Effusivize Your Praise

A pastor was once speaking to a man who was having trouble in his marriage, and he asked him, “When was the last time you told your wife that you loved her?”  The man replied, “I told her at our wedding, twenty-five years ago, and she should know I feel the same until I tell her otherwise.”

This is a funny example of what I think we see in this world all too often.  Most people don’t express appreciation, gratitude, and love enough.  My friend BD used to say that where he grew up, the only time you heard anything from your parents or boss was when you screwed up.  If there was silence, then you could assume that you were doing well.  That’s not how we should live.  We should live in a world where we are being built up, where our good deeds and loveable qualities are recognized and acknowledged, where people take more time gushing about what we did right instead of what we did wrong.

We should be telling our spouses, kids, friends, and family that we love and appreciate them…constantly.  And not just in a passing remark, but gushing about it.  We should effusivize our praise.  The word “effusive” means to “show unrestrained emotion or thankfulness,” and that’s how we should be…unrestrained.

Raksha Bandhan – Part 2

Today was the official day for Raksha Bandhan.  I had been looking forward to this for months.  It was special.  It meant a lot to me, and I wanted to give it the utmost respect for what it symbolized.  I wasn’t doing this lightly.  It was a big commitment, that I was taking very seriously.  I am very discerning when it comes to who I pick to be my friends.  I am even more so with family.

I had read that it is customary for the brother to give his sister a gift.  Some people give chocolates.  Others jewelry.  But I wanted to give my new little sister something from my heart.  Something that would express how much this meant to me.  I researched ideas for weeks until the perfect idea hit me.  Typically, the sister ties a rakhi on her brother, but tradition never said it couldn’t go the other way too.  So, I designed and made a bracelet for her.  I made it out of her favorite color (black), and I tied a charm to the middle of it that said simply, “Little Sis.”

HR and I met up at work, neutral territory, with my mom in tow as the official photographer.  Okay, she really just went to enjoy the moment with us, but true to my mom’s nature, she couldn’t help but snap some picture too!  Honestly, there wasn’t much to the ceremony.  I guess I was expecting pageantry and fanfare, but it really was “here’s your gift,” and “here’s your rakhi.”  She made me eat some vegan chocolate, but I’m not so sure that was so much part of the ceremony as I think she just wanted to see me eat vegan chocolate.  Typical little sister!

I’m not sure how my new little sis feels, but my heart has felt heavy all day.  It’s heavy with the weight of responsibility and purpose.  There is now a new member of the herd to take care of.  And no matter what happens between us or how much distance wedges us apart, that will never change.  She is forever my little sister.

Botanical High Fives

I like to go for walks and give high-fives to the trees as I pass by.  I imagine their soft leaves like fingers scraping against my skin as our hands pull apart.  If there are trees on both sides, then I alternate hands and imagine I’m a sports star running onto the field or court through a tunnel of fans and teammates, congratulating me as I go.

It’s amazing how much more connected you can feel to the world around you when you not only see it as alive and interactive, but also encouraging and supportive.  It’s like you have friends everywhere, just waiting to reach out to slap your hand.  It’s hard to be upset or down in the dumps when even the trees are giving you high fives!

Just Show a Little Respect

Around my wife’s workplace, there is a large congregation of homeless men.  They stand on the street corners near the freeway and beg for money.  I used to feel sympathy for such people, but that faded long ago.  You hear stories about people offering them food, clothing, or employment; and the homeless men turn it down, because what they really want is cash.  One can only surmise that they want it for alcohol or drugs.  Maybe not all, but most.

So, now I just feel sad that men would be so lazy or so chained to addiction that they would choose to stand on a corner and beg, sleep under an overpass, and wear clothes that are so dirty that the original color can’t be determined anymore.  But they are still human, and they deserve at least that courtesy and respect.  There is no reason to treat them badly.  Ignore them if you must, but don’t treat them badly.

I was sitting at a stoplight one day, waiting to turn, and one of the homeless men started crossing the street.  He was dirty, unshaven, and his skin was leathery and tanned.  His head constantly twitched like he couldn’t stop his neurons from firing, and he was bone skinny.  He was in the crosswalk and had the “Walk” sign, so by all accounts he had the right-of-way.  But for some reason, the car next to me started edging up on him, getting closer and closer, like it wanted to run him over.  The homeless guy flicked them off and swore at them, but never stopped walking.

When he started to cross in front of me, he looked straight into my window, scowling defiantly, daring me to do the same.  Our eyes met, and I nodded to him.  His entire face broke into a smile, and he nodded back.  That’s all it took.  Just showed him a little respect, and it changed his entire demeanor.  And at that moment, I didn’t pity the homeless man, I pitied the driver of that other car.

It Takes Two

Since I have been carpooling with my wife, we have been leaving the house later than when I drove myself.  I’ll leave you to extrapolate why that is.  But the inevitable consequence of leaving later is that you hit the seemingly-random, not-really-so-random sine wave of traffic.  For example, if we leave the house at 7:00 a.m., we’ll hit really bad traffic.  If we leave at 7:07 a.m., it’s virtually nothing.  If we leave at 7:15 a.m., we’ll hit really bad traffic.

Apparently, the majority of people can only leave at regular 15-minute intervals throughout the hour.  I’m not sure if this is because they are that OCD or because the controlling voice in their head requires precision.  Either way, it’s strange.  I, for one, leave the house when I’m ready.  That could be, and usually is, at any random time between 6:47 a.m. and 8:53 a.m.

To avoid the unfathomable masses of cars on the freeways, we have taken to driving in the Express Lane.  Yes, it costs money, but it is totally worth zooming by all of those stopped cars and shaving 35-60 minutes off our drive.  The only annoyance being when some truck gets in the Express Lane and decides that 55 mph is an acceptable speed for himself and the 32 cars backed up behind him.  Even then, we’re still moving.

The Express Lane has a different price for regular use versus HOV use.  For those of you unfamiliar, HOV is when you have two or more people in the car.  And this got me to thinking.  Why do they call it “HOV”?  I know it stands for “High-Occupancy Vehicle,” but doesn’t that sound a bit stuffy and scientific?  Why not make it more catchy?  Something that zings…something that grabs people’s attention and makes them smile.  Why don’t we call it, “It Takes Two”?  It means the same thing, and it can conjure music in someone’s head.  Maybe Marvin Gaye or Tina Turner…or if you’re like myself…Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock!

Out of Control

I realized today why we have to be so diligent about staying on top of the dishes.  Apparently, dishes are like plants.  Once they get wet and get a little sunlight, they will grow and multiply.  I washed the dishes this morning and loaded the dishwasher, but it wasn’t quite full yet, so I didn’t start it.  Later, we had a meal together, just the two of us, and when I went to put my plate in the sink, it was completely full!  Not only that, but there were dishes on both counters next to the sink!

I opened the dishwasher and looked inside, but there were same number of dishes from that morning.  So, I concluded that dishes need water and light.  The ones in the dishwasher were in the dark, so they couldn’t multiply, but the ones left in the sink were in full sunlight all day.  This means that we’ll have to be much more diligent about staying on top of the dishes and getting them into the dishwasher faster, so they don’t take over the kitchen.

Trial by Fire

I walked into the office yesterday to find someone sitting in my new office.  It was the manager of the new team that moved into our area.  He had been angling for that office even before they moved downstairs, and I guess he just decided that possession was nine-tenths of the law.

Granted, I hadn’t had a chance to clean it up and move my stuff in yet, but still!  The audacity.  The inconsiderateness.  I was outraged.  I was furious.  My blood was boiling under my skin.  But I decided to just sit down at my desk and get on the meeting that I had.  I kept telling myself during the meeting that I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.  I’d give him until after the meeting to prove me wrong.  He didn’t.  In fact, it just got worse.

Right after my meeting started, he called his team of two into the office and conducted a team meeting in there.  On top of that, the manager’s boss came by and started giving him high fives and taking his picture as a show of congratulations for “scoring” the office.  I was so livid, I was shaking.  I was breathing.  I was praying.  I was hardly paying attention to the call I was on.

For an hour, I watched this flagrant violation being tossed in my face…in my team’s face.  Their team meeting broke up just as my call was ending, and his two direct reports left the office and shut the door behind them.  That was the last straw.  I grabbed my cleaning supplies and slowly walked to my office.  I didn’t knock.  I just opened the door.  After all, it was my own office, why should I bother knocking?!  I told the guy that I was moving into the office at that very moment, so he needed to leave.

And this is where the situation went from crossing the line to outright disrespect.  The guy had the audacity and cajones to look at me and say, “It’ll be 30 minutes, because I’m about to get on a customer call.”  I was expecting…well, more hoping…that his being in the office was just a slight error in judgement, and he didn’t realize that it was my office.  A respectful person would have profusely apologized for the oversight, gathered his things, and quickly relocated.  This was not a respectful person.

The old me would have taken being trampled on, agreed to his statement, and slowly backed out of the door to wallow in anger.  The old me.  I am not the old me, and I was pissed.  I told him that he would have to take his call somewhere else, because I was moving in.  My voice was low and menacing.  I didn’t yell.  I wasn’t compassionate or sympathetic.  I was in charge.

He tried to play the disgusted card, whining that this call was with a customer and couldn’t I come back later.  I simply said, “No.  This is the time I have to move in.”  Then, he tried to play the exasperated card, acting like I was being unreasonable and where was he supposed to go. 

All the while, he hadn’t moved.  He was still sitting at my desk with his papers strewn out everywhere, and his continued disregard for me was flipping every switch I had and a few that I wasn’t aware that I had.  That was when I lost my cool, and I said, “Frankly, I don’t care.  You can find a conference room, or how about this, you can take it at your desk.  Either way, you need to leave, so I can clean my office.”

At this point, he let out a huge huff, gathered his papers, and scuffled off to a conference room to have his call.  On the way out of the door, he looked back and said, “You know, your name isn’t on this office.  How would anyone know it was yours?”  That was an unnecessary parting shot, so the very first thing I did was to go peel the name tag off of my old desk and stick it to the window right beside the door.  Then, I proceeded to clean and organize my office.

This incident didn’t just affect me.  It apparently affected everyone on the team.  Some were outraged just like I was.  Others were waiting to see what I would do.  At the time, I didn’t realize that they viewed this as a test.  They had had their doubts as to whether I was ready to lead the team, and this would give them their first glimpse to prove myself.  I passed with flying colors. 

I was told later by one of them that he knew at that moment that I wasn’t going to be walked over anymore.  That office was a symbol of the team, and just like I fought for it, I was someone that was going to fight for the team.  I wasn’t going to be cowed by someone with more time in the company.  I wasn’t going to be intimidated by title or seniority.  I belonged.  I was ready.

Where the Heart Is

I was watching an interesting movie today called Where the Heart Is, starring Natalie Portman.  It follows the life of a pregnant woman who is abandoned by her boyfriend in a little town in Oklahoma.  She is forced to secretly live in the Wal-Mart to get by, and eventually ends up giving birth to her daughter in the store one night.  The peculiarity of her story makes its way into the news, and she suddenly finds herself an instant celebrity.

Fame is short-lived, and she is soon forgotten.  But with the help of some great friends in the town, she slowly rebuilds her life, raises her daughter, and falls in love with the town librarian.  The librarian, Forney, is particularly fond of her little daughter, Americus, and he spends quite a bit of time playing and talking with her.  One of their conversations had me in stitches at it’s innocence and simplicity.  But also, in Forney’s willingness to communicate at the little four-year old’s level.

Americus: “If you feed a cow chocolate, will you get chocolate milk?”

Forney: “Yes.  And if you spin a cow around really fast, you’ll get whipped cream.”

Everything in Reverse

I was watching an episode of Midsomer Murders, and the case centered around horse racing.  For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it is on the BBC and follows the career of DCI John Barnaby as he investigates murders in the little villages of Midsomer in rural England.  Each episode is a different case in a different village, and it usually ends up with Barnaby pitting his wits against the killer’s.

Now, I’m sure that most of us are aware that drivers in England drive on the opposite side of the car and the opposite side of the road from those of us in the United States.  But did you know that they also ride horses from the opposite side as well?  Well, the opposite side of the track, not the opposite side of the horse…that would be ludicrous.  And not really the opposite side of the track, but in the opposite direction.  In other words, they go clockwise; whereas, we go counter-clockwise.

I caught a glimpse of this for just a brief moment in this particular episode, and it blew my mind!  I had never thought about this before.  I mean…why?!

Chicken Pranks

Do you think chickens ever play pranks on each other?  Especially the ones stuck in cages?  I mean what else do they have to do all day to pass the time except to antagonize each other for their own amusement?  This is how I see it going.  Tom, who is a chicken located in a top cage, is friends with Bob, who is a chicken in the cage underneath him.

Tom: “Bob!  Hey, Bob!”

Bob [sticking his head between the bars of his cage to look up]: “What?”

Tom [putting his backside to the bars of his cage and pooping on Bob’s head]: “Nothing!”

Bob then furiously tries to wipe his face off with his wing, grumbling under his breath, while Tom can be heard giggling overheard.  Do chickens giggle, do you think?  I wonder what a chicken laugh even sounds like.

The Center of It All

Today, I was officially announced as the next manager of the integrations team.  I never really thought about being in this position, but God obviously had other plans for me.  I am humble enough to realize that it was not me that got me here, nor is it going to be me that is going to make this a success.  My only hope is to get out of the way and let God “steal my show,” as TobyMac would say.

I had my doubts about if I was ready or not.  I mean, I had only been a team lead for six months.  But I believe God has been preparing me for over two years for this exact moment.  He put it on my heart long ago to live a life of servanthood, and that’s what I want to do for my team.  For what is a good leader except a servant?  A good leader realizes that success comes from those reporting to him.  So, the more he can equip them and remove their obstacles, the more successful they’ll be.  And I believe God has been putting me in situations to build those values for a long time.

And so, I begin my term as manager.  I want the team to be engaged.  I want them to enjoy their jobs.  I want to help them reach a potential that they themselves might not have even thought possible.  But in the end, I really just want God to guide my steps and show me the way.  If He’s not the center of it all, then what’s the point?

Buttered Crackers

I have a fond childhood memory of my father buttering Saltine crackers every time we ate spaghetti.  Some people have garlic bread, he had buttered crackers.  It was actually funny to watch, because he meticulously made sure that the butter went all the way to the edges and was perfectly even in consistency throughout the entire cracker.  He smoothed and smoothed until it was pristine.  Then, he’d lay the cracker on the edge of his plate and repeat the process.  After he had his two crackers, he’d start to eat, using one of the crackers as a wall to ram his forkful of spaghetti against.

One day, my brother asked my father if he could have one of his crackers.  My father paused mid-buttering and just stared at him.  You could see the agony and dilemma being waged in his mind.  On the one hand, he had his routine, and he wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor.  On the other hand, it was his son, and how could he deny such an innocent request.  Finally, love won out, and he handed my brother one of his crackers.  As he diligently went to work on another cracker to replace the given one, I asked him if I could have one too.  Again, the same agony and dilemma waged in his mind, but again, he gave up the cracker.

After that, my brother and I always asked for a buttered cracker whenever we had spaghetti.  We’d always wait for that exact moment, when he was almost done buttering the second one to ask.  He would always huff and hand over the crackers.  As time went on, he started to lay out four crackers instead of two.  He would butter them all and just slide one on each of our plates without us having to ask.  It became part of his routine, and I think that made it more acceptable in his mind. 

To this day, I still think of buttered crackers whenever I have spaghetti.

My Preeeecccciiiooouuuss

Yesterday, SB brought donuts to work to commemorate her third work anniversary.  I could smell them all the way down the hall, and the aroma intensified as I got closer and closer to the box.  It was like a reverse Doppler Effect for smell.  I was so tempted to eat one, because they looked delicious.  But I refrained because I’m in training for another race, and I don’t want to have to run extra to burn off the extra sugars.

I told HR that I was being taunted by the smell of the donuts, and she said, “How do you think I feel?  I have to smell them and look at them all day!”  I guess the fact that she’s still doing this vegan thing, and the donuts most likely were made with eggs and milk, makes it worse for her.  She can’t even have a weak moment and give in to the temptation, like I almost did.

HR said that she was over at her friend’s house the other night, and she saw some vegan chocolate cookies that she had brought him to try still sitting on his counter.  She wanted a cookie so badly that she couldn’t stop thinking about them.  She stole glances at the cookies from the other room.  Her mind would wander to their chocolatey goodness wasting away in the other room.  She was obsessed.  I told her that I could imagine her holding a vegan chocolate cookie lovingly in her hand, stroking it gently, and whispering, “My preeeecccciiiooouuuss.”  And just like the ring of power in the Lord of the Rings would speak to someone else and tempt them if it thought its current owner was weak or neglecting it, that vegan chocolate cookie was speaking to her.  It was tempting her to take it away from her friend and treat it properly…to savor it…to lick it from her fingers…to hoover the crumbs from the bowl.  It was her precious.

Archery Tournament?

Robin Hood:  Men in Tights was playing again today.  Am I the only one bothered by the scene where Robin promises Marianne that she won’t go to the archery tournament instead of himself?  Prompting Achoo to try to correct Robin, only for Robin to tell him to “cooool it!”  He is willfully deceiving her.  And on top of that, he goes to the archery tournament anyway, despite the fact that he knows she doesn’t want him to go.

But somehow this has no effect on their relationship when she discovers later that he lied to her and showed up anyway.  She overlooks it all and is only concerned with his safety at the hands of the Sheriff of Rottingham.  He lies to her, dismisses her feelings, is selfish, and lets her sacrifice herself for his only safety.  What kind of messed up start to a relationship is this?!

Gray Water

MR has been claiming that he believes his barber is trying to sabotage him.  He said that every time he goes to get his hair cut, the barber wets his hair with a spray bottle.  He is convinced that the barber has put gray hair dye in the bottle, so that he is essentially dying MR’s hair grayer at each visit, which is apparently more believable than the idea that MR’s hair could just be turning naturally gray.

MR said that every time the barber wets his hair, he asks him if he used the bottle with the “gray water” in it.  The last couple of times the barber has said that he might have forgotten to change the bottles out.  So, maybe there is something to MR’s claims.

The Storm

I see the storm raging outside.  I feel it.  It pulses through me, and I can feel that it’s alive, as if it’s moving through my very being and touching me on the inside.  The wind tears through the trees, pushing them, bending them, until I think they’ll break and splinter into a thousand pieces.

Dark clouds cover the sky, black and gray sentinels, floating slowly, silently over the battled being waged below.  Lightning tears through them, illuminating them in flashes of yellow and white.  Its electric fingers crackling with life and energy.  It superheats the air, expanding it as it flows through.  The air snaps back into place in its wake, creating a boom that rips through the quiet; echoing, reverberating until it fills every inch of the air around me.  And just as suddenly, it’s quiet again.

Rain is in the clouds, building and preparing.  I can smell it, fresh and wet, waiting.  The wind continues to whip around me; tousling my hair, ruffling my clothes, gusting against me.  It’s testing me, testing my strength.  Will I bend to withstand it, or will I break into a thousand pieces?

I can see the storm raging, but is it outside or inside me?

Dabbawalas

Have you ever heard of the dabbawalas?  Well, you probably have if you have lived in India, especially in Mumbai.  They are a “lunchbox delivery and return system that delivers hot lunches from homes and restaurants to people at work in India.”  Dabbawala literally means “one who carries a box.”  The dabba is an aluminum or tin cylinder that has three or four tiers inside it.  Each part of a meal is placed in a different section of the tier and is removed by unlocking a small catch on either side of the handle.

An estimated 175,000 to 200,000 lunch boxes, or tiffin boxes, are transported by 4,500 to 5,000 dabbawalas each day.  The meals are picked up each morning and delivered using predominantly bicycles and railway trains.  The empty boxes are then picked up and returned each afternoon.

The service was established in 1890, in what was then known as Bombay, by Mahadeo Havaji Bachche.  At the time, he had only around 100 men helping him deliver the food.  Over the years, the service has developed a simple, yet highly-effective marking and tracking system that has resulted in only an estimated one mistake in every sixteen million deliveries!  That’s about one mistake every two and half months.  This astonishing result has actually brought delivery moguls from all over the world to India to learn from the dabbawalas on how to improve their own efficiency.

Since most of the dabbawalas are either illiterate or of very low education, the marking and tracking system uses colors and symbols to mark the containers.  The markings contain symbols for the group that picked the food up, the railway station the food was sent, the railway station the food should be removed, the group that should deliver the food, the destination building, and the floor of the building.  The same system is then used in reverse to deliver the container back to the supplier of the food.  Containers are collected and taken to a sorting location, where the boxes are sorted into delivery groups.  The grouped boxes are then placed on train cars by destination and sent to the correct railway station, where they are unloaded and handed over to another dabbawala for delivery.

This group of men are so dedicated to their jobs that they will deliver their boxes regardless of the weather.  When a monsoon wreaked havoc over the area a few years ago, producing terrible flooding and shutting down the railway stations; the dabbawalas took to foot, trudging through the high water with the boxes on their backs.  And they do all of this for around $130 a month!

The demand for the dabbawala delivery service is so high that companies have started contracting them for delivery of other types of goods and services as well.  Several years ago, it was estimated that the service was steadily growing at a rate of 5-10% per year.  Not bad for a group that’s been around for over 125 years and still largely operates on foot, bicycle, and train!

Drunk Driving

When I was in Missouri, I got pulled over for drunk driving.  Now, anyone that knows me knows that this is completely ludicrous, because I don’t drink alcohol…like, not at all…ever.  So, to be pulled over for drunk driving is just ironic.  The police officer realized her obvious mistake the moment she started talking to me, but I was already over, so it was too late.

I was on the way home from the movies, where my spousal unit and I had stopped after work for an impromptu date night.  According to the police officer, I was swerving over the white lines and…and this was the real clincher…I failed to use my turn signal when changing lanes.  It should be known that the road was really windy.  So as opposed to swerving over the white lines in a drunken and disorderly manner, as she made it sound, I was actually hugging the lines as I went around the curves…racing style.  And back then, I never used my turn signals, because I came from Texas.  And in Texas, using a turn signal is just asking for someone to speed up to cut you off and block the hole.

The worst part about this experience is that my spousal unit, who was in her own car, saw me get pulled over and just kept on driving.  How do I know this?  Because she texted me to tell me.  Followed by her food order for the Subway sandwich I was supposed to be getting.  I’m not quite sure her priorities were in the correct place.

Luckily, I got off with a warning to start using my turn signals; and that outrageous, embarrassing experience was finally over.

Nutless Banana Nut Bread

After my grandfather passed away, my mother continued his tradition of baking banana nut bread.  She lovingly protects his secret recipe, vowing one day to pass it down to my brother and me.  And she still cooks them to order, mine without nuts and my brother’s with them just like we like them. 

Unfortunately, gone are the days when she’d bake them in an old Folger’s coffee can.  The bread a cylinder of golden-brownness with a bulging muffin top protruding out of the top.  I can still remember her coaxing that loaf out of that can and the ringed indentations every few inches along its sides.  I couldn’t wait to cut into its warm, softness; to spread butter across its surface and watch it melt into the pores of the bread.  The combination of salty and sweet intermingling into an explosion of perfection.

Crap!  Now I’m hungry for some nutless banana nut bread.  Maybe I can convince my mother that it’s time for another batch.

Vekin Fingers

HR is on a whole vegan kick now, after seeing the state of containment of the luwak in Bali.  Some of her comments are ludicrous and downright incorrect, like the fact that they kill bees to get their honey.  And others are conveniently altered to suit her needs, like her belief that it’s okay to eat the yeast in bread, because the bacteria in yeast is not alive, or is too simple to be considered a true animal.

But she still has cravings for meat, so she has taken to trying to find alternatives, like vekin fingers, which are vegan chicken fingers.  Or veak, which is vegan steak, and vice cream, which is vegan ice cream.  Personally, I don’t see how giving up meat is helping the luwak in Bali.  If she’s that concerned about them, then she needs to start a group of people for the ethical treatment of the luwak (PETL).  That seems like that would have a more direct impact on their lives than one person on the other side of the world refusing to eat meat.

Monster Repellent

My spousal unit woke me up last night and told me that I was snoring.  She was trying to be nice about it, gently nudging me and speaking in the softest voice.  I don’t know what possessed me to say it or how I managed to put these thoughts together in my half-asleep stupor, but I told her, “I’m not snoring, I’m growling to ward off evil spirits and monsters.  I’m protecting you.  And now that you have woken me up, you have put us both at risk.  So, I’m going to go back to sleep, and I might growl a little, but it’s all for the greater good.”  As I rolled over and started to slip back into my peaceful slumber, I could hear her snickering on the other side of the bed.

Parkinson’s Barber

My stepmother was telling me about a friend of hers that had Parkinson’s Disease really badly.  If you’re not familiar with this disease, it’s a degeneration of the central nervous system, and it affects the person’s motor skills.  The most common symptoms are shaking, stiffness, and slowness of movement.  It eventually starts to destroy their mental faculties as well, and many people suffer from dementia or a lack of awareness of their environment.

This friend of my stepmother had really bad shaking of his hands, which was quite a detriment based on his chosen profession.  He was a barber.  She’s telling me this at the barber shop, as I’m watching this barber do a fade on this guy’s head with a razor.  And I’m trying to picture this shaking man attempting to do the same thing.

My Brother from Another Mother

My barber was telling me a story about these two little boys.  They were best friends.  They grew up together.  They did everything together.  They were practically brothers.  One day they went to the barber together and asked for the exact same haircut.  When their parents asked them why, they said that they didn’t want their teacher to be able to tell them apart.

One of the little boys was black and one was white.  Only children would see themselves as exactly the same, despite the rest of the world seeing them as different colors.  I always used to say that underneath it all, we’re all pink.  Maybe if we got back to a mentality more aligned with this, we’d have less problems in the world.

A famous anthropologist was once giving a lecture on the history of man, and he paused when he got to a slide of two skulls side-by-side that were almost identical.  He looked out over the quiet crowd, took in the sea of faces, each one different and unique.  He noted that there were men and women from every race and culture represented in the large audience filling the auditorium.  And when the silence had dragged on almost too long, he said, “On this slide you see the skulls of two men approximately the same size and age.  Which one is the black man, and which one is the white man?” 

He paused again to let the question sink in.  He watched the eyes of the audience flick back and forth between the two skulls, trying to note the differences, trying to pick out characteristics that would prove the races of the two men.  A slight smile crept over his lips as the people became increasingly more frustrated by the task.  One by one, their eyes were drawn back to the professor, questioning and imploring.  He had proven to them that he was smarter than them all.  He had beaten them.  So, they waited for him to answer the question and show them the slight nuances that would prove a man’s race from his bones.

But the professor didn’t do that.  He simply said, “There is no way to tell.  In all aspects, these skulls are essentially identical.  If we dig deeper to get beneath the surface of people, to get beneath the color of their skin, we’ll find that they are just like us.  Sure, we come from different cultures and backgrounds.  We’ve had different experiences, but the same can be said for people of the same color too.  So, why do we act like skin color changes us somehow?  We act as if we’re a completely different species.  Well, as you can see on the screen here…we aren’t.  And life would be so much better for everyone, if we remember that.”

Pareidolia

Today, I found out that I apparently have the psychological phenomenon known as pareidolia.  It is the ability of your mind to respond to a stimulus, such as an image or a sound, by perceiving a familiar pattern where none exists.  In other words, I see faces in things.

I have always known I had a propensity to see faces in the swirls of the paint on the wall or ceiling, in the bathroom tiles, in the steam patterns on the glass during my shower, in the folds of fabric, or pretty much anywhere there is a change of textures.  I see animals, humans, and sometimes creatures that don’t even exist!  I just thought I had an overactive imagination, but apparently, it’s an actual phenomenon.

Studies have shown that people who are highly empathetic or perceptive of moods and mental states in others, have a greater chance to have pareidolia.  This is because these people are processing a greater amount of information about a perceived friend or enemy to determine if they should engage or flee.  All of this pre-processing occurs before the cognitive mind even has a chance to consciously process the data.  It’s an adaptive defense mechanism!

So, I’m perceiving patterns in objects before my mind even has a chance to tell me that it’s just paint, or steam, or fabric.  Despite the fact that I have a potential “psychosis,” it’s still pretty cool.

Still Kids at Heart

Today is my wife’s birthday, so I want to pay homage to it by recounting one of our best dates.  Way back when we were in Missouri, we had stopped off one night at Pizza Hut for dinner.  I know that it wasn’t the fanciest date, but it’s about the time together, not the price of the food.  Now, pay attention!  This Pizza Hut (and maybe all Pizza Huts) was notorious for the time it took to get your food, sometimes taking over an hour even when the place was completely dead…like it was this night.  So, we had lots of time to talk and catch up.  However, this can only last so long before my playful side takes over, and without warning, I picked up my straw and blew the wrapper at her right in the middle of her sentence.

The look of shock and horror on her face was priceless.  Her eyes oozed, “how dare you!” at me like daggers.  The feeling of betrayal and outrage was written all over, as I grinned gleefully back at her.  But this was to be short-lived as she grabbed up her straw and blew the wrapper back at me.

However, her aim was not quite as good as mine, and the wrapper flew over my right shoulder and landed on the pizza of the family behind me.  The pizza that they had waited almost an hour to get and which had just minutes before been brought to their table.  In a twist of unfairness and justice (depending on who you ask), I was forced to walk over to their table, apologize for the inconvenience, and retrieve the straw wrapper off their pizza.

To this day, we still play with each other in restaurants while we wait for our food.  Personally, I hope we always do, and forever stay kids at heart.  Life it too short to grow old without a fight.

I love you; my wifey, my spousal unit, my best friend, and my play buddy.  Happy Birthday!

In the Mouth of Frogs

HR has some socks that look like frogs.  The socks are designed so that the body of the frog wraps around your foot with the mouth opening at the top.  She said that there is nothing like the feel of grabbing one of these socks and shoving your foot down a frog’s mouth first thing in the morning.

I’m not sure how I should feel about that statement.

The Mad Scientist

I was doing some unit testing on my integration today, and one of the scenarios was to rehire someone into the company with benefits to ensure that they show up correctly on the file.  I did a search to look for all open positions that I could use, and I found one titled, “The Mad Scientist.”  Which was perfect, and not to mention just awesome!

So, as I’m going through the business process to get this guy rehired, I noticed something odd about his previous termination.  Apparently, the reason given for termination was “Death.”  So, not only did I bring the guy back into the company as a mad scientist, but I brought him back from the dead as well!

Sometimes doing my job has it perks.

Mouth to Snout Resuscitation

The Municipal Police of Madrid released a video last week, showing a K-9 responder named Poncho running to the aid of his police handler and attempting to perform CPR on him after the police officer collapsed to the ground.  The dog was seen jumping up and down on the police officer’s chest several times, pausing every so often to put his head on the officer’s neck, feeling for a pulse and breathing.

While it is unlikely that the dog would have much luck in an actual life-threatening situation, the video was an adorable display of the bond between dogs and humans.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/animalia/wp/2018/06/26/that-viral-cpr-dog-actually-has-no-idea-how-to-perform-cpr/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.69fbf4c8f94b

Beard Net

CC and I were eating out today, and we noticed that one of the guys cooking our food had long, shaggy hair and a long, shaggy beard.  His hair was pulled back under a bandana to keep it off the food, and his beard was stuffed into a beard net.  That’s right, a hair net for your beard.

I get the point of this, but it looked absolutely ridiculous.  I suppose the alternative is that men with beards shouldn’t be in the food-preparation industry.  But I guess you can’t discriminate against them, although I have never heard of beard discrimination, so the only alternative is to ask them to wear a net.  It just seems odd.  I understand it for your hair, but I really don’t think I lose any hair from my beard unless I pull it out myself.

Service with a Smile

How do you pick your cashier at Wal-Mart?  Is it who has the shortest line?  Or maybe who seems to be moving the people through the quickest?  Or is it who does the most efficient bagging job of not putting your stupid frozen goods in with a cardboard cereal box?!  I mean…seriously?!

Well, I tend to choose the cashier with the nicest smile.  Those other things are important (especially the frozen goods and cereal box one…I mean, who does that?), but a nice smile and attitude can completely change your day in ways that efficient packing or quick throughput can’t.  It breaks the monotony, it makes you feel more human.  It’s not just a mechanical dance…it’s more human.  If I wanted to dance with a robot, then I’d go to self check-out.  But I didn’t.  I went to an actual cashier.

I liked this post from this website that describes the life of a cashier:

“Bing! Ding! Ching! Ka-Ching! That's your music. And it is music. Because you do this little dance—more like a single dance step on repeat—all day long. You go through the same motions time and time again, and naturally you've developed a rhythm. "Find everything?" (cha-cha-cha), "Paper or plastic?" (dip-turn-spin), "Help you to your car?" (rumba-two-three).

Some of your dance partners are old hat. You've seen them for years. Every Tuesday they buy a loaf of wheat bread, a carton of milk, fruit, ten pounds of bran cereal, and toilet paper. (The amount of bran cereal purchased is in direct proportion to the amount of toilet paper.) Your dance with them is familiar. But the majority of your customers are strangers, and you mechanically "check them out." Service with a smile…and not much else.”

- The Real Poop (https://www.shmoop.com/careers/cashier/)

But it doesn’t have to be this way.  Cashiers can find enjoyment in their jobs, not through the repetitive tasks, but through the people…who are as different and varying as they come…especially at Wal-Mart.

Another One Bites the Dust

Yesterday, my new boss quit, a month and a half to the day of my previous boss quitting.  She was still only in the role as a temporary substitute, having never had it made permanent, but it still feels like another setback.  I can’t fault her decision, which was driven by a need to be closer to home and be more readily-available to her family.  But at the same time, I feel abandoned.

I am now the sole lead left in the office.  Worse still, I am the sole person left on my entire row!  It is very lonely, not just the physical loneliness of not having anyone to talk to, but the feeling like an ally and confidant is gone.  We had grown very close, especially in the last month, and now I feel as if I’m on an island by myself, attempting to fight off a vicious band of cannibals with a shoe and a paperclip.  It might have been smoke and mirrors, but I felt safer knowing that someone was there who had my back.  Like we outnumbered “them” somehow.  And now that the odds are evened, I feel vulnerable, like my armor has been stripped off and my skin laid bare.

But I get it.  She couldn’t stay back for me.  She had to do what was right for her.  She had to move forward and not look back at the ones she was leaving behind.  In the end, no matter what we try to tell ourselves, it’s every man for himself.  The only loyalty is to ourselves.

Equine Ninjas

Today, I was driving down the road, and I passed the ranch near my house.  A beautiful black and white horse was standing in the field, chomping away on some grass…with a bag over her head.  To be more accurate, it was more like a mask covering her eyes, rather than her whole head.  It’s not cold outside, being triple digits in the Texas heat, so I could only assume that she was doing it to block out her sight and sharpen her other skills.  Her senses of hearing and smell where becoming keener with the deprivation of her sight.  And there was only one logical explanation for her to do this…she was training to be a ninja!

In all reality, these masks are apparently to protect the horse’s eyes from flies that constantly irritate them.  Most of them actually have meshing around the eyes, so that the horse can still, in fact, see.  Personally, I think this is just what they tell the public to hide the secret training of equine ninjas!

Growing Another You

Today, my spousal unit asked me to trim her hair.  This is always a stressful request from her, because it has not always ended well in the past.  First of all, she insists on wetting her hair to make it lay flatter.  While this does arguably make the process more even, it’s hard to tell how much her hair will “shorten” after it’s dry.  So, I have to try to get the length where she wants it when it’s dry, while it’s wet. 

Second of all, our definition of “an inch” is not quite the same.  I attribute this mostly to her growing up with the metric system and not understanding what an inch actually looks like.  While I believe an inch to be…well, an inch; she believes it to be more like a quarter of an inch.  In other words, an evening out of the ends.  Of course, if she would just say “even out the ends,” then I would even out the ends.  But when she says take off an inch, I take off an inch.

Granted that time when I had issues getting her hair even, so I had to keep trimming more and more of it, might have ended with slightly more than an inch being cut off.  But I don’t think that just because someone cuts four inches off your hair ONE TIME that you should hold that against him for the rest of his life!

Still, for some stupid reason that I cannot fathom, she keeps asking me to cut her hair.  I relish the challenge to one day give her the perfect haircut.  I long for just one time, when she’ll look at it and tell me that I did a good job.  Besides, these haircuts happen with her mostly naked, so there is no way I’m passing up the opportunity!

This time, we were on the back porch, so we didn’t get hair everywhere.  When we got done, she swept the casualties of war into the yard, where they clung to the grass in clumps of dark-brown curls.  The way they stuck up in the air in between the blades of grass, it looked like they were growing out of the ground.  I made the comment to my spousal unit that I wouldn’t be surprised if they were to take root and grow another her.

How Do You Eat a Buffalo?

We had a new guy at our men’s group this week, and he is a hunter from South Africa.  He was talking about how his life has been a journey from a point of wanting to commit suicide to being in a healthy relationship with God.  It has been fraught with struggles and trials, as well as joy and happiness.  But the hardest step was the first one.

We have a saying in the United States, “How do you eat an elephant?  One bite at a time.”  It means that if you look at the goal in its entirety, then you will be discouraged and give up before you even begin.  But if you just take it one step (or one bite) at a time, then slowly but surely, you’ll eventually overcome it.  Apparently, they have a similar saying in South Africa, but it involves a buffalo instead of an elephant, and apparently the bite size is a lot more exact.

So, how do you eat a buffalo?  Four hundred grams at a time.

Raksha Bandhan

Today, HR introduced me to the Hindu rite of Raksha Bandhan.  It is observed on the last day of the Hindu lunar calendar month of Shraavana, which typically falls in August, and is the annual ritual of a sister tying a thread, talisman, or amulet (rakhi) around the wrist of her brother as a form of protection.  The ritual has a mutual effect as the brother is ritually invested with a share of the responsibility of his sister’s protection and care.  The name, “Raksha Bandhan” comes from Sanskrit and literally means, “the bond of protection, obligation, or care.”

The reason the learning of this rite means so much to me is that HR said that she’d like to observe it with me this year.  Over the last couple of years, we have grown increasingly close, sharing life, both its joy and its sadness.  Our bond has transcended work to something more intimate and loving.  We can talk freely and share things that we might not share with other people.  I trust her, I care for her, and I’m fiercely loyal when it comes to protecting her.  She has become a little sister to me, and we treat each other like family, both picking on each other and depending on each other.  So, it meant the world that she thinks so much of me that she wanted to observe a rite meant for sisters and brothers.

There is a concept of “voluntary kin relations,” which are for men and women who are not blood or marital relatives, but can become family through the ritual of Raksha Bandhan.  Originally intended to cut across caste, class, and even Hindu/Muslim lines; it is now also used to cut across cultures.

Phone Support Parody

Our company puts out these regular training shorts that put emphasis on specific places where we could struggle to deliver top-notch customer service.  The one this week was by far the best.  I’m not sure who took the time to put this together, but it couldn’t be more spot-on!

Automated Message:  Thank you for calling the honesty corporation, where we’re honest about everything.  Even though you won’t feel like it, your call is important to us. 

Most customers don’t believe me when I say this, but please listen carefully, as our menu options have recently changed.  You can use your touchtone phone or simply say the name of the selection you would like to make.  Either way, it will take you multiple tries to get what you’re looking for.

For technical support, press 1.  For billing, press 2.  For customer service, press 3.  For a listing of other employees you won’t be able to reach, press 9.  To repeat these options, press *.

Caller:  Customer service.

Automated Message:  Even though I understood you, I’m going to say I did not recognize this entry.  It’s best if we don’t start this experience off too smoothly.  Please try your selection again.

Caller:  Presses 3.

Automated Message:  You selected customer service.  In order to connect you with the representative that can best help you, I’m going to ask for more information that I don’t really need.  You can say something like, “I forgot my password,” or “My billing address has changed.”  To be honest, it doesn’t actually matter what you say, the agent I connect you with will ask you to repeat this information again anyway.

Caller:  I need to make an exchange.

Automated Message:  You need to make a change?  I see.  Do you need to change your order, or is it something else?

Caller:  Associate.  Presses 0.

Automated Message:  You have only pressed zero once.  You will need to press it a few more times before I think you are frustrated enough to connect you with an operator.  You may even want to hold down the button for emphasis.

Caller:  Presses 0.  Presses 0 again.  Presses 0 and holds it for a few seconds.

Automated Message:  Okay, I think you want to speak with an operator?  Even though I know this is correct, I’m going to ask you to press 1 for “Yes” or 2 for “No.”

Caller:  Presses 1.

Automated Message:  Instead of connecting you, I’m going to take up more of your time by saying things like, “Your call may be monitored for quality assurance.”  At this time, we are experiencing a higher than usual call volume.  I’m just kidding, we are experiencing our normal call volume, but our office is understaffed.  Here is annoying elevator music while you wait.

[Elevator music plays.]

Automated Message:  Did you know you can get product information and answers to frequently-asked questions on our website.  Of course you do.  That’s probably how you got the number to call us.  That’s okay.  I’m still going to give you a website that you already know or could have easily Googled.

[Elevator music continues to play.]

Automated Message:  This interruption is not an indication that your call is about to be answered.  It’s simply the recorded message restarting.

[Elevator music continues to play.]

Automated Message:  Your call has now timed out and will end for no apparent reason.  Feel free to call back or just give up.  Goodbye.