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
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