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
Friday, August 23, 2013
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
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