The Fortune Cookie

I got a fortune cookie tonight that said, “In dreams and life, nothing is impossible.” Which was all well and good until I tried to stick my elbow in my own ear.

Perception

Based on a recommendation from my mother, I have been binge watching the past seasons of a TV show called Perception. The show follows Daniel, a professor of neuroscience with paranoid schizophrenia, who helps solve crimes for the FBI. His hallucinations help him focus and see the cases from different angles, which helps him see clues or put pieces together that he might have otherwise missed. The only issue is that he’s not always sure that the “person” he’s talking to is real or a hallucination.

The show is fascinating in that it always begins and ends with Daniel giving a lecture about some aspect of the brain and how it affects how people perceive and experience the world. Obviously, the aspect being discussed becomes the central theme of whatever case he’s working on. It’s interesting to ponder how much of life is reality versus our brain’s perception of reality. Or whether things are truly real UNTIL they are perceived by the brain.

I had a psychology professor that brought up the age-old question of “If a tree falls in a forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” He went on to suggest that the answer is in fact, no. The reason is that sound is not actually sound until it’s perceived. So the tree might make waves, but wouldn’t technically be sound until those waves were received and processed.

Is reality the same? Does someone or something truly exist if nobody perceives them? And if so, how can you be sure? Because the only way to verify it is to actually perceive it, and then it could be argued that your perception of it actually brought it into being.

It’s like Schrodinger’s cat, which was a thought experiment proposed to refute the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum superpositions. Quantum superpositions claim that a quantum system, such as an atom or photon, can exist as a combination of multiple states corresponding to different possible outcomes. The Copenhagen interpretation says that a quantum system remains in superposition until it interacts with, or is observed by the external world. When this happens, the superposition collapses into one or another of the possible definite states. The thought experiment surmised that a cat locked in a box with acid and a decaying atom would exist in a state of both alive and dead until someone opened the box and observed what state the sat was actually in. The argument being that the observation itself is what caused the system to settle into one state or the other. While this famous thought experiment has been used to evoke a myriad of theories and paradoxes, I find it fascinating in the sense that it proposes things exist in an indeterminate state until observed or perceived. Therefore, reality is defined by observation.

However, further theories have gone on to define “observation.” Does that mean an outside observer, or could the object or person itself be defined as an observer of itself? Which would mean that we could bring ourselves into reality by observing ourselves. But then is it the same reality as everyone else, or our own construct? Is an inanimate object truly capable of observation? Or does it require the ability to “act” on a system? Can a brick “observe” us into reality?

I ponder all of this, because in the show they both contend that the hallucinations are real because Daniel perceives them just like he perceives a “real” person, and they’re not real because nobody else perceives them. But if observation is what makes a thing so, then both are technically true.

But the hardest thing to reconcile is the thought that I, or you, could be a schizophrenic and not know it. If someone else isn’t around to “dismantle” our hallucinations, then how would we ever know? And what if other people WERE around, but they were all hallucinations too? Could one hallucination confirm or dispel another hallucination? Then, how could you ever know what was real?

Unidentified Flying Pancakes

My wife was trying something new today for breakfast, so she decided to make these mini pancakes. But she made them in a muffin pan, so they were sort of flatish like a pancake but also sort of puffy like a muffin. The overall effect ended up looking like a UFO. So, throughout the entire breakfast, I imagined that I was some enormous cosmic deity, eating a fleet of UFOs as they came to attack me.

Pinder

PT was trying to breed her dog, so she put up a profile online to find him a girl on a site called Pinder. I didn’t even know you could do such a thing. I guess it's like Tinder, but for pets. If you're looking for a "hook-up" for your dog, then Pinder is the site for you. Who on earth came up with the idea to set up dating sites for dogs?! Do they enjoy random bootie calls, or is this more enjoyment for the humans? 

Now, all I can do is imagine PT and her dog, sitting down together to look at the responses to his profile and the dog swiping through the "hotties" with his paw.

The Bio Urn

When I die, I want to be cremated and put into a biodegradable urn with a tree seed. I want to be buried on a mountain somewhere, and as the urn breaks down, I’ll hopefully grow into a tree.

I was thinking maybe a Christmas tree. Where a bird or squirrel might make their home and raise a family. And maybe someday, someone will cut me down, drag me into their house, and decorate me. And a few weeks later, I’ll be thrown out at the curb. And I’ll be picked up and shredded into mulch. And maybe that mulch will be put out in a playground somewhere. And maybe a little boy, just like my son, will run through me, kicking his feet and sending the me flying.

And I can serve some purpose and give life and amusement, even after I’m gone. It seems like a more honorable way to go than just being stuck in a hole in the ground in a sad, depressing cemetery. Where someone feels compelled to go and stick plastic flowers that fade and fray.

And I'm not the first to think of this idea. There are bio urns available for an organic burial experience. All you have to do is supply the ashes to nourish the tree. Seems easy enough...

Making the Bed

When I was in sixth grade, I had a sleepover at BR’s house. I don’t remember much about what we did that night, but I remember the next morning very vividly. I remember his mom calling us out to breakfast, and BR stopped me at the door to his room. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. 

“To breakfast. Why?” 

“You need to make your bed first. You should never go to someone else’s house and leave the bed unmade. It’s rude and disrespectful.” 

Stomach rumbling, I begrudgingly made the bed. It’s funny how things stick with you. Thirty years later, and I not only remember that incident, but I still make the bed every morning when I’m at someone else’s house. I can’t say that I do it very often at my own house, but that’s another matter altogether.

The Third Grade All-District Spelling Bee Champion

JR was telling me that whenever his wife questions him on the spelling of a word, he tells her that she shouldn’t doubt him because he was the third grade all-district spelling bee champion. So, I asked him how that worked, if he had to go through several levels of competition, being on stage in front of a microphone, surrounded by an enormous amount of anxiety and pressure. He said no, that they did it a little differently. It apparently was a written test, and they graded him by how many words he spelled correctly, and then compared him to other students in his school and area.

As we dug into this further, we realized that in order for this to work, they would have had to have given him a list of the words on a piece of paper and asked him to spell them. I started laughing, and I asked, “So, basically you just had to copy the word that you saw in the paper?! I think I know how you became the third grade all-district spelling bee champion! Are you sure it wasn’t just a handwriting assignment?” Then another thought hit me. How is it that everyone else missed the spelling of some of the words if they were handed to them on a piece of paper?!

The French Toast Connection

Has anyone else noticed how much Neosporin smells like French toast? It has that sweet, syrupy smell to it. I’m not sure if that was on purpose, if they were told to make it smell like that, or if it just happened. 

French toast always makes me think of my mom. She introduced me to this delicacy of delicacies, and she will always be my French toast connection. Now, I guess she's my Neosporin connection too. Except that I have no intention of ordering Neosporin whenever I go to breakfast in a restaurant.

The French Toast Connection sounds like a romantic spy movie from the 1950s, where a man chased all over the globe by foreign agents bent on killing him, must uncover the elusive connection between a fried, egg-covered breakfast bread and a cream "that helps cuts heal four days faster."

And apparently it's also a little bistro in Portland, OR.

Toast and Chocolate Milk

One of my favorite childhood memories was waking up on a Saturday morning and having toast and chocolate milk with my mom and brother.  That warm bread getting golden brown as the heat from the toaster cooked its doughy sides.  Steam rising off of it in wafts, as the butter melted into a puddle.  And the decadent smell of chocolate being stirred and stirred into the milk, turning it from a crisp white into a silky, smooth brown.

We'd take our treat into the den, cuddle up on the couch, and take turns dipping our toast into the chocolate milk.  The triangular pieces coming out dripping with the chocolaty liquid and mingling the salty with the sweet.  I know that many people that I've told that to think it sounds disgusting, but to me, it's perfect.  It reminds me of home.  Besides, don't knock it until you've tried it!

So, in a nod to my mother and brother and the sweet memories of my childhood, I made myself toast and chocolate milk tonight.  It was everything I remembered.

The Bobby Pin

A little-known fact about me is that in high school, I used to keep a bobby pin in my wallet.  It was clipped on the dollar-bill divider right in the crease of the wallet.  Hardly noticeable unless you were looking for it.  This might seem like an odd thing to have in a man's wallet.  I had a marine-cut haircut all during high school, so it obviously wasn't there for the express purpose that it was made...to hold my hair back.  So, why you might ask did I keep a bobby pin in my wallet? 

Well, to be used as a lock pick, of course, in the event (or eventuality I believed in high school) that I would be locked up somewhere and need to pick the lock to get out.  I was so paranoid that this was bound to happen to me at some point that I wanted to be ready.  So, I carried that stupid bobby around for four years, only to be disappointed that I never had a chance to use it.  Some guys carry business cards, some carry pictures of their girlfriend, some carry condoms...I carried a lock pick.  And that explains a lot about me in high school.

Smart Nora

I recently came across a product called Smart Nora.  It boasted the ability to help you or your partner with snoring, particularly snoring that is so loud that it wakes your partner up.  Since my spousal unit has a snoring problem (although, I guess it's only a problem to the person that has to listen to it), I decided that this product was exactly what we needed!

I have tried everything in the past from nudging her awake (got whacked in the face because she thought she was being attacked), to talking to her (got chewed out for waking her up for no reason, because she obviously wasn't snoring), to full body launching myself into the air to "bounce" her awake (has zero effect on a Tempur-pedic mattress where you can jump up and down with a glass of wine and not spill a drop), to sleeping in another room (oddly, I can still hear her on the other side of the house too, so defeated the purpose).  The science with Smart Nora seemed more promising, though.  It works by "listening" for snoring at a certain decibel level, and then an electronic air jack raises and lowers your pillow to stimulate your relaxed throat muscles to breath normally again.  What could go wrong?!  So, we bought it.

The first two nights, it worked great.  My spousal unit got used to the gentle, slow movement of the pillow and said she had the best sleep she'd had in a long time.  Unfortunately, I didn't see any positive changes on my part, because I stayed awake all night to see if she was going to snore and if Smart Nora would control it.  It was the third night that we found the first flaw in the system.  I finally relaxed into a deep sleep, satisfied that we had finally found the solution to our snoring dilemma.  And that's when it happened.  According to an unverified source, I was so relaxed that I presumably started snoring too.  My crescendo of delight reached such wondrous heights, that Smart Nora picked up on it and started adjusting my spousal unit's pillow.  Which obviously didn't solve the real problem, which was MY collapsing air cavities.  But it created another problem as well...she wasn't asleep yet.  She was still up reading her book when her head started "bobbing" up and down...albeit ever so slowly.

So, now we're faced with a new dilemma.  Pony up a lot more money for a second system, which adjusts both of us if either of us snore, or share a single pillow.  That's it, there are no other options.  And let's be perfectly honest, there is really only one option, because the other one is ludicrous.  

So, now my wife and I have had to learn how to do synchronized "spooning" as we share the pillow.  When either of us needs to turn over, we both have to turn over.  The nice thing is that we've learned to do it without having to fully wake up, and because of Smart Nora, we still have a peaceful sleep!

Free Toaster

Free T-Fal Avante Deluxe Toaster. To a good, loving home. Chrome and black. Toasts four pieces of bread at the same time. Extra-large slots good for toast, English muffins, or bagels. Approximately ten years old, but still has many years of life left in it.

It has many fun features, such as randomly ejecting your toast two feet into the air (and possibly onto the floor) and sometimes not ejecting it at all. But this can be surprising, and has thoroughly entertained my one-year old for weeks now. It’s like a jack-in-the-box, and now he waits with bated breath every time I make toast. Will it fly across the kitchen or not?!

The right side has two cook settings: raw and blackened, which are controlled more by the toaster’s temperament that day than by the knob on the front.

There are levers that will lift your toast up so you can grab it, if you happen to have small pieces of bread, but the lever on the left tends to get stuck in the “lift up” position, so future toast will only get half cooked on that side of the toaster.

The little cooking-cage things inside that close in to hold the bread sometimes get stuck “open,” but a well-placed butter knife can easily wedge them back into place again. Although, I recommend not trying it while the toast is actually toasting as the knife can get a little warm. We like to think of it as an extra “feature.”

My wife is so eager that this toaster find a good home that will appreciate it, that she’s willing to throw in our old, burnt bread crumbs as well...free of charge!

Black Lambs Matter

CC found lamb on sale for the holiday, so he decided to treat himself to some lamb steaks. He called my wife for a recipe, because being Greek, she must have a recipe for lamb! I was half listening from the other room, while I folded laundry, and I heard them start talking about the difference between white meat and dark meet. CC mentioned that he didn’t like the dark meat as much as white meat. To which I yelled, “Black lambs matter too!”

It seemed appropriate given the current social situation with certain ethnic groups fighting for social equality under the banner and motto of “Black Lives Matter."

Mexican Mosquito

I think we have a Mexican mosquito in our house. A few days ago, I was making burritos, and he started annoyingly buzzing around my face. I tried to snuff out his useless life, but he thwarted my attempts. He flew off somewhere, and I didn’t see any sign of him again...until tonight.

I was making tacos, and sure enough, the same mosquito (at least I assume it was the same one) showed up again and was buzzing around my face. I had actually forgotten about him, supposing that he’d died or made his way back outside. I have no idea where he’s been, but as soon as I started cooking Mexican food, there he was again.

I’m going to make fajitas this weekend to see if he’ll come back. I suppose liking Mexican food is better than liking me!

Cassettes

My niece is into music CDs now. Apparently, CDs are considered retro and cool by kids today, much like vinyl records were considered retro and cool by my generation. I guess nobody really buys physical music mediums anymore. Everything is digital downloads. When I was a kid, the big thing was tape cassettes. Other than the size and portability of them (I mean who would like to have a record player mounted on the dashboard of their car?!), there was no redeeming advantage of tape cassettes. The sound quality was poor compared to vinyl records and CDs, and there was absolutely no way to skip to a particular song like you can with CDs. You either listened through the entire cassette each time, or you stopped it and rewound it over and over again for one particular song until you wore the tape out completely.

The other thing that sucked back in the day was trying to figure out the name of a particular song or who sang it. There was no Shazam or Google. You had to rely completely on the radio (or MTV) to tell you. This particular exercise of listening for a song on the radio could frustratingly take days. You'd listen day after day, hoping that the song would come on during those 30-60 min you spent in the car. And if it did happen to come on, you hoped the DJ said the name of the song and artist, so you could go buy the album on cassette later (and then wear it out). Most of the time, luck would have it that you might go hours without hearing your song and turn off the radio just before it came on. Or that it would play in a no-commercial set with the DJ only saying the name of the last song. Or more likely, you’d turn on the radio right in the middle of the song, and the DJ would have decided to say the name at the beginning on that particular day.

We also didn’t have the instant gratification people have today, like being able to download a song whenever you feel like it. Kids nowadays don’t know the pain that we went through to get music back in the day. My brother and I would stay up late (sometimes for several nights in a row), waiting for a song to come on the radio, so we could record it on our repurposed cassette with the paper stuffed in the “do not record” hole. Sometimes, you'd get the last few words of the DJ talking at the beginning as the song cued up (annoying). But other times, the golden times, you'd time it perfectly and hit the "Record" button at the exact right time. There was definitely an art to this. And for the next 3-4 min, you were jamming away to your song, finger hovering over the "Stop" button, waiting for the end, riding a high that you'd finally timed your song perfectly. And then the stupid DJ would inevitably come on and start talking through the last 15 seconds of the song and ruin the entire thing! Cussing his mother for bringing him into the world, you'd rewind the tape and cue it up for the next night when you'd try again.

And we weren’t even supposed to be up late, listening to music. We were already taking our lives in our hands by doing it the first time, and now we'd have to try again! And maybe the next night, you'd have the same thing. The DJ plays five songs in a row without interruption and then decides to talk through the song you're waiting for. Or maybe the next time you hear the song, you're in the car with no way to record it, and now you have to wait another four hours before it comes back on the rotation again. All for a poor quality recording of a song that you probably won't like in a few days anyway!

The Tide Pods

MG is a nanny for a three-year old girl. The little girl likes to help with the laundry, and her favorite part is throwing the Tide pods into the washing machine. 

But every single time, she will look at MG with a stern face and say, “We do not eat the Tide pods!” 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Well, we don’t do it. We don’t put them in our mouth.” 

“I’m not, but can you please put it into the washing machine?” 

“Okay, as long as you understand that we don’t do it. We don’t put it in our mouth. That’s the rule. That’s the rule!” 

“I got it. Don’t put it in my mouth.” 

“Good.” 

And then she throws the Tide pod into the machine.

Dr. S and Mr. K

I found out today that apparently when your spouse has a PhD, you’re supposed to address them first in introductions and salutations. This wouldn’t be so odd if the man is the one because they normally go first, but if it’s the woman...

So since my spousal unit has a PhD, she would go first. However, since she didn’t take my last name, we wouldn’t be Dr. and Mr. K. We’d be Dr. S and Mr. K., which sounds odd, like we’re some kind of literary monster. A spin-off of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde maybe.

Over-Exaggerate

Whenever I’m being dramatic about something, my spousal unit always tells me that I like to over-exaggerate. I tell her that I never over-exaggerate. I always exaggerate the exact right amount!

Work Chill Factor

My spousal unit asked me today if I had a long day ahead. I knew what she meant, but this turn of phrase still puzzles me. Usually I answer, “No, it’s 24 hours like every other day.” But today I told her that I had a “work chill factor.” She asked me what that was, and I replied, “It’s like how a wind chill factor can actually make the weather feel colder than it is. Well, a work chill factor is when your job can make a day seem longer than it is."

It's Friday

I hate when you ask someone how they’re doing and they answer, “ it’s Friday.” What does the day of the week have to do with your state of being?!

Paving the Way

My spousal unit's first grant application was accepted into consideration into the final stage today. She had applied to this grant without much hope of getting it, because it was for more experienced scientists, not one going for her first grant. But it was worth the experience to at least apply. And then this!

God has a plan for her. Not sure if it’s to get the grant or not yet, but it’s something to even make it this far. She didn’t have much hope, so it was a huge surprise. I told her that everyone said that a freshman would never win the Heisman Trophy until Johnny Manziel did it. When something is so good that you can’t possibly pass it up, it paves the way for a new way of thinking. Maybe this is her time to pave a new way of thinking about first-time investigators to get this grant.

Songs in Traffic

Generally speaking, I hate traffic. It irritates me and makes me become an ugly, cussing person that I hate. I have no patience for stupidity or incompetence when it comes to driving. People make such bad decisions that they become dangerous, and that irritates me too. Needless to say, I’m not a fan of sitting in traffic...unless.

The only time I don’t mind a little traffic is when a song that I really like comes on the radio. I appreciate a small delay so that I can make it all the way through the song. I hate when a good song comes on the radio just as I park. Then I have the dilemma of missing it or stupidly sitting in my car for the next 4-5 minutes. But if I’m sitting there then I can’t really enjoy it, because all my mind can think is that there is no purpose or usefulness for this idleness. So I’ll usually end up turning it off early anyway.

Underwear in the Window

This morning when I got out of the shower, I discovered that the laundry basket was not in its usual place in the bedroom. In my groggy state it took me a minute to realize that my spousal unit had been doing laundry yesterday and had the basket in the laundry room. Still holding my underwear in my hand, I headed that way to put them in there. Unfortunately, in a classic spaghetti moment, I saw an inflatable toilet laying in the yard (that’s another story). So I set my underwear down on the window sill next to the back door, and I went outside to pick up the toilet. However, upon reentering the house, I completely forgot about my underwear, and I went about my morning routine. An hour later as I was eating breakfast, I happen to glance over and see, to my surprise, a pair of underwear on the window sill.

In my still relatively groggy state, my mind froze trying to reason out this peculiarity. I mean who would leave underwear on a window sill? And why on earth would anyone put them there to begin with? And why do they look exactly like the ones I was wearing this morning before my shower?

I eventually reasoned out that I was the crazy person that had left them there. But I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t noticed them sitting there. How long would they have sat there before someone else noticed them? A day? A week? Would someone else have noticed them at all? Perhaps one of the women in my wife’s Bible study group? What kind of interesting conversation would that have sparked? And my spousal unit wouldn’t know the answer, so they would go on being the mysterious underwear on the window sill. And why would we ever move them, when they provide such interesting speculation and conversation?

Little Things

This morning traffic was thwarted by a branch on the highway. Not a tree limb, but a tiny insignificant branch. I’m guessing it had fallen off of someone’s truck and landed in the road. And proceeded to bring three lanes of a major freeway to a complete and utter standstill. Nobody wanted to drive over it or get out and move it, so they all proceeded to try to merge into the next lane over. Everyone in that lane, after having to stop to let the new group in, then proceeded to merge into the lane next to them, bringing that lane to a stop too. You could see an almost empty freeway ahead, on the other side of the offensive little branch. Just goes to show you that even little things can bring the world to a stop and make a big impact.

Safe-Driver Discount

I drove past my car insurance agent today on my way home. I knew it was him by the large sign plastered along the side of his bright red truck. When I got level with him, I was shocked to see him driving and texting as he went down the road. That seems so wrong! And all I could wonder was whether he insures himself and whether he would give himself the safe driver discount or not.

Spicy Indian Food

SM said that Indians eat extra spicy food when they’re sick to kill the germs and bacteria in their system. I guess it’s so hot that even the germs and bacteria are like “Nope, I’m out, not even going to deal with that!"

This is Juan...

I received a mysterious call today, and the menacing voice on the other end said, “This is Juan. I am coming for you. Actually, I’m already here.” At first, I was wondering how Juan had found me. Then, I was trying to figure out when I had got on the wrong side of the Mexican mafia. And if I’d pissed off the Mexican mafia, and they had sent Juan after me, then why would he call to warn me?! It took me several minutes to realize that Juan was the shuttle driver that was picking me up to take me back to the dealership to get my car.

Last Ride of the White Gauges

My spousal unit finally decided to buy a new car this weekend. That meant that we were ready to bid farewell to the Toyota Corolla that I had bought 13 years ago. While it’s definitely past due to get rid of him, I’m still a little sad to see him go. Ember and I have been through a lot together, but the upkeep and repairs that he needs are more expensive than his street value. So I took him out for one last drive today, just me and him. One last ride to say goodbye. Goodbye to the white gauges. Goodbye to my boy. I hope some family appreciates him and loves him as much as I did.

Straight-forward Honesty

My mother-in-law was relating to me today one of her fondest and funniest memories from when my brother-in-law was a child.  She said that someone had called the house looking for her and my brother-in-law had answered.  When he related who was on the phone, she decided that she didn't want to talk to them, so she told my brother-in-law to tell the caller that she was not at home.  My brother-in-law went back, picked up the phone, and said, "My mother said to tell you that she's not at home."  Nobody ever expects the straight-forward honesty of a child.

Ptosikrevatithanatosphobia

Tonight, I was having one of the late-evening chats with ME that I have grown so fond of.  We always seem to diverge into the most outlandish and interesting topics, and I love that his mind is as willing and capable of going down this path as mine is.  Somehow, we managed to get onto the topic of irrational fears, and he told me that his was of being crushed to death while sleeping in the bottom bed of a bunk bed.  While this fear is more common than you might think, and while it seems completely legitimate, I still had not personally ever heard someone say that was their biggest fear.

I had had bunk beds as a kid, and I don't recall ever feeling scared to be on the bottom bed.  And I definitely don't recall ever feeling like the top bunk might come crashing down on me in the middle of the night and slowly crush me to death as I struggled to unpin myself from underneath it.  I mean I think what makes this irrational is that it's not falling from very high, and even with someone on the bed, it seems unlikely to kill you instantly.  Injury?  Yes.  Death?  Unlikely.  Also, wouldn't the person on the top bunk realize it was falling and get off to help you before you were slowly crushed to death?

As I write this statement, I think of my own brother, and I have my doubts as to whether he would have helped me back then...such was the nature of our relationship.  He might or might not have gotten off of the fallen bed.  I seriously doubt he would have helped me out of the mess.  So, put into this context...brothers and maybe prison cellmates...I guess it is theoretically possible to be slowly crushed to death by an upper bunk bed.

The most amazing part is that as apparently as common as this fear is, ME and I were unable to find a scientific name for it.  If we make up our own, using Greek as our root, then it might be something like "ptosikrevatithanatosphobia," which loosely translates as "falling bed death fear."  While definitely a mouthful, it has the importance-sounding and length of most words describing a particular fear, so I think it meets the criteria needed.  And since the scientific community did not take being slowly crushed to death by a falling top bed in a bunk bed seriously enough to name it, we now have our official name for it.  So it shall be written, so it shall be done.

Sewing Machine

My mother-in-law had a Singer electric sewing machine that she used every once in a while to make curtains or mend clothes.  One day, she went to use it, and it didn’t work.  She fiddled with all of the buttons and knobs, but nothing.  So she took it to the Singer shop to have them look at it.  The technician plugged it, and the sewing machine immediately started working.  After a few more humoring questions from them and a few more adamant protestations from my MIL, she left the shop sewing machine in tow, and the technician thinking he was dealing with a crazy woman.

She arrived home, plugged the sewing machine in, and nothing.  She tried several different outlets around the house, and nothing.  Not knowing what else to do, she loaded it back into the car and drove back to the Singer shop.  She told them that it wasn’t working at home, regardless of what it did in the shop.  To which the technician replied, “Perhaps it just doesn’t want you!”

PGBT

There's a highway in Dallas called the President George Bush Turnpike (PGBT for short).  Everybody always refers to it by either its full name or at least by "George Bush."  This actually sounds quite funny when you hear someone say that they take George Bush to work every day.  I always imagine him sitting in the car with them, annoyed at their morning conversation.  This is even funnier when you wonder why George Bush would need to carpool!

Chicken Meat

Apparently, not all chickens are white. Some are brown and black. This gets me to wondering.  If you got a breast from a brown or black chicken, would it be considered dark meat or white meat?

Martinez the Rookie

When I was in Missouri, BD and I used to get together every Saturday, have lunch, and play video games.  I loved spending time with him, and I looked forward to it every week.  At one point, we were playing Madden's NFL Football, and we ended up drafting this quarterback out of college with the last name of Martinez.  BD loved playing with the guy and went on and on about how "Ace" he was.

A month or so later, we had Game Day at work, and someone suggested that we have a Wii Bowling tournament.  We played in teams, and BD and I decided to team up together.  When it came to choosing a name, it seemed like a no-brainer what it would be.  We ended up calling ourselves, "Martinez the Rookie."  We went on to win the tournament too!

Pillow Thief

While I was at my conference back in October, my wife decided to steal my pillows.  I came home to find them missing from their usual spot and located them nestled up on her side of the bed.  When I inquired about the alleged thievery that had taken place, she batted her eyelashes at me and simply said, “Baaabbbyyy, I was having trouble getting comfortable, and your pillow combination was perfect.  I have never slept so well.” 

Realizing that there was no way I could ask my pregnant wife for them back now, I asked, “Okay, and what am I supposed to do now?  I have no pillows.” 

She simply said, “There are some used ones in the closet, maybe you can get one of those.”

By “used” pillows, she means the broken-down-stuffing-has-been-equally-distributed-to-each-corner-of-the-pillow-no-longer-provides-any-support-whatsoever-probably-stinks-not-sure-why-we-even-kept-them pillows that have been banished to the top of the closet in cases of extreme emergencies.  And that is exactly where I now find myself…in a case of extreme emergency, constantly having to re-fluff and redistribute my used pillow into something that vaguely resembles a usable head and neck support, while failing miserably and waking up each day with a crick.

My pillow is so flat that I feel like I’m just sleeping on a pillow case.  My neck is situated at such a weird angle that I look like I’m trying to listen to my shoulder.  Which if it could talk would probably be asking, “What happened to the other perfectly-fluffed pillow that you had that supported us all perfectly and kept your ear the exact right distance away from me?!”  Touche, talking shoulder…touche.

Suggested Destination

My wife and I drove in to work a little later this morning, because she wasn’t feeling well and hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.  After dropping her off, I headed on to my office and decided to stop for gas before making my way inside the building.  I pumped my fuel and got back into the car and started it up.

When I start the car, my phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth.  Typically, the first thing it will do is anticipate where I want to go based on my current location and time of day and give me suggested directions to my next destination.  So, if I’m at home, then it will give me a little message from Maps, something like “38 min to get to work taking Long Prairie Rd, traffic is heavy.”  If I’m at work, then it usually gives me a message to UT Southwestern to pick up my wife.

However, today, it completely bypassed all of that and immediately said, “28 min to get home taking Long Prairie Rd, traffic is light.”  It was only 10:15 in the morning, and my phone already wanted me to go home!  I looked down at it and said, “I like where your head is at.”

The Getaway Driver

During my morning commute today, as I bobbed and weaved my way expertly through traffic, I let my mind wander to the possibility of becoming a getaway driver.  Who knows where these ideas come from, but I entertained it for an hour to see where it went.  Obviously, I can drive, and contrary to popular belief, I’m actually a good driver; or at least I’m good in the ways that relate to being a getaway driver.  But what skills make a good getaway driver?  What sets that person off from other normal drivers?  What other things do you need to consider as a getaway driver?

I had some ideas, of course, but I started to do some research to see what the experts say.  This led me to an article by James Peters called aptly enough, “How to Become the Most Perfect Getaway Driver.”  In the article Mr. Peters gives some rules and tips for being a getaway driver, which ultimately leads to him saying that you’re probably going to get caught no matter what you do, despite what the movies show.

So, besides being a good driver, I think a good getaway driver needs the following characteristics:

·        Thinks Quickly – They quickly evaluate all of the available options, running through pros and cons of each.

·        Decisive – And going along with the first one…they act quickly and stand by their decisions.  They don’t second-guess themselves or ponder other choices that they could have made.  They accept the consequences and move on to the next decision.

·        Good Reactions – They need catlike reflexes, because you never know what might spring out in front of you at the last second.

·        Stays Calm – Understandably, being in a high-speed chase is exciting, but it’s also nerve-racking.  So, being able to stay calm in the face of stressful situations will assist in making better decisions.

·        Internal GPS – They need to have an internal GPS of the area, so they have at least a rough idea of the roads and alternate roads that are available to them.

                                                                                                                           

And the additional items that Mr. Peters adds to the list:

·        Never use a getaway car that can be registered back to you or anyone you know.  Always use a stolen car that has been stolen that day and preferably right before the heist.

·        Never use a getaway car that draws attention to itself.  Avoid cars that are black, red, or yellow.  Look for a simple, dependable, domestic-looking family car.  Something with a “soccer mom” or “proud parent” sticker on the back window.

·        Drive seriously and safe.  Drive with purpose, but do not speed.  Stop completely at stop signs and stoplights.  Never drive through yellow lights.

·        Be sober.

·        Never get involved with some idiot who has “road rage,” because they will draw attention to themselves and you by association.

·        Sit upright and proper in the vehicle and wear your seatbelt.  Adjust your mirrors appropriately and make sure all of the lights and signals work.  Never use your car as a battering ram, if possible, because you risk doing damage that will draw unwanted attention to your car.

·        Make sure you have a full tank of gas.

·        When driving away from the heist, never squeal your tires or speed, which will draw attention to yourself.  Drive with a destination and purpose, but take lots of turns to get there.

·        People in the backseat should lay low, as it’s highly likely that the number of robbers has been given to the authorities.  Have someone sit in the passenger seat, though, so it doesn’t make it look too obvious.

·        Park the car at a park or public pool, some place with no video cameras, and then look natural and walk away.  Notice your surroundings and stay alert.

·        Never wear a hat or sunglasses.

·        Never look nervous, agitated, or scared.  Drive with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console or stretched over the passenger seat.  Try to look casual.

·        Try to look happy and unthreatening.  Maybe smile, but don’t overdo it.

·        If you do get in a chase with the authorities, just remember that the odds are not in your favor.  They tend to have cars that are faster and more agile than yours, and they take classes on driving in a high-speed chase (despite what you see in the movies).  They also have the gang mentality and will use their radios to work together against you.

·        Eluding the authorities is next to impossible.  The longer you stay on the road, the higher the risk of getting arrested or killed.  Taking high speed turns can increase your chances of success, but they are also highly dangerous.  There is an art to them, and they should be practiced before the move is actually needed.

·        Your best option in a chase is to go down a side street or narrow alley, park the getaway car in the middle of the street, and run away on foot.  Making the authorities have to get out and chase you increases your chances, but not by much.

In hindsight, perhaps the life of a getaway driver isn’t for me.  If I want the thrill of it without the risk of it, I could always fly to the UK and participate in the annual Racewars Getaway Driver experience at the Curborough Sprint Track.  At least with that, I know I’ll be walking away at the end of the day.

The Surprise Massacre

This year I turned 40 years old, and my spousal unit and brother decided to band together to coordinate a surprise party for me.  Somehow, they actually managed to do it all in secret, none of the usual weak links blabbed about it, and I was actually surprised when it all went down.  The main factor that my spousal unit had going for her is that I trust her completely.  So, the endless stream of text messages with persons unknown that went on for weeks didn’t peak my suspicions.  Maybe some jealous husbands would have thought she had some sort of secret lover and would have broken her phone passcode to find out what was going on…but not me.

The second factor that she had going for her was being in cahoots with my brother.  He could do things in the background, like coordinating guests and ordering party supplies, so my spousal unit didn’t get caught doing that.  But even still, the whole affair was quite a well-planned operation, worthy of a military offensive.  My spousal unit pulled out all of the stops.  As I previously-stated, I am a trusting person, so I generally leave my phone sitting on the counter when I’m at home.  I don’t obsessively carry it around with me, so it’s easily-accessible at all hours of the day.  I also don’t lock it; because one, I have nothing to hide, and two, I get annoyed after the first effort to unlock it.  This gave my spousal unit the perfect opportunity.

The third factor that she had going for her is the fact that she’s pregnant, which gave her some cover excuse.  I didn’t think anything of it when she would get up at 2 o’clock in the morning and head into the den.  I thought she was just uncomfortable and needed to sit up on the couch, which was actually true on some nights, but she also used the same excuse to grab my phone off the counter and raid my contact list.  I would find out later that in addition to some of my sister-in-law’s family, my spousal unit had invited some of my friends from work, my friends from different states, my friends that lived on the other side of Texas, and even my old roommates from college that just happened to be visiting family for the holidays.  Unfortunately, not everyone could make it, but it’s the thought that counts, and my spousal unit pulled out all of the thoughts…er…stops.

So, the key to any good surprise birthday party is getting the naturally, home-bodied birthday boy out of the house for some extended period of time.  This allows the collaborators to set up decorations and get food, and allows the guests to sneak into the house unnoticed.  To truly pull this off well, the excuse has to be simple enough that you don’t have to make up a lot of details and elaborate enough that it involves extended period of time outside of the house.  Too many details are what makes people ask questions and be suspicious, which is bad.  You want people to have their guard down and not delve too deeply into the motivation behind suddenly needing to do…fill in the blank.

In this instance, my brother asked me to take him and my nieces to the mall to go shopping.  My spousal unit and sister-in-law decided to stay behind.  This was not suspicious, because my spousal unit is pregnant and often doesn’t feel well, and my sister-in-law is the type of person that would rather sit on her phone than participate in a physical activity.  It was my brother that almost let the cat out of the bag with his reason for why he wanted to go to the mall.  But it was still a simple enough request not to have my alarms going off, and any questions I might have had were squashed by my unconditional love for my nieces and my desire to make them happy.

So, we went to the mall.  I won’t bore you with those details, but needless to say, they stalled for hours by going into every…single…store.  Again, nothing unusual when shopping with young ladies.  When we finally left and headed home, it had grown dark outside.  The large volume of cars parked up and down the street is quite common in my neighborhood, so that didn’t even raise my suspicions.  By this point I was so oblivious, that even when I saw some strange kid walking up my driveway to my front door, I didn’t think anything of it.  I thought I recognized him as my friend’s son, but just assumed that maybe they were in town visiting family and had decided to make an unannounced stop at our house.  And that’s why the first words out of my mouth when I walked in the door, arms full of shopping bags, was, “Are we expecting someone…?”

A mob of people then jumped out from around the corner and yelled, “Surprise!!!”  Now, I must pause a moment and digress a little.  If you know me at all, then you know that I absolutely hate to be startled like this.  They say that when you’re properly motivated, you will either fight or take flight.  I am a fighter.  I will instinctively lash out at the perceived threat to my well-being.  So, it is a good thing for everyone involved that at that moment, I am not a carrier of a concealed handgun.  Because it could easily have turned into the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre up in that house.  I imagine the duplicit difficulty with either trying to explain to the police how a surprise birthday party turned into a mass murder or with trying to find a way to hide twenty-three bodies in a backyard the size of small closet.

But I did not go Al Capone on my party guests, and nobody was harmed in the making of my surprise party.  The house was decorated with “Vintage 1978” signs and banners, which was much better than that “Over the Hill” crap that most people get.  BBQ from Hard Eight was piled en masse on the stove top.  And a cake shaped like a tombstone, etched with the words “Here Lies His Youth” lay invitingly on the counter.

The night was spent eating and visiting with friends and family, some I had seen a month earlier and some I hadn’t seen in years.  I did my part; wearing a giant, black Mad Hatter hat with the number 40 on the side and bouncing from group to group to chat and express how grateful I was that they had come.  It was a great mix of people, not too many, but enough.  We had a variety of ages and personalities, and we even had a band of kids running around destroying things upstairs.  I was happy that each and every one of them was there.  But the grand surprise was when my old friend SM from Missouri walked into the door.  Apparently, he had hopped a flight at the last minute, armed with nothing but a backpack of supplies, to be here to celebrate with me.  I have not seen him for almost six years, so I was overwhelmed with joy at being able to pull him into a warm embrace.

All in all, not a bad surprise birthday party.  The only downside (if you can even call it that) is that I’ll be eating BBQ every meal for the next week!  I can’t thank my spousal unit and brother enough for putting it altogether for me.

Just Drop the Blanket

I came across this online blog post by Jason Soroski, and it seemed like the perfect way to share Christmas this year.

https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/just-drop-the-blanket/

This month “A Charlie Brown Christmas” aired on national primetime television for the 50th time. In a world where the latest greatest technology is outdated in a matter of months, and social media trends come and go in a matter of days, 50 years of anything becomes quite meaningful.

I am a fan of all things nostalgic and all things Christmas, and so when the two are combined I am hooked. The Charlie Brown Christmas special falls squarely into that category.

I was in the first grade back when they still performed Christmas pageants in schools (less than 50 years, but still a very long time ago), and our class performed a version of the Charlie Brown Christmas. Since I was kind of a bookworm and already had a blue blanket, I was chosen to play the part of Linus. As Linus, I memorized Luke 2:8–14, and that Scripture has been hidden in my heart ever since.

8 And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9 And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. 10 And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. 11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. 12 And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” 13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, 14 “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”

But while working so diligently to learn those lines, there is one important thing I didn’t notice then, and didn’t notice until now.

Right in the middle of speaking, Linus drops the blanket.

Charlie Brown is best known for his uniquely striped shirt, and Linus is most associated with his ever-present security blanket. Throughout the story of Peanuts; Lucy, Snoopy, Sally, and others all work to no avail to separate Linus from his blanket. And even though his security blanket remains a major source of ridicule for the otherwise mature and thoughtful Linus, he simply refuses to give it up.

Until this moment. When he simply drops it.

In that climactic scene when Linus shares what “Christmas is all about,” he drops his security blanket, and I am now convinced that this is intentional. Most telling is the specific moment he drops it: when he utters the words “fear not.”

Looking at it now, it’s pretty clear what Charles Schulz was saying through this, and it’s so simple it’s brilliant.

The birth of Jesus separates us from our fears.

The birth of Jesus frees us from the habits we are unable (or unwilling) to break ourselves.

The birth of Jesus allows us to simply drop the false security we have been grasping so tightly, and learn to trust and cling to him instead.

The world can be a scary place, and most of us find ourselves grasping to something temporal for security, whatever that thing may be. Essentially, it is a world in which it is very difficult for us to “fear not.”

But in the midst of fear and insecurity, this simple cartoon image from 1965 continues to live on as an inspiration for us to seek true peace and true security in the one place it has always been and can always still be found.