I mentioned earlier a rough review I got for a draft of a novel I'm trying to write. The prologue was decimated as categorical proof of my shortcomings as a writer. Then there was the first chapter. I still haven't gotten feedback on that yet. I've written and rewritten over 20 drafts of that first chapter. They say the most difficult parts of a story to write are the endings and the beginnings.
Last month before I became enslaved by the indoor lethargy of finals and freelance I got back into running. A year ago I used to regularly jog anywhere between 5 to 10 kilometers but have since opted for shorter interval sprints to build up my cardio endurance and ease up on my joints. Yet always, without fail, the hardest part of any run regardless of the distance is that first part. That transition from a sedentary state to runner-mode. This usually only lasts about half a mile, never longer than a full mile.
Why is it so hard to get to Part Two?
You start with such vigorous optimism, your hope bright and new. This time you'll do it! You'll lose those extra pounds, make more time for family, shoot for that promotion, start that small business, run that marathon, finish that book, discontinue that netflix account, learn that recipe. You are finally going to sweep out those cobwebs of complacence and start your life with a clean start.
January's frosty chill can't deter your willpower. You wake up early and get out there training, breaking old habits, establishing new patterns of living and hitting the refresh button on your day to day. You are the picture of dedication. Days soon build into a week, then two. By week three the novelty of your new life begins wearing away, revealing that remaining discomfort of missing out on the "good ol' days," patiently waiting for you to succumb to its embrace. You make excuses, a day missed here, a little slip there, and before February ends, those gym passes you got as a new year's present to yourself sit gathering dust, you're back to the sleeping in, fat, lazy, uncultured, illiterate netflix-binger that disgusted you in last year's mirror.
The February mark is a tough reality to face. Fact is, very few New Year's Resolutions last beyond two months.
What makes Part Two so seemingly unattainable?
Honestly, I think it's because as much as we like to think we know our heart's desires,
we don't know what we want.
I don't mean that our desires are necessarily changeable, although that can often be the case. I mean we don't know how badly we want what we want. How much are you willing to put into your goals? What desires take top priority? What is still worth the effort when your new habit is no longer new, just uncomfortable?
Often these priorities reveal themselves organically. Is the misery of that first try, first lap, first draft worth trudging through?
Absolutely.
Kara's Flowers' debut album flopped before they reformed as Maroon 5. Coldplay once went by Starfish in the bumpy first lap of their career. Even the founding fathers had to go through a first draft flop of legislation (those darn Articles of Confederation) before they drafted the Constitution. Very rarely will you succeed on your first go. 2013 was filled with lessons on what not to do in my life. Next year will have plenty of those, too. I'm just trying not to repeat them. Don't give up on your first lap. Don't put down the pen halfway through the prologue.
Let's get to March one step, one page, one lap, one brilliantly dazzling mistake at a time. Join me in my march to March 2014.
S
Monday, December 23, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Baggage Claim
Before leaving for Bulgaria in 2009 I got some solid, sturdy luggage that I could trust to carry all of my earthly belongings for the next two years. I lived in numerous cities over that span of time and got used to living out of suitcases. Sometimes I didn't bother unpacking my clothes, I'd just use my suitcases as dressers.
When I came home I continued to live out of my suitcases, all my clothes shoved into luggage under the spare bed as I crashed with my brother for a few months before I left for school. My mom berated my brother for not making room for my things in the dresser. I didn't mind, I was used to living with my baggage.
I left some of my suitcases behind at home and took others to move out to school. In three moves from apartment to apartment as a college sophomore, I always managed to fit everything I owned into the small sedan that got me from A to B.
While B. and I were dating I honed my packing skills to a science, carrying all I would need for a three-day weekend adventure with my girlfriend in a small duffel bag I snagged for $3 at a thrift store.
I thought me and my baggage were good. We had a deal.
B. and I celebrated our birthdays last month. Hers is only two days before mine, so we usually combine the festivities in a low-key smattering of brief spending sprees and gift-giving over the course of a few days rather than one big cake-and-candles party.
When we went out to our birthday dinner, we did something we hadn't done in a long time: we had a real, heart to heart, deep conversation about the hard stuff in life - big decisions like careers and kids and our future together. One of those really intense, soul-bearing conversations that leaves you feeling raw inside. It had been a long time since we had brought up such deep personal stuff. It was brief, but still left us both sore and unsettled.
It gave me pause for a few reasons. It was a reminder of how much we leave under the rug, even in marriage. How much of ourselves can get shelved out of the other's view. We get so little time together, we rarely see more than the mild-mannered happy spouse-by-day face we put on in public.
Truth is, we all carry baggage with us.
Especially in relationships.
I heard once that you don't have to be disagreeable to disagree. This was a charming adage given to me by a man who claimed that he had never fought with his wife.
That's crap.
Marriage, like most things in life, has some inevitabilities. Some fights resurface, not all dragons are vanquished after you make up, some disagreements lie dormant, waiting until you're both ready to tackle it again - and you aren't always ready.
But the scariest inevitabilities are the ones we pick up at baggage claim. Those insecurities, fears, anxieties, prejudices, tendencies, and tempers that are destined to clash by their very natures. We can't help it, we all have little passengers from our past latched onto us trying to gnaw at our futures.
Coming from a divorced family doesn't doom you to divorce. Growing up in financial fragility doesn't cripple your value. Bad breakups shouldn't dictate the dynamics of your present relationship. We aren't our past. We aren't our parents; their greatest gift to us isn't the legacy they leave us. It's the choice they give us. The chance to select what parts and portions of them to leave behind and what to take with us and make our own.
Baggage can be burdensome, but I think this goes the other way, too. When life decides to pile on the really heavy stuff, it helps to know that we can carry it. A charmed life of lightweight carry-ons is poor preparation for what fate can send our way. Maybe baggage isn't all bad.
No matter how clean we think our slate is going entering a new life with someone, there they are. Our issues await us at baggage claim. We can't leave it all behind, it's part of what makes us. I'm just glad to know I have someone who took me with all of my drama attached.
Pack light.
S
When I came home I continued to live out of my suitcases, all my clothes shoved into luggage under the spare bed as I crashed with my brother for a few months before I left for school. My mom berated my brother for not making room for my things in the dresser. I didn't mind, I was used to living with my baggage.
I left some of my suitcases behind at home and took others to move out to school. In three moves from apartment to apartment as a college sophomore, I always managed to fit everything I owned into the small sedan that got me from A to B.
While B. and I were dating I honed my packing skills to a science, carrying all I would need for a three-day weekend adventure with my girlfriend in a small duffel bag I snagged for $3 at a thrift store.
I thought me and my baggage were good. We had a deal.
B. and I celebrated our birthdays last month. Hers is only two days before mine, so we usually combine the festivities in a low-key smattering of brief spending sprees and gift-giving over the course of a few days rather than one big cake-and-candles party.
When we went out to our birthday dinner, we did something we hadn't done in a long time: we had a real, heart to heart, deep conversation about the hard stuff in life - big decisions like careers and kids and our future together. One of those really intense, soul-bearing conversations that leaves you feeling raw inside. It had been a long time since we had brought up such deep personal stuff. It was brief, but still left us both sore and unsettled.
It gave me pause for a few reasons. It was a reminder of how much we leave under the rug, even in marriage. How much of ourselves can get shelved out of the other's view. We get so little time together, we rarely see more than the mild-mannered happy spouse-by-day face we put on in public.
Truth is, we all carry baggage with us.
I heard once that you don't have to be disagreeable to disagree. This was a charming adage given to me by a man who claimed that he had never fought with his wife.
That's crap.
Marriage, like most things in life, has some inevitabilities. Some fights resurface, not all dragons are vanquished after you make up, some disagreements lie dormant, waiting until you're both ready to tackle it again - and you aren't always ready.
But the scariest inevitabilities are the ones we pick up at baggage claim. Those insecurities, fears, anxieties, prejudices, tendencies, and tempers that are destined to clash by their very natures. We can't help it, we all have little passengers from our past latched onto us trying to gnaw at our futures.
Coming from a divorced family doesn't doom you to divorce. Growing up in financial fragility doesn't cripple your value. Bad breakups shouldn't dictate the dynamics of your present relationship. We aren't our past. We aren't our parents; their greatest gift to us isn't the legacy they leave us. It's the choice they give us. The chance to select what parts and portions of them to leave behind and what to take with us and make our own.
Baggage can be burdensome, but I think this goes the other way, too. When life decides to pile on the really heavy stuff, it helps to know that we can carry it. A charmed life of lightweight carry-ons is poor preparation for what fate can send our way. Maybe baggage isn't all bad.
No matter how clean we think our slate is going entering a new life with someone, there they are. Our issues await us at baggage claim. We can't leave it all behind, it's part of what makes us. I'm just glad to know I have someone who took me with all of my drama attached.
Pack light.
S
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Painted Morning
A few days ago I had an unusual morning.
Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it. First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness. More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove. Second of all, the morning seemed brighter. More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment. I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.
I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation. But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.
God was with me this morning.
Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day. I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect. But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.
But today, it seems He came to me.
This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time. I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway. But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf.
There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it. No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of. Just a vague feeling of closeness.
I think sometimes God just misses us.
And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.
My morning had a fresh chill to it. Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake. A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem. Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground. Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls. That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air. Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.
Writers live for days like these. I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.
S
Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it. First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness. More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove. Second of all, the morning seemed brighter. More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment. I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.
I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation. But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.
God was with me this morning.
Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day. I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect. But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.
But today, it seems He came to me.
This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time. I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway. But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf.
There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it. No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of. Just a vague feeling of closeness.
I think sometimes God just misses us.
And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.
My morning had a fresh chill to it. Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake. A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem. Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground. Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls. That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air. Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.
Writers live for days like these. I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.
S
Monday, November 25, 2013
Get It Out There
A good friend of mine inadvertently gave me some really good advice. He was talking about his own music career but I took it to heart as a writer, a hat I haven't been able to wear much lately.
I'll admit it people. I've fallen off the wagon.
Geez, a month? What's wrong with me?
Well, exactly what my good friend was talking about when he posted an explanation on facebook about his recordings. They were great songs, but admittedly not the best quality recordings. Certainly not professional studio-grade. But I still enjoyed them. I raved about them, I saw through the fuzzy recording and saw the potential for great, moving pieces of music.
My buddy relayed some advice he had received from another musician. Just start recording. Get your stuff out there. You're not going to be great right off the bat. No one is. Get over it. Get used to being imperfect, especially in front of your audience.
Just put it out there.
Sounds easy enough, right? But how many of us have little side projects or dreams we keep pocketed until we can find that imaginary "free time" we need to polish up and really become impressive? It's not like I forgot about this blog. In fact, I had some friends ask about it, a high school buddy gave me a shout out and let me know he enjoyed reading. I even had drafts ready. Right now there are about six or seven unfinished posts I've started since my last post.
I just never could get them polished. I never thought they'd be good enough. I needed more time, better wording, illustrations would really make it pop. The excuses go on. Point is, I wanted the impossible.
I wanted them to be perfect.
I've had some posts I'm really proud of. I've posted others that you can't find anymore, forever deleted out of shame. I'm still working on this and not everything I write is going to be "studio-quality."
There's a kids book I'd like to do someday when I feel more like a good writer. An idea I've had growing and morphing in my imagination for over ten years now. I sent a few sample chapters to some trusted editor friends. One got back to me with his review. It was brutally honest, exactly what I knew I could expect from him. And after rereading it through his eyes, I realized even more of my own foibles as an amateur author.
Elitist intellectual tone.
Alliteration happy.
Poor sense of suspense.
Confusing narrative.
No fluidity in the story.
No connection to (presumably juvenile) reader.
And that was just the prologue.
But I needed to hear it. I knew he wouldn't pull any punches. I see my flaws for what they are. And I'm better for it. Granted, I haven't touched the book since, but that's mostly because of my schedule constraints. Although I'll admit, all the condensed criticism was a lot to stomach at once.
My point?
Don't let perfectionism paralyze you.
Take a leaf from the book of Mrs. Frizzle. Just put it out there. That's what my rock star friend is doing. And that's what I'm going to do. If my posts seem to ramble, tell me. If an illustration would really accentuate a point, I probably already know. Leave comments, tell me how to write better. This blog began as a way to chronicle our lives as newlyweds, but its more than just a cutesy scrapbook. This is personal. This is our lives. A window into our marriage, our careers, our struggles to work out our bug(g)s and be better for each other and for the world.
I'm back, people!
What are you holding back until you can polish and perfect it?
S
I'll admit it people. I've fallen off the wagon.
Geez, a month? What's wrong with me?
Well, exactly what my good friend was talking about when he posted an explanation on facebook about his recordings. They were great songs, but admittedly not the best quality recordings. Certainly not professional studio-grade. But I still enjoyed them. I raved about them, I saw through the fuzzy recording and saw the potential for great, moving pieces of music.
My buddy relayed some advice he had received from another musician. Just start recording. Get your stuff out there. You're not going to be great right off the bat. No one is. Get over it. Get used to being imperfect, especially in front of your audience.
Just put it out there.
Sounds easy enough, right? But how many of us have little side projects or dreams we keep pocketed until we can find that imaginary "free time" we need to polish up and really become impressive? It's not like I forgot about this blog. In fact, I had some friends ask about it, a high school buddy gave me a shout out and let me know he enjoyed reading. I even had drafts ready. Right now there are about six or seven unfinished posts I've started since my last post.
I just never could get them polished. I never thought they'd be good enough. I needed more time, better wording, illustrations would really make it pop. The excuses go on. Point is, I wanted the impossible.
I wanted them to be perfect.
I've had some posts I'm really proud of. I've posted others that you can't find anymore, forever deleted out of shame. I'm still working on this and not everything I write is going to be "studio-quality."
There's a kids book I'd like to do someday when I feel more like a good writer. An idea I've had growing and morphing in my imagination for over ten years now. I sent a few sample chapters to some trusted editor friends. One got back to me with his review. It was brutally honest, exactly what I knew I could expect from him. And after rereading it through his eyes, I realized even more of my own foibles as an amateur author.
Elitist intellectual tone.
Alliteration happy.
Poor sense of suspense.
Confusing narrative.
No fluidity in the story.
No connection to (presumably juvenile) reader.
And that was just the prologue.
But I needed to hear it. I knew he wouldn't pull any punches. I see my flaws for what they are. And I'm better for it. Granted, I haven't touched the book since, but that's mostly because of my schedule constraints. Although I'll admit, all the condensed criticism was a lot to stomach at once.
My point?
Don't let perfectionism paralyze you.
Take a leaf from the book of Mrs. Frizzle. Just put it out there. That's what my rock star friend is doing. And that's what I'm going to do. If my posts seem to ramble, tell me. If an illustration would really accentuate a point, I probably already know. Leave comments, tell me how to write better. This blog began as a way to chronicle our lives as newlyweds, but its more than just a cutesy scrapbook. This is personal. This is our lives. A window into our marriage, our careers, our struggles to work out our bug(g)s and be better for each other and for the world.
I'm back, people!
What are you holding back until you can polish and perfect it?
S
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Who is IG-88?
I think it's no secret that I'm a closet comic book geek. I've grown up knowing more about the random backstories of myriad supervillians and the hierarchies of heroes in spandex than I care to say. I get goosebumps watching the Avengers. Not so deep down, I'm still a ten-year-old oggling his Saturday morning cartoons. B. loves on LOTR from time to time, but her knowledge pales in comparison to the extensive Silmarillion research I know certain members of my extended family have done.
We all have our obsessions growing up, some of them stick with us, other fall by the wayside. I was an avid videogamer until one spring turned my fancy to love... or at least cute girls. We often outgrow our childhood fantasies and pastimes. But sometimes holding on to the heroes of your youth can be the best thing for you.
I have one question for you folks:
Who is IG-88?
No peeking, no cheating, no googling. Do you know who he is?
Didn't think so.
Well, I did, I'm ashamed to say. And it landed me my first paid gig as an illustrator.
IG-88 is a particularly cylindrical fellow in the lineup of bounty hunters employed by Darth Vader to track down Han Solo and thereby lead the Empire straight to young Luke Skywalker.
That's right people, we're gonna talk Star Wars for a sec.
I have many fond memories of watching Star Wars as a kid. Often it served as background ambience to set the mood for my vast Lego mythologies spread across the basement carpet. Many a summer afternoon was spent in the cool shelter of the dark, theater-like basement. We owned the entire Star Wars trilogy on vhs back when it was still in its unadulterated form - no frivolous CGI plugins and extra characters so George Lucas could beat his chest and tastelessly flash his obvious zillions to the innocent public. Sorry, tangential rant over. I loved the characters, I knew the plots, I knew all the important lines and I knew when it was time to put my legos down and enjoy a lightsaber battle and when it was ok to focus on my latest plastic architectural masterpiece and let Han and Leia make out in peace.
But my devotion to the franchise is dwarfed by that of my brothers'. Logan has played (and soundly beaten) nearly every video game made or designed by Lucasarts, Inc. Adam somehow obtained thorough knowledge of every character, including the superfluous military leaders in the Empire who one by one get force-choked out of command. Seriously, who remembers who Grand Moff Tarkin is?
Well, sadly I do. Because you see I not only lived with these Jedi Masters, I roomed with them, listened to them, and was slowly but surely indoctrinated by them as their unwitting and unwilling padawan. That is until the triumphant day when Adam coerced us into playing Star Wars trivial pursuit one rainy day and the apprentice truly became the master. I beat him. More than once in fact. An arbitrary victory, I know, but aren't all childhood squabbles? Even as I type this I feel a strange swelling mixture of pride and shame. Their fascination with a galaxy far far away soaked in.
And apparently some of it stayed there, because when the man who has now employed me talked about his idea about a Star Wars kids book about IG-88, my prior knowledge of the mischievous droid was what clinched the job for me. Thank you Adam. Thank you Logan. Your brainwashing has done some good after all.
Here's to all the geeks and nerds who wear their passions on their sleeves. Go ahead and love what you love, you never know when you might find a kindred spirit and make something great.
May the force be with you,
S
p.s. - I'll post pages from the book when its finished in a few months.
We all have our obsessions growing up, some of them stick with us, other fall by the wayside. I was an avid videogamer until one spring turned my fancy to love... or at least cute girls. We often outgrow our childhood fantasies and pastimes. But sometimes holding on to the heroes of your youth can be the best thing for you.
I have one question for you folks:
Who is IG-88?
No peeking, no cheating, no googling. Do you know who he is?
Didn't think so.
Well, I did, I'm ashamed to say. And it landed me my first paid gig as an illustrator.
IG-88 is a particularly cylindrical fellow in the lineup of bounty hunters employed by Darth Vader to track down Han Solo and thereby lead the Empire straight to young Luke Skywalker.
That's right people, we're gonna talk Star Wars for a sec.
I have many fond memories of watching Star Wars as a kid. Often it served as background ambience to set the mood for my vast Lego mythologies spread across the basement carpet. Many a summer afternoon was spent in the cool shelter of the dark, theater-like basement. We owned the entire Star Wars trilogy on vhs back when it was still in its unadulterated form - no frivolous CGI plugins and extra characters so George Lucas could beat his chest and tastelessly flash his obvious zillions to the innocent public. Sorry, tangential rant over. I loved the characters, I knew the plots, I knew all the important lines and I knew when it was time to put my legos down and enjoy a lightsaber battle and when it was ok to focus on my latest plastic architectural masterpiece and let Han and Leia make out in peace.
But my devotion to the franchise is dwarfed by that of my brothers'. Logan has played (and soundly beaten) nearly every video game made or designed by Lucasarts, Inc. Adam somehow obtained thorough knowledge of every character, including the superfluous military leaders in the Empire who one by one get force-choked out of command. Seriously, who remembers who Grand Moff Tarkin is?
Well, sadly I do. Because you see I not only lived with these Jedi Masters, I roomed with them, listened to them, and was slowly but surely indoctrinated by them as their unwitting and unwilling padawan. That is until the triumphant day when Adam coerced us into playing Star Wars trivial pursuit one rainy day and the apprentice truly became the master. I beat him. More than once in fact. An arbitrary victory, I know, but aren't all childhood squabbles? Even as I type this I feel a strange swelling mixture of pride and shame. Their fascination with a galaxy far far away soaked in.
And apparently some of it stayed there, because when the man who has now employed me talked about his idea about a Star Wars kids book about IG-88, my prior knowledge of the mischievous droid was what clinched the job for me. Thank you Adam. Thank you Logan. Your brainwashing has done some good after all.
Here's to all the geeks and nerds who wear their passions on their sleeves. Go ahead and love what you love, you never know when you might find a kindred spirit and make something great.
May the force be with you,
S
p.s. - I'll post pages from the book when its finished in a few months.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Tru(ancy) Dat!
Hooky.
The game I never really got to play until I went to college.
B. and I skipped class yesterday. We had (and still have) tons of homework, midterms crashing down upon us, stress and busywork and class loads burying us and our marriage, pummeling us as a couple from every angle. Our days consist of meager morsels of food snatched between classes now that cooking have just become an inefficient use of our time. I leave before she's awake. She gets home long after dark. We're struggling to cope.
But not yesterday. Yesterday we just said screw it and left town.
We didn't go far. Just an hour's drive north to see B.'s sister and her family visiting. Their grandpa, an aunt and a few cousins joined us all for dinner. One cousin got some well-earned and well-meant ribbing about his recent truancy issues. We could only shake our heads. He'll graduate high school, go to college, and maybe one day he too will skip class like us, just to preserve some semblance of sanity.
We were asked about how our lives were going, why we didn't visit more often. All we could tell them was that we had to skip class just to come that night. I'm not complaining here. We're both employed, we both go to good schools, our credit cards and student loans are manageable, we are in relatively good health. I should be grateful and I am. I guess my question is:
When do we get our lives back?
When will I go through a week and not worry about paying all the bills?
When will the universe let us start saving again?
When will we get a weekend together, homework-free?
I know this is the "career" chapter of our lives (it has to be, neither of us has time for each other, let alone a kid), but come on, people. There has to be some light at the end of this tunnel. There's got to be a job at the end of these long years of classes and training and portfolio-building. Because that job has to pay for B.'s tunnel-end light: grad school. Make that ONLY grad school. No more juggling full-time work and 12-15 credits a semester. No more insulting busywork, no more sadist chemistry professors who take pleasure in squashing the souls of students. No more getting caught in the crossfire of med school hopefuls and the premed classes that are only used as deterrents.
Okay, ranting done. But seriously, she's going into zoology, ok? Not med school. Leave my wife alone and lets move on through stupid chem and be done with it.
Back to truancy. I don't like that our life has become a choice of what to miss out on. I either miss out on the early years of my marriage, career-building job opportunities, important learning moments in school, deep and important spiritual and personal growth at church, or time with family.
We're all truant on something.
I missed out on most of the dinner conversation last night, but I'm not too upset. I'm used to snatching opportunistic mouthfuls whenever I get the chance. Plus the reason for my absence from the dinner table came in the form of my adorable 2 year old niece. I took her out when she got antsy (about 3-4 times in the same meal) and we found things to marvel at in the parking lot next to a mall. We picked flowers and put them in her hair, we picked more for her mom and for her great aunt. We looked for red cars among the crowd of parked vehicles, we spun on the grass until we plopped down and stared up at the clouds. I needed that. Probably more than she did.
We've missed her, but we've also been missing out on her. We try to be a stable presence in the lives of our nieces and nephew, but with them living so far away and our attention so often and thoroughly diverted elsewhere it's hard to keep up with them and how fast their childhood is slipping away.
Yesterday was good. Yesterday was needed. It was a reminder to stop for a moment, let some people down, abandon some posts, be truant for a moment, and breathe.
Nothing's changed on the homework front. We're still buried. We're still behind. We still jump straight from work to homework like miserable amphibians. But I was reminded yesterday that I'm not just a paycheck. I'm not just a taxpayer, a bill payer, an employee, a student, a grade, a number.
I'm the uncle who found the purple flower to put in my niece's hair.
Maybe my cousin's ahead of the curve. Sometimes school can wait. Because life sure won't.
What are you missing out on?
S
The game I never really got to play until I went to college.
B. and I skipped class yesterday. We had (and still have) tons of homework, midterms crashing down upon us, stress and busywork and class loads burying us and our marriage, pummeling us as a couple from every angle. Our days consist of meager morsels of food snatched between classes now that cooking have just become an inefficient use of our time. I leave before she's awake. She gets home long after dark. We're struggling to cope.
But not yesterday. Yesterday we just said screw it and left town.
We didn't go far. Just an hour's drive north to see B.'s sister and her family visiting. Their grandpa, an aunt and a few cousins joined us all for dinner. One cousin got some well-earned and well-meant ribbing about his recent truancy issues. We could only shake our heads. He'll graduate high school, go to college, and maybe one day he too will skip class like us, just to preserve some semblance of sanity.
We were asked about how our lives were going, why we didn't visit more often. All we could tell them was that we had to skip class just to come that night. I'm not complaining here. We're both employed, we both go to good schools, our credit cards and student loans are manageable, we are in relatively good health. I should be grateful and I am. I guess my question is:
When do we get our lives back?
When will I go through a week and not worry about paying all the bills?
When will the universe let us start saving again?
When will we get a weekend together, homework-free?
I know this is the "career" chapter of our lives (it has to be, neither of us has time for each other, let alone a kid), but come on, people. There has to be some light at the end of this tunnel. There's got to be a job at the end of these long years of classes and training and portfolio-building. Because that job has to pay for B.'s tunnel-end light: grad school. Make that ONLY grad school. No more juggling full-time work and 12-15 credits a semester. No more insulting busywork, no more sadist chemistry professors who take pleasure in squashing the souls of students. No more getting caught in the crossfire of med school hopefuls and the premed classes that are only used as deterrents.
Okay, ranting done. But seriously, she's going into zoology, ok? Not med school. Leave my wife alone and lets move on through stupid chem and be done with it.
Back to truancy. I don't like that our life has become a choice of what to miss out on. I either miss out on the early years of my marriage, career-building job opportunities, important learning moments in school, deep and important spiritual and personal growth at church, or time with family.
We're all truant on something.
I missed out on most of the dinner conversation last night, but I'm not too upset. I'm used to snatching opportunistic mouthfuls whenever I get the chance. Plus the reason for my absence from the dinner table came in the form of my adorable 2 year old niece. I took her out when she got antsy (about 3-4 times in the same meal) and we found things to marvel at in the parking lot next to a mall. We picked flowers and put them in her hair, we picked more for her mom and for her great aunt. We looked for red cars among the crowd of parked vehicles, we spun on the grass until we plopped down and stared up at the clouds. I needed that. Probably more than she did.
We've missed her, but we've also been missing out on her. We try to be a stable presence in the lives of our nieces and nephew, but with them living so far away and our attention so often and thoroughly diverted elsewhere it's hard to keep up with them and how fast their childhood is slipping away.
Yesterday was good. Yesterday was needed. It was a reminder to stop for a moment, let some people down, abandon some posts, be truant for a moment, and breathe.
Nothing's changed on the homework front. We're still buried. We're still behind. We still jump straight from work to homework like miserable amphibians. But I was reminded yesterday that I'm not just a paycheck. I'm not just a taxpayer, a bill payer, an employee, a student, a grade, a number.
I'm the uncle who found the purple flower to put in my niece's hair.
Maybe my cousin's ahead of the curve. Sometimes school can wait. Because life sure won't.
What are you missing out on?
S
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
The Kid in You.
I got a new job a few weeks ago.
Correction, I got another job a few weeks ago.
I was lucky enough to keep my old job for security as this new position tries me on. I split my hours between my old job and this new job doing graphic design for a life science museum.
I get to spend a lot of time in the hidden parts of a museum, the off-the-map here there be monsters void that dazzles any child's imagination. What goes on at a school at night? What happens in the museum after hours? What on earth goes on in a teachers' lounge?
The place has been closed for months for renovations (a whole building got added last year) and now that the opening is impending, they're hiring to get ready. So, in addition to helping design exciting works of art like pamphlets and visitors guides - wheeee! - I spend a lot of time in the basement surrounded by creepy taxidermy. Shelves of shriveled shrews and cataloged cobras. Gigantic jars of jellyfish, flasks of fish, squishy squids in slimy solutions. Drawers of desiccated dung beetles. Such is all I have for company for 10 hours a week until we get to move into the new offices. An uncharted, unknown underground railroad of the animal kingdom preserved for zoological study. This is what the museum doesn't display.
My wife would love it.
Like a kid on Christmas morning.
B. and I decided a long time ago that it was best we met when and where we did. Had we met any later, we wouldn't have started dating. Any earlier, we wouldn't have been ready for each other.
In short, she beat up kids like me in high school.
I often wonder what it would be like to meet her as a high schooler ,as a thirteen-year-old, as a third-grader. Where is the kid in her?
It's there, in the basement of the museum.
As a kid, she asked Santa for a microscope. She treasured her Harry Potter along with the rest of us, but she also cherished her Encyclopedia of Mammals.
As a kid, my wife was a nerd.
She still is today, and it's so hot.
There are still aspects of my own childhood that survived the gauntlet of adolescence. I still have juvenile tendencies that annoy her, perplex her and even at times endear myself to her. I major in doodling. I have websites of cartooning. I study concept art for motion pictures and video games.
To the untrained eye, one would think I never grew up. Where's the kid in me?
He's hunched over a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, eyes glued to Saturday morning cartoons.
If/when we have our own kid, I have a feeling our inner kids will come out to play a lot more. I'll sit and watch looney tunes with my kiddo while B. sleeps in. She'll subtly slip in science-y educational birthday presents into the mix over the years. We'll take our kid to museums, both art and science. Three kids wondering at the world on the greatest field trips ever.
I still see the kid in her. As she tells me excitedly about the just plain coolness of nature, I catch glimpses of that elementary school nerd saving up for a lab coat to go with her microscope. She sees the kid in me anytime we go see an action movie/cartoon/anything that should be too juvenile for a taxpaying adult. We let each other geek out, and each time we do, it helps us travel back in time to our days as singular souls searching for each other.
Where's the kid in you?
What is he like?
S
Correction, I got another job a few weeks ago.
I was lucky enough to keep my old job for security as this new position tries me on. I split my hours between my old job and this new job doing graphic design for a life science museum.
I get to spend a lot of time in the hidden parts of a museum, the off-the-map here there be monsters void that dazzles any child's imagination. What goes on at a school at night? What happens in the museum after hours? What on earth goes on in a teachers' lounge?
The place has been closed for months for renovations (a whole building got added last year) and now that the opening is impending, they're hiring to get ready. So, in addition to helping design exciting works of art like pamphlets and visitors guides - wheeee! - I spend a lot of time in the basement surrounded by creepy taxidermy. Shelves of shriveled shrews and cataloged cobras. Gigantic jars of jellyfish, flasks of fish, squishy squids in slimy solutions. Drawers of desiccated dung beetles. Such is all I have for company for 10 hours a week until we get to move into the new offices. An uncharted, unknown underground railroad of the animal kingdom preserved for zoological study. This is what the museum doesn't display.
My wife would love it.
Like a kid on Christmas morning.
B. and I decided a long time ago that it was best we met when and where we did. Had we met any later, we wouldn't have started dating. Any earlier, we wouldn't have been ready for each other.
In short, she beat up kids like me in high school.
I often wonder what it would be like to meet her as a high schooler ,as a thirteen-year-old, as a third-grader. Where is the kid in her?
It's there, in the basement of the museum.
As a kid, she asked Santa for a microscope. She treasured her Harry Potter along with the rest of us, but she also cherished her Encyclopedia of Mammals.
As a kid, my wife was a nerd.
She still is today, and it's so hot.
There are still aspects of my own childhood that survived the gauntlet of adolescence. I still have juvenile tendencies that annoy her, perplex her and even at times endear myself to her. I major in doodling. I have websites of cartooning. I study concept art for motion pictures and video games.
To the untrained eye, one would think I never grew up. Where's the kid in me?
He's hunched over a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, eyes glued to Saturday morning cartoons.
If/when we have our own kid, I have a feeling our inner kids will come out to play a lot more. I'll sit and watch looney tunes with my kiddo while B. sleeps in. She'll subtly slip in science-y educational birthday presents into the mix over the years. We'll take our kid to museums, both art and science. Three kids wondering at the world on the greatest field trips ever.
I still see the kid in her. As she tells me excitedly about the just plain coolness of nature, I catch glimpses of that elementary school nerd saving up for a lab coat to go with her microscope. She sees the kid in me anytime we go see an action movie/cartoon/anything that should be too juvenile for a taxpaying adult. We let each other geek out, and each time we do, it helps us travel back in time to our days as singular souls searching for each other.
Where's the kid in you?
What is he like?
S
Thursday, October 3, 2013
While the Getting's Good.
A few weeks ago I attended B.'s history class with her. I needed the car later that day or some other logistical requirement brought me there, and I actually had a really great time. She's taking a History of WWII class and loving it. She's intrigued by one of the world's most famous and infamous conflicts. As am I. It helps that we were discussing the Soviet Union that day and her professor (who got a masters in Russian economics) is actually married to a Russian. She incorporates stories she got from her in-laws about the terrors of that time into her lectures. She's a great teacher. It's a great class.
I really miss using that more academic side of my brain. With all of my general credits out of the way, I'm left with a lot of pure studio classes. I've traded in my textbooks for tutorial videos on graphics software, my research papers for paintbrushes. I study in sketchbooks now. But I do miss that more traditional atmosphere of academia (although not so much the research papers).
B. and I are in very different academic spheres nowadays. It's nice to have some occasional common ground intellectually. She loves science. I can appreciate the complexities of nature. I love making stories and images appealing to readers and viewers. She can appreciate craftsmanship. But we both love history. On that playing field we can meet as peers with equal knowledge and interest.
I really treasure that shared sanctuary of erudition these days. After long days where I leave at 7 am only to come home after class ends at 10 at night, it's hard not to feel like strangers to each other during the week. There's already a scheduling chasm between us, I don't need a gap between us intellectually.
I've noticed that when I try to tell her about a visiting illustrator who lectured about freelancing for the New Yorker or about this one concept artist who developed the character design for such-and-such in some Dreamworks studio films, her eyes will get glossy, she'll nod appreciatively, let me deflate and just wait until she can turn the conversation back to something more interesting to her. Sometimes she'll even just start on her own tangent before I've finished my (probably unnecessarily loquacious) account.
Sometimes, she just doesn't get it.
Not to say she's the only one guilty of it, either. She'll look at me a little miffed as I'm rambling about this one graphic design I spotted or some composition tool I want to try in my own projects. I wonder why she's so peeved until I realize she was in the middle of a story about why jellyfish are called jellyfish and what it was like to dissect a Portuguese Manowar. (Incidentally, they're called jellyfish because what is essentially their equivalent to our circulatory system is filled not with viscous blood but with a more gelatinous substance.)
Sometimes, I just don't get it.
We can't help it. We are in very different fields of expertise. We are learning more intensely about our separate careers now more than ever and we're bound to bring some of that baggage home with us. We don't need to get it. We just need to get each other.
I know when she's truly excited about something zoological she won't be able to focus on anything I have to tell her until she spills. I also know she teaches me something new all the time. I genuinely learn from her. Most of my trivial tidbits consist of whatever imdb.com-inspired refuse has adhered to my short-term memory, so her stories are bound to be more educational, more valuable and just plain cool. (jelly blood?!! cool!)
She knows when I am really and truly pumped and inspired to do more of what I love better than I have, to really hone my skills and emulate other craftsman and image makers (I hate the word 'artist,' it carries such a stigma) there is no hope of shutting me up until I have made some preliminary sketches and dragged her through the online portfolios of someone who's name she'll undoubtedly forget within ten minutes.
I mentioned a visiting illustrator who came to campus earlier. She's actually married to another famous illustrator. They have very different styles. They have very different schedules. They have very different work. They always say they could never work together because they're too competitive. They keep things separate to keep the peace.
I could never have married an illustrator. B. could never have married a scientist. Maybe it's our competitive natures, maybe it's that we would get bored with each other if we already knew all of the stuff the other was learning. Maybe we just enjoy the differences between us.
Sometimes we just don't get it. But we've got each other.
What don't you get?
Is the getting ever good enough?
S
I really miss using that more academic side of my brain. With all of my general credits out of the way, I'm left with a lot of pure studio classes. I've traded in my textbooks for tutorial videos on graphics software, my research papers for paintbrushes. I study in sketchbooks now. But I do miss that more traditional atmosphere of academia (although not so much the research papers).
B. and I are in very different academic spheres nowadays. It's nice to have some occasional common ground intellectually. She loves science. I can appreciate the complexities of nature. I love making stories and images appealing to readers and viewers. She can appreciate craftsmanship. But we both love history. On that playing field we can meet as peers with equal knowledge and interest.
I really treasure that shared sanctuary of erudition these days. After long days where I leave at 7 am only to come home after class ends at 10 at night, it's hard not to feel like strangers to each other during the week. There's already a scheduling chasm between us, I don't need a gap between us intellectually.
I've noticed that when I try to tell her about a visiting illustrator who lectured about freelancing for the New Yorker or about this one concept artist who developed the character design for such-and-such in some Dreamworks studio films, her eyes will get glossy, she'll nod appreciatively, let me deflate and just wait until she can turn the conversation back to something more interesting to her. Sometimes she'll even just start on her own tangent before I've finished my (probably unnecessarily loquacious) account.
Sometimes, she just doesn't get it.
Not to say she's the only one guilty of it, either. She'll look at me a little miffed as I'm rambling about this one graphic design I spotted or some composition tool I want to try in my own projects. I wonder why she's so peeved until I realize she was in the middle of a story about why jellyfish are called jellyfish and what it was like to dissect a Portuguese Manowar. (Incidentally, they're called jellyfish because what is essentially their equivalent to our circulatory system is filled not with viscous blood but with a more gelatinous substance.)
Sometimes, I just don't get it.
We can't help it. We are in very different fields of expertise. We are learning more intensely about our separate careers now more than ever and we're bound to bring some of that baggage home with us. We don't need to get it. We just need to get each other.
I know when she's truly excited about something zoological she won't be able to focus on anything I have to tell her until she spills. I also know she teaches me something new all the time. I genuinely learn from her. Most of my trivial tidbits consist of whatever imdb.com-inspired refuse has adhered to my short-term memory, so her stories are bound to be more educational, more valuable and just plain cool. (jelly blood?!! cool!)
She knows when I am really and truly pumped and inspired to do more of what I love better than I have, to really hone my skills and emulate other craftsman and image makers (I hate the word 'artist,' it carries such a stigma) there is no hope of shutting me up until I have made some preliminary sketches and dragged her through the online portfolios of someone who's name she'll undoubtedly forget within ten minutes.
I mentioned a visiting illustrator who came to campus earlier. She's actually married to another famous illustrator. They have very different styles. They have very different schedules. They have very different work. They always say they could never work together because they're too competitive. They keep things separate to keep the peace.
I could never have married an illustrator. B. could never have married a scientist. Maybe it's our competitive natures, maybe it's that we would get bored with each other if we already knew all of the stuff the other was learning. Maybe we just enjoy the differences between us.
Sometimes we just don't get it. But we've got each other.
What don't you get?
Is the getting ever good enough?
S
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
What Am I to You?
Two years ago last night our beloved Candleshoe night happened.
What happened the next night is another story entirely.
B. and I had been on a few dates on and off that summer. I liked her, but she lived four hours away, attended another school, and pretty much had her whole life set there. I had done long-distance before with disastrous consequences and I had a feeling that if we ever did start dating, it would either end in marriage or in a very ugly breakup. I was hesitant to start a relationship for a number of reasons.
First off, I wasn't planning on dating seriously until I was almost or completely done with college. I knew I was considering a major in the arts, and while some would consider me an idiot for choosing such a major rather than something sensible like accounting or business or pre-med, I was not so much an idiot as to rope some poor innocent girl into my foolishness. If I was to starve, I'd do it alone. I had a plan. First college, then job, then girlfriend, then marriage.
But I keep traveling just to see her...
Second of all, B. and I were really good friends and I was starting a new chapter of my life where I wasn't living at home or on a foreign mission. I controlled where and when I moved. No more Uncle Sam or mission office controlling my location; my friendships and relationships no longer had a shelf life. I determined how long I was in one spot and how long I was around those with whom I liked to spend my time. If things went south with B., I could only blame myself for losing such a great friend.
But would I really come visit this often to only see a friend?...
There were a litany of other reasons and rationalizations with which I tried to buffer my pride, yet when she mentioned over the phone that she had a wedding to go to in Vegas, I promptly volunteered myself as a date. She was a little taken aback; she had noticed my subtle edging away from any sense of commitment into the comfort of the friend zone, so this turnaround had her a little confused, but she happily agreed and I made the drive down with bread, brie, grapes, candles, sparkling cider and all the trappings for what became arguably our most famous date.
The next day we drove down to Vegas and attended the wedding, enjoyed the fancy cuisine and kept giving each other a look.
When we drove down into the city of sin and I had to shake off the thought of us going on dozens of roadtrips together, we gave each other that look.
When we toured around the casinos we splurged and went to see the Bodies exhibit. Ever the scientist, she geeked out. We shared the look then, too.
When the minister gave some friendly advice to the bride and groom, we gave each other that look.
When the family toasted the happy couple, we gave each other that look.
After the wedding festivities, we walked down the strip until at last we came to the famous Bellagio fountains. Towers of water shot into the air in dazzling patterns synchronized with music. We stopped and watched the display of hydrotechnics and resisted the urge to reference Oceans Eleven.
Then she said it.
The question she'd been asking all day with that look.
"What am I to you?"
She knew I was hesitant. She knew I was concerned. She knew I was feeling more than I wanted to let on.
She'd seen my look.
So she wanted to know. Where was this going, if anywhere? Was this just going to be a will-they-won't-they drama until one of us graduated? What was she to me? A friend? More than a friend? A girlfriend? The love of my life?
...(all of the above?)
I think in actuality I only paused for about two or three seconds to run through any and all excuses I had hidden behind in the past. When none of them held up I happily reached the conclusion that we couldn't remain "just friends." So, in order to preserve the friendship, she'd just have to marry me.
I paused for a minute and told her, "I'll tell you when the song's over," praying that the fountains would start up again with Clair de Lune or something equally romantic. I already knew this was a moment we'd be telling our kids (and i guess you) about, I wanted it to be as memorable as possible.
She immediately responded with a stolid, "No you won't you'll tell me now," But I was firm on the timing; this had to be perfect.
Turns out, the fountains only play songs ever 15 minutes, so as silence swallowed the evening air, she turned expectantly, I gazed at the ay the city lights bathed her gorgeous face and finally let my lips say what my eyes - my look - had been saying all day:
"You're the woman I'm in love with."
She smiled. I smiled back. We were giddy schoolchildren waltzing down the Strip for the rest of the night. We were in love! At last! I finally let myself be happy, let my best friend become the center of my heart and my life. We didn't date for long. We were engaged only until she could move/transfer schools. We knew then that we were meant to be.
We celebrated this little anniversary of ours last night. We just went out to dinner, nothing too fancy. But as we spooned groggily last night she had me tell our story over again. It's worth retelling. I nestled closely to her, breathing in all the smells that are hers and now mine because of that perfect question:
What am I to you?
S
What happened the next night is another story entirely.
B. and I had been on a few dates on and off that summer. I liked her, but she lived four hours away, attended another school, and pretty much had her whole life set there. I had done long-distance before with disastrous consequences and I had a feeling that if we ever did start dating, it would either end in marriage or in a very ugly breakup. I was hesitant to start a relationship for a number of reasons.
First off, I wasn't planning on dating seriously until I was almost or completely done with college. I knew I was considering a major in the arts, and while some would consider me an idiot for choosing such a major rather than something sensible like accounting or business or pre-med, I was not so much an idiot as to rope some poor innocent girl into my foolishness. If I was to starve, I'd do it alone. I had a plan. First college, then job, then girlfriend, then marriage.
But I keep traveling just to see her...
Second of all, B. and I were really good friends and I was starting a new chapter of my life where I wasn't living at home or on a foreign mission. I controlled where and when I moved. No more Uncle Sam or mission office controlling my location; my friendships and relationships no longer had a shelf life. I determined how long I was in one spot and how long I was around those with whom I liked to spend my time. If things went south with B., I could only blame myself for losing such a great friend.
But would I really come visit this often to only see a friend?...
There were a litany of other reasons and rationalizations with which I tried to buffer my pride, yet when she mentioned over the phone that she had a wedding to go to in Vegas, I promptly volunteered myself as a date. She was a little taken aback; she had noticed my subtle edging away from any sense of commitment into the comfort of the friend zone, so this turnaround had her a little confused, but she happily agreed and I made the drive down with bread, brie, grapes, candles, sparkling cider and all the trappings for what became arguably our most famous date.
The next day we drove down to Vegas and attended the wedding, enjoyed the fancy cuisine and kept giving each other a look.
When we drove down into the city of sin and I had to shake off the thought of us going on dozens of roadtrips together, we gave each other that look.
When we toured around the casinos we splurged and went to see the Bodies exhibit. Ever the scientist, she geeked out. We shared the look then, too.
When the minister gave some friendly advice to the bride and groom, we gave each other that look.
When the family toasted the happy couple, we gave each other that look.
After the wedding festivities, we walked down the strip until at last we came to the famous Bellagio fountains. Towers of water shot into the air in dazzling patterns synchronized with music. We stopped and watched the display of hydrotechnics and resisted the urge to reference Oceans Eleven.
Then she said it.
The question she'd been asking all day with that look.
"What am I to you?"
She knew I was hesitant. She knew I was concerned. She knew I was feeling more than I wanted to let on.
She'd seen my look.
So she wanted to know. Where was this going, if anywhere? Was this just going to be a will-they-won't-they drama until one of us graduated? What was she to me? A friend? More than a friend? A girlfriend? The love of my life?
...(all of the above?)
I think in actuality I only paused for about two or three seconds to run through any and all excuses I had hidden behind in the past. When none of them held up I happily reached the conclusion that we couldn't remain "just friends." So, in order to preserve the friendship, she'd just have to marry me.
I paused for a minute and told her, "I'll tell you when the song's over," praying that the fountains would start up again with Clair de Lune or something equally romantic. I already knew this was a moment we'd be telling our kids (and i guess you) about, I wanted it to be as memorable as possible.
She immediately responded with a stolid, "No you won't you'll tell me now," But I was firm on the timing; this had to be perfect.
Turns out, the fountains only play songs ever 15 minutes, so as silence swallowed the evening air, she turned expectantly, I gazed at the ay the city lights bathed her gorgeous face and finally let my lips say what my eyes - my look - had been saying all day:
"You're the woman I'm in love with."
She smiled. I smiled back. We were giddy schoolchildren waltzing down the Strip for the rest of the night. We were in love! At last! I finally let myself be happy, let my best friend become the center of my heart and my life. We didn't date for long. We were engaged only until she could move/transfer schools. We knew then that we were meant to be.
We celebrated this little anniversary of ours last night. We just went out to dinner, nothing too fancy. But as we spooned groggily last night she had me tell our story over again. It's worth retelling. I nestled closely to her, breathing in all the smells that are hers and now mine because of that perfect question:
What am I to you?
S
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Bridge On Our Bookshelf
B. and I have a special spot on the bookshelf in our living room. On one shelf sit our paperbacks pleading with us to be picked up and read. Two shelves are taken up by our obscenely large DVD collection, which has coincidentally spilled over into the adjacent bookshelf, interrupted only by my wife's tasteful, ever-growing collection of teapots. The bottom shelf is encumbered with hardcovers and "heavier reading". B.'s Encyclopedia of Mammals is a prominent anchor to the whole fixture, as are the complete works of Shakespeare, Rowling and Tolkien.
But one shelf is entirely devoid of DVDs or our latest Barnes & Noble indulgence. This shelf is specially reserved for something both B. and I hold in great reverence and respect. This shelf is devoted to the cultures, customs and religions we admire and enjoy learning about. It's an eclectic smattering of artifacts and oddities. Next to our illustrated copy of the Tao Te Ching is a translated copy of the Quran. In the shadow of a large bust of a Hindu god rests a miniature figurine of the Buddha. Nestled next to our Matryoska dolls sits a Bulgarian Orthodox Bible.
Across the room from this shelf, next to our doorway is a mezuzzah, a Jewish wall ornament containing a Hebrew prayer on a small scroll. We picked it up at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. That trip also explains half of our paperback shelf; amidst my Steig Larsson and John LeCarre, B. bought numerous novels on Auschwitz, the Nazi regime and even a copy of Mein Kampf.
We aren't Jewish. We do however hold Judaism in high regard. We aren't Muslim, yet we find the devotion and poetry of Islam's teachings moving. We aren't members of any Slavic Orthodox Church, yet we appreciate the efforts of its members in bringing warmth to a cold part of the world. We aren't Hindu or Buddhist, yet placing representations of each religion doesn't offend us, it inspires us.
We've had friends jokingly refer to our collection, our "God shelf" as our method of cosmically "covering all our bases." Hardly. No one should have a backup belief system. I just believe in a loving God. Being Christian shouldn't deter me from admiring the paths others have chosen to come closer to God. I should emulate the love He feels for all races and creeds. I love God, therefore I love His creations and should respect their ways. Right?
I recall an instance where a high school friend of mine, a member of another church and certainly a much better person than me, was coming to meet me one Saturday morning for a rehearsal. She had pulled her car into the lot, put on the brake and then simply stayed there. I approached the car to see if she was all right, and as she opened the door a chorus of small voices faded away in the speakers. She had been listening to an African chorus worshiping the best way they knew how.
She sat there, visibly moved by the piece. I stood in awe, as I often was around her, both at the beautiful music and its effects on her as well as the very inspiring image she painted for me, sitting in her front seat. Here was a woman of one faith in one part of the world refreshed, replenished, inspired, affected, and affirmed by the work of others of another faith in another part of the world. As if the song built a bridge between our two continents. A bridge between churches and religions, with God in the middle, urging His creations to act more Godly with each new day.
I doubt she herself remembers this, it was a passing moment, the song ended, she hopped out and we went off to rehearse. But I've never forgotten the indelible impression it made on my life. B. and I love other religions, other cultures, strange exotic places and the wonders they hold. We want to travel. We want to celebrate the world.
But for now, I'm just happy to build a bridge on our bookshelf.
S
But one shelf is entirely devoid of DVDs or our latest Barnes & Noble indulgence. This shelf is specially reserved for something both B. and I hold in great reverence and respect. This shelf is devoted to the cultures, customs and religions we admire and enjoy learning about. It's an eclectic smattering of artifacts and oddities. Next to our illustrated copy of the Tao Te Ching is a translated copy of the Quran. In the shadow of a large bust of a Hindu god rests a miniature figurine of the Buddha. Nestled next to our Matryoska dolls sits a Bulgarian Orthodox Bible.
Across the room from this shelf, next to our doorway is a mezuzzah, a Jewish wall ornament containing a Hebrew prayer on a small scroll. We picked it up at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. That trip also explains half of our paperback shelf; amidst my Steig Larsson and John LeCarre, B. bought numerous novels on Auschwitz, the Nazi regime and even a copy of Mein Kampf.
We aren't Jewish. We do however hold Judaism in high regard. We aren't Muslim, yet we find the devotion and poetry of Islam's teachings moving. We aren't members of any Slavic Orthodox Church, yet we appreciate the efforts of its members in bringing warmth to a cold part of the world. We aren't Hindu or Buddhist, yet placing representations of each religion doesn't offend us, it inspires us.
We've had friends jokingly refer to our collection, our "God shelf" as our method of cosmically "covering all our bases." Hardly. No one should have a backup belief system. I just believe in a loving God. Being Christian shouldn't deter me from admiring the paths others have chosen to come closer to God. I should emulate the love He feels for all races and creeds. I love God, therefore I love His creations and should respect their ways. Right?
I recall an instance where a high school friend of mine, a member of another church and certainly a much better person than me, was coming to meet me one Saturday morning for a rehearsal. She had pulled her car into the lot, put on the brake and then simply stayed there. I approached the car to see if she was all right, and as she opened the door a chorus of small voices faded away in the speakers. She had been listening to an African chorus worshiping the best way they knew how.
She sat there, visibly moved by the piece. I stood in awe, as I often was around her, both at the beautiful music and its effects on her as well as the very inspiring image she painted for me, sitting in her front seat. Here was a woman of one faith in one part of the world refreshed, replenished, inspired, affected, and affirmed by the work of others of another faith in another part of the world. As if the song built a bridge between our two continents. A bridge between churches and religions, with God in the middle, urging His creations to act more Godly with each new day.
I doubt she herself remembers this, it was a passing moment, the song ended, she hopped out and we went off to rehearse. But I've never forgotten the indelible impression it made on my life. B. and I love other religions, other cultures, strange exotic places and the wonders they hold. We want to travel. We want to celebrate the world.
But for now, I'm just happy to build a bridge on our bookshelf.
S
Thursday, September 12, 2013
My Calves Feel Suffocated
It's official.
Autumn is here, folks. How do I know this?
I'm wearing pants today.
Rather than donning my usual shorts and T-shirt, I busted out my jeans to "bundle up" against the morning chill. Pants, people! Shoes replace flip-flops, sleeves are growing longer, soon we'll be wearing jackets as the leaves die and fall around us in a seasonal fireworks display.
This summer B. and I tag-teamed summer school, worked full time jobs, gave up vacations, visited family and continued to learn and grow together as a couple. She got a raise. I was accepted into my program at school. We've improved, grown, laughed, fought, kissed, talked and enjoyed each other through the months of sweltering heat and no A/C.
Now two long semesters are staring us down. Two semesters of heating bills, student loans, homework, projects, late nights, early mornings, and working through weekends. For about 8 months we're getting downgraded from spouses to roommates. We'll see each other on the weekends I guess. Well, Sundays. We can do homework in the same room and call it "family time."
With so much of my time spoken for, I can hardly keep up the pace of blogging I maintained during the summer. When I rebooted this project on Father's Day, I had no idea how big of a reaction and a following it would get. Many avid readers, fans and friends have been more than supportive, some have even encouraged me to start writing fiction and try to get published. Your enthusiasm has bolstered my enthusiasm, and a blog whose entries were spotty at best quickly became a frequent, regular news feed of my meager musings.
But alas, as I said before, times are a-changin'. I'm currently signed up for six classes (17 credits total) this fall. And with such a heavy workload I'm afraid I must put more of my focus, my time and my energy into my education. In an attempt to avoid slacking off (yet again) this summer, I posted with almost religious regularity. But now, rather than my usual four or five posts per week, I will limit my entries to probably about once a week. I'm not abandoning writing; if anything I'm more encouraged by this blog to continue writing. Part of me really does want to take some of your advice and try my hand at fiction, should time allow.
But, truth be told, I can't blame homework entirely for my backing off. I feel like I've been sort of spinning my wheels a little for the past few weeks. My posts have veered off-topic. Rather than talk about how we're working out our bug(g)s, I've selfishly sunk into simple reminiscences or rampaging rants. I mean, I know we're a pretty crazy couple, but there's only so much dysfunction I can use for material.
I feel myself starting to run out of things to say.
Well, things of value, anyway. That's a good sign it's time to shift gears.
I shouldn't have to force anything. I don't want to feel like I'm stretching to keep your attention. I don't want you to stop enjoying what you read because the posts feel were only written to meet some arbitrary self-imposed deadline. Some of these posts I'm really proud of. Others I might end up deleting. I have editing rights as a writer, right? Think of this summer writing blitz as making up for time lost in my long hiatus last year when I started this blog. Regardless, limiting posts to weekly updates will really allow me time to edit, ponder, and mull over what exactly I think should be said, rather than just what I could say.
Plus, I really enjoy including little illustrations with some of these stories, so spacing them out allows me time to add visual embellishments.
Good luck to all of you this fall. Hopefully we'll all come out relatively sane by Christmas. In the meantime keep reading, keep commenting, and keep sharing. I love to see new people reading, asking questions and participating in this conversation.
See you next week.
Promise.
S
Autumn is here, folks. How do I know this?
I'm wearing pants today.
Rather than donning my usual shorts and T-shirt, I busted out my jeans to "bundle up" against the morning chill. Pants, people! Shoes replace flip-flops, sleeves are growing longer, soon we'll be wearing jackets as the leaves die and fall around us in a seasonal fireworks display.
This summer B. and I tag-teamed summer school, worked full time jobs, gave up vacations, visited family and continued to learn and grow together as a couple. She got a raise. I was accepted into my program at school. We've improved, grown, laughed, fought, kissed, talked and enjoyed each other through the months of sweltering heat and no A/C.
Now two long semesters are staring us down. Two semesters of heating bills, student loans, homework, projects, late nights, early mornings, and working through weekends. For about 8 months we're getting downgraded from spouses to roommates. We'll see each other on the weekends I guess. Well, Sundays. We can do homework in the same room and call it "family time."
With so much of my time spoken for, I can hardly keep up the pace of blogging I maintained during the summer. When I rebooted this project on Father's Day, I had no idea how big of a reaction and a following it would get. Many avid readers, fans and friends have been more than supportive, some have even encouraged me to start writing fiction and try to get published. Your enthusiasm has bolstered my enthusiasm, and a blog whose entries were spotty at best quickly became a frequent, regular news feed of my meager musings.
But alas, as I said before, times are a-changin'. I'm currently signed up for six classes (17 credits total) this fall. And with such a heavy workload I'm afraid I must put more of my focus, my time and my energy into my education. In an attempt to avoid slacking off (yet again) this summer, I posted with almost religious regularity. But now, rather than my usual four or five posts per week, I will limit my entries to probably about once a week. I'm not abandoning writing; if anything I'm more encouraged by this blog to continue writing. Part of me really does want to take some of your advice and try my hand at fiction, should time allow.
But, truth be told, I can't blame homework entirely for my backing off. I feel like I've been sort of spinning my wheels a little for the past few weeks. My posts have veered off-topic. Rather than talk about how we're working out our bug(g)s, I've selfishly sunk into simple reminiscences or rampaging rants. I mean, I know we're a pretty crazy couple, but there's only so much dysfunction I can use for material.
I feel myself starting to run out of things to say.
Well, things of value, anyway. That's a good sign it's time to shift gears.
I shouldn't have to force anything. I don't want to feel like I'm stretching to keep your attention. I don't want you to stop enjoying what you read because the posts feel were only written to meet some arbitrary self-imposed deadline. Some of these posts I'm really proud of. Others I might end up deleting. I have editing rights as a writer, right? Think of this summer writing blitz as making up for time lost in my long hiatus last year when I started this blog. Regardless, limiting posts to weekly updates will really allow me time to edit, ponder, and mull over what exactly I think should be said, rather than just what I could say.
Plus, I really enjoy including little illustrations with some of these stories, so spacing them out allows me time to add visual embellishments.
Good luck to all of you this fall. Hopefully we'll all come out relatively sane by Christmas. In the meantime keep reading, keep commenting, and keep sharing. I love to see new people reading, asking questions and participating in this conversation.
See you next week.
Promise.
S
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
We in a Tight Spot!
I've mentioned before that B. and I love Zions National Park. We've had epic dates there and the vast landscape of red rocks and towering boulders holds a lot of dear memories for us.
This one is less dear.
We went to St. George, Utah the last weekend of summer (for B. at least, my classes will start after Labor Day) to attend a wedding but also to escape town and get some semblance of a vacation in the few weeks between summer school and fall semester. We were guests to my sister-in-law Jess and her husband. They're both fantastic, and I think the time we got to spend with them really allowed us to get to know each other better. Even better, we got to see our not-so-baby niece, too. She's an adorable handful and we love every chance we get to see her.
Our first day there was a marathon of scrambling across town, getting wedding gifts, B. getting her hair done, seeing this family and that family and at long last visit my grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. We took them out to one of our favorite restaurants down there and I had a great time talking with my grandmother as an adult rather than a little kid interested in candy, cartoons and not much else.
After such a hectic day, we blew off the hike we planned and postponed it til the next day. We had a down day. We cooked our classic staple polynesian chicken and introduced B.'s sister to its wonders. B. finally saw one of my favorite movies, Rise of the Guardians, or as little niece calls it, "Jack Fwost movie." We slumped on the couch and enjoyed the air conditioned indoors and chatted with the sister-in-law I had never really gotten to know too well. We talked about future plans, convinced her to jump on the Breaking Bad bandwagon, and enjoyed the hyperactive antics of her hilarious toddler.
That night we got all dolled up (B. looked fantastic in her 40s style polka dot dress) and went to a wedding. Pardon, a weddin'. The groom, the lucky man who won the heart of B.'s stepsister, wore a cowboy hat at the ceremony. They really embraced the Southwestern cowpoke motif. (as well as the term "getting hitched")
On the final day of our last hurrah before school hit, we set our alarm for 7:00 to make it out to the park early. Well, I did. B. it seemed, had other plans. As did her sister. They slept in while I dozed and fiddled on facebook. We finally got ready to go and left around 11 am, planning to be back around 3pm. 4 at the latest.
Weather and fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Our plan was to got on a hike called the Narrows, a trail following the deep crevice worn into the red stone by the Virgin River. Now, the full hike is a twenty-something mile trek that takes two days. Our abbreviated version would only take a few hours. We'd take a detour off into another branch of the canyon called Orderville Gulch and find a small but decent waterfall. I'd kiss my wife in the waterfall, we'd take some snapshots and turn back, no problem.
But there was a problem.
The last few days had been a bit rainy (darn monsoon season) and a lot of silty runoff had accumulated in the canyon, giving the normally clear river through which we were to traverse a chalky brown consistency. There were flash flood warnings up, but it hadn't rained in quite some time and we honestly weren't going too deep in, so we decided to try anyway (this was after all our last day of summer)
It took some getting used to, testing blindly with our river shoes for slippery footholds in the Willy Wonka river, but we established a pattern and I, the tallest was elected the guinea pig in testing depth. We had dressed to get wet, so I didn't mind an unexpected swim. We took some great photos, had a lot of laughs and stretched and hyperextended a lot of foot tendons in our numerous slips. We would be sore in the morning. At last we came to the long awaited waterfall, much shorter than expected but still taller than me and powerful enough to give it some real force. I inched up to it, dipped my head in, and returned to where B. and her sister had oerched to eat granola bars and trail mix. I sat down briefly and began munching, when suddenly we heard it.
A distant rumble in the sky.
All three of us locked eyes and knew. B. voiced what we were all thinking:
Time to go!
As it started to sprinkle, I became a little concerned about flash floods. At least until we broke out of the Orderville Gulch detour (a very narrow passageway). But even if we were overtaken by a sudden current, we were all adults who could swim and the current would only speed us back to the trailhead. Worst case scenario, we'd swim more than walk and the greatest challenge would be to stay together and stay afloat. Once we reached the main, wider banks of the Virgin River, I wasn't too worried.
But I was the only one. My poor sister-in-law was bawling. She had a baby girl, she couldn't die here! My poor asthmatic B. was having an anxiety attack as we splashed our way back. I told both of them we would be fine, they only partly listened. I held B. close for a second and urged them both to be fast but smart. We couldn't see where we stepped, so it was best to move at a quick pace, but still move carefully. A sprained ankle would only slow us down further. I could carry one of them, both of them would be a challenge. We all held hands in a chain as we crossed from bank to bank, hurrying with the rising water level and quickening current.
Trying to lighten the mood, B. wondered aloud about the scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Arwen summons the watery horse-head waves to drown the Ringwraiths. I love my wife; even in a panic attack she can pull Lord of the Rings references. I laughed. Jess just splashed ahead of us.
The rain picked up briefly, soundly soaking us and giving birth to new waterfalls along the trail. We were rounding a corner as one spouted off of the edge of the canyon and splashed down next to us. That did not help to ease the two hysterical women clinging to my arms in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but laugh. Not at them or their distress, but I just loved every moment of the trip, being caught up in the elements, drenched to the bone, witnessing the birth of waterfalls in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I drank in the moment, even as we hurried back to dry land (well, high ground).
Obviously we made it back just fine. Jess's knees were killing her, I had to carry her a little on the way back to the shuttle. B. was a trooper - thank goodness she packed her inhaler. We were all relatively damp if not dry as we left the shuttle and made our way to the car. In the last fifty-foot stretch before we got to our car, the heavens opened up and dumped on us yet again. We just had to get the car wet apparently.
Showered and changed back home, I rubbed my already tender and sore feet. My metatarsals hand been warped and stretched in all sorts of nasty ways. B. felt a million times better after a hot shower. Jess, once in the cozy comfort of sweats at home, admitted that our situation might not have been as dire as she had originally thought.
I just smiled to myself, taking comfort in the fact that my marriage has taught me enough to know when to offer advice, when to offer facts, when to offer comfort, and when to just shut up and let women have their hormonal freakouts. B., my headstrong feminist told me (and Jess) as we were scrambling our way back to the trailhead that she was glad they had a man around at that moment. I don't quite know what to make of that, but it's good to hear from my woman.
Next time we'll go when the water's clear.
S
This one is less dear.
We went to St. George, Utah the last weekend of summer (for B. at least, my classes will start after Labor Day) to attend a wedding but also to escape town and get some semblance of a vacation in the few weeks between summer school and fall semester. We were guests to my sister-in-law Jess and her husband. They're both fantastic, and I think the time we got to spend with them really allowed us to get to know each other better. Even better, we got to see our not-so-baby niece, too. She's an adorable handful and we love every chance we get to see her.
Our first day there was a marathon of scrambling across town, getting wedding gifts, B. getting her hair done, seeing this family and that family and at long last visit my grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. We took them out to one of our favorite restaurants down there and I had a great time talking with my grandmother as an adult rather than a little kid interested in candy, cartoons and not much else.
After such a hectic day, we blew off the hike we planned and postponed it til the next day. We had a down day. We cooked our classic staple polynesian chicken and introduced B.'s sister to its wonders. B. finally saw one of my favorite movies, Rise of the Guardians, or as little niece calls it, "Jack Fwost movie." We slumped on the couch and enjoyed the air conditioned indoors and chatted with the sister-in-law I had never really gotten to know too well. We talked about future plans, convinced her to jump on the Breaking Bad bandwagon, and enjoyed the hyperactive antics of her hilarious toddler.
That night we got all dolled up (B. looked fantastic in her 40s style polka dot dress) and went to a wedding. Pardon, a weddin'. The groom, the lucky man who won the heart of B.'s stepsister, wore a cowboy hat at the ceremony. They really embraced the Southwestern cowpoke motif. (as well as the term "getting hitched")
On the final day of our last hurrah before school hit, we set our alarm for 7:00 to make it out to the park early. Well, I did. B. it seemed, had other plans. As did her sister. They slept in while I dozed and fiddled on facebook. We finally got ready to go and left around 11 am, planning to be back around 3pm. 4 at the latest.
Weather and fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Our plan was to got on a hike called the Narrows, a trail following the deep crevice worn into the red stone by the Virgin River. Now, the full hike is a twenty-something mile trek that takes two days. Our abbreviated version would only take a few hours. We'd take a detour off into another branch of the canyon called Orderville Gulch and find a small but decent waterfall. I'd kiss my wife in the waterfall, we'd take some snapshots and turn back, no problem.
But there was a problem.
The last few days had been a bit rainy (darn monsoon season) and a lot of silty runoff had accumulated in the canyon, giving the normally clear river through which we were to traverse a chalky brown consistency. There were flash flood warnings up, but it hadn't rained in quite some time and we honestly weren't going too deep in, so we decided to try anyway (this was after all our last day of summer)
It took some getting used to, testing blindly with our river shoes for slippery footholds in the Willy Wonka river, but we established a pattern and I, the tallest was elected the guinea pig in testing depth. We had dressed to get wet, so I didn't mind an unexpected swim. We took some great photos, had a lot of laughs and stretched and hyperextended a lot of foot tendons in our numerous slips. We would be sore in the morning. At last we came to the long awaited waterfall, much shorter than expected but still taller than me and powerful enough to give it some real force. I inched up to it, dipped my head in, and returned to where B. and her sister had oerched to eat granola bars and trail mix. I sat down briefly and began munching, when suddenly we heard it.
A distant rumble in the sky.
All three of us locked eyes and knew. B. voiced what we were all thinking:
Time to go!
As it started to sprinkle, I became a little concerned about flash floods. At least until we broke out of the Orderville Gulch detour (a very narrow passageway). But even if we were overtaken by a sudden current, we were all adults who could swim and the current would only speed us back to the trailhead. Worst case scenario, we'd swim more than walk and the greatest challenge would be to stay together and stay afloat. Once we reached the main, wider banks of the Virgin River, I wasn't too worried.
But I was the only one. My poor sister-in-law was bawling. She had a baby girl, she couldn't die here! My poor asthmatic B. was having an anxiety attack as we splashed our way back. I told both of them we would be fine, they only partly listened. I held B. close for a second and urged them both to be fast but smart. We couldn't see where we stepped, so it was best to move at a quick pace, but still move carefully. A sprained ankle would only slow us down further. I could carry one of them, both of them would be a challenge. We all held hands in a chain as we crossed from bank to bank, hurrying with the rising water level and quickening current.
Trying to lighten the mood, B. wondered aloud about the scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Arwen summons the watery horse-head waves to drown the Ringwraiths. I love my wife; even in a panic attack she can pull Lord of the Rings references. I laughed. Jess just splashed ahead of us.
The rain picked up briefly, soundly soaking us and giving birth to new waterfalls along the trail. We were rounding a corner as one spouted off of the edge of the canyon and splashed down next to us. That did not help to ease the two hysterical women clinging to my arms in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but laugh. Not at them or their distress, but I just loved every moment of the trip, being caught up in the elements, drenched to the bone, witnessing the birth of waterfalls in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I drank in the moment, even as we hurried back to dry land (well, high ground).
Obviously we made it back just fine. Jess's knees were killing her, I had to carry her a little on the way back to the shuttle. B. was a trooper - thank goodness she packed her inhaler. We were all relatively damp if not dry as we left the shuttle and made our way to the car. In the last fifty-foot stretch before we got to our car, the heavens opened up and dumped on us yet again. We just had to get the car wet apparently.
Showered and changed back home, I rubbed my already tender and sore feet. My metatarsals hand been warped and stretched in all sorts of nasty ways. B. felt a million times better after a hot shower. Jess, once in the cozy comfort of sweats at home, admitted that our situation might not have been as dire as she had originally thought.
I just smiled to myself, taking comfort in the fact that my marriage has taught me enough to know when to offer advice, when to offer facts, when to offer comfort, and when to just shut up and let women have their hormonal freakouts. B., my headstrong feminist told me (and Jess) as we were scrambling our way back to the trailhead that she was glad they had a man around at that moment. I don't quite know what to make of that, but it's good to hear from my woman.
Next time we'll go when the water's clear.
S
Friday, August 30, 2013
My New Roommate.
I got a new roommate this week.
It's a pretty chill situation, the apartment stays pretty clean. I do most of the dishes, my roomie vacuums, and we take turns on things like laundry. We don't see much of each other, so we haven't had a lot of opportunities to get to know each other, but I've been through this before. I once had a roommate who wasn't just a night owl, he was nocturnal. He would literally come in to crash on his bed as I was getting ready to go to class or work in the morning.
This new roomie isn't as extreme, but - well, take last night for example: I was on my computer working on a digital piece for hours, my roommate was in the bedroom reading that day's required chapters of a book on Stalin. We didn't talk much, but we don't see much of each other either. Once my classes start next week, we'll really only both be home on an occasional Friday morning and Sundays, both of which will probably be devoted to doing homework the entire time.
What's wrong with this picture?
B. and I already feel more like roommates than spouses.
And I haven't even started class yet. She works 30 hours a week, is taking 16 credits (Invertebrate Zoology, Plant Pathology, History of WWII, Honors Chem - blech, and a yoga class), and is trying to start up a running routine to go with her yoga.
I'm taking 17 credits (Digital Illustration II, Advanced Figure Drawing, Oil Painting, Concept Art I, Character Design, and a business class especially for illustrators), working the maximum 20 hours a week the university will allow as well as freelance work for various clients. I'm really excited about these classes, but I'll miss my wife.
Weekends are a no-go, too. I can't work Saturdays. She works 12-hour shifts every Saturday. Sundays are the only days we can try to sleep in before church, then it's all projects and papers. I counted it out and realized that if I limit my sleep time to under 7 hours a night and my meals and travel time to about 10 hours each week, I can have 30 solid hours for homework a week. The rest of the time I'm working or in class. Hopefully I can squeeze in some runs somewhere in there, too.
How can we expect to grow together as a married couple if we only see each other about 12 hours a week? I thought long-distance dating was hard, but honestly having her home but not home is, in a lot of ways, harder.
I know college is worth it, I don't begrudge the opportunity for an education, it's just the massive time-suck it's becoming that's getting to me. We won't get to go on a date unless there's a federal holiday. I'll miss her these next two semesters, but we've both only got about two more years and then we can graduate and have adult lives with free time, right?
...right?
What's the big time-suck in your life?
S
It's a pretty chill situation, the apartment stays pretty clean. I do most of the dishes, my roomie vacuums, and we take turns on things like laundry. We don't see much of each other, so we haven't had a lot of opportunities to get to know each other, but I've been through this before. I once had a roommate who wasn't just a night owl, he was nocturnal. He would literally come in to crash on his bed as I was getting ready to go to class or work in the morning.
This new roomie isn't as extreme, but - well, take last night for example: I was on my computer working on a digital piece for hours, my roommate was in the bedroom reading that day's required chapters of a book on Stalin. We didn't talk much, but we don't see much of each other either. Once my classes start next week, we'll really only both be home on an occasional Friday morning and Sundays, both of which will probably be devoted to doing homework the entire time.
What's wrong with this picture?
B. and I already feel more like roommates than spouses.
And I haven't even started class yet. She works 30 hours a week, is taking 16 credits (Invertebrate Zoology, Plant Pathology, History of WWII, Honors Chem - blech, and a yoga class), and is trying to start up a running routine to go with her yoga.
I'm taking 17 credits (Digital Illustration II, Advanced Figure Drawing, Oil Painting, Concept Art I, Character Design, and a business class especially for illustrators), working the maximum 20 hours a week the university will allow as well as freelance work for various clients. I'm really excited about these classes, but I'll miss my wife.
Weekends are a no-go, too. I can't work Saturdays. She works 12-hour shifts every Saturday. Sundays are the only days we can try to sleep in before church, then it's all projects and papers. I counted it out and realized that if I limit my sleep time to under 7 hours a night and my meals and travel time to about 10 hours each week, I can have 30 solid hours for homework a week. The rest of the time I'm working or in class. Hopefully I can squeeze in some runs somewhere in there, too.
How can we expect to grow together as a married couple if we only see each other about 12 hours a week? I thought long-distance dating was hard, but honestly having her home but not home is, in a lot of ways, harder.
I know college is worth it, I don't begrudge the opportunity for an education, it's just the massive time-suck it's becoming that's getting to me. We won't get to go on a date unless there's a federal holiday. I'll miss her these next two semesters, but we've both only got about two more years and then we can graduate and have adult lives with free time, right?
...right?
What's the big time-suck in your life?
S
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Two Terrifying Types
I was absent-mindedly scraping cream cheese onto a bagel one morning when something fluttered by my head. Many of you recall my reaction the last time we had an uninvited guest in our house, particularly when it flexed its wing in our tub. This was on a much smaller scale, but it still got me thinking.
I think there are two things we are scared of.
There are fears.
And there are phobias.
Fears are those rational, adult anxieties we all suffer through in life. Will I make it home safely on these icy roads? Is the front door locked? Can I defend myself and my family if I have to? Will this pregnancy go all right? Will this marriage survive the bumps and scrapes of life? Will we make it til next payday? Will I be a good enough parent? Will I find a job after college? The little monsters that creaked and groaned under our beds as children crawl up under our pillows to whisper seeds of real, legitimate doubts and concerns into our ears and remind us just how little control we have in life. These are the dangerous fears that we have to bridle with confidence, faith, trust in our loved ones, and even a little self-delusion.
Phobias are the much less serious, at times even silly things that give us the willies. I'm not talking about the temporary, post-traumatic shivers caused by a late-night horror flick; this is more individualized, more personal. The stuff we scoff at now that we've outgrown such petty anxieties and moved on to much more daunting demons. We all had them, maybe you still do. A little. Maybe part of you still does get uneasy at the thought of being alone in the dark. Heights make your head spin. Clowns are still a little creepy. You're a confident swimmer, but you can't ever fully submerge that fear of drowning. Ever since that big angry dog bit you, you've been a bit put off by canines. Spiders in particular are enough to make my wife screech. And as I mentioned earlier, I was inspired to write this by one of my old childhood demons revisiting me one morning.
Don't laugh.
It was a moth.
Growing up I hated moths. They would flutter harmlessly into my bedroom at night, nestle in a comfy corner of my ceiling and perch there, waiting for me to notice. I invariably would. Which sent my seven-year-old head reeling with horrific images of it fluttering down and poking its fuzzy feelers into my nostrils, invading my face as I slept. I would stare at it for hours, daring it to move, flinching and hiding under the covers if it did. I know they're just like butterflies. Cute little fluttery bugs that pollinate flowers. But if there are flowery meadows in hell, only moths flutter there. They unfurl their wings like bats, their insect faces are covered with tiny feelers, and worst of all, they fly. No, they don't just fly, they flutter in hurried, scatterbrained patterns that make it impossible to preemptively strike it from the air. Flies and bees just fly in relatively straight paths; easy to track, easy to kill. Spiders are grounded (it is a merciful God that didn't give them wings) and easily squished. But moths... Moths are evil.
I know it's irrational. But that's what a phobia is, an irrational fear that you can't explain to others. A private anxiety that's latched itself onto your psyche, annoying you throughout all your childhood days and sometimes even beyond.
Just keep a swatter handy. Or a boot.
What are some of your fears?
What were/are your phobias? Please tell me I'm not the only weird one here.
S
I think there are two things we are scared of.
There are fears.
And there are phobias.
Fears are those rational, adult anxieties we all suffer through in life. Will I make it home safely on these icy roads? Is the front door locked? Can I defend myself and my family if I have to? Will this pregnancy go all right? Will this marriage survive the bumps and scrapes of life? Will we make it til next payday? Will I be a good enough parent? Will I find a job after college? The little monsters that creaked and groaned under our beds as children crawl up under our pillows to whisper seeds of real, legitimate doubts and concerns into our ears and remind us just how little control we have in life. These are the dangerous fears that we have to bridle with confidence, faith, trust in our loved ones, and even a little self-delusion.
Phobias are the much less serious, at times even silly things that give us the willies. I'm not talking about the temporary, post-traumatic shivers caused by a late-night horror flick; this is more individualized, more personal. The stuff we scoff at now that we've outgrown such petty anxieties and moved on to much more daunting demons. We all had them, maybe you still do. A little. Maybe part of you still does get uneasy at the thought of being alone in the dark. Heights make your head spin. Clowns are still a little creepy. You're a confident swimmer, but you can't ever fully submerge that fear of drowning. Ever since that big angry dog bit you, you've been a bit put off by canines. Spiders in particular are enough to make my wife screech. And as I mentioned earlier, I was inspired to write this by one of my old childhood demons revisiting me one morning.
Don't laugh.
It was a moth.
Growing up I hated moths. They would flutter harmlessly into my bedroom at night, nestle in a comfy corner of my ceiling and perch there, waiting for me to notice. I invariably would. Which sent my seven-year-old head reeling with horrific images of it fluttering down and poking its fuzzy feelers into my nostrils, invading my face as I slept. I would stare at it for hours, daring it to move, flinching and hiding under the covers if it did. I know they're just like butterflies. Cute little fluttery bugs that pollinate flowers. But if there are flowery meadows in hell, only moths flutter there. They unfurl their wings like bats, their insect faces are covered with tiny feelers, and worst of all, they fly. No, they don't just fly, they flutter in hurried, scatterbrained patterns that make it impossible to preemptively strike it from the air. Flies and bees just fly in relatively straight paths; easy to track, easy to kill. Spiders are grounded (it is a merciful God that didn't give them wings) and easily squished. But moths... Moths are evil.
I know it's irrational. But that's what a phobia is, an irrational fear that you can't explain to others. A private anxiety that's latched itself onto your psyche, annoying you throughout all your childhood days and sometimes even beyond.
Just keep a swatter handy. Or a boot.
What are some of your fears?
What were/are your phobias? Please tell me I'm not the only weird one here.
S
Friday, August 23, 2013
Fakeouts and Flinstones
B. has the ultimate trump card when it comes to pranks.
It's right below her rib cage.
Now folks, the two of us have talked about kids and family plans and our futures, and we've agreed that right now it's not in the cards. We're still in college, and we want our own futures to be a little more secure, we want to be a little more ready to provide before we consider introducing a new life into the world. We're both on the same page with what we want and if/when we want kids, but as we tease each other about it, there is an unspoken war, a dance of wills that emerges whenever the subject comes up:
We got home after work one afternoon. B. had picked up a few things from the store that day. She plopped the plastic bag on the counter and went to scavenge the fridge. I spotted inside the bag a small bottle of - pills? Vitamins. We had a plenitude of different multivitamins so adding more to the mix left me naturally puzzled. I asked what they were, she turned, smiling wryly as she plucked them from the bag. She tossed the bottle to me and said, "What do you think?"
I looked down at the label.
Prenatal Vitamin Supplements.
...
wait...
"...uh... Wait..."
Her grin grew wider.
"Are... are you..."
"What do you think?" she repeated, refusing to budge.
Now listen people, B. is a natural prankster and has been known to fake-out on this sort of thing before. Could she be trusted? Was this really happening? Was she sure? Her smile was from ear to ear, could we really be expecting?
I didn't know what to say. What was I going to do? Call her bluff? What if she really was? My first words as a father would be "Yeah, right."
I would not start my paternal career with sarcasm. I stuttered a little bit more, she just stared, eyes fixed on me and her smile never wavering.
Beginning to accept the idea that I could be a daddy, I abandoned any sort of verbal escapism or clever wordplay to make her admit one way or the other. Heart in my throat, I took her face in my hands and sweetly kissed the forehead of the woman who would/could/might bear our child.
"Omigoshimnotpregnantimjustkidding!" she blurted out instantly in a panicked apology.
I just froze. She claims that my hands wrapped around her head started to tighten a little bit before letting go.
Apparently she had heard that prenatal vitamins promote hair growth, she's trying to grow her hair out, so the pills would expedite the process. I should have known.
We learned a lot about each other that day. I learned that I married the ultimate prankster and that my wife can sell a lie for a lot longer than I can. She learned that I know nothing about vitamins. I learned that if she was really going to tell me that we were starting a family, she wouldn't tell me in such a mundane way. She also told me that it would take about 8 different pregnancy tests, 2 doctor visits and a second and possibly third opinion before she was convinced it was happening herself.
Or so I thought.
Until last week, when we were meandering around Barnes and Noble, killing time before B. went to work. Fortunately the ornithological research books are right across from the illustration and digital painting manuals. We stood side by side, perusing our respective literature when I caught her staring at me with a doe-eyed grin. But it wasn't that that caught me off guard.
She was also tracing her navel absent-mindedly with her finger.
The same mind-dance happened all over again. Are you? What do you think? My off-handed humorous skepticism was quickly drowned out by genuine, concerned interrogation, until at last she admitted that no, the oven was bunless. She had just been thinking about it, about what a great dad I'd be, about how great our kid would look someday. Again, we're not planning any additions to the Bugg home soon, but it's not like we'd ever regret a family.
I thought I had learned my lesson, but she still gets me every time. But this is a subject about which I'm ok with being gullible. I'd rather be fooled a thousand times than risk laughing in the face of my pregnant wife, the mother of my unborn firstborn, denying what I had done to her.
I refuse to let my first fatherly words be, "Ha! No, you're not!"
But I think I'll stick to Flinstones chewables.
What are your favorite fakeouts?
S
It's right below her rib cage.
Now folks, the two of us have talked about kids and family plans and our futures, and we've agreed that right now it's not in the cards. We're still in college, and we want our own futures to be a little more secure, we want to be a little more ready to provide before we consider introducing a new life into the world. We're both on the same page with what we want and if/when we want kids, but as we tease each other about it, there is an unspoken war, a dance of wills that emerges whenever the subject comes up:
We got home after work one afternoon. B. had picked up a few things from the store that day. She plopped the plastic bag on the counter and went to scavenge the fridge. I spotted inside the bag a small bottle of - pills? Vitamins. We had a plenitude of different multivitamins so adding more to the mix left me naturally puzzled. I asked what they were, she turned, smiling wryly as she plucked them from the bag. She tossed the bottle to me and said, "What do you think?"
I looked down at the label.
Prenatal Vitamin Supplements.
...
wait...
"...uh... Wait..."
Her grin grew wider.
"Are... are you..."
"What do you think?" she repeated, refusing to budge.
Now listen people, B. is a natural prankster and has been known to fake-out on this sort of thing before. Could she be trusted? Was this really happening? Was she sure? Her smile was from ear to ear, could we really be expecting?
I didn't know what to say. What was I going to do? Call her bluff? What if she really was? My first words as a father would be "Yeah, right."
I would not start my paternal career with sarcasm. I stuttered a little bit more, she just stared, eyes fixed on me and her smile never wavering.
Beginning to accept the idea that I could be a daddy, I abandoned any sort of verbal escapism or clever wordplay to make her admit one way or the other. Heart in my throat, I took her face in my hands and sweetly kissed the forehead of the woman who would/could/might bear our child.
"Omigoshimnotpregnantimjustkidding!" she blurted out instantly in a panicked apology.
I just froze. She claims that my hands wrapped around her head started to tighten a little bit before letting go.
Apparently she had heard that prenatal vitamins promote hair growth, she's trying to grow her hair out, so the pills would expedite the process. I should have known.
We learned a lot about each other that day. I learned that I married the ultimate prankster and that my wife can sell a lie for a lot longer than I can. She learned that I know nothing about vitamins. I learned that if she was really going to tell me that we were starting a family, she wouldn't tell me in such a mundane way. She also told me that it would take about 8 different pregnancy tests, 2 doctor visits and a second and possibly third opinion before she was convinced it was happening herself.
Or so I thought.
Until last week, when we were meandering around Barnes and Noble, killing time before B. went to work. Fortunately the ornithological research books are right across from the illustration and digital painting manuals. We stood side by side, perusing our respective literature when I caught her staring at me with a doe-eyed grin. But it wasn't that that caught me off guard.
She was also tracing her navel absent-mindedly with her finger.
The same mind-dance happened all over again. Are you? What do you think? My off-handed humorous skepticism was quickly drowned out by genuine, concerned interrogation, until at last she admitted that no, the oven was bunless. She had just been thinking about it, about what a great dad I'd be, about how great our kid would look someday. Again, we're not planning any additions to the Bugg home soon, but it's not like we'd ever regret a family.
I thought I had learned my lesson, but she still gets me every time. But this is a subject about which I'm ok with being gullible. I'd rather be fooled a thousand times than risk laughing in the face of my pregnant wife, the mother of my unborn firstborn, denying what I had done to her.
I refuse to let my first fatherly words be, "Ha! No, you're not!"
But I think I'll stick to Flinstones chewables.
What are your favorite fakeouts?
S
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Homeless
People often ask me where I'm from.
I have never liked that, of all the sundry minutia of our backgrounds to inquire after, that is what has become standard.
My answer?
"Well, I'm from a military family..."
People nod appreciatively, sometimes referencing a distant relative or obscure acquaintance who shares my lifestyle. I've never understood our obsession with place. Does my placelessness make people uncomfortable? On the first day of class, everyone can usually be geographically pigeon-holed as the Californian beach bum, the Texan bigwig, the East Coast liberal, the born-and-raised Utahn, the tough-as-nails New Yorker... and then there's me.
The geographical gypsy.
Where was I born? Provo, Utah.
Where am I from - most recently? Suffolk, England.
Where's home? Well, my family is stationed in Maryland...
Where's my favorite place I've lived? Umm, you heard me say England, right? Like a train ride from Paris, 2-hour drive from London? Also, Virginia was awesome, I loved it there.
I never know what people mean when they ask, "Where are you from?" Origin? Birthplace? Most memories? Longest duration of stay?
It shouldn't make me such an oddball, right? People move all the time, we're a mobile society! But I can't honestly look at one past home and call that my one and only home.
Most of my childhood occurred under the shadow of Utah mountains and the Pike's Peak in Colorado, interrupted briefly by a year of kindergarten in a smoky suburb if L.A., California. Middle school was spent in the sweltering heat of Tucson, AZ. High school happened in verdant Virginia. A year of work in New Mexico precluded two years volunteering in the heavy humid summers and harsh Siberian winters of Bulgaria. A few months of respite in England were all I had before returning to my birth state to attend college. Same town, too. I actually got my tonsils taken out two years ago in the same hospital where I was born. How's that for full circle.
UT, CO, AZ, NM, CA, VA, BG, UK... see how I might have trouble nailing one point on the map as "home"?
Once we moved, I usually tried to just focus on the new home, new friends and new opportunities. I got very used to relationships with deadlines and looked forward to the latest clean slate to redefine myself. This might have socially stunted me a bit, but I seem normal enough.
Point is, I don't see much purpose in looking back. Where am I from? Do you actually want to know? Do you really care? This is just small talk in order to facilitate you in the process of dumping any and all assumptions you might have about whatever you've heard about wherever I'm from on me and my personality. No thanks.
Maybe I should just refuse to answer. Maybe I should take a leaf from the book of Yul Brynner, the famous cue-ball actor from The Ten Commandments, The King and I and The Magnificent Seven (NOT the big, mean "pride and power" guy from Cool Runnings). He just let people guess his background, and some of the stories circulating were fun and fantastical. Until Wikipedia ruined it all.
B. and I are now looking at grad schools for her and job opportunities for me all over the place. We're particularly fond of Washington State, but she's eying graduate programs offered as far as Australia. I'm hoping to avoid getting sucked into California or New York, but if there is work I must go.
I understand that people ask about our origins to get a sense of our past experiences (i.e., B. is from Nevada and South Utah - she basks in the heat and is a total wimp in the cold), but unless you were there and met the people we did in each of our respective homes, you have no clue where we're really coming from.
It's people that make the place.
Where are you headed? Where have you been? Are you "from" somewhere?
S
I have never liked that, of all the sundry minutia of our backgrounds to inquire after, that is what has become standard.
My answer?
"Well, I'm from a military family..."
People nod appreciatively, sometimes referencing a distant relative or obscure acquaintance who shares my lifestyle. I've never understood our obsession with place. Does my placelessness make people uncomfortable? On the first day of class, everyone can usually be geographically pigeon-holed as the Californian beach bum, the Texan bigwig, the East Coast liberal, the born-and-raised Utahn, the tough-as-nails New Yorker... and then there's me.
The geographical gypsy.
Where was I born? Provo, Utah.
Where am I from - most recently? Suffolk, England.
Where's home? Well, my family is stationed in Maryland...
Where's my favorite place I've lived? Umm, you heard me say England, right? Like a train ride from Paris, 2-hour drive from London? Also, Virginia was awesome, I loved it there.
I never know what people mean when they ask, "Where are you from?" Origin? Birthplace? Most memories? Longest duration of stay?
It shouldn't make me such an oddball, right? People move all the time, we're a mobile society! But I can't honestly look at one past home and call that my one and only home.
Most of my childhood occurred under the shadow of Utah mountains and the Pike's Peak in Colorado, interrupted briefly by a year of kindergarten in a smoky suburb if L.A., California. Middle school was spent in the sweltering heat of Tucson, AZ. High school happened in verdant Virginia. A year of work in New Mexico precluded two years volunteering in the heavy humid summers and harsh Siberian winters of Bulgaria. A few months of respite in England were all I had before returning to my birth state to attend college. Same town, too. I actually got my tonsils taken out two years ago in the same hospital where I was born. How's that for full circle.
UT, CO, AZ, NM, CA, VA, BG, UK... see how I might have trouble nailing one point on the map as "home"?
Once we moved, I usually tried to just focus on the new home, new friends and new opportunities. I got very used to relationships with deadlines and looked forward to the latest clean slate to redefine myself. This might have socially stunted me a bit, but I seem normal enough.
Point is, I don't see much purpose in looking back. Where am I from? Do you actually want to know? Do you really care? This is just small talk in order to facilitate you in the process of dumping any and all assumptions you might have about whatever you've heard about wherever I'm from on me and my personality. No thanks.
Maybe I should just refuse to answer. Maybe I should take a leaf from the book of Yul Brynner, the famous cue-ball actor from The Ten Commandments, The King and I and The Magnificent Seven (NOT the big, mean "pride and power" guy from Cool Runnings). He just let people guess his background, and some of the stories circulating were fun and fantastical. Until Wikipedia ruined it all.
B. and I are now looking at grad schools for her and job opportunities for me all over the place. We're particularly fond of Washington State, but she's eying graduate programs offered as far as Australia. I'm hoping to avoid getting sucked into California or New York, but if there is work I must go.
I understand that people ask about our origins to get a sense of our past experiences (i.e., B. is from Nevada and South Utah - she basks in the heat and is a total wimp in the cold), but unless you were there and met the people we did in each of our respective homes, you have no clue where we're really coming from.
It's people that make the place.
Where are you headed? Where have you been? Are you "from" somewhere?
S
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Feathers, Fur and "Fin."
Stop.
Before we go any further, watch this video.
Watch it very closely and hold out your hands to catch your chin because your jaw will drop:
Right?
Crazy! This is the kind of thing B. learns about in class. I'm so glad she loves science and can maintain a constant wonder at the world around her. I'm no scientist, but she does a good job dumbing down all the details into stuff like this that I can understand, appreciate, and geek out over.
Every week it seems that she wants to specialize in some new animal study in grad school. When she was learning about mushrooms and fungus, she was set to be a mycologist. We went fungus hunting over Christmas break one morning with my little brother, taking pictures of cool samples - this is what I married. Then it was all about whales. My B., the marine biologist. She's considered ornithology (after watching the lyrebird rock out, so would I!), mammal studies, and a bunch of other -ologies I can't pronounce. Except botany. Plants are pretty boring. Oh, and entomology. I think her new last name might be a bit of a deterrent. Plus she hates spiders.
I didn't have pets, I had brothers.
Well, there was a goldfish when I was an infant. But I never had a dog or a housecat (ugh) or a gerbil or anything. I always just assumed pets were for kids who got lonely. I never got the chance to be lonely. My brother was my annoying little shadow growing up. I never pressed the issue with pets because I never wanted to clean up after myself, why would I want to clean up after something that wasn't potty trained? I got chased by a German Shepherd more than once, so I was terrified of dogs until I finally grew to be taller than them.
You'll recall I made it very clear that I don't like cats. I much prefer non-traditional, non-domesticated animals to Fluffy or Mr Bigglesworth or whatever you've dubbed your mangy furball. Well, I'm here to elaborate further on this opinion:
I love tigers. They don't count.
During the course of her studies about evolution, biology and animal behavior, she's developed a real fondness for tigers. Did you know only 6 of the 9 species still exist? This last semester I redesigned an article of National Geographic for a typography class and chose to do an expose on the troubles of the endangered Sumatran tiger, the smallest subspecies.
Her enthusiasm rubs off on me. They're beautiful creatures.
She follows (and not just on facebook!) a nonprofit organization dedicated to conserving the dwindling tiger populations called Panthera. We root for the bigger cats at the Bugg home.
We watched Life of Pi again recently. I really love this movie because both B. and I love it for such different reasons. She just adores all of the animals, especially the tiger.
The idea of animals having souls, a certain oneness between us and the beasts of the field really appeals to her. She loves seeing the man and beast embracing their natures in such an unusual battle against the elements.
My love for it stems from different interests. I like the tiger, I can appreciate Nature's majesty and the wondrous design behind the evolutionary destinies of all creatures. I do like the tiger. But I also like that it's not really about the tiger in the end. You get attached to him, and you feel an aching pang in your heart at the end of the film, but the story goes on past him. It's not Life of Richard Parker, it's Life of Pi. It's his story, his path to coming to know God and himself.
I've talked to a few people about how this movie ends, and several people left disappointed. They wanted a definite answer, a clean-cut reveal-all. But does everything have to be resolved for a story to end well? The best stories aren't the ones that answer the deep questions of life, they're the ones that ask the great questions. Something that makes you ask the right questions, makes you aware of daunting cosmic queries and leaves you to figure it out on your own.
Those are the stories we tell over and over again. Hamlet doesn't ever clearly define sanity. Frankenstein raises real dilemmas about parenthood and the power to create life without asserting any answers. I'm not saying that Pi is of the same calibur as those literary classics. I'm just pointing out that it's often better to be left wondering, thinking for yourself. That's what this story does to me. I think deep thoughts about God and man and nature when I see it. I don't begrudge it its ambiguous end.
I read somewhere about a study the found that people who read more (particularly more fiction) were less perturbed by ambiguity. I don't know why the lack of clarity doesn't bother me when it drives other people up the wall. I like an ending that leaves me to wonder. Others demand a concise, cut-and-dry resolution.
What about you? How do you like your endings?
Can you endure ambiguity?
S
Before we go any further, watch this video.
Watch it very closely and hold out your hands to catch your chin because your jaw will drop:
Right?
Crazy! This is the kind of thing B. learns about in class. I'm so glad she loves science and can maintain a constant wonder at the world around her. I'm no scientist, but she does a good job dumbing down all the details into stuff like this that I can understand, appreciate, and geek out over.
Every week it seems that she wants to specialize in some new animal study in grad school. When she was learning about mushrooms and fungus, she was set to be a mycologist. We went fungus hunting over Christmas break one morning with my little brother, taking pictures of cool samples - this is what I married. Then it was all about whales. My B., the marine biologist. She's considered ornithology (after watching the lyrebird rock out, so would I!), mammal studies, and a bunch of other -ologies I can't pronounce. Except botany. Plants are pretty boring. Oh, and entomology. I think her new last name might be a bit of a deterrent. Plus she hates spiders.
I didn't have pets, I had brothers.
Well, there was a goldfish when I was an infant. But I never had a dog or a housecat (ugh) or a gerbil or anything. I always just assumed pets were for kids who got lonely. I never got the chance to be lonely. My brother was my annoying little shadow growing up. I never pressed the issue with pets because I never wanted to clean up after myself, why would I want to clean up after something that wasn't potty trained? I got chased by a German Shepherd more than once, so I was terrified of dogs until I finally grew to be taller than them.
You'll recall I made it very clear that I don't like cats. I much prefer non-traditional, non-domesticated animals to Fluffy or Mr Bigglesworth or whatever you've dubbed your mangy furball. Well, I'm here to elaborate further on this opinion:
I love tigers. They don't count.
During the course of her studies about evolution, biology and animal behavior, she's developed a real fondness for tigers. Did you know only 6 of the 9 species still exist? This last semester I redesigned an article of National Geographic for a typography class and chose to do an expose on the troubles of the endangered Sumatran tiger, the smallest subspecies.
Her enthusiasm rubs off on me. They're beautiful creatures.
She follows (and not just on facebook!) a nonprofit organization dedicated to conserving the dwindling tiger populations called Panthera. We root for the bigger cats at the Bugg home.
We watched Life of Pi again recently. I really love this movie because both B. and I love it for such different reasons. She just adores all of the animals, especially the tiger.
The idea of animals having souls, a certain oneness between us and the beasts of the field really appeals to her. She loves seeing the man and beast embracing their natures in such an unusual battle against the elements.
My love for it stems from different interests. I like the tiger, I can appreciate Nature's majesty and the wondrous design behind the evolutionary destinies of all creatures. I do like the tiger. But I also like that it's not really about the tiger in the end. You get attached to him, and you feel an aching pang in your heart at the end of the film, but the story goes on past him. It's not Life of Richard Parker, it's Life of Pi. It's his story, his path to coming to know God and himself.
I've talked to a few people about how this movie ends, and several people left disappointed. They wanted a definite answer, a clean-cut reveal-all. But does everything have to be resolved for a story to end well? The best stories aren't the ones that answer the deep questions of life, they're the ones that ask the great questions. Something that makes you ask the right questions, makes you aware of daunting cosmic queries and leaves you to figure it out on your own.
Those are the stories we tell over and over again. Hamlet doesn't ever clearly define sanity. Frankenstein raises real dilemmas about parenthood and the power to create life without asserting any answers. I'm not saying that Pi is of the same calibur as those literary classics. I'm just pointing out that it's often better to be left wondering, thinking for yourself. That's what this story does to me. I think deep thoughts about God and man and nature when I see it. I don't begrudge it its ambiguous end.
I read somewhere about a study the found that people who read more (particularly more fiction) were less perturbed by ambiguity. I don't know why the lack of clarity doesn't bother me when it drives other people up the wall. I like an ending that leaves me to wonder. Others demand a concise, cut-and-dry resolution.
What about you? How do you like your endings?
Can you endure ambiguity?
S
Monday, August 19, 2013
Playground Justice: A "Good" Kid
I wasn't ever ferociously bullied growing up. If I think about it, I probably fall into the category of predator rather than prey.
I think God knew I would have a tough go at it as a short skinny child with little athletic prowess, so he gave me a sharp tongue to keep my head above the fray. In elementary school I was never the funniest or most popular, but I spoke sarcasm fluently and the witty comeback quickly became my weapon of choice on the playground.
I think anyone who says children are sweet little angels was never a child himself.
Childhood - at least around other children - is war.
In fifth grade I had I think the closest thing to an arch-nemesis I can expect to get in life. We'll call him Chris. He bugged me. He made fun of me. A lot. He wasn't particularly threatening, he didn't tower over me in a menacing way. Prepubescence has a way of evening out the playing field - I used to be on the basketball team before everyone around me started shooting up 6 inches a month. We just rubbed each other the wrong way. I hated how he always singled me out as the cause of his annoyance.
The antagonism rose and rose until one day the bell rang to signal the end of recess. I jumped off the swings and ran back around the back of the building where the back door to our class was (a more direct route between the classroom and the playground) Other classmates trickled in, then most of the class entered through the main door connecting to the hall. The back door closed and automatically locked. Then who should come a-knockin' but dear old Chris. A classmate of mine (also not a particular fan of Chris and his antics) brought Chris's predicament to our attention. He would be counted late coming in unless someone opened the door for him. He didn't have time to run around to the other side of the building before the tardy bell. It was up to us.
My classmate and I had no choice. I sighed in surrender; we knew what was the right thing to do.
"Get the door," I commanded.
She secured the door handle to make sure it was shut tightly. I pointed at a sweaty Chris through the window, laughing silently with an impish grin. Mwahaha.
Flushed with fifth-grade rage, he turned on a dime and bolted for an alternate route. He had just rounded the corner out of sight when the tardy bell rang. My partner in crime and I shared a look of triumphant satisfaction as we returned to our seats.
Not five minutes later Chris arrived.
With the principal.
He pointed his pudgy finger accusingly at my partner and I, explaining with righteous (albeit winded) indignation that we two had intentionally shut him out from class, causing his tardiness. The look my fellow conspirator and I shared now was of a very different nature.
"It was his idea!" she squealed.
I shot daggers at her silently while the principal studied me with surprise.
You see, I was a "nice kid." Having a little brother had given me years of trial-and-error experience disguising my brattier side from adult eyes. I looked great on paper, I made sure of that. I got good grades, I paid attention, I excelled in things like spelling and vocabulary. The only transgression I could be accused of was a habit of doodling during lessons. I, with my cowlicked bowl cut, hand-me-down tee shirts tucked into my grass-stained faded jeans from Sears, didn't exactly fit the look of "troublemaker." It's not my fault adults profile who's "good," I just learned how to work the system at an early age.
In an attempt to use my principal's obvious incredulity to my advantage, I spun a plausible alibi on the spot. My heart in my stomach, I responded demurely, "I was just over there to sharpen my pencil."
Ya know, like a liar.
Believable enough. There was a pencil sharpener right below the window I had used to mock the indignant Chris minutes earlier. The "crime" had happened when only I and my now obviously disloyal conspirator had been in the classroom; it was my word against hers. I waited tensely to see if they'd all buy it.
Or at least I would have. But before anyone could take in my story, my squealing classmate erupted into what I can only describe as a sass-storm. (were z-snaps a thing back then? We were fifth-graders, so "tantrum" seems too juvenile) Imagine a 9-year-old Raven Symoné in all of her That's So Raven, campy, head-bobbing, overdone sassy splendor and you've got a pretty accurate picture.
She could not be-leeeeeve I wasn't gonna fess up, shoo...
When at last her outburst was quelled by the principal, he called her into his office to discuss detention details. I, however remained in class.
They bought it.
Well, except Chris.
He scrunched up his pudgy face into an inscrutable mess of putty that I'm sure he meant to be threatening, but all I could do was steal another quick smile as he returned to his seat in tardy defeat. I felt too good about escaping detention (which would have ruined the rep I had been building in elementary school since first grade) to be too concerned.
It didn't end there. We fought on through the rest of fifth grade, once it even escalated into both of us sitting in the principal's office shooting each other death glares while spitting forced, insincere apologies at each other through clenched teeth. I'm sure the principal didn't miss us. Or our rivalry.
I never beat kids up. Well, except my brother but he doesn't count. I got beat up a few times, but I think when it comes to verbal abuse, I outbullied any who tried to defame or slander me. Lies, name-calling, immature limericks, all of these were weapons I implemented to survive on the playground with a surname like Bugg.
I don't defend my actions, it's just fact. Kids are mean to each other, I wasn't above the rules of playground justice. I regret that in order to socially survive, I felt compelled to resort to verbal meanness.
But Chris kinda had it coming that day...
How did you survive as a kid? Were you the bully or the bullied?
S
I think God knew I would have a tough go at it as a short skinny child with little athletic prowess, so he gave me a sharp tongue to keep my head above the fray. In elementary school I was never the funniest or most popular, but I spoke sarcasm fluently and the witty comeback quickly became my weapon of choice on the playground.
I think anyone who says children are sweet little angels was never a child himself.
Childhood - at least around other children - is war.
In fifth grade I had I think the closest thing to an arch-nemesis I can expect to get in life. We'll call him Chris. He bugged me. He made fun of me. A lot. He wasn't particularly threatening, he didn't tower over me in a menacing way. Prepubescence has a way of evening out the playing field - I used to be on the basketball team before everyone around me started shooting up 6 inches a month. We just rubbed each other the wrong way. I hated how he always singled me out as the cause of his annoyance.
The antagonism rose and rose until one day the bell rang to signal the end of recess. I jumped off the swings and ran back around the back of the building where the back door to our class was (a more direct route between the classroom and the playground) Other classmates trickled in, then most of the class entered through the main door connecting to the hall. The back door closed and automatically locked. Then who should come a-knockin' but dear old Chris. A classmate of mine (also not a particular fan of Chris and his antics) brought Chris's predicament to our attention. He would be counted late coming in unless someone opened the door for him. He didn't have time to run around to the other side of the building before the tardy bell. It was up to us.
My classmate and I had no choice. I sighed in surrender; we knew what was the right thing to do.
"Get the door," I commanded.
She secured the door handle to make sure it was shut tightly. I pointed at a sweaty Chris through the window, laughing silently with an impish grin. Mwahaha.
Flushed with fifth-grade rage, he turned on a dime and bolted for an alternate route. He had just rounded the corner out of sight when the tardy bell rang. My partner in crime and I shared a look of triumphant satisfaction as we returned to our seats.
Not five minutes later Chris arrived.
With the principal.
He pointed his pudgy finger accusingly at my partner and I, explaining with righteous (albeit winded) indignation that we two had intentionally shut him out from class, causing his tardiness. The look my fellow conspirator and I shared now was of a very different nature.
"It was his idea!" she squealed.
I shot daggers at her silently while the principal studied me with surprise.
You see, I was a "nice kid." Having a little brother had given me years of trial-and-error experience disguising my brattier side from adult eyes. I looked great on paper, I made sure of that. I got good grades, I paid attention, I excelled in things like spelling and vocabulary. The only transgression I could be accused of was a habit of doodling during lessons. I, with my cowlicked bowl cut, hand-me-down tee shirts tucked into my grass-stained faded jeans from Sears, didn't exactly fit the look of "troublemaker." It's not my fault adults profile who's "good," I just learned how to work the system at an early age.
In an attempt to use my principal's obvious incredulity to my advantage, I spun a plausible alibi on the spot. My heart in my stomach, I responded demurely, "I was just over there to sharpen my pencil."
Ya know, like a liar.
Believable enough. There was a pencil sharpener right below the window I had used to mock the indignant Chris minutes earlier. The "crime" had happened when only I and my now obviously disloyal conspirator had been in the classroom; it was my word against hers. I waited tensely to see if they'd all buy it.
Or at least I would have. But before anyone could take in my story, my squealing classmate erupted into what I can only describe as a sass-storm. (were z-snaps a thing back then? We were fifth-graders, so "tantrum" seems too juvenile) Imagine a 9-year-old Raven Symoné in all of her That's So Raven, campy, head-bobbing, overdone sassy splendor and you've got a pretty accurate picture.
She could not be-leeeeeve I wasn't gonna fess up, shoo...
When at last her outburst was quelled by the principal, he called her into his office to discuss detention details. I, however remained in class.
They bought it.
Well, except Chris.
He scrunched up his pudgy face into an inscrutable mess of putty that I'm sure he meant to be threatening, but all I could do was steal another quick smile as he returned to his seat in tardy defeat. I felt too good about escaping detention (which would have ruined the rep I had been building in elementary school since first grade) to be too concerned.
It didn't end there. We fought on through the rest of fifth grade, once it even escalated into both of us sitting in the principal's office shooting each other death glares while spitting forced, insincere apologies at each other through clenched teeth. I'm sure the principal didn't miss us. Or our rivalry.
I never beat kids up. Well, except my brother but he doesn't count. I got beat up a few times, but I think when it comes to verbal abuse, I outbullied any who tried to defame or slander me. Lies, name-calling, immature limericks, all of these were weapons I implemented to survive on the playground with a surname like Bugg.
I don't defend my actions, it's just fact. Kids are mean to each other, I wasn't above the rules of playground justice. I regret that in order to socially survive, I felt compelled to resort to verbal meanness.
But Chris kinda had it coming that day...
How did you survive as a kid? Were you the bully or the bullied?
S
Friday, August 16, 2013
Kites and Anchors
B. and I got a belated wedding present from a dear friend the other day.
Two kites.
Just flimsy little plastic doodads, nothing fancy.
And I love them. They're one of the best gifts we've gotten as a couple.
Let me explain.
I never grew up around a lot of money. I had some friends who got things like cars for their birthdays or Xboxes for Christmas, and I was not so much envious as I was incredulous. It seemed like too much too soon too easy. The cars often ended up totaled. The Xboxes were played until the next model came out or they grew tired of beating the same game over and over again.
The gifts I treasure most are the ones with stories attached.
These kites have a story. I developed a theory a few years back that both B. and this friend of ours (and now YOU!) are privy to:
In every relationship there is a kite and an anchor.
Kites flutter around, bringing vivacity and passion into life, their souls soar through the air in a dazzle of color, inspiring all eyes watching below. They dance with every breeze, skim across clouds and make the empty space round them a little livelier and more exciting. They can't be tamed, their nature is just to surrender to whim, chance and fancy. Theirs is a new thrill every moment.
Anchors are more grounded (obviously). They are content to be ratchet-turners and find comfort in their routine. Schedules are a sanctuary. Predictability is no prison to an anchor, they bask in it, calculating their place, their sphere of influence, meting and measuring the moments each day, patiently waiting for the next phase they've penciled into their lives.
It's no stretch of the imagination guessing who's who at the Bugg's. I don't journal much, but my planner - a scheduling tool I started once in college - is decked with all sorts of daily notes and mementos. I often keep her grounded, and she pulls me up into the sun.
One of the things that attracted me to B. was her passion, her inexhaustible love for life. She would regale me with her adventures rock climbing in Zions National Park, hiking through canyons, and camping in the desert. That was what I wanted; someone who was going to live life fully, with or without me, so I better hop on before the train took off. That energy was contagious and helped me reach beyond my shell and timidly dip my toe in uncharted waters and start enjoying our voyage together.
That's not to say that this is a strict dichotomy; we switch places sometimes.
Sometimes I'm the kite. Sometimes. She has to play the anchor and make sure I do things like make appointments and other grown-up chores. When she's depressed or cranky, I'm upbeat and happy. When I'm focused on homework and stressed about projects, she starts tickling me.
We are what the other needs.
We adapt for each other. We put each other first. That's what she is to me. My greatest gift.
What kind of gifts do you like best?
What are you most of the time? Anchor or kite?
S
Two kites.
Just flimsy little plastic doodads, nothing fancy.
And I love them. They're one of the best gifts we've gotten as a couple.
Let me explain.
I never grew up around a lot of money. I had some friends who got things like cars for their birthdays or Xboxes for Christmas, and I was not so much envious as I was incredulous. It seemed like too much too soon too easy. The cars often ended up totaled. The Xboxes were played until the next model came out or they grew tired of beating the same game over and over again.
The gifts I treasure most are the ones with stories attached.
These kites have a story. I developed a theory a few years back that both B. and this friend of ours (and now YOU!) are privy to:
In every relationship there is a kite and an anchor.
Kites flutter around, bringing vivacity and passion into life, their souls soar through the air in a dazzle of color, inspiring all eyes watching below. They dance with every breeze, skim across clouds and make the empty space round them a little livelier and more exciting. They can't be tamed, their nature is just to surrender to whim, chance and fancy. Theirs is a new thrill every moment.
Anchors are more grounded (obviously). They are content to be ratchet-turners and find comfort in their routine. Schedules are a sanctuary. Predictability is no prison to an anchor, they bask in it, calculating their place, their sphere of influence, meting and measuring the moments each day, patiently waiting for the next phase they've penciled into their lives.
It's no stretch of the imagination guessing who's who at the Bugg's. I don't journal much, but my planner - a scheduling tool I started once in college - is decked with all sorts of daily notes and mementos. I often keep her grounded, and she pulls me up into the sun.
One of the things that attracted me to B. was her passion, her inexhaustible love for life. She would regale me with her adventures rock climbing in Zions National Park, hiking through canyons, and camping in the desert. That was what I wanted; someone who was going to live life fully, with or without me, so I better hop on before the train took off. That energy was contagious and helped me reach beyond my shell and timidly dip my toe in uncharted waters and start enjoying our voyage together.
That's not to say that this is a strict dichotomy; we switch places sometimes.
Sometimes I'm the kite. Sometimes. She has to play the anchor and make sure I do things like make appointments and other grown-up chores. When she's depressed or cranky, I'm upbeat and happy. When I'm focused on homework and stressed about projects, she starts tickling me.
We are what the other needs.
We adapt for each other. We put each other first. That's what she is to me. My greatest gift.
What kind of gifts do you like best?
What are you most of the time? Anchor or kite?
S
Thursday, August 15, 2013
27 Days
Renowned composer George Frederic Handel gave us one of the most influential pieces of classical music in history: The Messiah.
Anyone who has heard the famous "Hallelujah" chorus - in whatever context - knows his work. The twinkling harmonies of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" is a staple of traditional Christmas music. His gift changed our ears forever.
Not only is his daunting musical genius echoed in its frantic interwoven melodies, but also his speed and efficiency. A professor of mine told me a few weeks ago that Handel composed the entire oratorio celebrating the birth of Christ in less than a month. I asked him why. Was it really just that easy for him? Was he a musical savant of sorts? Did the music spill out of him as if written by the hand of God? Was he but a conduit for angelic choruses in heaven?
What prompted him to bless us with such an enduring masterpiece in record time?
Debt.
Handel wrote The Messiah in 27 days to avoid debtor's prison.
Why do some of us crumble under pressure when others excel?
Some of us prefer to take a nice leisurely pace through life, school and work, planning things out methodically so as to never be caught unprepared or unawares. My sister is like that, always scheduling out her assignments so as to never be behind. Ever the perfectionist, she thrives on staying ahead of the curve.
Others, however, don't mind putting things on the back burner, only to turn up the heat at the last moment. I'm afraid in many cases I fall into this latter category. I've stayed up late working on enough papers due the next day, blowing the glue dry on my way to school on a diorama I'd known about for weeks (sorry, Mom), I even pulled an all-nighter for a project my freshman year of high school.
I had a portfolio review the other day. This was super important. Like life-changing, career-affecting kind of important. It determined when I would graduate, what classes I would take, etc. I had to include about 20 images of my best work. I have known about this review for over a year. I had to print out all of my projects and mount them on mat boards to make them look more professional. I had worked on several paintings and other illustrations months ago. But of the 20 images I chose to include for review, I finished putting the final touches on, printing, cutting and mounting about 14 of them. How's that for preparation?
B. and I have both been known to be up until 3am working on papers and paintings, respectively. We both seem to thrive when the heat is on. Grace under fire, efficiency under pressure, we're deadline folks. I wonder what we could come up with in 27 days if we had prison looking us in the face?
Where do you fall? Do you have grace under pressure or are you always prepared?
What could you do in 27 days?
S
Anyone who has heard the famous "Hallelujah" chorus - in whatever context - knows his work. The twinkling harmonies of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" is a staple of traditional Christmas music. His gift changed our ears forever.
Not only is his daunting musical genius echoed in its frantic interwoven melodies, but also his speed and efficiency. A professor of mine told me a few weeks ago that Handel composed the entire oratorio celebrating the birth of Christ in less than a month. I asked him why. Was it really just that easy for him? Was he a musical savant of sorts? Did the music spill out of him as if written by the hand of God? Was he but a conduit for angelic choruses in heaven?
What prompted him to bless us with such an enduring masterpiece in record time?
Debt.
Handel wrote The Messiah in 27 days to avoid debtor's prison.
Why do some of us crumble under pressure when others excel?
Some of us prefer to take a nice leisurely pace through life, school and work, planning things out methodically so as to never be caught unprepared or unawares. My sister is like that, always scheduling out her assignments so as to never be behind. Ever the perfectionist, she thrives on staying ahead of the curve.
Others, however, don't mind putting things on the back burner, only to turn up the heat at the last moment. I'm afraid in many cases I fall into this latter category. I've stayed up late working on enough papers due the next day, blowing the glue dry on my way to school on a diorama I'd known about for weeks (sorry, Mom), I even pulled an all-nighter for a project my freshman year of high school.
I had a portfolio review the other day. This was super important. Like life-changing, career-affecting kind of important. It determined when I would graduate, what classes I would take, etc. I had to include about 20 images of my best work. I have known about this review for over a year. I had to print out all of my projects and mount them on mat boards to make them look more professional. I had worked on several paintings and other illustrations months ago. But of the 20 images I chose to include for review, I finished putting the final touches on, printing, cutting and mounting about 14 of them. How's that for preparation?
B. and I have both been known to be up until 3am working on papers and paintings, respectively. We both seem to thrive when the heat is on. Grace under fire, efficiency under pressure, we're deadline folks. I wonder what we could come up with in 27 days if we had prison looking us in the face?
Where do you fall? Do you have grace under pressure or are you always prepared?
What could you do in 27 days?
S
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
You Can't Make This Up
There are some stories in our lives that just seem too good to be true.
Our own "it was thiiiis big" fish tales that amuse the skeptical and delight those who want to believe. It's as if for a brief moment in the mundane minutia of our day-to-day, we get a cosmic fifteen minutes of fame, like God rewrote the screenplay of our lives just to let us know He likes to laugh, too.
Quailman Glee.
In my senior year of high school I broke off from my usual electives and extracurriculars in band and tried two new classes: theater and choir. Choir was fun, I had done informal rehearsals and stuff for church but I had never been graded. I didn't think there was much to it. If you screwed up, you could just blend your mistake in with the others singing beside you, right? Oh no, the director was a cruel and strict taskmaster, you had to be in perfect synch with the other parts. She emphasized proper technique, volume control, good breathing, and not to mention memorizing the lyrics (some of which were Latin or Italian). We were nearing the end of the semester halfway through a grueling rehearsal in preparation for the End of Year Concert. Our director had broken off to talk with our pianist. We broke into various hushed conversations and shared complaints at the endless repetition and nitpicking of the rehearsal.
Suddenly some of the more rambunctious guys in the Bass line began doo-wopping, sidestepping and snapping, not to "My Girl" or some other Motown classic - but the opening theme song to the old 90s cartoon "Doug." For those of you who know it, you know it builds from the bass line and other parts gradually join in until, after one round of all parts harmonizing, the song ends at last with a Bobby McFerrin-esque beatboxing denouement.
As the basses began their doo-wop, the tenors joined in at the next part, soon accompanied by the altos and finally the sopranos' descant. For less than thirty seconds, we were all snapping and singing in an impromptu a capella rendition of a 90s cartoon theme.
It began suddenly. It ended too soon. We all broke into laughter.
Even our stern director cracked a smile at our spontaneity. This was random music, we didn't plan it, but the way we sang... you'd have thought we had. She applauded our mini-perfomance before returning us to our Latin piece.
It was fun. It was musical. It was NOT Glee. I cannot stress that enough. Glee didn't exist then. It doesn't apply, so don't you dare mention it.
Hot Pocket.
I know this is going to seem very Niles Crane of me, but I carried a pocket watch when I was in 7th grade.
Before you shelf me as the weird kid who chose a briefcase in lieu of a backpack and wore a cravat on picture day, let me explain. I don't normally prefer the antiquated over the modern (especially in middle school) I had worn plenty of wristwatches, but my active lifestyle of wall ball, dodge ball, kick ball and other alternative sports had always left their faces scratched to the point of illegibility; fashion repeatedly vanquished by function. So, one day at Wal-Mart I spied a cheap knock-off pocket watch spray-painted gold for six dollars. That fit my meager budget, so I began carrying around my new timepiece in my pocket, clipping the chain to the denim belt loop of my jeans.
I know...
Anyway, the watch is only one ingredient in this little experiment. One day I had stuffed in some new spare AA batteries into my pocket before leaving to catch the bus. I had noticed my portable CD player had been running low the day earlier, so I snagged some backups so as not to be left tuneless on my ride home. (kids, a CD player was something we used a long time ago before iPods, iPads and MP3s - we were a simple people)
One day in science class, ironically enough, I was starting to drift off during a lecture after lunch. Digestive sleepies strike again.
I was suddenly shaken from my drowsy reverie, however, by a sharp burning sensation on my thigh. Eager not to make a scene, I tried to cover my sudden leg spasm with a yawn and a stretch, surreptitiously trying to put out what felt like a fire on my leg. The contents of my pocket shifted and the heat died away. After a few moments I reached in said pocket to see what was burning me.
Nothing but my AA batteries and my pocket watch.
...and the watch's chain.
Some of you might be ahead of me now.
I remembered from a project we did on electricity in fourth grade that if you connect copper wire between a light bulb and both ends of a battery, the electrical current will travel between the battery's positive and negative ends, passing through the bulb and lighting the filament on its way. As I massaged my burned thigh, I quickly surmised that my watch's chain had done just that; chain and batteries had entangled in such a way that a current was established, but with no bulb to light, the chain and the watch connected to it instead began rapidly heating up, giving me quite a hot shock.
I wasn't the most honest person all the time, but it seemed that fate had at last tried to set my pants on fire.
For Goodness Sake
This last one isn't from my own life, but it's so cute I just had to share. My parents had taken the young kids still living at home to a church Christmas party. Lots of games and activities for the children, plenty of candy and goodies, and of course, Santa visited. Jolly old Nicholas invited all the eager young ones to hop up on his knee and make final revisions to their lists.
My youngest brother, then two years old, waited his turn in line for his chance to divulge his last minute desires and requests. When his turn at last came he marched confidently up to Mr. Claus.
On his way, Santa proclaimed, "I know who this is. This is Dallin! Have you been a good boy this year?"
Poor Dal froze. He hung his head despairingly and began to trudge away when Santa called him back and rewarded his honesty with a candy cane.
Whether it be a self-effacing toddler, an impromptu a capella cartoon sing-along, or a fire starter in your front pocket, there are certain moments of humorous kismet, cosmic irony or comedic timing that leave atheists scratching their heads and the rest of us smiling to ourselves.
What are some of your "too good to be true" moments?
S
Our own "it was thiiiis big" fish tales that amuse the skeptical and delight those who want to believe. It's as if for a brief moment in the mundane minutia of our day-to-day, we get a cosmic fifteen minutes of fame, like God rewrote the screenplay of our lives just to let us know He likes to laugh, too.
Quailman Glee.
In my senior year of high school I broke off from my usual electives and extracurriculars in band and tried two new classes: theater and choir. Choir was fun, I had done informal rehearsals and stuff for church but I had never been graded. I didn't think there was much to it. If you screwed up, you could just blend your mistake in with the others singing beside you, right? Oh no, the director was a cruel and strict taskmaster, you had to be in perfect synch with the other parts. She emphasized proper technique, volume control, good breathing, and not to mention memorizing the lyrics (some of which were Latin or Italian). We were nearing the end of the semester halfway through a grueling rehearsal in preparation for the End of Year Concert. Our director had broken off to talk with our pianist. We broke into various hushed conversations and shared complaints at the endless repetition and nitpicking of the rehearsal.
Suddenly some of the more rambunctious guys in the Bass line began doo-wopping, sidestepping and snapping, not to "My Girl" or some other Motown classic - but the opening theme song to the old 90s cartoon "Doug." For those of you who know it, you know it builds from the bass line and other parts gradually join in until, after one round of all parts harmonizing, the song ends at last with a Bobby McFerrin-esque beatboxing denouement.
As the basses began their doo-wop, the tenors joined in at the next part, soon accompanied by the altos and finally the sopranos' descant. For less than thirty seconds, we were all snapping and singing in an impromptu a capella rendition of a 90s cartoon theme.
It began suddenly. It ended too soon. We all broke into laughter.
Even our stern director cracked a smile at our spontaneity. This was random music, we didn't plan it, but the way we sang... you'd have thought we had. She applauded our mini-perfomance before returning us to our Latin piece.
It was fun. It was musical. It was NOT Glee. I cannot stress that enough. Glee didn't exist then. It doesn't apply, so don't you dare mention it.
Hot Pocket.
I know this is going to seem very Niles Crane of me, but I carried a pocket watch when I was in 7th grade.
Before you shelf me as the weird kid who chose a briefcase in lieu of a backpack and wore a cravat on picture day, let me explain. I don't normally prefer the antiquated over the modern (especially in middle school) I had worn plenty of wristwatches, but my active lifestyle of wall ball, dodge ball, kick ball and other alternative sports had always left their faces scratched to the point of illegibility; fashion repeatedly vanquished by function. So, one day at Wal-Mart I spied a cheap knock-off pocket watch spray-painted gold for six dollars. That fit my meager budget, so I began carrying around my new timepiece in my pocket, clipping the chain to the denim belt loop of my jeans.
I know...
Anyway, the watch is only one ingredient in this little experiment. One day I had stuffed in some new spare AA batteries into my pocket before leaving to catch the bus. I had noticed my portable CD player had been running low the day earlier, so I snagged some backups so as not to be left tuneless on my ride home. (kids, a CD player was something we used a long time ago before iPods, iPads and MP3s - we were a simple people)
One day in science class, ironically enough, I was starting to drift off during a lecture after lunch. Digestive sleepies strike again.
I was suddenly shaken from my drowsy reverie, however, by a sharp burning sensation on my thigh. Eager not to make a scene, I tried to cover my sudden leg spasm with a yawn and a stretch, surreptitiously trying to put out what felt like a fire on my leg. The contents of my pocket shifted and the heat died away. After a few moments I reached in said pocket to see what was burning me.
Nothing but my AA batteries and my pocket watch.
...and the watch's chain.
Some of you might be ahead of me now.
I remembered from a project we did on electricity in fourth grade that if you connect copper wire between a light bulb and both ends of a battery, the electrical current will travel between the battery's positive and negative ends, passing through the bulb and lighting the filament on its way. As I massaged my burned thigh, I quickly surmised that my watch's chain had done just that; chain and batteries had entangled in such a way that a current was established, but with no bulb to light, the chain and the watch connected to it instead began rapidly heating up, giving me quite a hot shock.
I wasn't the most honest person all the time, but it seemed that fate had at last tried to set my pants on fire.
For Goodness Sake
This last one isn't from my own life, but it's so cute I just had to share. My parents had taken the young kids still living at home to a church Christmas party. Lots of games and activities for the children, plenty of candy and goodies, and of course, Santa visited. Jolly old Nicholas invited all the eager young ones to hop up on his knee and make final revisions to their lists.
My youngest brother, then two years old, waited his turn in line for his chance to divulge his last minute desires and requests. When his turn at last came he marched confidently up to Mr. Claus.
On his way, Santa proclaimed, "I know who this is. This is Dallin! Have you been a good boy this year?"
Poor Dal froze. He hung his head despairingly and began to trudge away when Santa called him back and rewarded his honesty with a candy cane.
Whether it be a self-effacing toddler, an impromptu a capella cartoon sing-along, or a fire starter in your front pocket, there are certain moments of humorous kismet, cosmic irony or comedic timing that leave atheists scratching their heads and the rest of us smiling to ourselves.
What are some of your "too good to be true" moments?
S
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