Untrusting Compliments

I realized today that some people don’t trust compliments.  They’d rather you put them down because it aligns better with how they feel about themselves.  Even if the compliment is true, they believe it’s a lie, because it’s not how they see themselves.  They leave no space or possibility that someone else might see them differently; see them for more.

The Sounds of Silence

My spousal unit keeps complaining that my snoring is keeping her up at nights.  I have even been relegated to the guest room the last couple of nights so that she could finally get some rest.  I adamantly refuse to believe this nonsense.  I stayed awake all night one night listening, and I never heard myself snoring even once!

Always Be Aware of Mirrors

Yesterday, I shared my bad experiences at my first job.  Today, I want to relate a funny story that happened there.  The bathrooms were located down a little hall off the main sales floor.  The men’s room was first with the women’s room behind it, both off the left side of the hall.  Immediately upon walking into the men’s room, there were sinks and a very large mirror on the righthand side, so that when someone opened the door, anyone in the hall could see the people at the sinks.

One day, RF came to me and said that she’d gotten a very disturbing report from one of our female customers, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.  I inquired what the customer had said, and RF told me that she’d just seen the private parts of one of our technicians.  Inquiring further on how this could have happened, RF related the story that the female customer was entering the hall for the bathrooms when one of the technicians crossed by in front of her and entered the men’s room.  He had flung the door open, so that the female customer had a clear view through the door and into the mirror over the sinks.  The technician had apparently already pulled out his private parts while still walking across the bathroom, and everything was visible in the reflection of the mirror.

My first reaction was to burst out laughing.  My second was to ask what the customer had thought about it.  RF took the bait, and responded that she hadn’t been very impressed actually.

Two Weeks Notice

My first job out of college was working at a retail electronics store in Houston, Texas.  It wasn’t exactly a dream job for someone that had just graduated with a degree in Computer Science, but since the market was flooded with people with similar majors the year before, I didn’t have a lot of options.  I was hired as a floor salesman, which basically meant I was supposed to wander around the floor and ask people if they needed help with anything.  This is a lofty goal when you don’t know anything yourself.  I was trained in software development, not the correct tool to use to crimp an RJ45 connector on Cat-5e cable.  But I learned, and learned quickly.  I was thrown in the ocean, and it was swim or drown.

This job was tough.  It was the only job I have ever quit after only two weeks of employment.  It wasn’t the hours, or having to learn to be extroverted, or even the hyper knowledge gain.  It was the manager of the store.  He was…to put it nicely…the south end of a northbound mule.  He was slick, oily, egotistical, entitled, and pompous.  In short, he was a salesman.  He was very good at getting people to buy things they didn’t need, but he had no business being in charge of other human beings.  But he craved power, and he spent every day lording what little he had over us.  Combined with my volatile temper and aversion to undeserved authority, this was a power keg waiting to explode.

And it did, two weeks in.  I had had enough of him bossing me around for no reason.  I’d no sooner get done moving entire sections of tools from one part of the store to another, then he’d tell me to put them back.  Why?  Just because he didn’t like to see me idle.  The final straw came when he told me to come in early one morning to do inventory.  It was just the two of us, but he decided that inventory was beneath him and refused to assist.  That was fine, I was used to that.  While he went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee, I was set to count stock on the register endcaps.  I was just finishing up the first one, when he burst out of the kitchen and asked me if I’d counted the hard drives yet.  I told him that I was still counting the end caps and would get to it when I was done.  He lost it.  He started yelling at me that I was taking too long.  I was losing it too, and through gritted teeth, I told him that I was only one person, and that I was doing the best I could.  This set him off again on some tirade about me being insubordinate, so I dropped my clipboard right there on the floor in the middle of the store.  I stomped over to the hard drives and started counting.  He started screaming for me to go pick up the clipboard and finish the end caps.  I stopped and stood in the aisle glaring at him.  I didn’t say a word, just stood there.  When he finally asked me what I was doing, I simply responded that I was waiting for him to make up his mind.  He yelled for me to finish the counts and then stormed off to his office. 

I did finish the counts, and I finished out my day.  Then, I went to his office and quit.  That night when I told my father, he got onto me for quitting a job before I had another one lined up.  He demanded that I go back to the store the next day, apologize, and ask for a second chance.  He didn’t really care about the inappropriate behavior of the manager or the emotional stress I had endured.  I was at fault, and I had to fix it.  And I did.

I went back to the store the next day, and I apologized to my manager for my behavior.  I ate crow for something that he had provoked while he sat there grinning in victory from the other side of the desk.  I spent every day of the next year looking for another job.  I shut my mouth, and I took everything he dished out; every nonsensical request, every moment of him taking credit for my hard work, every verbal beratement in front of customers…even being chewed out over the public intercom system across the store.  It was the first of many jobs that God would put me in to grow and mature me; to teach me both job skills and relationship skills.  I hated that man with every fiber of my being, but I learned a lot from him.  I learned the kind of person not to be, and I learned to appreciate a halfway decent manager when I see one.

Here I sit sixteen years and five jobs later, and he is still there…still stuck in that same dead-end job as a store manager for a retail electronics store.  His aspirations of moving up the corporate ladder and into upper management dashed, because he opened his big mouth to the wrong person (and sexually harassed the wrong person, if the rumors are to be believed).  I hope he’s mellowed out a lot and that he’s not still yelling at people in front of customers across the store.  Amazing that even after all of these years, the very memory of that still gets my blood boiling.

Both Order and Chaos

Since I became a manager, I have spent my first two months trying to bring order to the disarray.  I have introduced defined processes that are consistently used to better assist us all do our jobs.  And you know what?  It’s worked.  We are slowly, slowly becoming like a well-oiled machine.  People have manageable work-schedules, they have a balance of work, and their jobs are consistent and regular.  Which has made people bored.

Apparently, people find more interest in chaos.  It’s more unpredictable and challenging.  It takes them out of their comfort zone and forces them to push themselves to more than they even knew they were capable of.  So, while on the one hand, it burns people out if endured for too long, it also makes it more interesting and engaging.  In an effort to reduce their stress levels, I have actually made things worse for people.  I guess to do it right, it will take a balance of both order and chaos working together in harmony.

A Moment of Silence

VJ was telling me about a Christian retreat that she went to where they requested that everyone take a vow of silence for three hours.  They were supposed to use this time to mediate, read their Bible, pray, and listen for God’s voice.  By removing the distractions from life, they would better be able to hear it.

While I think this concept is beautiful, I’m not sure I could make it for three hours without talking.  I can barely make it for three minutes.  Heck, my spousal unit even complains that I talk all night in my sleep!

Infrequent Usage

One of my nieces was featured in an art exhibit last weekend, so my wife and I stayed with my brother.  I’m not sure what was wrong with me, but during the course of two days, I probably used the bathroom nine times…used the bathroom…like for long durations (that’s as descriptive as I’ll get, use your imagination).

My brother and I used to joke about how infrequently my brother would use the bathroom; sometimes going days or a whole week in between times.  He apparently also didn’t like using the bathroom at work, so he’d wait until he got home.

After this last weekend, I now know why he went so infrequently.  He had somehow managed to find the coarsest toilet paper to supply in his bathroom.  I’m all for saving money when you can, but toilet paper and facial tissue are places where an indulgence is warranted.  If you’re repeatedly rubbing something on a sensitive area, then it should be soft and gentle.  Of course, I’m assuming that this is consistent throughout the house.  Maybe he keeps the good stuff for himself and only puts this out for the guests!

I’m Exploring

I saw a man at the gas station today that had on a shirt that said, “I’m not lost…I’m exploring.”  I know in its simplicity that it’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s kind of beautiful too.  It denotes a wild sense of adventure.  A spontaneous jaunt into the unknown.  A free spirit unconfined by typical social norms.

First Pedicure

Today my sister-in-law and my wife talked me into getting my first pedicure.  They decided to get up early and go treat themselves at the nail salon, and when my brother heard about it, he wanted to go too.  Apparently, he had been coerced into this sort of expedition before and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  I was not so sure.

I was not very keen on the idea of some stranger touching my feet, nor on the idea of sporting a nail color every time I wear flip-flops.  That was the limit of my knowledge of pedicures…someone touches your feet, you get your nails painted.  I was in for a big surprise.

My wife decided that my first experience should be all out, so she opted for the deluxe package for me.  They started by putting my feet in a hot, whirlpool bath to clean, soften, and massage them.  I might have enjoyed this more, if I wasn’t so apprehensive about what was possibly coming next.  Of course, my wife wouldn’t tell me, because she finds it funny to surprise me, despite the fact that I don’t enjoy things, because I have too much anxiety about the unknown.

Well, what happened next was what I like to call the “foot torture” portion of the pedicure.  The pedicurist, Hana was her name, trimmed my nails and cuticles.  Not too bad.  I could handle that.  But this was just the beginning; a way to lull me into complacency…to drop my defenses…before the real torture began.  And it began with a heel scraper.

A heel scraper, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular torture implement, is about the size of a hair brush.  But instead of being covered with soft bristles, it looks like a cheese grater instead.  It works like a cheese grater too, as she scraped it back and forth over the toughened skin of my heel, peeling off layer after layer, until I was sure I would have no foot left to stand on.

But I only had but a second to think about this, because she immediately pulled out some sort of hardened sponge-like thing, which felt like it was made out of rock and glass, and started rubbing it on the callus on the side of my big toe.  My foot was spasming from both the nerve-endings firing with every subsequent back-and-forth movement and from it actually tickling a little.

Sensing that I was about to break and spill everything to her about the contents of the NOC list (Mission Impossible reference), the truth about the Kennedy assassination, and every MI6 secret I knew; she eased off the torture a little and pulled out an only slightly-softer sponge-like thing and scoured the entire bottom of my foot.  By this point, I was grasping the armrests of the chair in a white-knuckled grip to keep from ripping my increasingly-ticklish foot out of her rubber hands.

Soon the torture was over, and she finished off stage one by putting some milky white oil on my nails and giving them a nice buff and polish.  In comparison, this was mild and highly tolerable.

Which leads us to what I like to call the “hot recovery” portion of the pedicure.  Although I wasn’t to know this yet.  At this point, I was still waiting for the other shoe (or foot in this case) to drop.

While my poor, tortured feet once again soaked in the warm, massaging basin; Hana the Tormenter went off to get some orange, gritty-looking cream substance.  She proceeded to smear this all over my calves and then give me a quite-nice leg massage.  The gritty beads made my skin feel fresh and alive as she kneaded them into my tense muscles.  I started to relax a little (only a little) for the first time.

When that was done, she wrapped hot towels around my legs, which felt heavenly on my newly-exposed skin.  The heat was in sharp contrast to the cool air that had been skimming across my skin only moments before, and the change sent my muscles into an exhilarating sensation that ended in a long sigh.

While I mummified in my hot towels, Hana the Wonderful slid my feet into baggies of hot, blue, waxy goo.  And that was it.  I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought, “This is the life.”  The memories of the previous torture faded away as I lay there soaking up the soothing warmth.

But Hana the Goddess had one more trick up her sleeve, as she rolled up with a basket of steaming black rocks.  She unwrapped my legs and proceeded to rub these rocks up and down my legs, pressing them into my flesh for but a moment and then sliding them to the next spot.  Over and over again, across every inch.  When it ended way too quickly, I opened my eyes and looked at her in question, “Is that it?”  She smiled, pulled off the now waxy casts of my feet in baggies, and proceeded to rub more rocks along the soles.

I can definitely say that having been left to my own devices, that I would never have willingly subjected myself to this experience.  Even having gone through it once, I’m not sure that I would do it again.  But I can say that I’d be less likely to reject an invitation and would have less anxiety about the unknown.  I would instead just try to go with the flow and look forward to the end result.

And the color I decided on for my nails?  None at all, I’m afraid.  I mean why mess with perfection, right?

The Parking Note

I came out of work today to find a note under the windshield wiper of my car.  It said, "Your Nissan is NOT that important! Park like a regular human #NOTSPECIAL"

For you to properly understand, I must paint the scene for you.  The parking garage we have at work is three levels and probably holds 200-250 cars per level.  On any given day, it is probably no more than 50% full.  The third level is completely empty and the second level is only half full...at best.

I park on the second level in the very last parking spot.  I have been parking here for almost a year now, and for the first six months, the closest car was probably 30 parking spots away.  The last six months, two other people have started parking right alongside me, with a sizable gap between the three of us and the next closest car.  In a phrase, I am isolated from everyone, taking the least desirable spot in the garage.

At first, I was pulling through and parking completely in the spot.  But it dawned on me one day that people like the cut the corner when turning and that my front bumper was susceptible to their turning radius.  So, I started parking half in the spot in front and half in the spot in back.  Normally, I am the first to get on a-holes that occupy two spots to protect their car.  But this is because they usually always do it in primo spots that impede other people's ability to find a spot.  I am not doing this.  Nobody is missing a place to park because I'm parked over the line.  I intentionally chose the least desirable spot, so that I wasn't impeding other people.

So, why does this note on my car bother me so much?  My first reaction was just to crumple it into a ball and throw it away.  My second reaction was more reflective.  I am actually surprised and annoyed about several things on this note:

1. I can't believe that someone took the time to go find a pad, write a note, and then walked all the way out to my car to put it under the windshield wiper.  I mean who has the time to waste doing that?!  Of course based on my current opinion of this person, I can see them being both petty and lazy enough to drive it out there...because after all, it is BFE!
2. Why is a note even necessary?  Seriously, what harm is my parking job doing?  How am I possibly affecting someone else's life?  If I pull up in the space, the space behind me will be empty...every day...guaranteed.  Nobody will park out there.  Nobody is waiting for that spot.  Why is this unknown person so concerned with it, especially when there are some 325 empty spaces to choose from, all of them closer to the building?
3. I am not the only one that parks over the line.  I can count at least four other cars that do it too, and in much more-desirable spots.  None of them had a note on their car.  So, why only pick on my car?  And the note was very specific.  Why was it necessary to mention that my Nissan is not that important?  Does this person have an issue with Nissan's?  If I had an Audi, Lexus, or BMW like the other people, would I be okay?  Why is my car not worthy because it's a Nissan?
4. I think it's a bit unfair to claim that my car is not that important or special.  It is important and special to me...obviously, or why else would I park like that?  I wouldn't make judgments about them driving a crappy Civic, because that might be important to them.  It's subjective.
5. The hashtag on a hand-written note is ridiculous.  Let's not even be that specific.  The hashtag on a note about someone's parking is ridiculous.  This generation has overused and misused the hashtag.  The very name implies that it was supposed to be a TAG.  A way for a group to be notified when a certain tag is used.  It is not and in no way becomes a descriptor simply by summarizing your blog, tweet, post, or hand-written note in a run-on sentence with a pound symbol in front of it.  If it doesn't notify anyone, then it's not a tag.  And if it serves no purpose, then stop using it.  It's just dumb.
6. And finally, I find it both comical and presumptuous to assume that a regular human parks "correctly."  What is a regular human anyway?  Who defines that?  And regular?  What an odd word choice.  I mean is it defining the difference between a human that runs on regular versus diesel?  Is it helping characterize the difference between a human that is regular versus decaf?  Maybe it's someone that has regular bowel movements versus someone that is constipated?  Let's assume they meant "normal" instead and that they are putting themselves in that category.  Why on earth would I want to be "regular," if a regular person is a moron that wastes time writing and depositing parking notes on someone's car in the middle of nowhere with nobody else around them because the parking job annoys them, despite the fact that it is not causing any harm or impeding their ability to park in any way, and who obviously takes exception to Nissans and feels better about themselves by putting down something that is special to someone else, most likely because they are jealous or envious that a Nissan is much more than they drive or possibly will ever drive, and then feels the need to fake tag the note with emphasis to a group that doesn't exist nor would probably care about the note even if they did?  That's okay, I'll take abnormal...thanks.

Wrinkles

Every year I notice that I am getting more and more wrinkles at the corners of my eyes.  It used to bother me, because it is an ever-present reminder that I am getting older.  No matter how many creams or cucumbers I try, the wrinkles are always there.  I used to hate seeing those wrinkles, hate what they represented, hate to admit that I am no longer in my twenties and soon no longer in my thirties either.  Yes, I used to hate them...until...I realized what they truly represented. 

Those wrinkles are not from age.  Maybe the reason that my skin doesn't snap back into its smoothness is, but not the wrinkles.  The wrinkles are from laughter.  The etched lines of bunched cheeks that are pressed together by my huge and mirthful smile.  Not once, but thousands of times throughout my life.

So, now when I see those wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, I am okay with them.  Because those wrinkles mean that I was laughing too much.  They represent all of the times that someone made me laugh.  They represent all of the times that I made myself laugh.  They represent all of the times that I made someone else laugh and couldn't help but laugh along with them.  And that must mean that I have enjoyed my life.

Burning Money

A wealthy man, who was dying, told his wife that he wanted to go on to the next life surrounded by his wealth.  He asked her to put all of their money into the coffin with him before he was cremated, so he could enjoy every last penny to the bitter end.  A few weeks later, he passed away, and his wife, wanting to honor his wishes, wrote a check and put it into the coffin with him.

What?  She wasn’t stupid.  She found a loophole!

Black Market Milk

When I was in elementary school, I took my lunch almost every day.  The only thing I bought at school was chocolate milk to go with my food.  I had a pre-paid milk card that was good for one dinky carton of milk a day.  There was no way that that one carton was going to satiate my thirst, so I used to make trades and craft deals for other people’s milk.  Then the problem became that I was hungry all the time, because I didn’t have enough food.

I solved this problem by betting people that I would eat disgusting combinations of food on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, if they gave me their milk.  And I did.  Chips, green beans, macaroni and cheese, meat loaf, peppers…whatever their limited minds would suggest.  I look back now, and I’m thankful that nobody suggested the dead roach in the corner with the dust hanging off its legs.

Garden Vegetable Jack

The other day my wife brought home these Sargento cheese snack bites.  They’re like little rectangles of cheesy goodness.  She got cheddar for me and garden vegetable jack for herself.  I’m very visual when it comes to food, so if it doesn’t look appealing, then I will usually pass.  The cheddar was okay…a little sharp for my taste.  The garden vegetable jack was whitish and covered in herbs and spices.  I immediately was suspicious of it and decided that it was better to err on the side of caution and avoid it.

However, the day I ate my last cheddar bite, I found myself still craving cheese.  And the only thing left in the refrigerator was several unopened bags of garden vegetable jack.  I decided to try them…how bad could it be…it was cheese, right?

Oh…my…god!  It was like heaven in your mouth.  I have never tasted something so scrumptious, something so absolutely bursting with flavors.  The spices and cheese blended so perfectly that my eyelids fluttered close and I audibly moaned.  I lost track of time…of existence…of everything.  That is until my hand hit the bottom of the empty bag.  I had eaten the entire thing!

My first thought was panic and how to hide the evidence.  My second thought was about the remaining bags in the refrigerator.  Thirty-two servings later, spices all over my chin, my spousal unit found me an hour later laying on the floor, empty bags scattered around me, in a cheese coma.  I didn’t even care.

Brain Heart Disconnect

DH once told me that sometimes he learns something, and he has to get his heart to believe and feel it.  Logically he knows it's true, but something refuses to allow him to accept it.

Other times he feels something with his heart, but the logical side of his brain doesn't accept it.  It's like the facts don't support his belief.

I think this is the struggle of being a Christian.  Sometimes you can read things in the Bible that make perfect sense, but since you don't have any personal experience with them, they don't affect you.  Other times, you know something is true through faith, even if you have no actual evidence to support them.  You struggle with this disconnect.  Enlightenment, if you will, is bringing your brain and heart together.

I’ll Be Okay

I was talking to my friend CC one day, relating to him my latest trials and struggles.  At the end, I said, “But enough about that.  I’ll be okay.”  His reply was so profound and unexpected.  He said, “I know.  Out of all of my friends, you’re the only one I don’t worry about.  I know you’ll be okay.”  I was immediately touched by his faith in me. 

And then it got me to thinking.  All of my life, I have felt like my parents favored my brother more.  My general feeling was that he was their favorite, but suddenly, I was looking at it a whole other way.  Just maybe they tried harder with him and helped him more, because they were worried about him.  Just maybe they weren’t worried about me.  Maybe, like CC, they knew that I would be okay, so they focused on my brother who needed them more.  They could have been showing me the highest form of respect and faith, and I was missing it.

Happy St. Paddy’s Day!

Did you know that wearing green shirts on St. Patrick’s Day started in the 17th century and was popularized by Irish immigrants in the United States?  They believed that wearing green made them invisible to leprechauns; fairy creatures who would pinch anyone they could see.  You might have been pinched for NOT wearing green before.  Well, this was to remind you that leprechauns could sneak up on you at any time!

Solomon's Wish

2 Chronicles 1:7-12 relates the story of God telling King Solomon to ask for anything, and God would grant it.  Solomon goes on to ask for wisdom and knowledge, so that he could lead his people and be a good king to them.  It’s such a pure and unselfish choice that God goes on to grant him all the things he didn’t ask for as well; such as wealth, possessions, and honor.

When I was about thirteen years old, I read this story, and I wondered what I would ask for had I been in Solomon’s place.  Essentially, it’s like God granting you one wish.  Of all the things you could ask for, you have to narrow it down to just one.  I agonized over this, struggling with many different ideas, because it had to be perfect.  It had to be a wise choice that could be used to help other people.  It couldn’t be frivolous and petty.  It would be permanent, so it had to be something to transcend my current trials or situation. 

But what did I know at my age?  How could I possibly know what I would go through or endure?  What tool or ability, what gift of the Spirit, would be most useful to my journey and future life?  What did I want most from God?  So, I prayed.  I asked God for the ability to understand people; what they were going through, who they truly were, what they were saying without saying.  I wanted to be able to read someone’s heart. 

And I believe that God granted my prayer that day.  I noticed a change in my interactions with people.  My listening grew better, and as I listened, I started to pick up on subtle hints and clues.  Little things that most people miss.  I became more observant and mindful.  As I grew older, the ability grew stronger and came easier.  I honed the gift through practice.  I found people seeking me out, like they knew that I would be able to understand them.  It was so strange and yet so natural at the same time.

Somewhere along the path of life, I stopped listening.  I let my mind and emotions make decisions over my heart.  The gift doesn’t come so easily to me anymore.  It’s still there, but I think I get in my own way.  I want desperately to have it again; to feel like I used to and connect with people like I used to.  I felt more caring and in touch back then.

I wonder...if you had Solomon’s wish, what would you choose?

Mysterious Trail

While walking down the hall today at work, I noticed an unusual splotch of brown liquid dried on the floor.  I didn’t think much of it, and I continued on my way.  But as I walked, I started to notice that there was a wavy line of dried brown drip spots radiating away from the original splotch and following me down the hall.  I peered at the floor ahead of me and noticed that they traversed the entire length of the hall and disappeared around the corner.  Completely intrigued by this point, I followed them to see where they would lead.  I made the turn and noticed that they almost immediately turned again and took up along a parallel hall still heading in the same direction.  On and on they went; down the hall, through the security doors, and clear to the other side of the building.  I finally lost them when they headed out the loading dock door and off into the parking lot.  I have no idea what it was or why someone was dripping from one end of the building to the other.  I also don’t know why someone would enter just to to leave without stopping in between.

Happy Pi Day

Today is “Pi Day,” which is an annual celebration of the mathematical constant p (pi) and represents the first three significant digits of pi (3.14).  It also happens to be Albert Einstein’s birthday.  So today, we eat delicious desserts with flaky crusts and fruit centers while having nerdy conversations about mathematics and physics.  I can’t think of a better way to spend a day.

Crazy Hug

MR often asks about my spousal unit at the end of our conversations.  Usually he ends with, “Tell her to take her right hand and put it on her left shoulder.  Take her left hand and put it on her right shoulder...”  The usual direction after that is for her to squeeze and give herself a hug from MR.  This time I jumped in before he could complete it, and I said, “And tell her to wait while we tighten the straight jacket?”  It was so unexpected that MR started laughing raucously.

Ambassador for Inclusion

In 2014, Billy Bean was appointed as Major League Baseball’s first Ambassador for Inclusion.  His role is to “provide guidance and training related to efforts to support those in the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) community throughout Major League Baseball.”  In other words, he will help gay baseball players transition and be accepted by fans, teammates, and executives.  He will be a liaison on how to come out and how to deal with any possible backlash.

Why Billy Bean?  He was the second MLB player to come out as gay, and the and first to do so while still actively playing.

But I have to say that I was honestly shocked to find out this information.  We actually need a full-time person whose entire role is to help people come out of the closet?  And who is paying for this?  The fans.  I’m so glad that I stopped supporting MLB about 15 years ago…

Dusting on the Day of Rest

My wife asked me to clean up the house today.  Most specifically, she asked me to dust.  I hate to dust, so I told her that I couldn’t do it because Sunday is my day of rest.  She said that I had rested on Saturday, so I could dust today.  I tried to tell her that that is not how it works.  One does not imply the other, but she handed me a duster anyway.

I begrudgingly started to dust, and as I made it into the bedroom, I caught my foot on the edge of the bed.  It started to bleed all over the place, and I had to patch it up.  When I showed her my new wound, I said that it was God’s punishment for me being disobedient.  He said to rest on Sunday, and I had not done it, so now I was bleeding.  I blame this outcome squarely on my wife for forcing me to dust on my day of rest.  She blames it on me for being a klutz.

Cocaine Bubbles

I got a new computer at work, and I put the bouncing bubble screensaver on it.  Today I came back from a meeting to find the bubbles bouncing all over the screen at Mach speed.  I have no idea what got into them, but they looked like they were on cocaine, or at least that they’d had one too many espressos.

GoPro Life

I read a post where a guy said, “I should wear a GoPro when I go out drinking, so I can figure out where the night went wrong.”  This was so funny and so profound to me.  This could actually be applicable to so many parts of life.  Record it, so you can see where you screwed up.

Ditching Your Daughter

HR was talking to her father in India, telling him about the rough week she had been having, the issues she’s been struggling with, and her emotions about her impending divorce.  When all of a sudden, he tells her that he has to go, so he can use the bathroom.

She was a little shocked by this sudden turn in the conversation, but she complied, expecting him to call her back in 30 minutes or so to resume their conversation.  She said that it had been two days, and she was still waiting.  I busted out laughing.  This was a stroke of pure genius.  Not knowing how to deal with the spaghetti emotions of his daughter, the man basically got out of an emotionally-uncomfortable conversation by going to the bathroom and never coming back.  

Maybe he is hoping that if enough time goes by, then she’ll forget about it, and he can forego the uncomfortableness altogether.  I can just imagine him saying that every time one of their phone calls starts to border on emotional territory.  HR is going to start thinking that her father has bladder-control issues!

The Starfish

After high tide, an old man was walking down the beach.  Every few steps, he reached down, picked up a starfish off the sand, and tossed it back into the ocean.  A little girl, watching him do this again and again, approached the old man and said, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you doing that?  There are thousands of starfish on the beach.  You can’t possibly save them all.”  The old man reached down and picked up a starfish off the sand.  He showed it to the little girl and said, “You’re right.  I can’t save them all, but I can save this one.  In the grand scheme of things, it might not seem like it matters, but it matters to this one.”  And he tossed the starfish into the ocean.

A friend of mine told me that story, trying to convey that small actions can have big consequences to someone’s life.  It might not change the world, but it can change one person.  A few weeks later, another friend of mine was telling us about an old Marine Corps buddy he had that called him out of the blue and started asking for his advice.  When the guy asked his buddy why he was calling him of all people, the soldier said, “Because I could always tell that there was something different about you.  The way you conducted yourself.  The underlying integrity and morals that you had.  I knew that something or someone was working through your life, and I knew that it was something that I wanted too.  So, when I needed advice, you were the first person I thought of.” 

My friend was choked up with emotion.  During his entire 20-something career in the Marine Corps, he had struggled with his faith.  Let’s be honest, it’s not exactly an easy place to be a Christian.  He constantly felt like he had failed God.  And yet, all these years later, here was proof that he had been doing something right.  Without even knowing it, he had touched this fellow soldier’s life.  He had thrown one starfish back into the ocean.

It gets me how people are so focused on the news and what’s going on in different parts of the country or different parts of the world.  We are so focused on “over there” and “somebody needs to do something about that,” that we miss the things right in front of us.  God doesn’t need us to change the world.  He has put people all over to handle the issues of the world.  But what He does want is for us to handle the issues that he has put us around.  There are people struggling right here.  There are people needing right here.  There are people to love right here.  We miss them, because we are looking over them at the people over there.  And it’s even worse when someone says that they won’t do anything because it won’t matter.  Well, we should learn from the starfish.  It will matter to that one.

Ebelskiver

Today, I was treated to my first ebelskiver, which is a Danish pancake.  JT took me to a cute little café called Three Little Griddles, which is exclusively in CO.  On special was a bacon and egg ebelskiver.  I was curious, so I asked our incredibly out-going waitress what they were exactly.  She described them as a pancake, about the size of a donut hole and a half, stuffed with bacon and eggs; glazed with maple syrup; and sprinkled with powdered sugar.  I was fascinated by this, so I ordered seven of them.  They…were…a…mazing!  Apparently, you can get them with fruit or chocolate inside as well.  Something to look forward to next time!

Dominar Rygel the XVI

Rygel was a character on the TV series “Farscape.”  He was from a race known as Hynerians, which had the unusual characteristic of farting helium whenever they were nervous.  JT and I were discussing this one day and wondering what it would be like to have this issue in real life, especially if you released it through silent flatulations.  There would be no hiding it or acting like it didn’t happen, because suddenly everyone around you would be speaking in a high voice!

Window Seat

I am on my way to my old college roommate’s wedding today, and I got stuck in the middle seat between a father and his daughter.  They obviously chose the window and aisle seats, so that they didn’t get stuck in the middle seat, like I now find myself.  I hate this seat.  I can’t look out the window, stretch my legs out, or conveniently get up to use the bathroom.  There is nothing redeeming about this seat.  But it really irks me that they purposely chose not to sit together.  Instead they are talking over me.  So, I made sure to lean back and forth in their way to make it less convenient…

The worst part of it is that the daughter, who is next to the window, closed the shade so she could sleep!  Why would you get a window seat and not look out the window?!  Here I sit, actually wanting to look out the window, and all I can do is stare at the seat back in front of me.  So, I did the only thing a man could do in this situation, I sat there staring at her instead.  At some point, she woke up with a start.  I like to think her subconscious was telling her that someone was creepily staring at her.

New Job Title

So, along with my promotion, I got a new job title.  I’m now officially a “Consulting Operations Integration Team Lead.”  I told my boss that it was too long, and I was going to need new business cards just so I could remember it.  He told me that I just needed to find an acronym to make it easier and more memorable.  So, he suggested taking the first letter of each word.

I looked at him dead in the eye, and said, “No.” 

He said, “What’s wrong with COITL?” 

I replied, “Nothing’s wrong with it, I just don’t want people feeling like they want to light cigarettes up after they get done talking to me.” 

He looked confused and asked, “What do cigarettes have to do with COITL?” 

“Everything!” I exclaimed.  The girl across from me was losing it.  I added, “Perhaps you shouldn’t be shouting ‘coital’ out across the office.”

“Why?  Is it bad?” he asked.

There was no way he had not heard of this word.  Or was there?  “Look it up.  But don’t use your work computer.”

I saw the blush instantly spread across his face and down his neck.  “Oh…my…god!”

“Yep, pretty much.”

“Okay, that’s bad.  We just need to come up with something else.  How about Consulting Operations Integration Team of the U.S.?”

“So, you think going by COITUS is better?” I asked.

Again, he looked confused.  “Is that a word too?  What does that one mean?”

“Look it up, but don’t use your work computer.”

Psst!

My wife bought this automated air freshener last week to try out in the house.  We placed it in the front entryway to see what the potency range of the spray would be.  It quietly went about its business, and we completely forgot about it. 

Today, while I was sitting at the table doing a puzzle with my mom, I heard someone say, “Psst!”  I looked up but nobody was there.  Now my wife and I occasionally will play tricks on each other, like standing around the corner and slowly opening the door, so it looks like a ghost is coming in.  So, I immediately thought that she was jacking with me.  I sighed and went back to the puzzle and forgot all about it.  About 30 minutes later, she did it again, “Psst!”  Annoyed, I said, “Yes?!”  But again, no reply.

My mom started laughing hysterically and asked, “Who are you talking to?”  I said, “Didn’t you hear someone say, ‘Psst!’ a minute ago?”  She replied that she hadn’t, but I was certain I had heard it this time.  So, I got up and went looking for my wife’s hideout.  I found her in the back bedroom folding laundry, and I asked her what she wanted.  She tried to play it all innocent, denying that she knew what I was talking about, which just annoyed me more.  I threw my hands in the air, exasperated, and went back to the puzzle.  When she did it again 30 minutes later, I yelled, “What?!”  Again my mom started laughing hysterically, but this time she was pointing at the stupid air freshener.

So all weekend long, we had a running joke that I was having a conversation with the air freshener.  My wife finally got tired of my running dialog with the aromatic device and moved it to the bathroom.  Now, I hear it talking to me in my dreams…every 30 minutes, its tantalizing voice calls out, “Psst!” and I smile.

Not How I Imagined

Well, I have been a manager for three weeks now, and it hasn’t turned out like I had hoped.  I was telling my wife this morning that you get these things in life that you want so much, that you get obsessed about, and they become like gods.  You spend your time striving for them.  You look to them to give you identity and purpose.  You expect them to bring you fulfillment and joy.  And then when you finally obtain them, you don’t feel any of those things.  It’s like a great, big reality check, and you suddenly realize that you have been wasting your time striving after the wrong things.

Only God can give you identity and purpose.  Only God can bring you fulfillment and joy.  I should have spent more time seeking Him and less time caring about a stupid position or title.  But I feel like I had to learn this lesson.  I feel like God had to break me over the rock, so that I could finally open my eyes and live.  I still feel like He will do something with me in this place, and maybe now that my agenda is out of the way, His plan can come to pass.

The Surgeon

When I was little, my stepfather used to call me “The Surgeon,” because of the methodical, precise way that I would cut up my steaks.  I would cut each piece into the exact same size before ever taking a bite.  I don’t know why I was opposed to the more conventional cut-and-eat-one-bite-at-a-time method, but it made more sense to me to get all of the work over with first and then spend the rest of the meal enjoying the fruits of my labor.

One day he went and got a white lab coat that he had from work and put it on me.  I had to sit there the whole time, eating in a white coat, while he said, “Now you look like a proper surgeon!”  To this day, I still cut up my meat like this.

Hot Chocolate 15k

I just finished my first 15k run yesterday, the Hot Chocolate 15k, which officially marks the furthest I have ever run.  For those of you not familiar with running (or the metric system), that is 9.3 miles of grueling pounding on the concreted streets of downtown Dallas, TX.  There was a point in the race when I hit “the wall,” and I didn’t think I was going to make it.  In training, I had not been able to run more than 6.25 miles, and on that day I got a nosebleed and lost feeling in one of my feet.  So, I was pretty sure I was going to have to take a break for this race. 

But what was unexpected is that I hit “the wall” when we passed the Mile 1 marker.  I knew instantly that that could not be a good sign.  But I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, watching as the pacer’s sign moved further and further ahead of me.  As long as I could still see it, I had hope, no matter how far it seemed in front of me.  I didn’t look around.  I didn’t notice my surroundings.  I just tried to focus on the music coming through my headphones, and not on the burning in my legs and my lungs.

The music helped to distract me, but I think I might have brought along the wrong playlist.  Since I was trying to concentrate on the music, I was more focused on the actual words in the lyrics than ever before.  Song after song seemed to be reminding me that there was no way I was going to finish this race.

The Man Who Can’t be Moved by The Script

“There are no holes in his shoes but a big hole in his world / Maybe I’ll get famous as the man who can’t be moved / Maybe you won’t mean to but you’ll see me on the new / And you’ll come running to the corner / ‘Cause you’ll know it’s just for you / I’m the man who can’t be moved”

Hope and Prayer by Savannah Outen

“I die just a little / Each day I see the pain that they must live / I cry just a little / And I wonder if there’s more that I can give”

God of Our Salvation by Phil Wickham

“Come you tired and weary / Come just as you are / Come and let His mercy heal your heart”

Just Like a Pill by Pink

“Run just as fast as I can / To the middle of nowhere / To the middle of my frustrated fears”

The Distance by Hot Chelle Rae

“And just so you know / The distance is what’s killing me / Time and space have become the enemy / And what I need is so far away / And so it goes / The distance makes it hard to breathe / My heart won’t let go easily / I don’t want to be this far away”

But I did finish and with a pace of 10 minutes and 39 seconds per mile, which was well ahead of the 11 minute pace the pacer was supposed to be setting.  In fact, at around Mile 8, I actually passed the pacer, and I crossed the finish line before her.  I went from barely able to see the pacer’s sign to leaving her in the dust! 

It was by far one of the most intensive physical activities I have ever done.  Not because the activity was hard, but because it spanned such a long time of continuous effort.  Which I found gives you a lot of time to think about what you’re doing, how your body feels, and whether you’re going to make it.  It’s too much time for evaluation and doubt.  I may never do it again, but I’m extremely proud of myself for making it the entire way.  However, I have a feeling that once the euphoric high wears off, that I probably won’t be able to walk for the next week.

Fungus

Mushrooms are the liver of the plant world.  They break down things in nature like the liver breaks down things in our body.  Death and toxins flow through them.  This is why I won't eat either one.  Now you know.

Finally…smack!

I got promoted today to the job I have been trying to get for the past five years…to the job I have been passed over for six times.  When my friend heard about it, she was immediately concerned about who she would report to and how it would affect her ability to progress in the company.  This is because the person’s place I was taking (her current manager) was moving on from the company.  She wasn’t happy for me.  She didn’t tell me congratulations.  She actually cried, because she didn’t want a new manager.  In addition, instead of recognizing how hard this might be for me to suddenly be over people that I had called my friends, people that I had shared meals with, she was focused on herself.  She didn’t help make the transition easier.  She instead made it more awkward.

She started to talk about how I couldn’t eat lunch with the group anymore, because it would make people feel uncomfortable.  She talked about how everyone, including herself, would now have to censor their speech and watch what they said around me.  She even said that she was going to miss talking to me!  Years we have spent developing a friendship, and just like that she was throwing it away.

I couldn’t even be happy and celebrate for one moment, before this stuff started.  So, instead of sitting here tonight, enjoying what should be a monumental achievement in my long, hard career; I am upset and depressed, eating a carrot…alone.

UPS = 8, Me = 1

UPS drivers are normally ridiculous for the game that they play in trying to drop the box, ring the doorbell, run back to the truck, and drive away before you can even get to the door.  It’s like spotting the Loch Ness monster or Bigfoot to catch one before they drive off.  Well, with the Christmas holiday right around the corner, they have upped their game.  They are now traveling in pairs…a driver and a runner.  When they are at the house next door, the runner leaps out of the truck and runs up to the house.  All the while, the driver keeps the truck rolling by.  When the runner has done his or her drop and ring, he or she sprints back to the moving truck, hops in, and away they go.

Well, today, I heard the bell ring, and I took off into the bonus room next door.  It has windows that overlook the street.  I got there just in time to catch the runner jumping back in the truck before they raced off around the corner.  I got you UPS!  Score one for me.

Scottish Me

So, you know how when you hear your voice on a recording, you sound differently than you do to your own “ears”?  Medically speaking, this is because you aren’t normally hearing your voice with your ears.  You’re hearing it through the vibrations traveling through your jawbone up to your ear bones.  So, you’re technically hearing a purer version of yourself than everyone else is, because they’re getting the distorted version of your voice…the voice that has had to travel through the air; through pollution, and molecules, and other people’s voices floating in the way.

Well, a while back, I was recording myself singing, because I wanted to see if I sounded as good to everyone else as I do to me.  Which was a great big, fat “negative, Ghost Rider.”  I vowed never to sing again.  This commitment lasted all of about 20 min, when I decided that it was probably more practical to not record me singing anymore.

Well, today, I took it a step further.  I was sitting here wondering if me doing an accent or impersonation actually sounded differently to everyone else as well.  And you know what?  IT DOES!  If the recording is anything to go by, then I, in fact, sound even better doing an accent to everyone else!  You’re welcome. 

My Scottish voice sounded better on the recording than it did to my own ear bones.  I thought I was authentic.  I may never speak in a normal voice again.  Then again, maybe I’ll try other accents and see how those go.  I might be onto something here!

Wedding Memories – Conclusion (Happily Ever After)

At our reception, we gave out little scrolls on yellowed, parchment paper.  Each was tied with a black satin ribbon and placed in front of the plates on the tables.  This was what they said:

Come, Traveler, and listen whilst I relate to you a tale of forever love and the union of two hearts, of nature and its beauty and the bonds of holy matrimony, of exotic people and far away lands, and did I mention…marriage.  ‘Tis sure that you have ne’er heard a tale quite like this one.

Once upon a time there lived two souls as different as the cultures that birthed them.  The Lady A was a sweet child with a beaming smile and rosy cheeks, always happy and brimming over with life.  Master D on the other hand was dark and mysterious, locking away secrets and emotions behind his dark façade.  As fate would have it, they had resided in the same village for on six months without e’er crossing paths.  Then one bristling autumn day the Lady A met a man while doing the washing, and destiny was set into motion.  The man would soon become the unlikely messenger that would bring these two hearts together.  You see the man was roommate to none other than Master D.  But I tarry too long on this story, and anyway you can probably imagine that love grew and progressed between A and D.

It would be a full two years before destiny would be satisfied, though.  Our lovers traveled to a land northwest of San Antonio, in what is known in present day as Lost Maples.  It was here among the changing trees, the glistening ponds, and the mighty mountains that these two became one.  So on an autumn day much like the day they first met, Lady A and Master D were joined in the eyes of God.

Now you might think that this is where the tale ends, but actually this is just the beginning.  You see this was only the first of three weddings that would join these same two hearts.  Due to the remoteness of this first spot, not all of the family was able to attend.  So, on the following day a second wedding took place upon the vast green lawns that surrounded the home of a wealthy man named Meyer.  Now Meyer was known for his hospitality and would often rent out his spare rooms to wayfaring travelers…it was even rumored that he provided his guests with breakfast every morning before they set off.  So, on his lawns overlooking the creek and surrounded by ancient cypress trees, A and D took their vows for a second time.

Now if you were paying attention you remember me saying that there were three weddings.  And three weddings there were.  We move our tale to a land where titans roam the earth and crumbling ruins can be found on every corner.  It was here in the exotic land of Greece that the most traditional of the three weddings took place.  In a small church overflowing with people, an ancient tongue could be heard resonating from beneath the shadows of the cross.  And this ceremony would unite our young lovers for the third and final time in what could only be called a very crazy month.

And now here you are to join in their celebration.  For you yourself have now become a part of their amazing tale.  May your life be filled with as much happiness and good fortune as you will find here among these happy hearts.

Wedding Memories – Part 5 (Cake)

Me:  Two weeks after the last wedding, we finally had a reception in the United States.  We rented out a greenhouse at the Gardens of River Oaks, which afforded us a beautiful scenic view, lots of light, and the perfect space to end our crazy month of wedding events.  Since we had kept the wedding itself to just close family, we opened up the reception to everyone else.  We had a pretty good turnout, not too large and not too small.  Just the intimate kind of thing we were hoping for.

We did all of the traditional things that people do at wedding receptions; toasts, first dance, etc.  But the thing that really stuck out was the cake.  My mother had made the cake with several tiers separated by Greek columns.  There were little stairways going off one of the main tiers to smaller tiers on the side, and there was a groomsman and bridesmaid on the stairways for each of our wedding party.  Laying haphazardly all over the cake were beautiful orange, red, and gold maple leaves made out of sugar.  The cake encompassed all the parts of all of our weddings perfectly.

Spousal Unit:  I was really looking forward to the reception in Houston.  It was the first time I was going to be able to share my happiness with my friends and colleagues, and it meant that all of this was finally winding down.  We could finally start to live a normal life.  My new hubby did a perfect job picking out the location.  The greenhouse was beautiful.  It was just a small affair, but it felt cozy, like everyone there was family.  We kept it laid back, which was perfect.

Me:  We cut the cake, and I forked up a piece to feed it to my wife.  We had agreed that we didn’t want to smash it into each other’s faces, so I teased her with the fork moving it around so she couldn’t bite it.  Finally, she grabbed my wrist to stop my movement, and that was when disaster struck.  The piece of cake, which was sitting lightly on the fork, flew up in the air.  I watched in slow motion as it arced perfectly and dropped right down the front of my new wife’s dress, sliding cozily between her cleavage.  Being the gentleman that I am, I graciously and anxiously agreed to go in after it.

Spousal Unit:  The myriad of weddings, stress, and running around over the last month had caused me to lose quite a bit of weight.  My wedding dress, which had been snug when all of this had started, was now barely hanging on.  My bridesmaids had had to use quite a few pins to cinch it up and keep it from sliding right off me.  I was doing okay, until I had grabbed my new hubby’s wrist and watched in slow-motion horror as that piece of cake flew right down the front of my dress.  Had it been a few weeks earlier, and it would have just harmlessly bounced off my breasts.  But with my dress being baggier, it went right in and made a home in my cleavage. 

I instantly slapped my hands over my breasts and started laughing in disbelief.  When my new hubby offered to go in after it, I started laughing so hard that tears were coming out of my eyes.  I eventually fished it out of there and somehow managed to feed a piece to him.  Truth be told, I was very tempted to smash it in his face after that.

Wedding Memories – Part 4 (Argument)

Me:  Our wedding was filled with drama.  I was so busy running around coordinating the whole event that I don’t remember half of it.  But I do remember an incident that happened with my father, stepmother, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law.  There is a custom in Greece that when someone is coming to your country for the first time, or you’re meeting them for the first time, that you go out of your way to make them feel welcome.  That was how my in-laws made me feel when I first visited Greece.  Naturally, they expected the same thing when they came to the United States for our wedding.

My mother-in-law and brother-in-law took to my mother right off the bat.  I think that was because she had agreed to go pick them up from the airport and then had gotten them settled in.  They thoroughly loved talking to her, and they still ask about her wellbeing to this day.

My father and stepmother, however, did not get off on the right foot.  The moment they showed up at the bed and breakfast, they instantly gravitated to my brother and his family.  They did not seek out my soon to be in-laws and properly welcome them to this country, which my soon to be in-laws took as a slight to the highest degree.

Spousal Unit:  There was an issue with my husband’s father and stepmother.  The expectation was that they would seek out my family to meet them and welcome them.  That is what we do in Greece.  To not do so is considered rude and unforgiveable.  We just don’t treat people like that, so we don’t expect to be treated like that.  Well, the first thing they did was start talking to their other son and playing with their granddaughters.  They couldn’t even take five minutes to greet my family.  Needless to say, my brother pulled me aside and let me hear all about it.

He was livid.  He went on and on about how rude this was and about how he couldn’t figure out how my fiancé had turned out so well coming from people like this.  He further expounded on the fact that they were the exact opposite of my fiancé’s mother, who he adored.  I tried to calm him down.  He agreed to get through the wedding without incident, but he would not forgive this slight.  He and my mother forbid me to tell anyone about this conversation, especially my fiancé.

Me:  Late on the night before the wedding, I got a knock on the door to my room.  I opened the door and found my fiancé standing in the pale light.  She asked me to come outside and talk, so I grabbed my jacket and went out.  She conveyed to me the conversation she’d had with her brother and mother about the snubbing by my father and stepmother, which of course instantly set me off.  Not so much that they were upset, which was understandable, but that they had forbid her to tell me.  I felt like it was my right to know.

I instantly marched over to my father’s room and asked to speak with him.  He listened to my explanation about how his actions were perceived as rude and culturally unacceptable…before blowing up in a tirade.  He had an excuse for everything, but none of it held water.  His actions were perceived as rude and intention didn’t play into it.  I told him that my fiancé was upset and begged him to try to remedy the situation, so that it didn’t ruin our wedding.  Instead, he decided that he was going to just pack up and leave.

Spousal Unit:  I was afraid to tell my fiancé about the conversation with my brother, but I needed to tell someone.  He was my best friend, and I didn’t want to start off our marriage with secrets and lies.  I’m not sure what I expected him to do about it exactly…nothing, I guess.  I just wanted him to know.  I wanted him to share my burden.

I was not expecting him to get mad and march off to his father’s room.  He was so in charge and commanding at that moment.  I was both proud and scared at the same time.  I had never seen him like that before.  I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I was freaking out that it was going to get back to my brother that I had told.

Me:  I left my father’s room more upset than when I had gone there.  I was disappointed in his behavior and mad that he would ruin my wedding out of his own selfish pride.  I went and found my fiancé to let her know about my conversation, spewing expletives throughout.  I had just finished conveying my father’s response, when the man himself walked up, my stepmother in tow.

Apparently, cooler heads had prevailed, my stepmother’s, and they wanted to talk about how to repair the situation.  In other words, my stepmother wanted to talk, my father wanted to sulk at being forced to admit he was wrong.  So, we found a little sitting area in between the buildings and we talked it out.  It got heated in parts, but we came to a mutual understanding and decided on a plan.  They were going to make an over-the-top effort the next morning at breakfast and apologize profusely for not welcoming my in-laws properly the day before.  My father was less than thrilled with the idea, but he begrudgingly agreed.

Spousal Unit:  I didn’t know what to expect when my fiancé’s father and stepmother walked up to us.  His father looked pissed and just stood there with a scowl on his face and his hands thrust into his pockets.  We found a place to sit and talk, which was dark and poorly lit.  The bugs kept buzzing around as they tried to decide if they wanted to go toward the light or away from it.  The conversation went about as well as could be expected with my fiancé and his stepmother doing most of the talking.  I was regretting ever having said anything about this.  It was a disaster.

Me:  The next day, I ran into my grandmother at breakfast, and I asked how she had slept.  “Terrible,” she said.  When I asked her why, she added, “Somebody was up arguing outside my window all night.  It kept me awake.”  I blushed and hastily excused myself to check on the arrangements for the day.