits and integrating little healthy changes into my lifestyle. Like picking the frozen yogurt instead of the ColdStone Ice cream (I’ll do it, but I won’t pretend it’s just as good). Or parking at the far end of the parking lot and sprinting the the extra distance as though heading to Black Friday sale at Walmart. And then being consistent with it all. Consistency is the hard part don’t you think? Consistency is a BEAR (mmmm…bearclaw)!

But I realized today that I’ve managed to kind of kill two birds with one stone (mmmm...Cold Stone). You see, I’ve really been concentrating this week on drinking enough water. I’m supposed to drink about 2quarts a day to stave off the dreaded dehydration and to help flush out the toxins (Ewww). But speaking of flushing, the other dead bird in this scenario is that drinking all this water has had the unintended benefit of adding to my daily exercise. At work, the distance between my office and the restroom is roughly the equivalent of a city block. A mile here in Provo is about 12 blocks. Just today, after all that water, I added almost a whole mile to my walking regimen and flushed an awful lot of toxins while I was at it.

All potty-humor aside though, with life and work so busy, the hardest thing is to not to slip back into what is easier. Being healthy takes so much more effort and planning - it’s no wonder fast-food is so popular.

Mark Twain said, “The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd druther not.” Some days it feels like Old Mark couldn’t be more right. But I’ve lost 9.4lbs, I don’t want it to find me again, so I'll do my best to keep changing, planning, walking, drinking…and flushing.

ComedySportz and Thank You

2011-01-18T22:05:00.001-07:00

About two or three times a month I work at ComedySportz - Utah's premier improv comedy troupe.

I’m Mr. Voice.

I’m the guy who does the announcing, keeps score, does sound effects, music, lights, and interjects comments throughout the show. At times I can be funny; and at others I am most definitely not.

When the show comes to an end I call out all of the players, and they run outside to meet the crowd and talk. When I used to be a player I did the same thing.

However, Mr. Voice does not.

I stay up in the sound booth and play music while everyone is leaving. If someone I know has come to the show, they will usually come and chat with me. However, it is rare that anyone comes up after the show and says anything to me. Mr. Voice is more or less like the guy stocking the shelves at Wal-Mart whom we seldom notice…unless he does something wrong; such as blocking the aisle with his pallet load of food or nonfood items.

But at my last show, two people went out of their way to come up and say, “Hey, I just wanted to tell you thanks…you did a great job tonight.”

That simple, little phrase really meant a lot.

What this little phrase also did was to make me realize that I need to compliment people around me far more than I do. I need to acknowledge their large—or small—contributions to the everyday mundane moments and places around me.

Sometimes being thankful can be a hard thing to remember because of all we take for granted, but I do know that it is important.

By the way, I posted over at my other blog tonight as well.

Shiny Happy People

2011-01-13T21:22:00.009-07:00

Cleanliness becomes more important when Godliness is unlikely. P.J. O'Roark

Over Christmas break I did a some spring cleaning. I suppose I could call it Christmas break cleaning, but I’ll stick with spring cleaning because technically it was cleaning that I really should have done back in the spring. But, the giant Girl’s Camp Monster swallowed me up and then suddenly it was time for school to start again and then Superdude got married and then… Ok ok ok so who am I kidding? I just didn’t want to do it ok? It was a lot of cleaning and re-organizing and going through boxes and boxes of random stuff and I procrastinated as long as I could.

But apparently I have not yet reached the point of being a candidate for the TV show Hoarders because I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I could feel the giant jumble of stuff lurking down there, probably spontaneously multiplying while I slept and I had to do something about it.

So I bought a WHOOOOLLLE bunch of plastic totes from Walmart, unfortunately online, so I didn’t actually set foot in the store. My loss apparently as that is where hilarious blog opportunities are born. My Walmart totes were delivered by a handsome UPS dude that I unfortunately don’t have any good stories about either (except that he was still wearing shorts in December…brrrrr).

Anyway, once the totes arrived Ebay and I set about cleaning and reorganizing the much neglected downstairs area industriously packing totes, and collapsing boxes while vacuuming, dusting and mopping every grimy corner, cobweb and dust-bunny. Clean Sweep and Clean House and all those other organization shows would have been proud of us – even though it really sucked. It was totally not fun and I realized several times while standing in the middle of piles of sh…I mean stuff why I had put it off for so long – I hate cleaning.

I come by my hatred honestly though. My family had a cleaning business when I was a teenager where we worked for several large apartment complexes in Arizona. We would clean the vacant apartments to get them ready for the new tenants sometimes 10 or 12 apartments a day – that’s a lot of refridgerators, stoves, ovens, bathrooms etc. So you see, I feel like I filled my cleaning quota at a very early age.

Unfortunately, the flip side of all that cleaning is that I do like things to be clean. I think I must be trying to fool or maybe motivate myself because I’ve noticed that I seem to pick cleaning products with very inspirational and happy names. I noticed I was wiping down the dusty plastic shelving with Fantastik. I used Behold on the old wooden rocking chair. I had a bucket of warm sudsy Joy for cleaning the grout between the tiles. I was backed up by Resolve to get the chocolate syrup stain out of the carpet. And when we were done we threw all the dirty rags into the washing machine with a Cheer!

The product manufacturers must be on to the fact that people may require some inspiration from their cleaning products because there’s lots of other product names apparently designed to send you running gleefully for the sponges and rubber gloves. Besides the ones I found under my own sink, it doesn't take too long for other's to bubble to the surface. Pledge, for example, came to mind - perhaps helping us pledge to take care of grandma’s antiques? Gain: you’ll gain more friends if your clothes are clean? Dawn for those early morning dishwashers complete with sunrise and birdsong? Shout or those who like a little affirmation with their spot removing. All because everyone should be in on the laundry. And I noticed something at the store the other day I’d never heard of before called Fabuloso (really – it is) – which is obviously self-explanatory.

Anyway cleaning still sucks, but Behold it looks Fantastik downstairs (or at least a lot better anyway) and I’ve “Cheer”ed up a lot since we got it done. Ebay was a Joy to work with and inspired me with his Resolve to keep at it till we finished. But even with all of those products trying to fool us into being shiny happy people - I still wouldn't want to do it again for at least another 409 years.

People of Walmart

2011-01-12T17:30:00.001-07:00

Teachinfourth's Walmart narrative yesterday brought to mind my own It-Could-Only-Happen-At-Walmart experience from the holidays.

It was just a few days before Christmas as I ventured into our local Walmart for some last-minute gift purchases. Being almost a full 9 months pregnant I thought it sensible to make a detour into the restroom before starting my shopping and was surprised to see a woman at the sink washing a small tub of dishes.

As I approached the sink to wash my hands the woman apologized for taking up a sink for her dish washing. I told her it was no bother to me but definitely wondered why in the world she found it necessary to clean her dishes in the bathroom of a Walmart. She answered my silent question with her next remark, "When we be out travelin' life's lonely highway tryin' to find that place we call home for the holidays, we gots to do what we gots to do to make things work."

A voice from behind me answered her, "Lawd, girl. You said it." I turned and saw that the dishwashing lady had a friend at the corner sink who I hadn't noticed before. Believe it or not, she was using the sink to wash her... unmentionables. Seriously. I can't make this stuff up.

At this point I was looking around for a hidden camera somewhere. I was not sure what to think.

"So, honey, when's that baby comin'?" the first lady asked me.

"I've got another few weeks," was my reply.

"This your first?" she inquired.

"No. My tenth, actually."

"You say your tenth?" she asked, incredulous. "Like, you had nine babies and this be your number TEN baby?"

"That's right," I answered, drying my hands.

"How many daddies for all them kids?"

"Just one." I answered, already growing weary of the way this conversation was headed.

"Girl, you got eight up on me. I had my oldest girl and 18 months later I had my second. And that's just 'cuz I forgot."

"You say you forgot?" the second woman remarked in a fit of laughter. "Lawd, you funny."

"So," the dishwasher asked, "you got your own T.V. show yet?"

"You say T.V. show?" the laundress laughed. "Girl, you bustin' my gut!"

"Really, now, your man got a good job to help with all those babies?" the first lady asked me.

At this point I was beyond ready to make my exit. I don't generally enjoy being the topic of an impromptu comedy show put on by two travelers in the WalMart bathroom. But I answered her question.

"Yes, he does." And then, as I started to leave I wished them well in their travels and said, "You have a Merry Christmas."

"Yeah, you too, Miss TEN BABIES. Ten! Lawd almighty. Bless you, honey. That's all I gots to say. BLESS. YOU."

And as I walked out into the store I heard the second woman comment, "When we all see that girl on T.V. we can say we met her at Utah's Walmart!"

Yeah. In the bathroom. As you washed your underwear.

Only at Walmart.

Ah, Walmart...

2011-01-11T06:30:00.002-07:00

Photo from BoxTurtle

I recently frequented our local Walmart supercenter. Upon entry into the store, and realized that I’d probably be better suited to use the restroom before I went about seeking my day’s purchases.

I slipped into the restroom and immediately noticed a set of shoes under one of the stall doors. They were a bit…effeminate (to say the least) but then again, who was I to judge a person by what they chose to wear on their feet?

In the space of about a minute I was washing my hands at the sink when a toilet flushed and the stall door opened. A middle-aged woman stepped into the main area and caught my eye in the bathroom mirror.

The expression on her face was one of pure disgust. I could almost hear her readying to blast me with a fiery sermon on inappropriateness, and to berate me saying that I was a complete pervert. As she opened her mouth to speak, her eyes swung over and she noticed – I imagine for the first time – the urinals.

Her expression instantly went from shocked to appalled, and her entire face went a shade of magenta akin to deepest cherry. She immediately made a hurried exit from the restroom without speaking a word.

I couldn’t help but smile as I imagined her practically running across the store - someplace she was probably hoping she wouldn’t run into me. After all, it was she that’d been the wrong place, not me.

After nearly fifteen minutes of shopping, I noticed this woman down a distant aisle. I walked causally so as not to draw her attention. When I passed by her, I wished her a nice day.

She looked sheepish.

Ah, Walmart…you have once again made my day.

Oh, I should probably mention that I posted today over at Adventures & Misadventures of Daily Living.

Offline for a Week

2010-12-28T18:50:00.000-07:00

Our Dearest Readers,

You've probably noticed that we were a bit sporadic with posts last week, and this week as well. It just so happens that each of us is currently in the midst of this, that, and the other with the events of the holiday season. We'll be offline for the rest of this week - and perhaps next week as well, but we will be back in full force before you know it.

Thanks for your understanding…and your continued patronage. You guys are the greatest.

Lori
Teachinfourth
Gerb
Mel

Real Face Time

2010-12-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

Well, as luck would have it, yesterday I wrote an entire post before I realized that my internet connection was on the blink and none of it but the first paragraph was saved. Have you ever done that? Written something out and then lost it but just didn't have the heart to write it again after all of the time you put into it?

About a half an hour ago our connection was restored and so here I sit, wanting to write but not in so much detail. So that's what I'm going to do.

picture found at f2f.org

I disabled my Facebook account a few weeks ago. There were many reasons behind the decision, but mostly it was in an attempt to simplify my time on the computer. One day I just decided to do it and see if I would miss it. I didn't miss it at all. I have realized many more benefits since then and have not regretted my decision even once.

One of the benefits is that I was allowing myself to become too wrapped up in people's lives. When a friend writes in her status about how her husband lost his job, I want to help. When someone talks about how unhappy they are in their life or their marriage, I worry about them. When people express opinions that I 100% disagree with, I wish I hadn't seen that side of them. When someone invites me to 'like' a page they have created I am worried they will be offended if I don't. None of that matters anymore because I don't know about it. If something were important enough for me to know about, I would find out about it in other ways.

I think the best part, though, is that the people who really are truly my friends I am still in contact with. When it comes to those whose lives I want to remain a part of, nothing changed when I left the Facebook community. I have only had one old friend from high school email my brother and ask him for my contact information so that we could stay in touch. I don't have anyone poking me or sending me 'gifts' or inviting me to join their Facebook game community. I'm just living my real, live life and it's awesome.

The one thing that social networking (among other things - like texting, which I will never understand) takes away from life is actual human interaction. If you really want to know how your friends and family are doing, how about picking up the phone and giving them a call? If they live locally, walk/drive over to their house and say hello! Or, hey - how about writing a letter? (Letters are those things that people send in envelopes in the mail... you know, you write what you want to say on a piece of paper and send it off to the person you wanted to say it to? The benefit of a letter is that it can be read over and over again.)

My main point is that the only thing missing from my life since I left Facebook is the time I spent on my computer reading people's endlessly changing status updates and (quite often) life details that I was better off not knowing about in the first place.

Do you think you could do it? Disconnect from Facebook and go back to the way things were before you had ever heard of it? I bet you could.

Thinking of Grandpa

2010-12-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have a new favorite Christmas song.

Isn’t it just a little bit funny that we can hear hundreds of versions of one song, and yet we seem to fall in love with only one or two of them?

Music, I firmly believe, has the ability to touch us in a way that nothing else can. It has the capacity to evoke memories, emotions, and intertwine our lives with chords and harmonies that transcend the reaches of time.

It was many years ago that I could remember going to visit my grandfather in the rest home - the place he lived when his health had become so poor that he needed constant care. It seemed that he had no idea half of the time who was with him, or indeed even who they were.

One day, I wheeled him out on the front porch area and went to my vehicle for my guitar. We sat, my grandfather and I, on that beautiful summer day and I began to play some of the songs he knew and loved so well.

As I sang, my grandfather’s quiet and weak voice found mine and together we sang…though he’d made no previous acknowledgement before this as to whom I was. As we finished the final verse, he looked at me briefly and smiled.

I felt tears raining down from my eyes as I looked at this man whom I’d always known and loved so much. We sat and I played my guitar, the music flowing around us, intertwining us both in the moment.

Music does carry a power within it my friends.

Let this song by Dustin Christensen intertwine you as well…

Untitled

2010-12-20T17:42:00.003-07:00

I pondered titles for this post. Manic Monday, which I think I've used before. Holly Jolly Stressed Out Holiday. @#$%&! (A personal favorite.) Other Mothers That Yell, Please Tell Me I'm Not Alone. It's Not Hormones, I Swear. And the Moral of the Story Is...(always carry Nilla Wafers). I couldn't decide, hence the "Untitled."

I yelled at Autumn today.

It was just one of those things. You know...you've waited ten minutes past time picking the child up from yet another athletic activity that stresses you out, manage to make it five minutes down the road, and the child realizes that she left every single personal belonging she owns back at the gym. And if you don't go to get it right this very instant, it will be thrown away.

I might not have been quite so close to the edge of reasonable behavior if the pick-up time hadn't been right in the middle of suppertime. Our meal was currently sitting in the oven, while I sat in the car, heaving intermittently and nibbling desperately at a stray Nilla Wafer I discovered in the console. I was going to puke up my stomach acids if I didn't get some food. Now.

So I lost it a little, was instantly ashamed, and sulked in silence the entire thirty minute drive home, even when Autumn offered a sheepish, "thank you for taking me back." I managed to choke out an "I'm sorry I yelled" about the time we made it to the driveway, but still.

Bad Mother Award Candidate: there she blows.

I'm not going to chalk it up to pregnancy, even though my husband swears I'm never as irritable and difficult to please as I am when I'm gestating. I think it had a lot to do with it being the first day of Christmas Break and my asinine decision to tackle Sam's Club and Wal-Mart in a single fell swoop to get the grocery shopping done.

What a moron I am. Who goes to Walmart and Sam's the week before Christmas? EVERYONE. And their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and redneck cousin twice removed. My baby will probably develop hypothermia from having to walk from the far reaches of the parking lot, and brain damage from the twenty people that shoved my cart into my stomach. What should have been a relatively simple morning shopping expedition took us until 1:00. The entire time was spent wrangling my two offspring into some semblance of appropriate behavior, which involved threatening bodily injury if they didn't stop rearranging the shelves. And/or inspecting every carton of eggs.

It was a day, and I yelled.

But I'm okay now. I've had a caffeine infusion, some food, and I'm considering chocolate. Autumn emptying the dishwasher without being asked and wrestling her brother into submission in the other room didn't hurt, either.

Here's to the next two manic weeks. May we all survive intact.

A Silver Lining

2010-12-17T16:54:00.017-07:00

Convert difficulties into opportunities, for difficulties are divine surgeries to make you better. ~Author Unknown

I had a one of those weird nights last night. I’ve been getting over just a little sick and so was bundled in bed early (about 7:30pm) against the bitter cold outside. I studied on my computer for a while (online textbook) and then started to work on my Four Perspectives post.

The next thing I know, I woke up at about 5:30 am with the T.V. still on, the light still on and the laptop still open on my lap. I don’t really recall dozing off. I do recall putting my head back because I was trying to think of how to phrase a particular idea – and I guess that was enough - I was done for the night, out for the count and with no real recollection about the idea that I was trying to finish either.

It’s probably just as well that I didn’t finish my original idea because today has been kind of a eventful day in Provo, Utah. Sad, but eventful and it’s sparked a lot of divergent thoughts.

Being in Utah Provo is, of course, a Mormon town and a Mormon Pioneer town at that. Provo was originally settled in 1849 only a couple of years after the first Mormon settlers came to the Utah Territory. In fact, Provo was the first Mormon colony in Utah outside of the Salt Lake Valley. We Mormons love to preserve things, jam, peaches, tomatoes, but we especially love to preserve our old buildings. Maybe it’s because we left so much behind in the East. Or maybe it’s because we came to the middle of nowhere and had to work so hard to make Utah a viable place to live and to build our towns and cities and monuments. I say “we” like I had anything to do with it. But I do come from pioneer stock and “we” as a Mormon people do pay a lot of homage to the “early Saints” who sacrificed so much for their faith.

Anyway, one of the major preservation projects in Provo was the Provo Tabernacle. It was originally constructed from 1883 to 1898 and has been remodeled and renovated several times over the years. It really is a majestic and impressive building with towering spires, inviting stained glass windows, beautiful exterior stonework and really remarkable wood carvings in the interior. It isn’t a landmark that is just for show either. It’s a working building so to speak. Church meetings are held there pretty much every weekend. Graduation Ceremonies for BYU are held there several times a year. In fact, at one time all of the city's high school graduations were held at the Tabernacle as well because it was the largest gathering place in the area for decades. There has been a wealth of religious and civic concerts, celebrations and ceremonies over the generations. I know I’ve attended some kind of function at the Tabernacle at least two or three times a year pretty much every year since birth. I always feel proud when I drive by that we have such a beautiful and distinctive building in our town. I really am drawn to the historic nature of the building too. I imagine the generations of people that have gone up the same stairs that I have, sat on the same benches that I have, listened to the same organ that I have. While I'm in the Tabernacle I try to visualize the congregations of the past like the ladies at the turn of the last century in their big Gibson-Girl type hats and the men in their high stiff collars. I’ve seen pictures of pioneer day celebrations from the 1920’s and smiled at the homemade bunting and banners draped across the Tabernacle's carved banisters with such obvious pride. I also think a lot about the meetings and the prayers must have taken place there during war times when Provo was still a relatively small city. It must have been very emotional and very apparent that so many brethren were missing - away at war and so many others working the endless shifts at the (now defunct) local steel plant to support the war effort. Provo itself has waxed and waned and changed over the years, but the Tabernacle has remained - the ever-constant fixture and touchstone in our community.

Until today.

At about 2:30 this morning, Friday, December 17, 2010 a massive fire broke out in Provo’s Historic Tabernacle. The first thing I saw this morning when I woke was that news broadcast and an image of orange flames and smoke billowing out of the windows and roof of the Provo Tabernacle. I went to the window and could actually see the smoke rising against the morning sky. In just the few the reports that I saw before going to work this morning it was easy to see that the news wasn’t going to be good. The roof had collapsed, the firefighters were shooting water through the shattered stain glass windows and rivers of water (at least the water that wasn’t immediately turning into ice in the sub-zero temperatures) was pouring out of the doors and stairwells. There was no doubt that the pipe organ was gone, the hand-hewn benches were gone, the intricate hand-carved panel that extended across the front of the stand was gone. It was total devastation. I’ve been scanning various news sites on and off throughout the day, reading some of the reactions from people like me. People who gathered around the Tabernacle in the early light with a mixture flames, smoke, disbelief and their own Tabernacle memories reflecting in their tear-filled eyes.

I really hope it was an accident because I’d hate to think that anyone would set a fire like that on purpose. I've had a few hours to process the news now and whether accident or arson I keep thinking about the devastation that pushed the early Latter-Day-Saints across the plains. Nauvoo was a town that the Mormons built in 1839 in the state of Illinois on a bend of the Mississippi River. By all accounts it was a beautiful town complete with its’ crowning glory - a beautiful Temple. The Temple was only barely completed before the Mormons were driven out of the state by violent anti-Mormon sentiments in the area. The Saints had to leave their beautiful town and their beautiful Temple-which was then burned to the ground. But they made the trek across the plains and started again, planted again and built again. And the Provo Tabernacle was part of that legacy.

We do have a legacy – and in Provo we have a legacy to build. To be honest, as much as I loved the historic nature of the Tabernacle, those hand-hewn benches were really uncomfortable. I’m not sure whose backside those were made for, but it sure wasn’t mine (what did the ladies ever do in the days of bustles?) And if you ever had to attend Stake or regional conference in the summertime, the speaker didn’t have to try very hard to invoke hell-fire and damnation because Man! It was HOT in there! And the acoustics and sound system were such that if the “baby choir” really got going (you know all the babies in the congregation making all the noises babies make from gleeful to growling) it was kind of hard to hear the speaker. Also, as Provo has grown, if your Stake Conference was scheduled at the Tabernacle, you really had to plan to get there early to have any hope of finding a seat, not to mention a place to park.

Sometimes as awesome as history is (and it is), moving forward is even more important. I would never, ever go so far to say that the today’s Tabernacle fire was a blessing in disguise. I can’t see any blessing in that burned-out shell of a building and I will miss it every day. But now that the deed is done and the devastation has occurred, all that's left is an opportunity. We still have a lot of worshipping and gathering and graduating to do here in our community. There is still music to be made and songs to be sung. I hope that this devastation will evolve into an opportunity to create a monument for our time and for the generations to come. A new landmark for Provo – one that appreciates the past while embracing the opportunities of the future. And while we're at it, central air and more comfortable seats.

Traditions

2010-12-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest things about melding two families together in marriage is that each side brings different customs and traditions to the table. This is especially true for us when it comes to Christmas.

What is even more awesome is being able to weed out the traditions that you didn't much care for growing up - like each person taking their turn opening one gift at a time while everyone sits around watching. That one's from my family and it only lasted one year as a passed-along tradition with our kids. Now we open gifts wild banshee style and it's much more exciting and messy - the way Christmas morning should be.

Christmas traditions in Allen's family included delivering homemade treats to neighbors and friends while Christmas caroling. In my family Christmas cookies have always been a big deal (snickerdoodles made with green and red colored sprinkles and chocolate crinkles were the two you could always count on) but there was never any singing involved. We have carried on a blend of these two traditions throughout our marriage - but this year it's going to change just a bit.

And here's why:

I was amazed by the number of people who were making disparaging comments on Facebook a few weeks ago regarding the delivery of homemade treats at Christmas time. One person even said something to the extent of: If you bring my family a plate of Christmas treats they come in my front door and straight out the back door and into the garbage can. Ouch! Others mentioned that it's the sugar overload all at one time that's hard to handle. So this year we've decided to save ourselves the time and effort of making homemade treats and go with store bought for our neighbors and friends instead - something they can enjoy right away or put in the pantry for a month or two down the road.

I've actually been keeping a list over the years of fun (and almost always cheesily-clever) little sayings to pair with store-bought Christmas goodies. Lest you think I am the Chuck Norris of puns and cheesy sayings, I must confess that these were all either given to us at some point or something I've seen somewhere.

In case you're interested, here are a few ideas:

Wishing you a souper holiday season! (with a bag of soup mix)

Hope this adds a little spice to your holidays. (tied to a jar of salsa & bag of chips)

Just popping by with a holiday 'hi'! (microwave popcorn)

Have a FANTAstic holiday. (attached to a bottle of Fanta soda)

We wish you a Merry SwissMiss! (box or can of Swiss Miss brand hot chocolate)

My personal favorites, which I would probably not have the guts to actually give to anyone because it would reveal too much of my sick sense of humor and possibly reflect negatively on the rest of my family are:

You've been bad, so here's the scoop; all you get is snowman poop. (A cellophane bag filled with yogurt covered peanuts or anything round dipped in white chocolate)

Or, the same poem but with 'reindeer poop'. (Small box of Whoppers candy or any chocolate covered morsels in a cellophane bag would work)

So for this year, these are the gifts we've decided to give as we share a Christmas song or two:

We WHISK you a merry KISSmas and a happy ROOT BEER! (Wire whisk filled with chocolate kisses attached to a bottle of A&W)

or

You're gettin' MUFFIN for Christmas! (muffin mix tied to a muffin pan)

If you're one of my neighbors, please pretend to be surprised when we bring you these clever gifts of the season.

If you have the time, I would love to hear what your favorite neighbor gifts have been over the years. Do you like getting a plate filled with homemade goodness or do your prefer the store bought variety? Maybe you prefer non-food items (my favorite in this category is a kitchen towel and washcloth with a tag that declares: A new washer and dryer!) or nothing at all.

Talk to me.

(I'm hoping someone will have a fabulous idea for me to use next year.)

By the way, if the title of this post make you start singing a song from Fiddler on the Roof at the top of your lungs, you're my kind of person.

The Forest

2010-12-14T07:13:00.000-07:00

I used to drive by a small wood each day on my way home from work. It’s just west of the cemetery and east of the old train yard; a thick growth of leaf-bearing coniferous giants. I’d grown accustomed to seeing this plot of foliage, deep and mysterious with dense growths of bushes and grass. I’d often contemplated hiking into this small wood to explore and see what and seeing what wonders might be secreted away there.

I’d never done it.

You see, every day I now drive home from work past an empty dirt lot. Last week somebody cut down this little pocket of forest and plowed everything under. It must have only taken a day or two, because one day the woods were there, and the next they weren’t.

Like I said, I’d never gone into these woods. I have no fond memories of playing there as a child or anything else in this regard; however, just having those woods there—a small thicket in the middle of town—was something of a comfort. I felt like nature wasn’t all that far away. In fact, I enjoyed taking this route home because those woods gave me a feeling of reassurance. Strange to be saying something like that, isn’t it?

But the forest is gone…

I think I need to find a new route to work.

Just Keep Swimming

2010-12-12T00:45:00.007-07:00

Live out of your imagination, not your history. Stephen Covey

I saw an advertisement on TV the other day for kind of a personal size swimming pool . The pool is only about 8’x10’ but you can still use it to swim laps because it comes with a machine that makes an adjustable current in the water. So no matter how long you swim you always stay in the same spot.

That pool kind of reminds me of my job…especially this week – a whole lot of swimming, swimming, swimming and not getting very far.

I’m starting with that analogy just to provide a little insight into my state of mind this week. I’m feeling a little down, a little frustrated and a little tired of swimming against a current that never seems to stop.

So, while feeling like a bit of a frustrated grump-a-saurus this afternoon I happened to overhear a conversation. It wasn’t a confidential or even particularly significant conversation so the fact that I overheard wasn’t a big deal. But one of the women that was talking kept using the phrase “I’m the kind of person that…” as in “I’m the kind of person that won’t talk if I’m mad.” Or “I’m the kind of person that doesn’t like to be told what to do.”

I found myself kind of dwelling on that phrase all through the afternoon and it bugged me. I wasn’t bugged by what the woman was saying necessarily, I was bugged by the phrase itself- maybe because I feel like it’s a big part of the current I’ve been swimming against. It just seems to me that when we label ourselves in this way it’s like we give ourselves a built in excuse for whatever behavior we’ve decided on.

The students work this excuse all the time. They’ve already decided before they start what kind of guy they are and what they can and can’t do. If we’re lucky we can show them that maybe they were that type of guy but they don’t always have to be. And if we’re realy lucky all of the adults work together to provide reinforcement for change rather than justification for stagnation.

My frustration isn’t all about kids. There’s plenty of frustration to go around for the adults too – myself included I guess if I’m being honest about it. I just think that no one is exclusively the “the kind of person that…” in good ways or bad. We are all just people that make choices. Sometimes we’re “the kind of person that is always honest” but sometimes we’re not. Sometimes we’re “the kind of person that loses their temper easily,” but we don’t always have to be. We are certainly affected by what happens to us in our lives, but we shouldn’t always be a product of it - we always have the power to choose.

So maybe I’m the kind of person that eavesdrops on other people’s conversation and then rants about it…and then again maybe I should choose to mind my own business and just keep swimming.