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
Friday, August 30, 2013
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
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Movezilla, or My First "Win"
I'm really proud of my wife.
During our whole engagement/wedding-planning, she never broke down. She never had a Bridezilla moment. It was a trying experience, throwing everything together in a matter of days. B.'s mom had a ball planning the reception and it was really great just walking in to see everything set up; we had given her pretty free reign to do what she wanted. We honestly just didn't care for much of the traditions.
She bought the first dress she tried on for under $200. We got our own cake, our reception DJ was an iPod, and our "line" lasted maybe ten minutes. People kind of lingered at our reception, it was a pretty relaxed party setting; we were both pretty ignorant/apathetic about wedding traditions. She tossed her bouquet, but we snagged our then 1-year-old niece's headband to use as a garter. Our slicing of the cake quickly escalated into a brief food fight.It was a fun day that could only have been improved by some granola bars in my suit pocket to sustain us during our photo ops after the ceremony.
But the wedding was the least of our concerns that week.
B.'s favorite number is five, so naturally we got married on May fifth (5/5). On May fourth we moved her and all of her stuff into our new apartment, met with family and friends and got settled into our new quarters. On May third B. had finals.
The days before that were a chaotic blur of keeping track of what boxes I had already driven up to the house with me from my last visit, her desperately cramming for finals while simultaneously babysitting the aforementioned adorable albeit high-energy niece. B. was at the end of her rope. And it showed in her texts. I tried to be supportive; I've moved enough that I wasn't too stressed about it, I just wanted the wedding to go well.
She texted me about a book she couldn't find. I found it in one of the boxes I had brought up and informed her. She told me to put it in the car and take a picture of said book in said car as photographic proof I wouldn't forget it.
I never had a Bridezilla. But moving brought out her panic.
And finals didn't help either.
In a culmination of stress and miscommunication, she discovered a small moleskine notebook containing journal entries, important memories, a treasured recipe as well as other vital information was nowhere to be found. Trying to be the supportive fiancee in this her time of distress, I dutifully began emptying the handful of boxes I had stuffed into the car before returning home a week ago, diligently searching for the lost notebook. I scoured each box, checked inside each one by one, sending her pictures on my phone of each book set out on our carpet.
Still no notebook.
Now, her camel had been suffering numerous chiropractic issues lately, but this really did break the poor beast's back.
It all collapsed onto her. She wouldn't pass her finals and would have to pay back her federal grant money, she'd lose all of her stuff in the move, she wouldn't transfer her credits to her new school successfully, she wouldn't find a new job in her new town, she wouldn't fit in her dress, the car would break down, the planets would align to her complete and utter ruin.
Movezilla.
I had had enough of this long distance crap, and I hated hearing her under such duress, unable to do anything myself except check the boxes a fourth time. When at last I came down to pick her up, move all of her stuff into the moving truck and take her away, we began packing up the rest of her books and clothes.
While B. was in her closet taking down clothes to fit into boxes, I found some old boxes we had packed over a week earlier lined against her bedroom wall. These I had left behind because I hadn't had room in our little sedan last time.
In a gloriously epiphanic moment, I tore away the lid of the produce box we had pilfered from a grocery store to carry her books. And there it sat, comfortably nestled between a similar moleskine and a book on hiking.
"Aha!" I declared triumphantly, snatching it from the box.
B. ran out to see me holding the recovered notebook victoriously over my head. She had forgotten about those boxes and that they also had had books in them. Her sheepish embarrassment at having put me through the ringer quickly turned to smothering me in apologetic kisses. I, the gloating detective, the giddy fiancee, basked in what I remember as possibly my first "win." Most of our disagreements are my fault. But this was one where I wasn't in the wrong! A rare instance indeed.
I don't blame B. With the week she'd had, no one could. I just enjoy recalling a moment in time where I wasn't the cause of a fight or a disaster or a misunderstanding. She's much better than I am, but neither of us are perfect.
I can't really count something like this as a win. If we're fighting, there is no winner or loser. We both apologize, we both make up. We both lose time wasted on fights. I'm sure there are instances that have transformed me into an insufferable _______zilla.
What turns you into a ______-zilla?
S
Friday, August 9, 2013
You should be ashamed.
Guilty pleasures.
We all have 'em.
The first time I heard this term was when my mom was chuckling at the flaming antics on an episode of Will & Grace. It's a silly show, she knew that. It can be risque and stupid, she knew that, too. But there are some things for which we abandon our usual snobbishness or high-minded preferences.
Let's be clear. That we all have "guilty" foods is a given. B. loves her brownies. I indulge in crappy fast food every once in a while. We know it's bad for us, but we ignore that fact and pig out. I'm not talking so much about food here, though. We all have something non-edible that for one reason or another, we just can't let go of.
What is it about that particular shamefully tasteless piece of junk that pervades our walls of classiness and strikes a chord with us? It could be a Hank Williams, Jr. album, a Dixie Chicks poster left discarded under our bed, an old Aquaman comic book brought to light, those parachute pants left at the bottom of our drawer, the action figures/dolls we're suddenly too old/cool for... or so we claim.
I'll admit it, I have one. A few, actually.
I know they look ratty. I know they're faded and wafer thin. I know they have holes everywhere and the edges are frayed. I know I've had them since sophomore year of high school. But I looooooooove my comfy jeans. They're like an old friend, fitting the contours of my oddly shaped raptor legs and prominent calves perfectly. They're baggy where they should be baggy, they fit snugly where I need them to. It's a dance, it's teamwork. I love them so. B. has threatened to throw them out on more than one occasion. I've thought about hiding them until I can patch them up and start wearing them in public again (they're my Saturday jeans, usually). Everyone should have some comfy jeans, no matter what Stacey London or Clinton Kelly or Tim Gunn or... ok I'm out of fashion gurus, but no matter what anyone says I will always love those jeans.
I remember buying NSYNC's album No Strings Attached and bringing it to a friend's house. We started rocking out to "Bye Bye Bye" (come on, who hasn't?) when my friend's older brother scorned us into submission. The oldest myself, I was new to the "bully older brother" element. His derision was enough to spoil our fun.
... Until the second track, during which all three of us sat around the kitchen belting along in cracked falsetto, "It's Gonna Be MEEE!"
I've never really watched any Fast or Furious films (it feels like there are enough now to rival the Land Before Time franchise). I saw The Pacifier and nearly died laughing it was so bad. XXX should have been nixed from production before ever hitting the box office. Vin Diesel is a joke. We all know it... but... Chronicles of Riddick is this weird, space-age acid trip for your eyes. And there's Vinny, standing in all of his awkwardly stoic theatrical splendor. But I don't hate it, dang it! It's so stupid and so cool. Maybe it's the conceptual design riddled through the film, maybe it appeals to my inner nine-year-old.
...a nine-year-old with a concussion.
I'm fully aware it's a weak movie. Starring a weak actor who got hired for his biceps and chrome dome. I know I shouldn't like it, but I do anyway. Against my better judgement, I don't hate it. Other guilty pleasure movies I wish I didn't secretly think are cool? Hellboy. League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Speed Racer. Insert other franchise-less sci-fi/fantasy niche here, the list goes on.
Why can't we just enjoy what we like, unafraid of the judgement of others?
My wife shocked me a few weeks ago by suggesting we go see Pacific Rim. Even I had dismissed it as just a transparent conglomeration of Power Rangers, Transformers, and Godzilla. We knew going in that it would be Independence Day underwater. We didn't expect a moving script or a twisty, convoluted plot. No depth, just big robots beating monsters senseless with their mechanical, rocket-powered fists.
And we got what we wanted.
We both loved it, ignoring the film critics looking down their noses at our enjoyment.
I think it helps having someone in which to share the burden of others' judgement.Geek out, embrace the corniness of your guilty pleasures, you might just find a kindred spirit in the process.
What are you ashamed to enjoy? What's your guilty pleasure?
Come on, give.
S
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Eden and Mecca
GeoMagnetism.
I’m sure this is an actual scientific phenomenon having to
do with the earth’s polarity and such, but for my own purposes I’m going to
botch that and make it my own. This is
what I’m calling something I’ve noticed about the places we seem to be drawn to
inexplicably. Some of us feel that life
won’t be complete without a pilgrimage to Paris. Others have to make it to the Big Apple
before they die. Why does this
happen? Why are our souls drawn to a
place we’ve never before been?
Why do we
feel so at home in a far away place?
My wife loves to travel.
Being an evolutionary biology buff, one of her several personal Meccas is the
Galapagos Islands. She also dreams of
going to Istanbul, Cambodia, New Zealand... the list goes on. We have a map on our wall that is speckled with stickers indicating our eventual travel destinations. I want more than anything to be able to take her all over. I want to give her the world.
She was able to break away from work one Saturday and we made
the mistake of buying a National Geographic special issue describing the 100
most beautiful places in the world. We
were depressed the rest of the weekend.
There is so much this wonderful world has to offer, and we can’t afford
to break away and have adventures while still in school.
But I digress.
I think there
are two reasons we can be drawn somewhere:
(1) We feel like we were made from that patch of
earth. (Edens)
(2)
We won’t feel complete until we make it there.
(Meccas)
Not the same thing.
Just because a place is pretty doesn’t mean we feel
incomplete without going there. Reaching one's Eden instills a sense of inexplicable return, as if we belong there, as if we've somehow been there before and have come home.
Not so with Meccas; going there fills a void we were born with. Going to the Mecca(s) of our souls does more than check off an item on our Bucket list- it fulfills an inexplicable, very personal longing. I want to kiss my wife underneath the Northern Lights, but I want that for us, not for myself.
Not so with Meccas; going there fills a void we were born with. Going to the Mecca(s) of our souls does more than check off an item on our Bucket list- it fulfills an inexplicable, very personal longing. I want to kiss my wife underneath the Northern Lights, but I want that for us, not for myself.
I’ve found several personal Edens while I’ve traveled. A dock by the James River in Virginia. A brisk pine forest in Colorado’s mountains. But regardless of where I am, I feel most at
peace when I’m near the water and the woods.
Which is why, if pressed to choose one place, my Eden would be here:
I was fortunate enough to go to Scotland with my family over
Spring Break in 2011. We saw wonderful
things, gorgeous countrysides, vast lochs, misty glens, rolling hills, sparse,
harsh rocky cliffs… It’s the only place I can think of visiting and hoping for bad weather. When it’s sunny, it’s a lovely sight. But in the drizzle and mist and fog and rain –
magnificent.
I love it there. I hope when God took the dust with which to make me, He scooped up Scottish soil.
I love it there. I hope when God took the dust with which to make me, He scooped up Scottish soil.
My Mecca, however, is not a tourist hotspot. I don’t want to vacation there, I want to
help there. This place has held a
special place in my heart since I was 16 years old. I remember learning a lot and growing up a lot
when I took a class called Advanced American Studies my junior year of high
school (isn’t your disillusionment/fall into Nietzsche-inspired atheism supposed to happen in college?), and in my
studies I came across reports about Rwanda, Darfur, the LRA, Sudanese civil
war, and the bajillion other troubles Africa has. I remember seeing a photograph of children
captured by Joseph Kony’s LRA trapped behind barbed wire. I had recently learned a lot about the
Holocaust as well, so what kept me up at night was the burning question:
Why isn’t someone
doing something? I thought we’d learned
better.
Then I thought:
Would the world be
more upset if the children behind that fence were white?
I remember staying up late telling my poor little brother
about it, trying so hard not to cry at the injustice of it all. I can’t explain why this bothers me more than
other problems in the world. The truth
is, I’m still more shaken by pictures of child soldiers in Kenya or news of
unrest in Sudan than by a tornado or a hurricane or something that "should" hit
closer to home.
Maybe I’m the racist.
I’ve felt Tyndale’s fire in my bones since
learning about the troubles Kony has caused.
I don’t think my soul will ever rest until I am able to go there and
physically help these children. That is
my pilgrimage. That is my Mecca.
There are a myriad of reasons we can be called to the far reaches of the globe. Some we can trace back to revelatory moments of self-discovery, some are more abstract, slipping through our fingers every time we try to grasp why that particular spot on the map holds more sway than others.
What are your reasons?
Where’s your Eden? Where’s your Mecca?
S
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
What about the Horses?
B. and I had a good conversation with my baby sister the other night. I never really called her my "baby" sister when we were growing up, but I've lately adopted the title to nurture my newfound sense of denial.
She's growing up.
It was hard enough to come home after 2 years abroad to find that the tan ten-year-old tomboy I left was now wearing makeup and oggling Daniel Radcliffe. Now she's passed through the gauntlet of high school freshman year. And it's just...
Weird.
We talked about, like, mature things. Not gross stuff, just things that were pretty deep for a high school sophomore. She was able to understand and expound on concepts and subjects that would stump many people I know in college. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, she's different; she's always been a bit above the general backbiting and drama characteristic of her female peers (which I and my bros take full credit for) Girls are dramatic, all the time around boys mellowed her out.
She's the one sister. One girl to five boys, poor thing was born to be outnumbered.
This isn't the first time I've had to shift from seeing my siblings as younger underlings in desperate need of knowledge and noogies to intellectual peers. Well, peers is a generous term. The two brothers between sis and I dwarf my intelligence easily. They take AP classes like it's cake, they watch Kahn Academy youtube videos to keep up on calculus. They have the minds of engineers; even music is more mechanical and architectural to them than it is expressive or emotional.
Now, just in case you think I'm related to absolute geniuses who spend their free time splicing genes and curing cancer, let me be clear. They're smart, they're older, we can talk about deeper, more mature subjects. But one beatboxes incessantly, quotes Nacho Libre, and spurts random AC/DC lyrics without provocation. The other is an obsessive gamer and, I'm ashamed to say, a Brony. Both giggle through episodes of Adventure Time like four-year-olds. I know this because my four-year-old brother giggles with them.
I remember avoiding including the brother closest to my age in any event or gathering with my high school friends. I was "too cool." I couldn't have my home life and my social life mixing (see "Keep Your Friends Close"). My parents forced me to take him, and I was surprised to find he fit in really well. It was fun having him around (not that I'd ever tell the punk). Sure he cramped my style around my girlfriend, but no more than my bros who weren't related to me did.
He was becoming less a little brother and more of a... friend. Weird. We had been sworn enemies since he was about three and now here we were with our separate social circles, getting along.
My brothers and I really became friends in the nebulous year between when I graduated high school and when I left for Europe. When Dark Knight came out, I went with my bros. We started hanging out, replaying old N64 games and just spending time together. Even in middle school and high school, I would take my siblings out for ice cream, to a movie, whatever struck our fancy. Little one-on-one outings, just to get to know them in a setting outside of home.
Baby sis was probably the most frequent guest on these impromptu outings. My "sister dates" usually involved just walking over to the Base theater, getting her some candy and seeing whatever latest Abigail Breslin movie came out. We'd talk on the way over, she'd confide in me all the drama of being ten, mean teachers, tough homework, swimming lessons, an occasional mention of a boy that would put my hair on end.
I was waiting for her horse phase. Isn't that how it works? Girls move from Dora the Explorer to Hello Kitty to Hannah Montana to Horses to Boy Bands. I still had the horses before boys became an issue, right? Nope. She went straight to One Direction. ... No comment.
I've been gone for most of her adolescence, so it's been strange to see how much she's changed each time we meet or talk. She's crazy smart and driven, she's enjoying a biomedical program at her school, she's dabbling in ceramics and painting. She (along with B.) drools over Man of Steel's steely bod. All the jokes that once flew over head, she gets now.
She's growing up. But she's also growing well. She's kind and wise beyond her years. She respects her parents, she's patient with her little brothers (as much as can be expected). I'm sad to lose the tan ten-year-old, but this young woman, this friend of mine is an exciting new discovery.
My family is changing, our home is becoming less juvenile, and after so many years with someone always in diapers, I think we're all excited to be done with the Nick Jr. phase. Not long ago my brother, always the clown, came across this hilarious song, and had the courage to share it with my parents, lords of all things G-rated. They laughed and loved it, as did we older kids.I think they're excited to have older kids, intellectual peers with whom they can have real, unedited conversations.
Baby sis is growing up. But so are the rest of us.
How are you growing? What do you get to enjoy as an older kid?
S
She's growing up.
It was hard enough to come home after 2 years abroad to find that the tan ten-year-old tomboy I left was now wearing makeup and oggling Daniel Radcliffe. Now she's passed through the gauntlet of high school freshman year. And it's just...
Weird.
We talked about, like, mature things. Not gross stuff, just things that were pretty deep for a high school sophomore. She was able to understand and expound on concepts and subjects that would stump many people I know in college. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, she's different; she's always been a bit above the general backbiting and drama characteristic of her female peers (which I and my bros take full credit for) Girls are dramatic, all the time around boys mellowed her out.
She's the one sister. One girl to five boys, poor thing was born to be outnumbered.
This isn't the first time I've had to shift from seeing my siblings as younger underlings in desperate need of knowledge and noogies to intellectual peers. Well, peers is a generous term. The two brothers between sis and I dwarf my intelligence easily. They take AP classes like it's cake, they watch Kahn Academy youtube videos to keep up on calculus. They have the minds of engineers; even music is more mechanical and architectural to them than it is expressive or emotional.
Now, just in case you think I'm related to absolute geniuses who spend their free time splicing genes and curing cancer, let me be clear. They're smart, they're older, we can talk about deeper, more mature subjects. But one beatboxes incessantly, quotes Nacho Libre, and spurts random AC/DC lyrics without provocation. The other is an obsessive gamer and, I'm ashamed to say, a Brony. Both giggle through episodes of Adventure Time like four-year-olds. I know this because my four-year-old brother giggles with them.
I remember avoiding including the brother closest to my age in any event or gathering with my high school friends. I was "too cool." I couldn't have my home life and my social life mixing (see "Keep Your Friends Close"). My parents forced me to take him, and I was surprised to find he fit in really well. It was fun having him around (not that I'd ever tell the punk). Sure he cramped my style around my girlfriend, but no more than my bros who weren't related to me did.
He was becoming less a little brother and more of a... friend. Weird. We had been sworn enemies since he was about three and now here we were with our separate social circles, getting along.
My brothers and I really became friends in the nebulous year between when I graduated high school and when I left for Europe. When Dark Knight came out, I went with my bros. We started hanging out, replaying old N64 games and just spending time together. Even in middle school and high school, I would take my siblings out for ice cream, to a movie, whatever struck our fancy. Little one-on-one outings, just to get to know them in a setting outside of home.
Baby sis was probably the most frequent guest on these impromptu outings. My "sister dates" usually involved just walking over to the Base theater, getting her some candy and seeing whatever latest Abigail Breslin movie came out. We'd talk on the way over, she'd confide in me all the drama of being ten, mean teachers, tough homework, swimming lessons, an occasional mention of a boy that would put my hair on end.
I was waiting for her horse phase. Isn't that how it works? Girls move from Dora the Explorer to Hello Kitty to Hannah Montana to Horses to Boy Bands. I still had the horses before boys became an issue, right? Nope. She went straight to One Direction. ... No comment.
I've been gone for most of her adolescence, so it's been strange to see how much she's changed each time we meet or talk. She's crazy smart and driven, she's enjoying a biomedical program at her school, she's dabbling in ceramics and painting. She (along with B.) drools over Man of Steel's steely bod. All the jokes that once flew over head, she gets now.
She's growing up. But she's also growing well. She's kind and wise beyond her years. She respects her parents, she's patient with her little brothers (as much as can be expected). I'm sad to lose the tan ten-year-old, but this young woman, this friend of mine is an exciting new discovery.
My family is changing, our home is becoming less juvenile, and after so many years with someone always in diapers, I think we're all excited to be done with the Nick Jr. phase. Not long ago my brother, always the clown, came across this hilarious song, and had the courage to share it with my parents, lords of all things G-rated. They laughed and loved it, as did we older kids.I think they're excited to have older kids, intellectual peers with whom they can have real, unedited conversations.
Baby sis is growing up. But so are the rest of us.
How are you growing? What do you get to enjoy as an older kid?
S
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
My Chemist and a New Element
Let’s just get it out there. B. and I are very
different. I’ll save how we met and got married for another time, but suffice it to say opposites truly
attract. There is some real depth to
that normally trite catchphrase.
When we were dating, she told me once that she was worried that I was looking for someone who had more in common with me.
Pizanmovinite:
I grew up in a large albeit tightly knit family, and there is one tradition that seemed to survive and thrive better than scripture study or prayer or even nightly meals together around the dinner table with all of the stress and scheduling life brings:
Every week we had pizza, usually homemade by mom, and we gathered together to watch a movie. We rotated who got to pick.
My family and home life - my childhood - was cemented together with marinara and Disney DVDs. Everyone had their piece of the pie, a task that became very literal and very complicated on these family evening get-togethers. Half of one pizza was left plain cheese to appease younger, pickier mouths. The rest (usually three pies fed our large family with the chance of a few leftovers - gone within twenty-four hours) was a carefully fractionated conglomerate of pepperoni, pepperoni with black olive, hawaiian, meat lovers, supreme and veggie supreme. (getting hungry yet?)
I've since become a bit of a snob when it comes to pizza. Homemade is best, but in a pinch Papa John's will do. Dominoes is for desperate times, Little Caesar's is only acceptable when you're moving or broke. Blackjack's plastic cheese and cardboard crust is criminal. Papa Murphy's? I'd rather eat the box.
When we were dating, she told me once that she was worried that I was looking for someone who had more in common with me.
Now, I would never hit B., or any woman for that matter,
but in that instant I reeeeeeally wanted to smack her. Fortunately this conversation was over the
phone.
I had to explain that I love our differences, I celebrate them.
Everyday.
I mean that, everyday.
... It helps that they usually come up everyday.
I had to explain that I love our differences, I celebrate them.
Everyday.
I mean that, everyday.
... It helps that they usually come up everyday.
Pizanmovinite:
I grew up in a large albeit tightly knit family, and there is one tradition that seemed to survive and thrive better than scripture study or prayer or even nightly meals together around the dinner table with all of the stress and scheduling life brings:
Pizza and movie night.
It was literally a household word for me. I would come home on Friday after school and
ask my mom, “What’s the plan for pizanmovinite?” That’s right.
With common usage, it was shortened and meshed into one glorious term
that, now that I see it written down, seems like a chemical element or a geological
sample like carbonite or something.
Every week we had pizza, usually homemade by mom, and we gathered together to watch a movie. We rotated who got to pick.
My family and home life - my childhood - was cemented together with marinara and Disney DVDs. Everyone had their piece of the pie, a task that became very literal and very complicated on these family evening get-togethers. Half of one pizza was left plain cheese to appease younger, pickier mouths. The rest (usually three pies fed our large family with the chance of a few leftovers - gone within twenty-four hours) was a carefully fractionated conglomerate of pepperoni, pepperoni with black olive, hawaiian, meat lovers, supreme and veggie supreme. (getting hungry yet?)
I've since become a bit of a snob when it comes to pizza. Homemade is best, but in a pinch Papa John's will do. Dominoes is for desperate times, Little Caesar's is only acceptable when you're moving or broke. Blackjack's plastic cheese and cardboard crust is criminal. Papa Murphy's? I'd rather eat the box.
I’ve tried to make pizza for my wife, but to her, it’s just
food. AND she has to be in the mood for
it. This took months to wrap my brain
around; if food is in front of me, I'll eat it. I still make pizza about twice
a month, and 9 times out of 10 I eat it all.
Mostly, I just make it because I can easily transport it to my job (I
walk/bike to work) and have leftovers for lunch.
Still, I hope pizza becomes a staple in our new family.
You say spud cement, I say...
The reason my wife endures my obsession with Italy’s greatest invention is because she, too, has an incurable culinary fixation. Starchy and salty and buttery and creamery and oh so good. She looooves mashed potatoes.
If she donates her body to science, it will come with a complimentary gravy boat.
Some people add potatoes to their main course. She crafts her meals around them. Her diet revolves around them, which explains why we have roast almost every Sunday. Roast beef with peas, fried chicken, any excuse to boil and mash little golden nuggets sprung from Irish soil. Okay, they're probably from Idaho.
I've tried to match her recipe, and it has always come out disastrous. She's a chemist with the stuff. She knows the exact consistency, the ratio of butter to salt to milk to add to the starchy paste. I married the Walter White of taters. When we had only known each other a few weeks we were helping make a big dinner, both of us adding butter to the mixture, unaware of the other's contribution. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me for what I did to that batch.
It's that important. Every meal. She can’t understand how I could ever get tired of them. I just shake my head and add toppings to my pizza.
The reason my wife endures my obsession with Italy’s greatest invention is because she, too, has an incurable culinary fixation. Starchy and salty and buttery and creamery and oh so good. She looooves mashed potatoes.
If she donates her body to science, it will come with a complimentary gravy boat.
Some people add potatoes to their main course. She crafts her meals around them. Her diet revolves around them, which explains why we have roast almost every Sunday. Roast beef with peas, fried chicken, any excuse to boil and mash little golden nuggets sprung from Irish soil. Okay, they're probably from Idaho.
I've tried to match her recipe, and it has always come out disastrous. She's a chemist with the stuff. She knows the exact consistency, the ratio of butter to salt to milk to add to the starchy paste. I married the Walter White of taters. When we had only known each other a few weeks we were helping make a big dinner, both of us adding butter to the mixture, unaware of the other's contribution. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me for what I did to that batch.
It's that important. Every meal. She can’t understand how I could ever get tired of them. I just shake my head and add toppings to my pizza.
I’m not saying anyone is right or wrong. Nor am I saying that these are the only dishes on which we disagree or for which we stand as the lone supporter. I love breakfast, she's more dinner-oriented. She has to be in the right mood for something like italian, chinese, steak, curry, soup or stir-fry. I just need cash in my wallet and an empty belly. I’m saying that with marriage comes
compromise. And that compromise extends
into things like menus.
We all bring our own elements into the chemistry of our homes. Including the kitchen.
We all bring our own elements into the chemistry of our homes. Including the kitchen.
How has your menu changed over time?
Any recommendations for this new couple venturing into the culinary unknown?
S
Any recommendations for this new couple venturing into the culinary unknown?
S
Monday, August 5, 2013
Frontiers
Hamlet's "undiscover'd country" refers to the destination of our souls after death. But I think there's another country we see from afar and yearn for in life. Every child can't wait until he grows up, he pines after the coming days of independence and privilege. Every grownup yearns for the carefree days of their youth. The grass is ever greener. I don't mean the usual trite landmarks of life we often dog-ear in our own subconscious autobiographical works-in-progress; we won't be talking about first kisses or crushes here. There are a few subtler moments in life when I think we can all recall feeling brave and
intrepid, blazing a trail into the unknown and grown up.
My grandfather was a very proper man. He was an insurance agent, he traveled for business often and had an office with very little candy and no toys. He was rarely seen without a necktie, and always maintained a calm, reserved demeanor reminiscent of Gregory Peck. His horn rimmed glasses weren't an ironic hipster statement, he just wore them to see. He was the product of a distant, unreachable generation of grownups with their own sights, smells and sounds. The man was an island, a kindly, older Atticus Finch. His was a tidy, polite love.
But I knew him best as a young child, when sights and smells are more potent than memory. I know a lot of people equate the smell of their grandparents' home with something old, dank and stale. Not so with mine. Their house always seemed to carry a briskness, a newness, a polish to it. The carpet always seemed freshly vacuumed, dust never seemed to attach to their shelves, the kitchen was never messy. Even when Grandma was baking bread or making dinner, her "mess" seemed orderly. My grandparents never smelled old to me, they smelled like grownups, that was all.
I vividly recall him sitting at the table for breakfast, richly adorned in all of the colors, textures and smells of what I deemed as the far off realm of adulthood. The harsh musk of aftershave dulled by the warm milky aroma of his small bowl of Cream of Wheat. The crisp inky bookstore smell of his freshly folded newspaper, its smooth pages always turned to a business article with lots of boring words in tiny inscrutable print, devoid of any pictures. I can still hear the tinkle of his orange juice glass, the brief hiss of citrus as his sharp spoon pierced the soft red flesh of his bitter grapefruit half.
I was always stunned at how comfortable he looked in a shirt and tie, a horrible dress code whose discomfort I was grateful only to endure each Sunday. Somehow the fabric of his dress shirts looked softer, his tie more silky, wrapped around his neck cooperatively like an old friend. I had a clip-on that stabbed my windpipe. His slick 50s haircut suited him well; my cowlicks were untamable.
One day I finally got up the gumption to abandon my Frosted Chocolate Crunchables or whatever dessert was being passed off as a kids cereal and asking instead to partake in some more grandfatherly fare. I mimicked grandpa's portioning (I might have added extra sugar to the Cream of Wheat) and was pleased to find that I actually liked this "grownup" food. We split a grapefruit together on more than one occasion, although I recall sprinkling significantly more sugar on my half to quell the bitterness of the fruit.
To this day I still feel markedly more grown up than usual when eating Cream of Wheat, Shredded Wheat, Malted Milk, or a simple half of grapefruit.
I remember going in for my first surgery (well, the first I was old enough to remember). But it wasn't this experience that really sticks out in my mind.
My surgery was early in the morning, I think I was scheduled to go under at 5:30 am. My parents woke me up before the sun was up. Before there was even a faint hint of light on the horizon. For the first time in my life, I saw the starry sky of a new day. The air was so quiet, it felt like we were the only three awake in all the world. I remember looking up out of the car window on our way to the hospital and drinking in the vast black emptiness of space, feeling so small, but somehow taking comfort in that fact; if I'm so small, than my problems must be pretty small, too.
This was my undiscover'd country: the wee hours of the morn. So late it was early, so early it could still be called late. Day's darkness, a strange new phenomenon for my young eyes to behold. I've pulled all nighters since then. I've been out with friends until three or four in the morning. I've woken up at some ungodly hour to get a proper start on a roadtrip or a hike. But I never felt more out of place, more thrillingly audacious than that early morning as a kid headed to the hospital under a deep dark morning sky.
I felt awfully proud of myself one night as a fourth grader. I had read not one or two chapters, but nearly half of The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe in one night. I couldn't be stopped, I was a speedreading demon! I remember coming out into the living room waaaay past my bedtime, but it was summer, no school, and since I'd just been reading for fun for hours, I think my parents were more lenient in such cases. I talked with my dad about the book. We talked about what an interesting story it was, and how compelling it was despite the childish talking animals. Yes, even in fourth grade I thought that was juvenile. We're both C.S. Lewis fans, and we had a good time talking, but he, not wanting to spoil anything, did most of the listening, giving me leeway to geek out. I think my dad held back a lot, afraid that too much would fly over my head.
He was right. I was halfway through The Silver Chair (we had a box set of all the Narnia books) and I heard my parents use an unfamiliar word. It sounded a lot like analogy, I already knew what that meant. I asked them about it later that night.
"Allegory? It's kind of like an analogy, but more symbolic," dad tried to explain. "It's when a story or its characters represent something else."
I nodded in feigned comprehension. This concept was too abstract for my cartoon addict brain. Then he boiled it down to something pertinent to my own experience that changed my perception of the world forever.
"Aslan is Jesus."
...
WHAT?!?!!!
I lay in bed that night staring up at the grainy patterns of the wooden underside of my brother's top bunk, mulling over the stories I had read so far, matching them up with Biblical events and parables. The stone table and the crucifixion, the resurrection of both characters, even some lines taken straight from the four Gospels. How had I not seen it before? Inception didn't blow my mind nearly as much as this revelation. Suddenly I was aware of all of the parallels, double entendres, and subtle wordplay around me. I had joined a group of elite intellectual adults who saw the world in more ways than one.
I'm not a trekky. Space isn't the only frontier. Everyone has plenty of undiscover'd country to delve into in their own lives.
What frontiers remain in your life? What have you already conquered?
S
My grandfather was a very proper man. He was an insurance agent, he traveled for business often and had an office with very little candy and no toys. He was rarely seen without a necktie, and always maintained a calm, reserved demeanor reminiscent of Gregory Peck. His horn rimmed glasses weren't an ironic hipster statement, he just wore them to see. He was the product of a distant, unreachable generation of grownups with their own sights, smells and sounds. The man was an island, a kindly, older Atticus Finch. His was a tidy, polite love.
But I knew him best as a young child, when sights and smells are more potent than memory. I know a lot of people equate the smell of their grandparents' home with something old, dank and stale. Not so with mine. Their house always seemed to carry a briskness, a newness, a polish to it. The carpet always seemed freshly vacuumed, dust never seemed to attach to their shelves, the kitchen was never messy. Even when Grandma was baking bread or making dinner, her "mess" seemed orderly. My grandparents never smelled old to me, they smelled like grownups, that was all.
I vividly recall him sitting at the table for breakfast, richly adorned in all of the colors, textures and smells of what I deemed as the far off realm of adulthood. The harsh musk of aftershave dulled by the warm milky aroma of his small bowl of Cream of Wheat. The crisp inky bookstore smell of his freshly folded newspaper, its smooth pages always turned to a business article with lots of boring words in tiny inscrutable print, devoid of any pictures. I can still hear the tinkle of his orange juice glass, the brief hiss of citrus as his sharp spoon pierced the soft red flesh of his bitter grapefruit half.
I was always stunned at how comfortable he looked in a shirt and tie, a horrible dress code whose discomfort I was grateful only to endure each Sunday. Somehow the fabric of his dress shirts looked softer, his tie more silky, wrapped around his neck cooperatively like an old friend. I had a clip-on that stabbed my windpipe. His slick 50s haircut suited him well; my cowlicks were untamable.
One day I finally got up the gumption to abandon my Frosted Chocolate Crunchables or whatever dessert was being passed off as a kids cereal and asking instead to partake in some more grandfatherly fare. I mimicked grandpa's portioning (I might have added extra sugar to the Cream of Wheat) and was pleased to find that I actually liked this "grownup" food. We split a grapefruit together on more than one occasion, although I recall sprinkling significantly more sugar on my half to quell the bitterness of the fruit.
To this day I still feel markedly more grown up than usual when eating Cream of Wheat, Shredded Wheat, Malted Milk, or a simple half of grapefruit.
I remember going in for my first surgery (well, the first I was old enough to remember). But it wasn't this experience that really sticks out in my mind.
My surgery was early in the morning, I think I was scheduled to go under at 5:30 am. My parents woke me up before the sun was up. Before there was even a faint hint of light on the horizon. For the first time in my life, I saw the starry sky of a new day. The air was so quiet, it felt like we were the only three awake in all the world. I remember looking up out of the car window on our way to the hospital and drinking in the vast black emptiness of space, feeling so small, but somehow taking comfort in that fact; if I'm so small, than my problems must be pretty small, too.
This was my undiscover'd country: the wee hours of the morn. So late it was early, so early it could still be called late. Day's darkness, a strange new phenomenon for my young eyes to behold. I've pulled all nighters since then. I've been out with friends until three or four in the morning. I've woken up at some ungodly hour to get a proper start on a roadtrip or a hike. But I never felt more out of place, more thrillingly audacious than that early morning as a kid headed to the hospital under a deep dark morning sky.
I felt awfully proud of myself one night as a fourth grader. I had read not one or two chapters, but nearly half of The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe in one night. I couldn't be stopped, I was a speedreading demon! I remember coming out into the living room waaaay past my bedtime, but it was summer, no school, and since I'd just been reading for fun for hours, I think my parents were more lenient in such cases. I talked with my dad about the book. We talked about what an interesting story it was, and how compelling it was despite the childish talking animals. Yes, even in fourth grade I thought that was juvenile. We're both C.S. Lewis fans, and we had a good time talking, but he, not wanting to spoil anything, did most of the listening, giving me leeway to geek out. I think my dad held back a lot, afraid that too much would fly over my head.
He was right. I was halfway through The Silver Chair (we had a box set of all the Narnia books) and I heard my parents use an unfamiliar word. It sounded a lot like analogy, I already knew what that meant. I asked them about it later that night.
"Allegory? It's kind of like an analogy, but more symbolic," dad tried to explain. "It's when a story or its characters represent something else."
I nodded in feigned comprehension. This concept was too abstract for my cartoon addict brain. Then he boiled it down to something pertinent to my own experience that changed my perception of the world forever.
"Aslan is Jesus."
...
WHAT?!?!!!
I lay in bed that night staring up at the grainy patterns of the wooden underside of my brother's top bunk, mulling over the stories I had read so far, matching them up with Biblical events and parables. The stone table and the crucifixion, the resurrection of both characters, even some lines taken straight from the four Gospels. How had I not seen it before? Inception didn't blow my mind nearly as much as this revelation. Suddenly I was aware of all of the parallels, double entendres, and subtle wordplay around me. I had joined a group of elite intellectual adults who saw the world in more ways than one.
I'm not a trekky. Space isn't the only frontier. Everyone has plenty of undiscover'd country to delve into in their own lives.
What frontiers remain in your life? What have you already conquered?
S
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)