Part Two, Kindness Crash-Course

Admit it. When I said last time that I'd be back in a couple of days to end the cliffhanger, you expected something more like a couple of weeks or months. I'll own it - go ahead and admit it.

So I had mentioned that I had two blogworthy adventure-experiences this past weekend. The second happened on our way back to Bryan from Houston. We'd made the first leg of the trip through Houston and were close to turning off 290 when Ewan made it clear he'd like a break from his carseat. So we stopped here (caution: the website contains background music). Frazier's was a nice place - lots of neat fountains, concrete, and such. After about 30 minutes, we decided it was time to get on the road if we were going to make it back to church in time (hint: a quick scroll down the page to see how long this post is ought to clue you in on whether or not we made it back in time... but hey, read it all - it's good stuff!).

We loaded up in the car, and were just about to pull out of the parking lot when I noticed a car with a flat right front tire, that had two ladies in the front seat. Thinking they were about to drive away not knowing they had a flat, I went up to point this out to them. Upon speaking with them, I realized a few things:

1) They were, in fact, aware of the tire, and had been since about noon. (The time now was about 3:05 p.m.)

2) There was actually a third person in the car, a little lady about 3 months old.

3) These poor ladies were in some deep doodoo.

There were the grandmother, the mom, and the baby. (I actually mistook the grandmother for the baby's mom - she couldn't have been older than her early forties - let's hope she took it as a compliment.) They had been calling all the tire places in Hempstead and having no luck finding a place open. The G-ma had called her sister, who lives in Round Rock, to come and help, but the sister was stuck in traffic in an accident in Elgin at the time I arrived on the scene (we later found out she had also gotten lost - which only makes sense... remember what kind of story I said this was?). So they were effectively stuck unless they could make it to Brenham, where the Wal-mart was still open and had a tire shop, unlike its counterpart in Hempstead.

But wait, there was another store in Hempstead, and the G-ma got on the phone and managed to speak to a person after having connected to the fax line all afternoon, and that person said that yes, they were open! If only we could get to the tire shop, they could get the tire and have the guys there put on the new one. If only. As it were, the ladies were without a lug wrench. At this point, my task seemed simple: find a lug wrench, put the spare tire on, and send the ladies on their way to the tire shop to get the new tire. Okay - first, find a lug wrench.

They didn't have one. Hm. Let me check my trunk. Oops, let me unpack it first. Nope, we don't have one either. Hm. Oh, maybe that guy - he's just sitting in his SUV watching his dogs and browsing his smartphone. Oh, you'd have to unpack your trunk? Never mind, wouldn't want to trouble you. What's that? Yes, I suppose I'm dog-friendly - I can watch them while you check for your lug wrench. Ah, you found one? Okay, I'll be right back - let me see if it works. (Time passes.) Nope, it didn't work. Thanks for trying, though. Oh, maybe those guys - they are leaving, but maybe since they're college guys they'll have a sense of service or adventure or something. Ah, so you are about to head out? But you wouldn't mind checking anyway? That'd be great. Oh, so you've now decided for the heading out. Okay. Thanks for the "good luck anyway", I'm sure that will come in handy at some point in the next couple of hours. Oh, maybe this Indian couple, they're just pulling up. (Awkward space where it's obvious I'm waiting for them to get out of their car so I can hit them up for something.) Sorry to bother you, but is there any chance you have a lug wrench? You'll check? Great, thanks! Aww, you don't have one? Well, thanks for looking. Well, hm. I could try the store owner. (I try the store owner. He left it in his trailer at home.) Hm.

Okay, new plan. If we can clear enough space in my car to take the G-ma up to the tire shop, we can ask them to borrow their lug wrench, go back to Frazier's, change the tire out for the spare, and drive back to the tire shop to put the tire on and return the lug wrench. So we make our way for the tire shop. Our conversation on the way:

G-ma: Thank you so much for helping. Do you know how many people we've talked to today who haven't done anything to help?

Me: No problem, glad I can help. (Then silence - I assumed this last one was a rhetorical question.)

G-ma: You're the 21st person.

Me: 21 people?

G-ma: That's right, and it's been really difficult with the baby - we're trying to keep her from getting too hot in that car.

Me: Yeah, and it's hot inside Frazier's (they only had A/C in the bathrooms). What's the baby's name?

G-ma: Serenity.

Me: That's a beautiful name.

G-ma: Thank you.

Me: So I don't know exactly where I'm driving - you said to go 290 towards Houston? I think I should take this first exit here.

After a couple more lucky turns on my part, we spotted the tire shop. I get out of the car, walk up to the door, and it doesn't budge. I check the sign in the window: OPEN, COME IN. I try the door again, and it continues not to budge. I walk around to the garage side. The gate is closed. As G-ma and I are starting to feel this sinking feeling in the pit of our stomachs, a truck pulls up with a guy making signs to us that they are closed. He gets out of the car and confirms this. G-ma, as you might imagine, is not going to concede so easily. Without flipping her lid, she begins passionately explaining how the arc of her day has led her to this particular point in time, shortly after the point in time when she had called and they had said, "yes, we're open", and why at this particular point in time it was rather critical for her, her daughter, and her 3-month old granddaughter that they get the tire they need now, and not in a couple of days (if you'll remember last weekend, Monday was Labor Day - can you imagine how many places in Hempstead are likely to open on Labor Day? Neither can I.). To his credit, the guy agrees to take a look at the tire.

If you're hoping that this is the turning point in the story for the fortunes of the three ladies, I won't lead you on. They didn't have a tire, used or new, that would fit their car. Despite G-ma's attempt over the next 5 minutes to clarify this truth into some kind of communication gap, it remained a truth and not a misunderstanding. Hm.

We made our way back to Frazier's, though after making absolutely certain that all the tire shops on the main drag were also closed. By this time it was about 4:45. Having run out of options in Hempstead, and since her sister still wasn't close to arriving, I had to decide whether I would be able to continue helping by driving her to Brenham to pick up a tire at the Wal-mart there (which was probably going to be another hour round-trip), or if Kathryn and baby were going to be too worn out and sweaty and needing to get home before they reached their limit.

Unfortunately for the ladies, once I got back and talked to Kathryn, we decided we couldn't push Ewan past the couple of hours we'd already done. He'd gone for way too long without a nap, and the only place we could effectively make that happen for him would be at home. Upon talking with the ladies, I asked if there was some place in town I could take them where they could be in the cool air and not stuck in a car that wasn't cool enough. They said the Wal-mart would actually be a good place, since they were running out of diapers. We had a bunch of diapers with us that were the next size up from what they used, but I handed a few over just in case.

So I drove the ladies in town and dropped them off at the Wal-mart. They were grateful for the help we were able to give, but we were still sad that after all that, leaving them at Wal-mart was the best we could do.

If you think that's rough, I haven't even mentioned what Kathryn experienced during all that time. For a couple of hours, she'd been sitting on a bench outside of the store, with a baby in her arms, and next to a pile of some of our luggage (which we'd removed from the car to make room to transport the ladies-in-distress). Wanna take a wild guess how many people spoke to her and asked her if she was okay? For several of them, this involved walking by her twice - on their way in and out of the store. It included a couple with crosses hung around their necks, large enough for Kathryn to spot while they were still in the parking lot - they managed to look away at the last second and pass right by Kathryn. At least the woman from the Indian couple smiled at Kathryn as she went by.

That's right, in two hours, noone checked to make sure Kathryn and Ewan were okay. Maybe she didn't look distressed enough, I don't know. But I can't imagine the 2 women with the baby didn't at least look distressed enough for 20 people to do more than offer their sympathy.

It still amazes and troubles me. Let's hope they eventually got the help they needed.

A crash course (or two) in kindness

Adventures often seem to happen when you least expect them. Maybe that's part of what makes adventures what they are - but I don't think I've always known that about them. I would have probably thought adventures were 'started out on' or 'begun' in some intentional kind of way. Not mine. They tend to have humble beginnings in a subtle "oh, crap" moment, then gain a bit of momentum into the realization that "this is more of a mess than I first realized", moving right into the 'heat of battle' where there's no time for realizations, before finding some kind of resolution and a feeling somewhere between "that was awesome!" and "I had hoped never to have to learn that, but oh well".

As it were, I found myself on two such adventures just this past weekend. And both situations, it turns out, became studies in kindness: humanity at its best, and humanity preoccupied.

Our first adventure began Friday night, upon arriving in Houston at my sister's house for my mom's nth birthday party, to be held the following night (the party was to be Oscar Night themed, and Kathryn had gone to great lengths to make a Hollywood star for my mom): that was when we realized we'd left the star at home. We made an email to our friends and posted on Facebook, hoping there was a slight chance someone would be coming from Bryan to Houston Saturday - no luck.

We discussed our options. Although the four hours it would take to go back home and get it weren't feasible, we definitely both thought about it. There was the possibility of just making a new one, but we had a lot of preparations to make for the party that night. I thought, I'll try a last ditch effort and post on myBCS to see if we can connect with someone that way. So I did, but by this time, it's Saturday morning.

Fast-forward two hours - I've had two calls from people reading my post online, who are coming to Houston. The first one was coming with her family to the Houston Children's Museum, near downtown - which wasn't super close to Pasadena, but was certainly doable. This thing was going to turn out okay! The lady who called could drop by our house, and our housemate Sarah could put it out on the porch, then they'd pick it up, make their way to Houston, and finally I would meet them at the museum.

And that's what happened! People who we'd never met before made space in their busy schedule to help out someone in need. Think about your family dynamic when you are packing for a trip, or getting ready to head out the door. For most of us, it's probably not the time to think about what else we can fit in, unless it's our own stuff, and it's critical stuff that has to happen before leaving town for a few days (pick up prescriptions, take out the trash, etc.). But someone else's stuff? Bravo to our neighbor who was sensitive enough to life's unpredictability that she was ready and able to help a person in need. There's a term for that - it's called spiritual discipline. That, and it's also called kindness.

I wish I could say our other story painted as bright a picture of humanity at its best, looking out for the needs of others. In one sense it does, but it's at the same time more saddening. Don't get me wrong, it's a good story, but it's got its sad moments.

I'll try to get on here and tell it in the next couple of days. For now, I bid you good night. May you be blessed to give and receive kindness.

...but hopefully not at the same time

That's what I'm thinking after reading this on my bag of dried figs:

"Delicious paired with cheese and chocolate"

Happy Monday morning, everyone.

The big push before the big push

I've noticed over the past eight months or so the way that expecting a baby can reorder life. I'd noticed it in other people before myself. In some men, though I wouldn't have called them irresponsible before, there's a marked difference in the seriousness with which they begin to approach life, and they really turn into good husbands and dads. As far as I can tell, at least - but it's hard to chock it all up to appearances when their kids are turning out so well, and I see firsthand (even if only once in a while) how they interact with their wives and kids. (In case you're the type of reader who likes to reread sentences in your head and make things sound weird, I should clarify that last sentence by saying that I don't personally know any polygamists.)

I've even thought some about my dad lately, and the good examples he sets. He would always drive the older (at times junkier) car and let mom drive the better or newer one. He would go out of his way to set up activities where he could spend quality time with me - including such things as building uneven bars for me in the backyard when I was in gymnastics, or pouring a concrete slab in the backyard and putting up a basketball goal when I was in basketball, or coaching my YMCA soccer team, though I'm pretty sure he'd never played soccer before, and I can only speculate as to whether he'd ever even seen a match prior to hanging the whistle around his neck. Probably, but who knows? He's also always gone to great lengths to engage me spiritually, and teach me the importance of knowing the Lord and making that central to everything that I do.

Is Kathryn's and my first child having the same impact on me? It's hard to tell - change for me usually tends to happen so gradually as to be difficult to notice on my own (maybe others can see it more clearly). All I know is that there hasn't been an abundance of time lately to sort all these things out. I would have strongly preferred to have all the major work on the house done months ago and spent most of 2010 reading and thinking deeply about the upcoming change to our family. As it stands now, cosmic diaphragms are starting to get sore for all the laughter at my naiveté for thinking that, amid all the things that we decided we needed to get done in the last several months, somehow we could have completed them in a more timely fashion than all the other do-it-ourselves endeavors.

Does God laugh at us the same way we laugh at children? Since I'm pretty much always laughing at them, I think I'm a more likely candidate than some to be a source of heavenly amusement.

I think this will be the perspective to help me be a good sport about achieving the following in the next few weeks:

-Planting six raised garden beds

-Installing window blinds throughout the house

-Finishing baseboards and trim

-Organizing a very unorganized house

-Finishing dining room table and chairs

-Having gutters installed (thankfully not something I'm doing myself)

-Refinancing the house

-Doing taxes

-Setting up a baby room

I'm sure there's plenty I'm leaving out, but that hits most of the big stuff. It's funny to think that a little baby could inspire such a frenzy of activity, that we begin to suddenly realign our whole lives in anticipation of something we know is coming, but isn't fully here yet in the sense that we know it will be soon enough. Yes, it's pretty obvious I'm going somewhere with this, which is here. Pretty amazing the way God has knit together all the kinds of new life he brings. It comes subtly, but surely (though, ask my wife, and she would say there's nothing especially subtle about the active little boy in her belly); hidden for now, but with signs, and the anticipation of a glorious breaking-in to the world. This is comforting for those of us who find difficulty living in the reality of a kingdom that we can't see by looking at life as it's packaged and sold by an eager world. Despite appearances to the contrary, I can say this with confidence, and in more ways than one:

He's coming. And I'll be ready.

It dances, I geek out!

(This post brought to you by the "up" thumb.)

This is not news, really, though it was to me. If you haven't heard of the Sony Rolly, check out a demo of it here.

I don't know exactly why, but this strikes me as one of the best possible uses of technology. Sure, it might seem like some kind of technology with medical application would easily be more important, and I would agree to a degree since I am a contact lens wearer, but a lot of those technologies are aimed less at enabling disabilities and more at prolonging the inevitable. Whatever, right? That could just be a dumb opinion of mine that will change "when it happens to me", but bodies weren't meant to last forever, and we can't make them that way.

Rant over, geek start. This little dancing robot is so cool. (I've got robots on the brain lately since a friend of mine did this cool little project.) I think that's because it reminds me of the genius and purpose of art - and what it is and isn't. A conference on the arts I attended last year stressed that art shouldn't have utility; instead, it is what it is. It will resist attempts to use it for what it's not created to be. It's useless, but in a good way. It's there to be enjoyed and appreciated. (At least, that's what I took from the conference, whether I'm butchering the concepts or not.)

Rolly plays music and dances. So I guess it's useful in terms of having something around the house that plays music. But I don't think you can use it to make a call, or take a picture, or manage your calendar. You just enjoy it, and that's the beauty.

I don't care if you buy one or not. But if you do, I'll probably invite myself over and sit and watch it for hours. And drink your beer, if you have any.

Rise of the Machines

No, I haven't seen the new Terminator movie. (Not the same title, anyways.) That's not what this is about.

Check out this little nugget of ridiculosity. Virginians are not allowed to smile when getting their picture taken at the DMV. New computer software aimed at improving prevention of fraud and identity theft by comparing mugshots over time won't allow it.

It's not the first time we've made machines and forced ourselves to accommodate to them. I sit at a desk all day with a comfy chair and wrist pad and perfectly adjusted monitors so that I can stay sitting longer and be more productive. (Don't get me wrong, I like my job.)

But this one is harder for me to stomach, somehow. Just wait. Next they'll (it's kind of fun to lump all the nasty people in power into one steaming pile and suggest that all of them are out to keep us down and make our lives miserable) be banning people from driving whose knees bend the other way. Sound far-fetched? The dark future is coming, my friend.

A picture consists of 242 words

I wish I could draw. My mom thinks I can, but then again, she thinks I can do anything. (Thanks Mom!) I think her unwavering faith in her son, in this case, comes from drawings of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that I used to make in junior high. In no way were the drawings even close to the same level of skill of that guy's, or even my friend Matt's - whose "works" I was copying. But apparently beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What can you say but... Turtle Power! (Seriously, now I can't remember if this is just the first time I've blog-linked that song - sad, right?)

Anyways, the draw to draw that inspired this post in the first place came as I was reading this about the lending crisis and why banks won't or can't lend money right now. About the time the article mentions the Obama administration's efforts to "jump-start [the] crucial machinery" of the banks and markets to get the economy chugging along again, I began assembling this mental picture:

A small group of people in suits, all looking grave, yet resolute, addressing a crowd. One man (probably Obama) among those in suits, speaking to the crowd in grave, yet resolute tones. Behind the suited group addressing the crowd, another small group of suited people, bent-over examining the gears and guts of a ginormous, ridiculous-looking machine (approximately the size of a decently large sports stadium), scratching their heads, puzzling anxiously about how to get the thing running again. I imagine some in the crowd of observers are watching the speakers, and others are watching the group of people scrambling to fix the machine - in either case, watching expectantly. Somehow (this is why I'm not an artist - I have no visual imagination), whether with labels or through some slick, subtle artistry, the viewer realizes this is some kind of massive deep-fryer. Pan out (again, if this is a picture, I realize there's no such thing - but I bet good artists can attract your focus to parts of the picture in stages) and you see a massive farm and garden, bursting with all kinds of delicious food, ready to be harvested and possibly even plucked off the branch or vine and eaten. You look again at the crowd and realize that everyone looks kind of hungry and irritiable, as if they've forgotten how to eat (the master artist has rendered the crowd with a dazzling feat of complexity, of course).

I am enough of an artist to know that this is the point where I sit back and let you savor the rich irony of the picture I've just painted. Go on, savor it.

Cruelty Free: No Bunnies Were Harmed in the Making of This Lotion

You may or may not be familiar with this logo:

While it's not exactly the same as the one on my lotion, it's close enough to provide me the reassurance that I can enjoy the softness of my hands without the nagging of my conscience that it came at the expense of cute bunnies.

Spirit and Mind?

It's always nice to wake up and find something like this in your inbox:

Apparently, this guy is the poster-child (to whatever extent) for the A&M Foundation's new Spirit and Mind fundraising initiative.  Oddly enough, seeing this doesn't really say either "spirit" or "mind" to me.

In defense of emotional basket-cases

I've had this thing lately that runs through my head: what about people who are mental?  Crazy?  Emotionally unstable?  I have this real feeling of injustice towards them because it seems like life goes on without them just because they can't seem to get it together.

Partly this is a confession, as well, at perhaps some anger directed at God for feeling like maybe he's okay with the fact that some people can't handle responsibility (and are thus deprived of coming into their full humanness) and that he's content to let such people fall by the wayside.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, this post is autobiographical to a degree yet-to-be-determined by how long I can hold out before ending up in the quack-shack.

Sometimes it feels melodramatic to me to make such statements about my mental health.  At other times it seems as if I'm not quite capable of joking, as some people do to cope, about going crazy, and enjoying the joke.

Do I feel like God needs to somehow prove himself or his record on this to me?  As far as my record goes, I think I've pretty consistently been able to unmask my own ironies that disguise themselves as justified ranting and raving at the Almighty.  Which is to say, it kind of comes down to an issue of patience with me.  God never seems to be in much of a hurry to prove himself to me on the things I think are important.

I don't think that means I can't be a little bitter over our culture's worship of self-confidence and how it drives people just struggling not to lose it to appear as if they can conform to the popular idolatry.  Or at least, a little bitter over what I perceive as the church's possible complicity (to whatever degree) in this crime.  Really, maybe I'm just bitter because I know I'm not just the president, I'm also a client.

I mean, am I wrong about this (the cultural pressure to become someone that you and everyone else can worship)?  I seriously wonder if crazy people in other countries are nearly so famous in their cultures as we are, I mean, the ones here are in ours.

This may be one of those posts that far exceeds my normal levels of, "where in the world is he coming from?"  If none of these thoughts make any sense to you without the context, I'd be glad to share more of why I think I'm marginally insane with you some time soon.  Seriously.  After all, misery loves company, whether or not the feeling is mutual.

In response...

I made a deal with my friend Cory that if he got back on his blogging-horse, that I would post a response to whatever he wrote about.  Here are some of his thoughts on the financial bailout.  And following are some of mine.

Honestly, though, before I start, I have to say that he could have picked a better topic (better for me, I mean).  Economics, along with math, government, and science, is something I last studied in high school.  Meaning I'll probably make quite the arse of myself trying to sound educated about all of this.  So bear with me.  Better yet, you'll enjoy this post all the more if you go ahead and agree with me that education itself is overrated; at least, my $120,000+ undergraduate liberal arts degree certainly was.  ;)  Well, at least I'm qualified to give my two cents as it concerns bad investments.  (Although, I probably should be throwing every pair of pennies I've got towards paying off those student loans...)

One of my biggest hopes in this whole financial crisis is that, having some of our flaws exposed in our national culture, we might be more open to fundamental change in the way we understand our way of life.

Consumerism blinds us to the larger realities of life.  Instead of thinking about my neighbors or a kingdom that brings true peace, I'm concerned about my daily ration of premium coffee or whether the flooring I bought for my house is going to crack or warp because I should have paid someone to level the house from the outset.  

Capitalism promotes a free market where we're free to jostle and step all over each other (it's called competition and it's great because it lowers the price and increases the quality of that premium coffee) in our rush to be the vendor of choice for all those consumers out there with their heads in their wallets (or the headphones of their iPods, ignoring all the people passing within a few feet of them).

Lest I be a hypocrite in my criticism, I want to be clear that I certainly share the blame in a culture that values people based on their knowledge of and attention to machines and materials over and above that of people (by and large, anyways).  I'm caught in the cycle of buying and selling, too.  I'm often more likely to be concerned with what a person's job is than what their relationships are like.  I've spent a disproportionate amount of time in the past several months obsessing over an orderly (quasi-) assemblage of wood, paint, nails and electrical wires than I have showing consistent concern for the people in my life.

How much of that is going to matter when everything that's now broken encounters the Great Fix?  When I get to that point, which of my "investments" will truly pay off?  (Isn't it wonderful that we sometimes use financial language to refer to "spending" time and attention and energy and empathy on people?  Even the word "spend" there - wow, it's just really hard to say anything in English if you want to truly affirm the "value" of humanity and not "diminish" it.  Oh well, I tried.)

I doubt that we'll stop building on shifting sand.  But perhaps our days of building skyscrapers on top of skyscrapers there are nearing an end (which is how I envision the whole enterprise of investments stacked upon investments in risky mortgages, which are basically ways of getting things now that we just can't live without, even though we really can't afford it, nudging us to make assumptions against the future about what our lives and financial situations will be like down the road, as if we could predict or guarantee that somehow - hey, I've got a mortgage, too... it's tough).  Perhaps.  It's hard to tell.  Let's not wait around and see before we start seeking a better vision of building whatses (and whoses, especially) that will last.

Yellow Card

Yep, got my first ever yellow card Sunday night at the Scrubs' soccer game. Let's just say I barely earned it. What I mean is people (self included) have been way more physical in past games, and the referees have been letting all kinds of contact go uncalled. If the games were called by the book, then I would have earned two or three cardable offenses in our previous game. Hardly disputable, in fact. (And I wouldn't probably rank in the top several most physical players on the field, either.) Even assuming this past game had been called by the book, this was a questionable call. And this referee wasn't calling by the book. (Let's put aside for a moment the practice of "taking it like a man" - I've got something to say.) I got pushed out of bounds, shoulder-to-shoulder. No call. Another one of our guys got pushed out of bounds with the other guy's arms extended (a textbook-perfect push). No call. Both cardable offenses, by the way.

If I sound bitter, maybe I am. I don't think I am - it's been two days and I've had time to cool my jets. But this particular referee had more than just a handful of us seething by the end of the night. I don't know, there's something weird about getting fouls called in soccer. In basketball, it's no big deal to get called for a foul - you can even get up to 5 or 6 before they toss you. Rugby? Hockey? I can't say that I really watch the sports that much, but tell me there's not some major jostling and jarring going around, and it's par for the course. But somehow, soccer is different. It's not just that the play gets stopped, it's that the ref has to reach down his shorts and pull out a colored card and wave it at you, signaling to the world that you just behaved badly and would be receiving a low grade for conduct. Does this bring up any juvenile associations for anyone else? Remember those colored conduct systems they had in Kindergarten? (And maybe up through second grade or something...) In mine, green was good behavior, yellow was testing your limits, red was bad and black meant you were a child of hell. (Surprise anyone that my conduct card was pretty much always on red and black? To any educators out there who may be reading this: YOU ARE GIVING YOUR KIDS COMPLEXES. STOP RUINING THE CHILDREN.) You may not agree with the connection, but I think there's something there. I'm just sayin'.

Now, lest you begin to fear that I will leave this story on a sour note, I have good news that there is a redemptive element to it all! It came in the form of a teammate's comment to me upon hearing that I had indeed received a yellow card. "Joe, you're just going to have to stop being such a badass." (Tongue-in-cheek, of course.) You know what? That seriously made my day. Instead of being called up to the front of the class, only to be scolded and sent to stand in the corner, I get to make my way up to the front of the class and take a bow. With the teacher, by the way, directly behind me.

I can add my own cinnamon, thank you very much

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who think pumpkin and cinnamon go together like t-shirts and jeans, and those who think cinnamon is the quickest way to ruin any and all things pumpkin. Well, I can tell you that the folks at Melitta are the first type, having tried this today after buying it on sale at our local Albertson's, which is closing. I believe they describe it as having "notes" of nutmeg and cinnamon. Hardly. I think "orchestra hits" of nutmeg and cinnamon would be more precisely descriptive.

To be fair, Melitta's not the only one out there making pumpkin products that are cinnamon-heavy. I've tried pumpkin syrup (intended for coffee) before that had the same problem (actually, that didn't taste like anything really - except a badly mixed concoction of various "ose"es). You know what I think? I think you just can't copy pumpkin. Call me a cynic if you will, but once you get away from using real pumpkin in food, then you are left with no other course but to try and hide the fact that you don't have any real pumpkin flavor going on in there. Not even pumpkin-esque in most cases. So then what? It becomes a cover-up job. They know that people often put nutmeg and cinnamon on their pumpkin (which, admittedly, can be done right - but oftentimes is done oh-so-wrong), and so they compensate for pumpkin-deficiency by playing on your natural taste-associative abilities. People: they're playing mind games with you! Are you going to stand for that? I sure as pumpkin pie ain't.

Here's what I resolve to do, and might I recommend you take a similar course of action:
1. Only buy real pumpkin products.
2. If you must buy once- or more-than-once-removed pumpkin-flavor products, hold them to the highest standards of pumpkin-actual-tastiness.
3. Should said pumpkin products fail to meet these standards, complain loudly and publicly. I think at that point something good is supposed to happen as a result.

If that doesn't work, then I don't know what to tell you. I think at that point we're supposed to mutter something, in an I-know-it-all-too-well and shrugging fashion, about what it "seems like" society is "coming to these days".

Things I'm Struck By Today

Call these personal realizations, "oh, okay" moments, or just plain better sense finally breaking through to me, but I've got a few things on my mind of the should-it-really-have-been-that-hard-for-me-to-learn variety.

Tom Petty Said It Best
"The waiting is the hardest part." Lately I've identified areas of my life in which I'm "waiting on God" for what's next: housing, family, etc. Somewhere along the way, something in me interpreted that to mean, "I'm waiting on God and doing nothing in the meantime." Somehow, I need to get from there to a place where I'm living as if I'm lacking nothing. Because I have everything I need. When you think about what it means that the shield of faith extinguishes the flaming darts of the evil one, maybe it means you use it to keep all those hundreds (thousands?) of advertising messages - that bombard you constantly each day - from sinking in and convincing you, "Ooh, I need that." (Hasn't someone done the math on this? I wonder how many of these get hurled at us on an average day.) So I suppose, if I could piggyback off Mr. Petty, I'd say something like, "Waiting on God doesn't mean sitting around." (Which, admittedly, doesn't make for near as cool of a song line, but I've never exactly owned the market on cool.)

Nuance Doesn't Convey
I was watching some talk show or news cast or something of the sort the other day where they were talking about Barack Obama. Sorry if I botch the details, but what I remember was that they said he was at some kind of press conference, talking about trying to raise the general tone of campaigning above attacks and back-and-forth bickering, and at the end of his speech, the audience was basically silent. He had been very careful to state his position tactfully, or at least that's the picture that was painted of the event. Finally, someone broke the silence with, "Did you change your hair?"

God Bless America.

Whether or not the event really went down exactly like that, it's a picture with fresh relevance for me. So a couple of weeks ago in my performance review I had mentioned that I'd be willing at some point to take on some new projects, as time allows, while emphasizing that I wasn't in any hurry to do so, but that now was a good time for this, seeing as the summer isn't a busy time for our project at all. Now, I know for a fact my boss caught all the nuance bundled up in my little spiel. So I don't blame her for the fact that the next week, one of our administrators came up to me, asked me to come to her office to talk about some new projects, prefacing the entire conversation with, "So I hear you're bored."

The feeling is not unlike buying an expensive piece of chocolate to send via international mail to a relative living halfway around the world, only to have it shipped wrong and get sidetracked all over the globe, finally arriving at your relative's smushed and eaten by worms that it picked up somewhere en route. Oh, and then the relative calls you and gives you an earful about how you should have insured it. Something like that, at least.

Anyways, said admin tells me of a project I can help another coworker with. Said coworker comes to me later that week to talk to me about said project, and, no lie, this is what she says, "So I hear you're bored."

To those of you women who read my blog, I must say that while I respect your intuition and your ability to far outpace us males in terms of the general accuracy of the conclusions you jump to, I must also remind you, as the great Dumbledore once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Ladies, please use your intuition and assuming wisely and with caution. Please, for once, take the lead of us men when it comes to wielding dangerous weapons: we don't mess around with things that can blow up in our faces, as you'll observe when we're handling guns (all the men I know are extremely cautious, even when around other men who are equally cautious). For those of you ladies who have already attained to a measure of wisdom in this, there are plenty of others around who could gain from your example! God bless you.

God Bless America.

Little Dribbler, National Champion

I just witnessed my cousinito (little cousin - she'd be my cousin-niece if we had a word for it in English) become a National Champion in Little Dribblers, at a basketball court in Franklin, Texas. National Champion. Has quite a ring to it, right? Imagine how a 10-year-old girl feels having that title to throw behind her name now. Imagine roll call: "BONNIE FIELDS." "National Champion HERE!"

Actually, two things about that. First, the actual title of the Little Dribblers tournament was the "Continental National Tournament." Just enjoy that one for a minute. (In doing a little research on the website for the event, apparently the "Continental" version of the tournament is for those communities, holding Little Dribblers charters, under a population of 2,500. The biggest version, the "National" - as in the "National National Tournament", I'm assuming? - has a population limit of 35,000. So this is small-town stuff, pretty much. Or, as you'll see next...) The other thing is that all the places involved in the Continental National Tournament are from Texas. (All over, though - one team came all the way from Farwell, which is an hour and a half north-west of Lubbock, right near the New Mexico border; they lost the championship game. Ouch. That's a really, REALLY long bus ride back.) I have two potential explanations for this. One is that Little Dribblers happens in more states than just Texas, and each one has its version of the "National" tournament. The more fun explanation for me (which, unfortunately, I just found out to be false because I read this - but humor me anyways) is that, in the deep reaches of small-town Texas, there is still a strong sentiment that Texas should be, as it once was, its own country. Thus, any competition comprised entirely of teams from Texas, is a "national" competition. Heck, even despite the Little Dribblers history page, there may be a fair few who would fire off a shotgun into the air in affirmation of such a sentiment. God Bless Texas.

Hey now, I really don't want my having a little fun with this to detract from my cousinito's accomplishment. Seriously - who would have ever thought that elementary-age girls' basketball could be so enthralling and nerve-wracking? I'll tell you what. I'm hoarse, and a little bit worn out emotionally.

I went to two games today. They'd already won several games this week, but lost one yesterday, in a double-elimination tournament. So the first game today could have been their last. It was a nail-biter, with the Lady Devils (my cousinito's team) staying ahead by about 2-4 points most of the game - not a comfortable lead to those in the stands by any means, especially when the star player from the opposing team - who's a pretty darn good shooter - runs the ball down the court and makes the same play EVERY TIME, keeping the pressure on. That's one thing about basketball with kids this age, especially girls (no offense, but hear me out): they haven't really learned to think for themselves yet (probably true across sexes), which is not helped by the fact that their reaction time is so slow (probably less true across sexes) that if the ball is loose and heading for the sideline, you can put money on it being a turnover. Or worse yet, all the passes that were totally catchable or retrieve-able that ended up flying out of bounds.

I'm sure I'd be more disappointed with such minor blunders if they'd lost. But hey - SCOREBOARD!

After that, I went home, because I wasn't quite sure whether I'd make it back for the evening game. Wow - that was almost a really dumb decision, potentially not going back. But I thought about it, and I don't get to see this part of my family all that often, and especially for something so big, so... national to a little girl, it would be really cool to support her in it. So I went back for the Championship game.

This time we were in the Big Gym (Franklin High School's best, with elevated bleachers on both sides, so this time we could actually shout at the other team's fan-base, rather than just juxta them). Gosh, I was so nervous. Remember that one loss I'd mentioned? This was that team. Oh, and after the first game today, here's what the coach said to the girls, "Okay, tonight we're going to play Buffalo. Remember that those girls were passing well and making shots and pretty much doing everything flawlessly out there on the floor. I'd like for us to be doing the same." (Gee, coach, I don't know whether to be more disturbed at our prospects tonight, or the way you're drooling over their athleticism.) I may have had a super-fan exterior on. But inside, I had all the confidence - in this team of little girls - of, well, a little girl.

Things quickly did a massive 180. After the first quarter, the Lady Devils were on top 10-2. For those of you not acquainted with young girls' basketball, eight points has the potential of taking five to ten minutes of game time to be scored. By both teams together. Which is an eternity in basketball-reckoning. At the half, with continued Lady Devil domination, an eleven-point lead. And huge heads all around on our side of the court. Not a whole lot changed during the third quarter, I think, though the Lady Devils' offense started to slow down. Fourth quarter.

Fourth quarter. Something changed. Namely, the position of my stomach, which was now somewhere in the general vicinity of my ankles. Something else changed: the no full-court press rule. That's a handy little rule I'd never heard of before (must be particular to younger-age game-play) - for the first three quarters, no one is allowed to defend the back court. Doing so will actually earn you a technical foul. (Honestly, there were other odd rules that made the game a little annoying to watch, because not only were the referees a little whistle-happy, they were frequently calling these penalties which were quite foreign to me. If I'd had more of a voice by this point, I think I'd have been yelling more protest.) What does all that mean? Suddenly, the Lady Devils were being afflicted in the back court, and they were not handling it well - at all. Actually, the other team went on something like an 8-0 run, with the Lady Devils failing to even make it past half-court ONCE. It was infuriating. Not to mention that since Buffalo was so close to Franklin, they had a huge cheering section, and so once their girls got some momentum back, the cheers coming from across the court were quite imposing. Also, and I won't go into this because I'll just end up getting worked up, the Lady Devils' coach would not have his girls maintain any pressure in the back court. So the fourth quarter, for the most part, felt like a Lady Bison shooting rampage.

And then the Devils broke through to the other side. Hallelujah. Somebody made a shot. Thank you, Lord. (My cousinito told me later that at some point, while she was on the court, she was praying. ;) Maybe it was at this point?) But the Bisons answered. And oh, crap - they pulled ahead. At this point I sat down and looked dejected. The Devils had blown a 12-point lead in a matter of minutes (the quarters are only 6 minutes, anyways). Time was ticking off the clock. In about the last minute of game play, players on both sides were shooting free throws. Somewhere in all of that, someone tied the game up. This lasted until the end of regulation time. So now there was overtime! Can you imagine the tension in the room? If you've never witnessed elementary girls' basketball, you probably can't imagine it. But you could cut it with a knife. Not that they'd probably appreciate you carrying one into a tournament like this, though.

2 minutes on the clock. Tip-off. Lady Bisons get the ball - shot's no good. Lady Devils' turn. Nothing. This pattern repeats itself for what seems like a hundred years. Finally, fortune strikes. A Bison fouled a Devil! Two shots at the line! I mutter inaudibly, "You really need to make both of these." She makes one. Better than nothing, as you can probably already guess. Oh, and at this point there are 9 seconds left on the clock. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just enough time for one of those agonizing last plays where the other team rushes down the court, barely manages to get an open shot, throws up a wild prayer, and sinks it, along with all of our dignity. But then a miracle happened. Bisons inbound the ball. A Devil contests the Bison-recipient of the ball. The clock ticks. They scramble for the ball, both unfoulingly (a miracle in itself). The clock keeps ticking. Now they're both on the floor trying to get the ball. The clock stops ticking. Hey! The clock stopped ticking. And no whistles have been blown! And now everyone on our side of the court is cheering, and all the Lady Devils have these uber-surprised looks on their faces and are also yelling and cheering. They won the Continental National Championship! (Yes, Queen actually does come on over the loudspeaker at this point. These Little Dribblers really know how to create a moment!)

Somewhere in the next few minutes of elation, both teams line up to be announced and receive their honors and trophies. This is the part where my heart broke. Looking over at the Lady Bisons, several of the little girls were sobbing and wiping their eyes. Mine started to leak, too. (They are even now. Wow, I can't even imagine how much of a pushover I'm going to be if Kathryn and I ever have any girls.) Okay, I'm about to offend some people now, and I'm not going to apologize for it, either. While I don't really have a problem with girls playing sports, I'm just going to go ahead and question whether they're really designed for sports. Now, I definitely recognize there are females who are great athletes, and even for those who aren't, I don't have any problem seeing value in their athletic pursuits. But here's the thing: those didn't look like emotionally healing tears as much as they did emotionally damaging tears. And what effect does it have on girls to have coaches yelling at them so harshly when they forget which play is being run? I wonder whether something is being lost in developing the tough skin to cope with all the pain of the gym floor, or field, or court - something beautiful. (Granted, we have some friends with a very young son who, when playing soccer, cries whether he messes up a kick or scores a goal - so it's tricky to make hard, fast rules - but I still wonder.)

Anyways, back to story. Lady Bisons have all been called. Now Lady Devils are lined up to go pick up their trophies (they were so excited, twice the whole line starts for the middle of the floor before their names are called). I cheer most loudly when Bonnie is called up. They stand in the middle of the court, raising trophies high, with parents behind and around me in near-hysteria. What a great moment.

Later Bonnie was telling me she thought the trophies were supposed to be about "this tall" (she reaches her hand about a foot above her head). We go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate, and Chelsea (my same-ish-age cousin, Bonnie's mom) answers the loads of voicemail she got and spreads the news of the victorious Lady Devils, radiating with pride, as was Bruce, her husband/Bonnie's dad. Ah, what a night.

Here's to you, Bonnie. Congratulations. Enjoy your victory, little miss National Champion.