Buttered Crackers

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

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

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

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

My Preeeecccciiiooouuuss

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

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

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

Archery Tournament?

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

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

Gray Water

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

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

The Storm

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

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

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

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

Dabbawalas

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drunk Driving

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

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

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

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

Nutless Banana Nut Bread

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

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

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

Vekin Fingers

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

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

Monster Repellent

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

Parkinson’s Barber

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

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

My Brother from Another Mother

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

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

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

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

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

Pareidolia

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

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

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

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

Still Kids at Heart

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

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

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

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

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

In the Mouth of Frogs

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

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

The Mad Scientist

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

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

Sometimes doing my job has it perks.

Mouth to Snout Resuscitation

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

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

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

Beard Net

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

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

Service with a Smile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another One Bites the Dust

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

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

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

Equine Ninjas

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

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

Growing Another You

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

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

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

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

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

How Do You Eat a Buffalo?

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

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

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

Raksha Bandhan

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

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

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

Phone Support Parody

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

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

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

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

Caller:  Customer service.

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

Caller:  Presses 3.

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

Caller:  I need to make an exchange.

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

Caller:  Associate.  Presses 0.

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

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

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

Caller:  Presses 1.

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

[Elevator music plays.]

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

[Elevator music continues to play.]

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

[Elevator music continues to play.]

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

World Chase Tag

Do you remember playing tag on the playground when you were a kid?  Well, now they have taken that game of elusiveness, pumped it up on steroids, and made it into a sport.  It’s called World Chase Tag, and it’s a combination of tag and parkour.  Two teams of four people send one person onto the floor at a time.  One of them is the chaser, and one of them is the evader.  The chaser has 20 seconds to try to catch the evader as he runs around the course.  But the catch is that the course is littered with parkour obstacles.  Ramps, platforms, bridges, pipes…all kinds of things that the evader can use to jump, slide, swing, and dodge behind while he runs out the clock.  If the chaser manages to tag the evader before the time is up, then his team gets a point.  If the evader can stay one step ahead of him, then his team gets a point.

Playground games are no longer just for kids.  They are now extreme!  Tag, you’re it!

The Recycled Orchestra of Cateura

“Cateura, Paraguay is a small city that has grown atop a massive dump.  It is regarded as one of the poorest slums in Latin America, a village where people live among a sea of garbage.  Incredibly, the landfill itself is the primary form of subsistence for many residents, who pick through waste for items that can be used or sold.  Prospects for most of the children born in Cateura is bleak as gangs and drugs await many of them.  But then one day, something amazing happened.

A garbage picker named Nicolás Gómez (known as “Cola”) found a piece of trash that resembled a violin and brought it to musician Favio Chávez.  Using other objects collected from the dump, the pair constructed a functional violin in a place where a real violin is worth more a house.  Using items gleaned completely from the dump, the pair then built a cello, a flute, a drum, and suddenly had a wild idea: could a children’s orchestra be born in one of the most depressed areas in the world?  As you can guess, the answer was yes.”

- Colossal (Online): April 2013

The Recycled Orchestra of Cateura gave people a purpose, a hope for a better future.  It taught children about music and inflamed a passion in them that they didn’t know they had.  It became an international success, playing all over the world and touring with some of the biggest bands and orchestras from every nation.  What started out as a hair-brained idea, turned into one of the most innovative ideas to ever revolutionize the music industry.  It paired cast-off garbage with cast-off children to form something beautiful.  It also inspired a documentary called “Landfill Harmonic,” which was released in 2015.

“There were a lot of drugs, alcohol, violence, child labor – a lot of situations that you wouldn’t think are favorable for kids to learn values.  However, they have a spot in the orchestra.

“Like an island within the community, a place where they can develop these values.

“We’ve seen cases where parents with addiction problems have quit taking drugs to go to their kid’s concerts.  And in a lot cases, the parents have gone back to finish school because their kids are being seen all over and they think, ‘They are going forward.  I want to, as well.’

“They are not only changing their lives but the lives of their families and their community.”

- Favio Chavez, Orchestra Director

Gender Neutral

There is a big push right now in society for gender self-identification.  People want the right to choose what gender they want to be.  If you’re not happy with being a man, just overcome it with the sheer power of your mind.  Will it hard enough, and your genitalia will suddenly change into what it was “always supposed to be.”

This is a new, and frankly asinine, take on sexual orientation.  It is no longer enough to corrupt God’s creation by choosing to be with someone of the same gender.  People must now justify it by claiming that God messed up in the first place, because they aren’t the gender they were meant to be.  But it’s okay, because they can fix it by simply choosing to be something different.  So, if a man chooses to be with another man, it’s okay, because he identifies as a woman inside.  The whole concept of making something so just by saying it is so is ludicrous.  Simply saying I’m a woman does not change the science involved that would prove that I am in fact a man.

It has gotten so far out of hand, that people have started to push this concept down to children.  Society is in outrage at parents that dress their little girls in pink and their little boys in blue.  They are appalled at buying girls dolls and dressing them up as princesses.  Apparently, the only acceptable thing to do anymore is to buy a little girl a doll and an action figure and let her choose which gender she wants to identify with. 

Do we really think that children are thinking about this stupid stuff?!  Only adults who have lost their purity and innocence could come up with this junk.  People so lost in the sin of their own self-righteousness that they have to find ways to destroy the beauty of the original creation. 

Well, I’m going to teach my daughter to be a girl.  I’m going to teach her that it’s okay not to be a man, because she’s special and beautiful just the way she is.  I’m going to teach her to celebrate the differences in the genders, because those differences compliment each other.  I’m not going to teach her that everyone is the same, and the world is just a blending of cross-over confusion.  If she wants to dress up in a fluffy dress, then I’ll put a tiara on her head and treat her like the princess that she is.  

And if she decides to get a little more edgy and go for something a little more badass, then we’ll get her a mask instead of a tiara, so she can be a princess by day and a crime-fighter by night!  Cleaning up the playgrounds in style.  

"Bring it, you overgrown turds!  I'll kick your behinds without even getting my tutu dirty!"

Gurgle, Gurgle

My stomach is so messed up today that I just apologized to the air freshener before leaving the bathroom.

Mary and Martha

I had a Mary and Martha moment today, when my wife texted me to say that two of her friends were coming over to pray for her and the latest baby process.  I freaked out because she only gave me 30 minute’s notice to straighten up and clean the house.  In all honesty, it’s not that we’re slobs or anything.  Generally speaking, our house is usually in good shape.  But we do live in it, if you know what I mean, so a certain amount of effort would need to be involved to get it ready for public visitation.

So, I found myself frantically running from room to room, grumbling the entire time about my wife’s complete disregard for my time.  Of course, she wasn’t even home to help, so I had to do it all myself.  And all of a sudden, the Lord put the story of Mary and Martha on my heart.

In the story, Martha was in the kitchen preparing a meal for Jesus, while her sister Mary was sitting in the other room talking to Him.  Finally having enough, Martha complained to Jesus that He should tell Mary to help her.  He responded that Martha was unnecessarily worried about things that weren’t that important and missing the things that were.  She should have been focused on the life-giving words that Jesus was speaking instead of the food, like her sister.

So, I stopped grumbling and focused on the fact that these women were coming to speak life over my wife.  They weren’t there to judge the state of our house.  And the stories of the Bible suddenly came to life and intersected with my own living reality.

To top it off, the women brought oil and anointed my wife’s feet…just like Mary did with Jesus.

The Adaptability of Dreams

Last night, I was dreaming about driving down a freeway in a car, racing some guy so that he didn’t cut me off.  When all of a sudden, there was a gigantic statue located right in the middle of the lane.  We both swerved to miss it, and then there was another statue.  Statue after statue was staggered across the various lanes of the freeway, and we had to slalom around them all. 

They were fanciful pieces of art, featuring perfectly formed men creating planets and discovering scientific advancements.  Statues commemorating creation in various forms.  In my mind, I realized that this was part of a visiting art exhibit in town, and we were driving right through the middle of it! 

As we progressed, the statues got closer and closer together, so that it was becoming nearly impossible to maneuver the car around them all.  At some point, they became so dense that I began to panic…and just like that, I was riding a bicycle instead.  I suddenly had no problems making the turns and sliding through the smaller openings.

I love the adaptability of dreams.  Your mind will encounter something impossible in the real world and seamlessly adapt the surroundings so that it’s possible again.  And the beauty of it is that you don’t even question it.  You accept that it is and that it totally makes sense.

The Wizard of Oz

At my job, I often feel like I have to overcome the impossible and take on the brunt of the burden.  People rely on me and come to me for so many things that I often feel as if I’m drowning in a sea of bodies.  I even have people from other teams that I have never met before coming to me with questions about integrations, because someone that they know told them that I was the guy with the answers.  At first, it was flattering; but after a while, it just became suffocating.  The more I gave, the more people wanted.  The consequences of reliability and generosity were a hundred more hands tugging at my clothes.  Each day became a construct of illusion and magic just to survive.  On my way out the door each morning, I used to joke with my wife, “I’m off to be the wizard!”

When my boss recently left, my former manager (who was now my peer) was promoted to his position.  I supported this because she had the most experience dealing with the bureaucracy and corporate politics, and I felt she had the best chance to quickly step in and calm the waters.  As with everyone, she has strengths and weaknesses.  She is a strong task manager.  She is a weak innovator.  When she has a plan, she is very good at driving it to completion, but it’s the coming up with the plan that she struggles with.  That’s where I come in.

She has come to rely heavily on my counsel.  She runs every question, every decision, every issue past me to get my ideas.  It has gotten to the point that she won’t decide on anything until she has consulted me on it first.  While I am again flattered that my opinions are valued, and I appreciate the experience of being involved and learning the business side of things, I still can’t help but feel like I am secretly running the team from behind a curtain.  In reality, I truly have become the wizard.

Mobile Life

When we decided to leave Missouri, our first choice was New Haven, Connecticut.  My wife had received a post-doc invitation from Yale University, and at first, she was eager to accept it.  I mean, it’s Yale!  We visited, we secured an apartment, and we started to pack.  But as the time drew closer, my wife found her heart longing for the silver screen instead.  She wanted to take a hiatus from science and explore the alluring world of acting.  So, she instead headed to Los Angeles.  For three months, she attended a prestigious acting school, all the while being sucked into the glamor of Hollywood.  I stayed behind and worked.

One night, I received a phone call from her that she wanted to move to L.A. full time and pursue her acting dream.  I was reluctant, but I had always supported her, so we cancelled New Haven and turned our sights to L.A.  She secured an apartment, I sold the house, we packed up our stuff into a moving truck, and we shipped our life to L.A.  It traveled through Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada…before finally arriving in California.

But destiny had other plans for us, and I quickly discovered that I couldn’t find work.  For three months, I scoured the internet, sent my resume to every job even remotely close, and was rejected time and time again on interviews.  It wasn’t happening.  And that’s when I got an email from an old friend of mine that his company in Dallas, TX was hiring.  I decided to apply…I mean, what could it hurt?!  And within two weeks, I had a job offer. 

It truly felt like this was where God was leading me, but not wanting to destroy my wife’s happiness, I told her that I was going to Dallas, and she could stay in L.A.  She ultimately chose our marriage over Hollywood and decided to come with me.  So, she sublet our apartment, repacked our stuff, and shipped it back to Texas.  It traveled through California, Arizona, and New Mexico…before finally arriving in Texas.

All told, our stuff has seen more of the United States than we have!  Or at least the western half.

Ceiling Fan Helpdesk

I bought some new ceiling fans for the house, and today, I decided to try to put them up.  Despite the fact that I’m electrically-challenged, I somehow managed to get the first one installed with minimal incident.  Before I put all of the finishing screws, caps, and fan blades on it; I felt it would be prudent to actually make sure that it would turn on.  I turned on the breaker, flipped on the switch, and I waited.  Nothing happened.  I flipped the switch on and off several times just to make sure that it didn’t need a jolt.  Nothing.  I flipped the light switch on too, just to make sure that I didn’t wire the two backwards.  Nothing.

So, I went back downstairs to turn off the breaker, climbed back up the ladder, and I re-checked all of the wires to make sure that they were still connected.  Everything was fine.  I tried switching the wires just in case the electrician had gotten them backwards.  Made no difference.  I took the switch plate off the wall and made sure that the wires were actually hooked to the switches, and they were.  I plugged in a wall lamp just to make sure that the room was getting power, and it lit up fine. 

I was stumped.  So, I decided to break down and call my father for advice.  He patiently walked through every single thing that I had tried myself, and then he paused.  After several seconds, he said, “Did you pull the chain on the fan, because it comes from the factory in the ‘off’ position?” 

I instantly felt a wave of embarrassment come over me.  I had just had the ceiling fan equivalent of an IT helpdesk call.  “Is the computer actually switched on?”

Of course, it would be the simplest, most-obvious thing.  I was just over-thinking it.  As I always tell my associates when they are troubleshooting an issue…always check security first.  In other words, start with the easiest solution and work toward the more complicated.  I should heed my own advice.  I was just schooled by a ceiling fan.

Kopi Luwak

Today, HR was telling us about kopi luwak, which is a gourmet coffee from Indonesia.  It is made from partially-digested coffee cherries that are eaten and defecated by the Asian palm civet.  The defecated coffee cherries are then collected, washed, and roasted.  Producers of the coffee beans argue that this process of digestion and defecation actually improves the quality and taste of the coffee through both selection and digestion.

The fact that the Asian palm civet, or luwak, a nocturnal catlike animal, will choose only the ripest and most flawless coffee cherries to eat ensures that the coffee beans are of the highest quality.  The biological and chemical mechanisms in the luwak’s digestive tract alter the coffee beans, making shorter peptides and more free amino acids and reducing the beans’ bitterness through malting germination.  Kopi (the Indonesian word for “coffee”) luwak is more of a gimmick or fad coffee rather than being known for its exquisite taste, but it is still one of the most expensive coffees in the world with a retail price of $700 per kilogram.

This got me to thinking.  If horses are valued based on their bloodlines and heritage, then are luwaks also valued for the quality of the coffee that they produce?  Are there domesticated luwaks out there being force-fed coffee cherries laced with laxatives to speed up production?  Are luwak babies bought based on who their sire was with the hope and anticipation that they will defecate high-quality coffee too?

In all honesty, while defecated coffee beans might sound completely disgusting to you, I’m not actually bothered by this.  As far as I’m concerned, this is no different than regular coffee in taste and style.  All coffee is crappuccino, no matter where it comes from.  So, you can keep your Poopi Kopi, and I’ll wake up the old-fashioned way…with a shower and a hot meal.