Christmas Roulette

My spousal unit and I each ordered Christmas gifts this year from Amazon, using my wife’s Prime account to get the free shipping.  However, we forgot to put some indicator on the outside label to tell which ones are hers and which ones are mine.  This became blatantly apparent when the packages started to arrive in their non-descript brown boxes and white plastic packages…all with my wife’s lovely name adorning the outside.  So, we have now begun a game of Christmas roulette, as we try to tell what vaguely might be in the package, simply by squeezing and shaking it.  Ultimately, we just have to take a chance and open it, and hope that it’s not our own Christmas surprise from the other person.  With each package like the last loaded chamber of a six shooter, as we shakily draw the knife along the tape.  And each success is a breath of sweet relief, as we guess correctly.

Thanksgiving with Strangers

One year, a Massachusetts man found himself alone for Thanksgiving.  His parents were getting divorced, and he decided that he’d be better off without the drama.  But he hated to eat alone, so he put an ad in the local newspaper calling for twelve other people with nowhere to go for Thanksgiving.  The ad promised a free hot meal, and all they had to do was reply.

Scott Macaulay had Thanksgiving dinner with strangers that year, and he’s been doing it ever since.  For 33 years, he’s been providing a place for people to go who otherwise would have been alone.  He doesn’t turn anyone away, so his guest list can range from 30 to over well 100 people.  He buys and personally prepares all of the food, which is a lofty challenge on the salary for a vacuum repairman.  But he willingly does it every year, because he loves the social interaction and loves to give back.  He even brings in homey touches to make the church where he hosts the dinner a little “warmer.”  Items like art, rugs, and even fireplaces.

“I think each of us are called to brighten a corner where we are and if everybody took care of their neighbor in their own neighborhood we’d have a much better world,” Macaulay said.  “Someday, maybe nobody will call me up and say they’re coming for Thanksgiving dinner, and I’ll be really happy that everybody’s got a place to go.”

Roots

Today, we returned back to College Station for the first time since we left some ten years ago.  We came down for the Texas Renaissance Festival and decided to visit our old stomping grounds for nostalgia’s sake.  We were shocked at how much everything had changed in ten years.  I mean we didn’t really expect it to stay exactly the same, but wow!  While the road names were familiar, the landmarks were all different; the development and improvement were astonishing.  The city has definitely grown and progressed.

After setting up camp at the Calvary Court hotel, we decided to take a drive around town.  I’m ashamed to say that we got lost several times and had to pull over to figure out where we were.  Eventually, I started to get my bearings again and could point out things that looked vaguely familiar, but nothing was quite the way I remembered it.  We spent an hour just driving around reminiscing about what we did here or there and finally ended up at T.Jin China Diner for dinner.  Even time couldn’t erase the memory of the best chicken and broccoli I have ever eaten!

We got it to go, because the restaurant was crowded, and headed back to the hotel to eat.  Which is when we encountered our next problem.  There was no proper table to eat on.  My spousal unit was just going to try to juggle all of her boxes in her lap, but I like to be creative.  So, I pulled out the ironing board and raised it to half height to make a makeshift table in front of the couch.  I am proud to say that it worked perfectly.  With some rags from the bathroom for towels and a Hallmark movie on the TV, we had a nice cozy dinner together.

We get to visit with some old friends tomorrow, and our visit will be complete.  I wish we had more time to roam around campus or take in a football game.  I have missed the culture and spirit of Aggieland.  But that will have to wait until another trip.

Carbon – Part 2

Over eight years ago, I wrote a post about carbon.  I surmised in that post that if we’re all made up of carbon, then every time we breathe out, we’re actually breathing pieces of ourselves into the world.  And every time we breathe in, we’re breathing in pieces of others into ourselves.  Which means we’re all connected, apart of each other. 

People are unintentionally affecting me without me even knowing it.  They are giving me pieces of themselves, and I am keeping them with me.  I am taking them in and making them apart of who I am.  They are subtly changing me from the inside out.  Obviously, the more time I spend with a person, the more pieces they are giving me.  Thus, they are making a bigger impact than say someone on the other side of the world.  So, just by breathing the same air, people are literally leaving a carbon footprint on my heart.  Some footprints are darker, deeper; others are vague, barely there.

Everyone makes an impact on you.  They can’t help it.  It’s chemical.  It’s carbon.

Do Something

A man was watching the news one night, and he was saddened and appalled that story after story was about something bad; forest fires, child abandonment, homeless men freezing to death, people starving in Africa.  So, he prayed and asked God why He didn’t do something about all of this.  Why didn’t he give aid to the people affected by the fires?  Why didn’t he find a home for the children who had lost their parents?  Why didn’t he provide shelter and clothing to the men freezing on the streets?  Why didn’t he provide food to the people starving across the world?

And God answered the man’s prayer.  He simply said, “I did do something.  I created you.”

Most of us sit around and expect some miracle to cure the ails of the world.  We say, “Somebody should do something about that.”  But if everyone expects someone else to take care of it, then nobody is taking care of it.  God could easily wave His hand and fix everything, but instead He created us with the means and ability to affect the world around us.  I don’t know about you, but I know that I have lived selfishly long enough.  I have been blessed, and I feel a longing in my spirit to bless others too.  I’m going to take one step and see where God leads me from there.

Noah’s Ark

Noah’s ark is a famous story from the Bible where God asked a man to build a gigantic boat to house his family and two of every kind of animal to save them from a worldwide flood.  Scholars have debated the logistics of such an undertaking for hundreds of years.  While the Bible goes into great detail about the dimensions of the boat, it says absolutely nothing about the truly important questions.  Like did Noah lock up the chickens in pens or did he let them roam free?  Cage or cage-free eggs?  Or would they be free-range?  You see what I mean?!

Assuming that he let them out at least part of the time in those forty days, then how did he keep the tigers from eating them?  I’m not sure what he had brought to feed the tigers, but I’m sure after a few days of going vegetarian that seeing that chicken strut by all cockily (pun intended) would be very tempting to his natural instincts.  Logistically, I guess all of the animals could have been in pens, and Noah and his family could have taken them out one-by-one to get exercise to reduce temptation.  But I like to think that everyone was just roaming free about the boat, and they just KNEW not to eat each other.  I mean the God of the universe was running the show, so I like to believe that he suppressed their natural instincts until they’d had a chance to repopulate the Earth again.

Dessert First

My spousal unit and I went out to eat today to celebrate our 3^rd 15^th wedding anniversary.  By the time we finally got our food, we were starving, so we dug in like we hadn’t seen a meal in years.  It seems like the entire meal was still sliding down my throat by the time the first piece hit my stomach.  So, of course, I didn’t realize that I was already full halfway through…until it was too late.  By the time the last piece hit my stomach, I let out an audible groan.  I had to unbutton my pants just to keep from slouching in my chair.  I was miserable.  I looked across the table to see my spousal unit in the exact same state.

As we drove home, I told her that it was a shame that I had eaten so much, because I really wanted dessert.  To which my spousal unit replied, “Well, you don’t have to be hungry to eat dessert.  It doesn’t really have calories or fill you up.  That’s why a lot of people eat it first.”  Spoken like a true dessert connoisseur.  I am not sure that I agree with her logic, but I like where her head was going!

Incompatibility Test

A few months back, my friend and his wife were having marital problems, so they went to a counselor for help.  The first thing the counselor did was to give them a capability test to see where they aligned and where they needed some work.  It had questions like “How many children would you like to have?” or “If you received some money for your birthday, what would you do with it?” or “Do you get along well with your in-laws?”  He asked them to answer honestly, so that the process could work, and they went away to take the test.

After the counselor had tallied up the results, he brought them back together and said, “Well, I have some good news and some bad news, which would you like first?” 

My friend said, “Let’s start with the bad news.” 

The counselor replied, “Okay, well the bad news is that I have never seen a couple score lower on this compatibility test.  In fact, you actually got the lowest possible score that you can get.” 

My friend and his wife were squirming in their chairs at this news, and my friend asked, “Well, what’s the good news then?” 

The counselor leaned back in his chair and said, “You can only go up from here.  The good Lord knows that you can’t possibly go down!”

The Candy Bowl

Since I have a new office for my new position, I put a candy bowl out to tempt people when they come to visit me.  Truth be told, I put it out to tempt people to come to visit me in my office.  It seems I have become a thing to avoid unless they need something, so few people come just to talk and see how I’m doing.

Unfortunately, the candy bowl idea has backfired as most people claim that they are on a diet or don’t eat chocolate.  In fact, the person that has eaten most of the candy is yours truly.  However, I think it should be noted that I only eat the 3 Musketeers, because they’re so light and fluffy that it’s like I’m eating diet chocolate!

Drunk Wasps on a Stinging Rampage

My friend recently sent me this article about wasps in Britain that seek out fermented fruit and wind up getting drunk.  According to the article, wasps are apparently not happy drunks, and they end up getting more irritable than normal.  They have started attacking anything within their line of sight in a drunk, stinging rampage.  Experts believe that the wasps built unusually large nests this year, and the larvae are now all grown up and hungry.  They have started hanging out around restaurants and pubs, looking for anything sugary.  Not so unlike myself, wasps apparently can’t handle their booze, and they get fighty.  Probably not an unusual occurrence around pubs in Britain, but the usual louts are more verbal and less stick-a-painful-sharp-stinger-in-you-and-inject-you-with-poison.  Unfortunately, there isn’t anything that can be done about the intoxicated wasps.  People just have to wait it out until the weather changes, and it gets cooler.

http://www.mandatory.com/fun/1459441-drunk-wasps-stinging-rampages-like-partying-hard

Lead Dog

I was watching one of those wildly-colorful and all-too-busy truck commercials today, and one of the things the narrator said stuck with me.  He said, “If you’re not the lead dog, then the scenery never changes.”  I know that they were trying to imply that this particular truck company was leading the charge on innovation and technological advances, but the turn of phrase was interesting.  I immediately thought of the literal meaning, and a dogsled team came to mind.  All those dogs in the back only looking at the behind of the dog in front of them.  And the only one that can see things change is the one in front.

The imagery made me think about so many applications.  About how we often find ourselves stuck in a routine where the scenery is always the same.  About how we rush through life only focused on chasing the person who has more than us or the fictitious person that we think we need to be.  About how we all think we need to be lead dog, because that is the only place where it’s good.

But my question is why can’t the dogs in the back look around?  Why can they only look forward?  Why can’t they take time to enjoy the passing scenery too?  Why can’t we take time to enjoy things as they happen instead of rushing through them?  Why can’t we be content where we are?  Because I bet you that the people in front of us are no happier than we are.  They are still looking ahead to the next conquest, the next person.  So, why would we want to be them?  Why do we assume that their life is so much better off?

I’m not the lead dog.  I don’t really think that I ever want to be the lead dog.  But I can take time to enjoy each moment, each day.  I can take time to look to the side.  I can take time to feel the snow under my feet, the wind in my face, and the heat in my muscles.  I can enjoy the smells and the sounds.  And I can enjoy the companionship of the other dogs I’m running with.  I’d rather have a pack than be a lone wolf.

Frog Legs & Pregnant Yoga

I called my mom today to check on her, and when she answered the phone, her voice was a bit croaky.  I asked her if she was okay, and she replied that she woke up sounding like she had swallowed a frog.  Being the man I am, I of course asked her why she had done that.  Adding, “What had the frog ever done to you?!”  My mom being equally witty, replied, “I really just wanted his legs, but he wouldn’t give them up, so I swallowed all of him!”

We got to chatting about the weather getting cooler and how much nicer it is to go outside and exercise.  My mom is still trying to get out and play tennis with her friend JG as often as possible, while I am trying to get back into running more frequently.  She asked if my wife had been able to exercise and what she was allowed to do with her pregnancy.  Walking mostly.  But I had seen that they actually have pregnant yoga classes, so that might be a possibility.  My mom told me that JG had been looking to get into yoga as well, and although he has the body for pregnant yoga, she didn’t think they’d let him join!

I really love my mom, and I cherish these fun, witty conversations with her.  I usually call her from the car, and they may only last 45 minutes to an hour, but it’s a great way to end my days.

The Tree That Owns Itself

The Tree That Owns Itself is a white oak tree, located at the corner of South Finley and Dearing Streets in Athens, Georgia.  According to legend, it has legal ownership of itself and the land within eight feet of its base.  The earliest-known telling of the tree’s story was found in an article from August 12, 1890 in the Athens Weekly Banner titled “Deeded to Itself.”  The article explains that the tree was located on the property of Colonel William Henry Jackson.  He was so fond of the tree and the childhood memories that he’d had with it, that in order to protect it, he deeded ownership of the tree and the surrounding land to itself.

Regardless of whether this deed has any legal standing, the public has come to accept it, and the tree has become a local landmark.  Technically, the entity receiving the property must have the legal and physical capacity to receive it, which puts in question whether a tree can legally own itself.  However, the tree’s plot is not actually contained within any of the surrounding property and is, in fact, part of the right of way along Finley Street.  Thus, the residents of the city maintain and care for it.

The tree was thought to have been over 100 years old when it received ownership of itself.  Unfortunately, in 1942 the original tree fell during a violent windstorm that ravaged much of northern Georgia.  However, several people had cultivated trees from its acorns, and one of these was chosen to transplant to the site.  The tree that currently exists on the spot is known as the Son of the Tree That Owns Itself.  A small weathered plaque also sits on the spot, and it reads:

For and in consideration of the great love I bear this tree and the great desire I have for its protection for all time, I convey entire possession of itself and all land within eight feet of the tree on all sides.

William H. Jackson

Birds on a Wire

Have you ever been sitting at a stoplight in the evening and noticed birds sitting on the wires and poles in every direction?  Have you ever taken the time to really look at them?  Because if you did, you’d notice that birds truly understand the concept of personal space.  Each one is spaced almost exactly the same distance apart from each other.  You will rarely find them touching, unless the population of birds outnumbers the available wire space.  But what is truly amazing is what happens when a new bird flies onto the wire.  It doesn’t just fly to the middle of the open space, it will land and then parallel park into an equidistant space from the bird next to it, so that it can leave room for another bird.

So, the question is why do birds do this.  What are they trying to achieve by sitting in these seemingly random, regular patterns?  Well, Brazilian composer Jarbas Agnelli had the same question when he saw a picture of birds sitting on electric wires.  But the answer he had was that they looked like notes on a sheet of music.  So, he decided to turn their pattern into music and listen to the song of nature.  I’ll never be able to look at birds on a wire the same again.  Here’s the link, if you’d like to check it out:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoM4ZZJ2UrM

The One

My wife always tells people that she knew I was the one the first moment that she looked into my eyes.  While that’s definitely romantic, it took me a bit longer to figure it out.  I had just gotten out of an incredible relationship that had ended badly.  My heart was bruised, and trust was in short supply.  So, I wasn’t ready to just jump back in without looking.

A few months after we started officially dating (because we knew each other for months before my wife informed me that we were now officially dating), I got sick.  Really sick.  Stomach virus, food-poisoning sick, throwing up, no energy…sick.  I couldn’t move.  I just lay in my bed and moaned for days.  The only thing I could get down was soup, and it didn’t always stay with me long.  You get the idea.

I was helpless, and I was miserable.  I was definitely not at my best.  And yet, despite this, my wife never left my bedside.  She cared for me.  She fed me.  She cleaned up after me.  She fretted over me.  She even called the doctor to find out if there was anything else she could be doing.  All they said was, “Get him some Sprite.”  But even then, she called someone and asked them to bring it to her, because she didn’t want to leave me for even a moment.

And when I finally got better a few days later, I knew that she was the one.  Anyone that would stay with you and nurse you through something like that, when they had absolutely no obligation to do so, was a keeper.  For better and for worse.  If she loved me even then, then she’d love me through anything.  And that was the stability and certainty that I needed in my life after my last relationship.

So, it may not have been as romantic as my wife’s seeing it in my eyes, but she’s always been the one since that moment.

Blowing a Raspberry

Do you realize that rain and thunder are really just the clouds blowing us all raspberries?  And why is it called “blowing a raspberry” anyway?  A raspberry?  What does that have to do with anything?

The term “raspberry” actually comes from the term “raspberry tart,” which was Cockney rhyming slang for the word “fart,” the sound that is made by blowing a raspberry with the lips.  Cockney rhyming slang was a device used by post-WWII British comedians to get risqué material past the BBC censors.  It is an attempt to replace a socially offensive word with an acceptable word or words that rhyme with the original.  Over time the replacement word becomes adopted by society and essentially becomes a synonym for the original.

Mexican Gollum

I wonder how different The Lord of the Rings would have been if Gollum had been Mexican.  I can picture him with his little pencil moustache and wifebeater shirt, walking up to Frodo and Sam in a body-slanted, rocking motion.

Gollum: “Yo, Frodo, what’s up, ese?  Where you takin’ my precious?”

Sam: “You murdering, filthy good-for-nothing.” [lunging for Gollum]

Gollum: “Whoa, homes, ease up, we’re just talking here, puta!”

Frodo: “Let him go, Sam, he can help us.”

Gollum: “Exactly, pendejo, get up off me.”

Sam: “You can’t seriously be thinking of trusting this slimy piece of crap, can you?”

Frodo: “You know the way to Mexico, don’t you?  You’ve been there before?”

Gollum: “No, not there…you can’t go there…I won’t go back…I won’t let you take the precious there, ese!”

Frodo: “We have to go there, and you’re going to lead us.”

Gollum: “There’s maybe a way.  I know a guy that can sneak you across the border in his truck.  It’ll cost you…a dozen of those lembas thingies.  But truly, ese, it’s not so much the getting into Mexico as the getting back.”

Frodo: “I’m not so sure we’re coming back.”

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.