One Step Forward, or is it Backward?

I'm told that my brain has two different sides.  A right side and a left side.  Apparently each side controls the side of my body opposite to it.  So the right side of my brain controls the left side of my body and the left side of my brain controls the right side of my body and vice-versa.  Am I the only one like this?  I can't imagine this is according to design.  Not only are my wires crossed, but each side of my brain supposedly has different characteristics from the other.  One side is more creative and the other side is more logical. Unfortunately my logical side is stronger than the creative side.  I say unfortunately because it seems like the people who have more creativity and less logic have more fun.

The only logical explanation is that my head is on backwards.  Think about it.  What direction do almost every other creature's hind legs bend?  Have you ever noticed that walking uphill backwards is easier than walking forwards?  Hang your arms limp at your sides.  Which way do they face?  It all makes sense.  At some point in the past our heads must have gotten turned around backwards and ever since we've been all mixed up.  No wonder they say hindsight is 20/20.  It must come from the days before we got twisted.

How different would life be if we had our heads on straight?  I'm pretty sure low rider pants would go out of style in a hurry if those people could see what everyone else has been seeing all along.  It's quite disgusting!  Also, imagine all of the stubbed toes and dented shins that would have been avoided.  That inside pitch to the mid-section back in little league wouldn't have hurt so bad either.

I wonder if someday we will get our heads back on the right way.  Maybe then we won't try so many backward solutions to so many of our problems.  I suppose it's not likely to happen any time soon. 

That's Just Not Normal

We all have our eccentricities.  Somehow we end up incorporating them into our lives in such a way that we can become as normal as possible.  In statistics the term "normal" is defined as the average of a group of numbers.  If we apply that definition to life, then being "normal" depends largely on the company that you keep.  Of course when I mention this to people in casual conversation they often tend to scatter... I'm not sure what that means.

Now, I don't mean to say that our personalities automatically match those of our peers.  Although this is often the case.  I'm simply saying that the social definition of normal is relative to the society at large.  So when somebody calls me abnormal, it doesn't mean that there is something wrong with me, it might just as easily be said that there is something wrong with everybody else.

Some people go out of their way to be abnormal.  I can relate to this.  I don't want to be totally predictable.  This doesn't mean that I don't want to be stable.  Stability and predictability are two totally different concepts.  Unpredictable means coming home from work and taking the family out for ice cream before eating dinner.  Unstable means coming home from work wearing a suit and tie and then going out for the evening wearing high heels and a gown.

In reality, no sane person by themselves can claim to be normal.  Being normal requires a group, otherwise there is nobody to compare with.  This is where the schizophrenic has the upper hand.  They are the only people who can be completely alone and still call themselves normal because they keep most of their social network conveniently tucked away in their own minds.  Ironic isn't it?  It's only when they are amongst other people, who don't happen to be figments of their imagination, that their behavior becomes abnormal.  It's sort of like the scenario where a tree falls in the forest with nobody around.  Does it still make a noise?  Likewise, if a crazy person is alone and there are no normal people around to define him, is he still crazy?

The point is that we expect people to behave a certain way, and when they don't, it makes us uncomfortable.  We can't predict what they will do, and more than anything else, we fear the unknown.  In fact I would guess that the majority of our time, energy and resources go towards protecting ourselves from the unknown.  Like scary parts in movies, the anticipation of what will happen next is much more unnerving than the actual event.  Except for the flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz.  The sight of them still creeps me out.

It's not just abnormally bad behavior that worries us either.  When a bad person suddenly does something good we tend to put ourselves on guard.  This abnormal behavior, although good in itself, is nonetheless abnormal and leaves us wondering what will happen next.  There is comfort in predictability, but when we break out of the molds that we build for ourselves, then what happens next is anybodies guess.

Any change we make in our lives, be it for the better or worse, brings uncertainty because it isn't normal for us.  The comforting thing is that there are countless others who are also making changes and seeking a new normal.  Thank goodness for Facebook, which is full of abnormally normal people.  If you can't find like-minded people there, then you could always consider schizophrenia.  It works for me, and me, and me...

Honored to Serve You

Wow, I'm in a bit of a spot.  Like the rest of you, I recently read, to my horror, that this years federal work force is going to be the largest ever!  Appalling!  But that's not the worst part.  Guess who their latest recruit is?  You're lookin' at him!  (Well, not literally looking at him, only figuratively, unless you're reading this while I'm standing near you.  Hi Melissa!)  Yep, my new big boss is none other than Mr. Change himself.  

Don't let my tongue in cheek fool you, I'm very excited about my new job.  I'll be going to work for one of the only federal agencies who ever gave a dam.  In fact, they gave several thousand dams.  That's right I'm going to be the newest engineer with the Bureau of Reclamation.  Love them or hate them, they made the western United States what it is today.

I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am at the prospect of endlessly repeating every dam joke I've ever heard and hopefully learning some new dam jokes.  "Meet you at the dam store."  "Better check the dam safety guide..."  "I got lost on the dam road... " "Has anybody seen my dam pamphlet?"  Oh, the tears are flowing!

On March 15, 2010, I officially take up my post at Yuma, Arizona.  Home of the famous... um... (quickly googling "yuma arizona famous") ... Home of the Famous Footwear?  Hmm, I'll have to check that out.

Needless to say my family feels terribly excited.  Only, leave off the "excited".  We've made some great friends here and we have had an all around great time living in southern California.  Much better than I had expected.  Change is never fun, no matter what anybody says.  But I am hopeful that things will turn out just as good, if not better, for us in Yuma.  It's like my good friend John always says, "you get to take the most important things with you."  

Shadows and Arrows

February has always sort of confused me and not just because of the way it's spelled.  On the one hand, we celebrate Valentine's Day which is an all out, over-the-top, mushfest of sentimentality and affection.  For women it is a day of hopeful anticipation that they will receive a token of admiration from that special someone.  For men it means a mad dash to the grocery store the night before to find that the only thing left is a broken chocolate cupid and some road flares.  Nothing says you care like emergency preparedness and a naked, one armed greek god.

It is generally a time to show that we care enough about our most cherished relationships to take at least a little extra thought and do something out of the ordinary.  In essence it is a time of either renewing old bonds or giving fresh new life to a budding relationship.  Sort of like Spring.

This brings me to the confusing part of February.  Before we get to all this lovey, dovey, "Spring is in the air", celebration, we must first find out if Spring is indeed in the air.  And who is the wise sage that brings us tidings of the changing seasons?  Wrong, it's not Al Gore.  We have a much more trustworthy source in the form of a rodent.  Yep, Groundhogs day.  This furry little critter comes out of his warm home just long enough to give us the weather forecast and then he's done for another year.  Must be a rough life.

See there's no problem if he pops his head out and proclaims - yup, it's Spring, let the good times roll!  In that case it is perfectly appropriate to celebrate Valentine's Day two weeks later.  But what if he comes out and says - sorry, six more weeks - shouldn't we postpone the festivities until mid March?  That way it would coincide nicely with St. Patrick's Day and all of those red and green Christmas decorations that are still up in the yard won't seem quite so out of place.  But no, instead of a Top o' the Mornin' Valentine's Day, we go on undeterred and celebrate Valentine's Day in the dead of winter.

So here's my question, why do we even bother the groundhog?  We aren't going to change our plans anyway, we should just leave him alone.  It's like asking for directions when you are lost and then continuing to wander aimlessly.

As usual, I'm probably the only person in the world who is worried about this, so I should probably just let it go.  You can't really expect logic from a culture who insists on randomly changing their clocks twice a year in the name of saving daylight.  It seems that the last four hundred years of increased knowledge about our solar system would make it clear that the sun doesn't stay up longer just because we adjust our clocks.  It's enough to make Copernicus roll over in his grave!

Well, at least I know what my plans are for next Saturday night.  Fortunately I live in a place where there is no winter so none of this really matters in the slightest.  As for those of you who are still entrenched in the snowy depths of winter; at least you can warm your hearts with a store bought sign of your undying affection.  Awe, isn't that sweet?

Say What?

I don't like ugly words.  Ugly words are the words that can't be classified as swear words but that nonetheless detract from an otherwise harmonious atmosphere.  The bad boys of the ugly words are "shut up" and "stupid".  If you say either of these words in our house then you'd better be prepared to receive a harsh lecture from the Uglyword Patrol, which consists of an 11 year old boy and a 6 year old girl.  I never realized what a serious combination that could turn out to be. 

I normally don't have a problem avoiding the words 'shut up'.  I'm not big enough to enforce that on anyone but my children anyway, and that just seems weak and bullyish.  Besides, they can be taken care of with a simple threat of grounding.  The word 'stupid' on the other hand is much more difficult for me.  Not that I call my kids stupid, but it slips out so often when I'm talking about other things.  For example, when I'm discussing the current popular social themes, it's difficult for me to complete an entire sentence without using the word 'stupid'.  Maybe I'm just not sympathetic enough with the whining, gimme this and gimme that, mentality that I hear from every stupid bleeding heart that get's their fat face on my television.  See there I go again!

What I need is to find another word that can suit the purpose.  How about asinine?  Yes, that sounds much less ugly.  It's also a little more gratifying to say, for some reason.  Let me try it out -- Maybe I'm just not sympathetic enough with the whining, gimme this and gimme that, mentality that I hear from every stupid asinine bleeding heart that get's their fat face on my television.  Oh yes, that's much better!  I'll add more asinine to my vocabulary.  I'll work on "fat" later.  (Hmm... that sounds eerily similar to my diet and exercise routine.)

I guess the other solution would be to take a more positive approach to confronting the differing opinions of the day.  I do admire those who seem to be able to hold their cool in the face of a riotous crowd that is fully engaged in a mindless chant.  I only wish I knew how to do that.  For me there is no peace until I have said something that I know I will regret later.  It's a strange kind of therapy, kind of like acupuncture.  First the barbs and then the relief.

I suppose I'll try to keep the ugly words to a minimum.  I just hope nobody is around when I tell the next stupid asinine political pundit  to shut up.  Oh dear, here comes the patrol.  Quick, what can I ground them from?

An Even Dozen

I saw the strangest thing in Walmart the other day.  (Bet you've never heard that before.)  I was walking through the mens hygiene section, as I often do, and I came across a bottle of all-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash.  Aren't those all the same thing?  I always thought all those bottles in the shower were just for variety.  I guess that might explain why every third day I have such a hard time making the soap lather up.

I'm just not very knowledgeable about such things.  I'm not sophisticated.  My favorite color is plaid, my favorite pants are Levis, I cut and style my own hair and, you guessed it, back in high school it was whitey tighties all the way baby.  I am the exact opposite of a metrosexual male.  Although I don't wear flannel.  I know flannel doesn't really itch, but it looks like it should.

So you might be wondering, who on earth would marry this person who is merely one step, give or take, above a Neanderthal?  Well I can tell you she is very patient.  Patient enough to have lasted twelve painfully un-color-coordinated years.  She has a sense of humor too.  The other day she was headed to the craft store and she considerately asked me if there was anything I wanted her to pick up while she was there.  I told her I wanted some denimfleece so that I could make myself a hat, with tassles, and a matching man-bag.  And what was waiting for me when I got home from work?  Yep, she made the whole thing, even down to the Magenta thread.

What a remarkable woman I got!  I can hardly believe it's already been twelve years.  But I'm sure that it has because that's what she wrote on the calendar.  That calendar has saved my bacon on more than one occasion.  Just another example of what a caring wife I have.  She is actively helping me to avoid being thoughtless.  (I'm not saying all of this because I'm in trouble right now.  Honest!  It's how I really feel.)

She walks beside me, while my knuckles drag, and together we have faced every challenge that has come our way.  Hopefully that's how it will continue.  It gives me hope for a bright future ahead.  (Hmm, this is getting too sappy.)

It's not that I'm trying to act uncivilized.  I just don't see the problem with wearing a brown shirt, brown shorts, white tube socks, brown shoes and a brownish yellow baseball cap.  The beauty of it is, she understands that I don't care and she helps me anyway.  That's devotion.  And I am getting better.  I even ventured into the womens clothing section to pick out her last birthday present.  I was certain that the Homeland Security's Masculinity and Counter Heartwarming Operations (MACHO) team would repel down from the ceiling at any moment to extract me from the premises.  However, it was actually pretty uneventful.  I picked out a couple of sweaters and a shirt.  Of course I got all the wrong sizes.

So here's to many more years of fumbling my way around the color wheel and putting myself into uncomfortable situations in search of the perfect gift.  I may not be able to find matching socks, but I know I've coordinated at least one thing right.

Happy Anniversary Melissa!!!!

Common Fugitives

I went through enough toilet paper when I was in high school to account for at least two thirds of Connell National Forest.  Fortunately for me, it wasn't all used in the traditional way.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that most of it never came anywhere near a bathroom, unless you count the bathroom window.

I was a frequent participant in the great American pastime of launching as many rolls of toilet paper as possible, in  ten minutes or less, into some unsuspecting person's yard.  Of course the houses weren't chosen at random.  I wasn't out decorating the homes of widows or anything like that.  I typically chose people that I was friends with.  You know, just to show them that I cared, in the only way that a high school teenage boy knows how.  By annoying them.

I wasn't alone either.  I won't name any names but I'm pretty sure that the vast majority of all five people who will ever read this were co-conspirators with me.  Of course I feel safe in confessing all of this because the statute of limitations on toilet tissue crimes has long since passed.  Besides, I've moved away and, therefore, no longer fear retribution.

Walking into a grocery store at 10:30 PM and buying a case of T-P is a rite of passage that every teenage boy must go through.  Incidentally, if you want to have some fun, try adding some things to your purchase.  Toilet paper and a magazine is always good.  You might score points with a cute cashier buy purchasing a tear jerker movie, like Old Yeller or Empire Strikes Back (it always gets me when Vader confesses his paternity), to go along with your case of toilet tissue.  The girls all like a sensitive man, or so I'm told.  However, my favorite items to go along with a late night toilet paper purchase are pork rinds, bratwurst, sauerkraut and root beer and then throw in a can of Lysol just to sweeten the deal.  This combination also helps to keep people from asking too many prying questions.

Picking the house is always somewhat of a challenge.  You have to choose somebody who won't get all bent out of shape when they wake up to a two-ply blizzard the next morning.  As I recall we usually chose girls' houses because, well, we were boys.  It just seemed natural. We never could keep it a very good secret though.  In fact sometimes we would even leave a trademark as a hint.  For instance, one night we left Snapple bottles on the doorstep.  They were empty of course.  Not that it matters.  The whole next week, every time we passed the victim at school, we tried to be either holding a Snapple or mentioning something about it.  Gosh, we were the clever ones!  I wonder if folks ever worried that they would someday see my face next to the caption, "Worlds Dumbest Criminal"?

There were hazards involved.  Of course we always ran the risk of getting caught.  This only happened once, and our punishment was being invited inside for hot chocolate.  Oh and cleaning up the mess the next day.  It was funny though, I could have sworn that there were four of us the night before, launching T-P grenades, but the next morning it turned out that there had only been two.  At least, that's all that showed up to clean anyway.

We also had to watch out for electric fences.  Oh how I still laugh out loud when I remember hearing the sudden shriek of pain piercing the night air.  Twice!!  The same night!!  I'm not sure what those folks were trying to keep out of their garden, but I do know of one individual who never entered it again.  And no, it wasn't me.

I guess what we were doing could be classified as vandalism.  Ancient petroglyphs were also technically vandalism when they were perpetrated.  Now they are priceless artifacts of past ages.  That's how I like to remember my late night escapades with my friends.  At least we were giving something useful.  You never know where or when that bratwurst might rear its ugly head.  We were simply making sure those folks were prepared.  So why not let the good times roll?

What is the Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow?

I can think of a thousand other things I would rather discuss than politics.  Unfortunately the massive political turmoil in our world right now is kind of like a big black hole that sucks... everything into it.  The result is that any topic, especially the price of rice in China, ends up leading to politics.

I could be talking about popsicles and that would lead to popsicle sticks and popsicle sticks look like tongue depressors and tongue depressors are used in doctors offices which are soon going to have pictures of President Obama in them, just like every other government building.

Or it could be as simple as discussing my favorite breakfast cereal, which of course has almonds in it.  More than 75% of the worlds almonds are grown right here in California, which has seen thousands of acres of farmland idled due to a combination of drought and rampant fish brained environmental regulation.

It's hopeless.  There is no topic that won't lead me on a collision course with some political mumbo jumbo.  It's even worse when I'm conversing with somebody besides myself, although I don't draw as many stares when I'm not alone.

I want to be optimistic and say that things will settle down soon and we can resume our pointless discussions about the weather without leading to a debate over global warming climate change.  I try hard every day to think positively.  I really do.  But then I get cut off in traffic and I'm reminded of birds sitting on my hand at the zoo, which reminds me that all of the animals are going extinct and, unless I live in a hole in the ground in the middle of prime farmland, then my livelihood isn't important enough to be protected.

Still, I hang onto the hope that one day I won't be enveloped in all this constant political upheaval.  I'm pretty sure the founding fathers hoped for that day too.  In fact, the hope probably stems all the way back to Adam and Eve.  After all, they were the pioneers of the two party system.  Polar opposites who simultaneously depended on each other for survival and, I'm sure at times, wished to annihilate one another.  And the debate has stirred ever since.

In the midst of all the chaos, it's good to keep in mind that life is about having experiences, both good and bad.  With those experiences comes knowledge.  With that knowledge comes freedom.  With that freedom comes the ACLU.  Doh!!!! 

Finding Outstanding New Ways to Celebrate Mediocrity

Okay, so what just happened?  Here we all are, standing on this lovely spinning ball, as it travels in an endless arc around a massive eternal explosion.  Each day of the year is nothing more than a calculated position along a well defined trajectory.  So what's the big deal?  Why all the celebration?

I understand celebrating something that has never happened before, and will never happen again.  That is a truly significant event.  But this is all going to happen again next year, and then again the year after that.  It's like watching a car race and celebrating each lap as if it were some incredible accomplishment.  The track goes around and around, where else was the car going to go?  Likewise with the earth, where else would it go but around and around?

If there were some obstacles in there, then that would be something different.  Instead of a car race, make it a demolition derby.  Now, there's excitement!  If the earth were bouncing between planets like a pinball, then celebrating each lap around the sun would definitely be appropriate.  In that case it is entirely likely that each lap could be our last.

As it is, la-dee-dah.  Been there, done that.  Here we are at the beginning, see you at the end, happy new year.

Nothing New, Nothing Original

Christmas has been written about literally since the beginning of time.  The imagery and allegory surrounding the Saviors birth have been described in countless writings.  The story has been told from the perspective of kings, shepherds, angels, animals, trees and even Whos.  What more could possibly be written of that great event?

Well, it's never been written about from my perspective.  Of course, I'm not exactly sure what my perspective might have been.  Was I in the heavenly choirs?  I don't think so.  Judging by my voice now, the veil would have to be made of some kind of cosmic titanium cement in order to so effectively muffle that sort of talent.  I'm pretty sure I wasn't with the angelic messengers either.  Statistically speaking, it's highly improbable.

I'm guessing that I was probably worrying about all the little stuff that was going on and missing the bigger picture.  That's typical of me.  I can't just enjoy the moment.  I have to scrutinize every last detail and try to find obscure resolutions to all the insignificant events.  It's quite likely that I created at least one spreadsheet during the whole sequence of events.  Spreadsheets, after all, are the staff of analytical life.

Instead of marveling at the humble circumstances of the stable, I was probably doing some quick figures to see just how many more hotel franchises were necessary in order to accommodate the sudden influx of travelers.  I'm sure that, instead of relishing in the symbolism of the lowly shepherds being the first to visit the manger scene, I was probably worried about what was happening to their sheep while they were gone.  When the star was shining in the east, I was probably thinking about the west.  Mostly because I prefer the west.

More than likely, I was just one of the countless masses who were gathered to experience the singular events that were about to take place.  Nothing spectacular, just one of the crowd.  But I was one.  So were you.  We were there, watching.

So I guess my perspective is that I am just one of many, many others who still  marvel at such an extraordinary event.  But I am one.  He knows me and He knows you.  And that's a mighty comforting perspective.

Merry Christmas!

Do You Take Cream?

I'm sure we've all been stuck in a refrigerator at one time or another in our lives.  For me, that time came when I was probably around 6 or 7 years old.  I had a very good reason for getting into the fridge, but my plans took a serious turn for the worse when I failed to properly communicate my sound logic to the nearest responsible adult.

It all started with a cow.  I've never had much use for livestock.  I prefer mine medium to medium well.  But this particular cow was a lovely holstein named Daisy, who gave enough milk to keep us and at least two other families well mustached.  Every day, after we milked the cow, mom would put the milk in a refrigerator out in the garage.  I use the term "we milked" very loosely.  I usually just watched.  After the milk and cream had separated, mom would go out and skim off the cream.  I liked to accompany her while doing this, again, just to watch, because it looked cool as she carefully spooned the cream from the top of the milk.  Simple minds, simple pleasures.

As an aside, and this has nothing to do with the story, she used to take some of the cream and pour it over some freshly picked raspberries.  Add a little sugar and you have one of my fondest childhood memories.  Okay, back to the story.

This one particular day, she was skimming cream and I was less interested in her work than normal. So I thought up a game, all by myself I might add.  The idea was that I would climb into the fridge, shut the door and then after a few minutes, mom would open the door and let me out.  I know, this astounding creativity truly foreshadowed a mind destined for greatness.

I carefully explained my plans to mom, climbed inside, and shut the door.  In case you've never skimmed cream, or seen it done, it requires total concentration and a steady hand to make sure that you don't scoop up any milk or leave too much cream.  My mom was good at it.  So good, in fact, that she could shut out any interruptions, including the carefully planned out strategies of her youngest prodigy.  In her defense, who really ever thinks that their child is in danger of getting trapped inside a refrigerator?  I'm pretty sure it's not something that most parents ever take a second thought about.

I have to explain here that this was an older fridge.  Apparently back in the early days of refrigerators, folks were quite concerned about their food escaping so they installed latches on the doors.  Since there is no door handle on the inside of a refrigerator, of course you can see what an alarming safety hazard this could be.

There I was, shivering inside the fridge and anxiously awaiting the moment when the door would pop open and I would triumphantly climb out and greet my cheering fans.  Waiting... still waiting... Okay, now I was getting a little concerned.  I don't remember how long I was in there, but it must have been at least two and a half, or three minutes.  Long enough for me to fully comprehend some deep flaws in my otherwise foolproof plan.

Luckily I was a chatterbox as a child and so my mom, upon returning to the house, instantly noticed the relative peace and quiet.  Like most parents, she was deeply concerned when there was peace and quiet in the house.  Peace and quiet when you have children is sort of like having that extra dessert.  It's seems so nice at the time, but there are unseen consequences that won't be fun to fix.

Needless to say, since I am writing about it nearly three decades later, mom quickly found me and set me free.  It makes me wonder if the fridge was typically the first place she checked when she was looking for me.  Although, to this day, it's a safe bet that if you don't know where I'm at, check the fridge.  As my wife can attest.

Well, there you have it.  Your typical harrowing experience of cheating death from being trapped in the fridge.  It just goes to show that no matter how well thought out your plans are, it's probably best not to climb into the fridge.  Words to live by.

Problem Solved

I've got it!  Talk about killing multiple birds with one stone, I have an idea that is far reaching and multifaceted.  Let's outline some of todays greatest challenges:

- cheap alternative energy
- health care
- high unemployment

They all have the same answer.  Exercise!!!

Are you with me?  Let me explain.

We have an exercise machine known as an elliptical.  You've probably seen one, its like a cross between a stationary bike and a stair climber.  Today I was somewhat considering the possibility of thinking about maybe deciding to make a goal of climbing on it and trying to get some exercise.

Then the idea hit me.  All three times I've used the elliptical I've been fascinated that it measures the wattage that I'm generating with my workout.  Just now I got on and I was putting out a full 500 watts.

Now do you see where I'm going?  We've got a lot of people out of work right now...

Just think about it.  Renewable energy, healthier people, new jobs.  It's the ultimate cure-all.

Who's with me?  I can see it now.  We'll put an exercise place next to every sub-station and everyone will have to take their turn in it, just like jury duty.  Let's just call it an energy tax.

If I Could Only Remember the Color of That Yellowbrick Road

I am not always right.  In the past I've said this, but I'm not sure I've always believed it.  Sometimes I think I was just playing along to make everyone else feel good.  Deep down, I've always been pretty secure that my judgment was without reproach.

That is until recently when it occurred to me that I am truly not perfect, nor have I ever been.  Talk about a shocker!  I do stupid things.  Things that any sane person would have to shake their head at in disbelief.  What's more is that, even when my opinion has merit, somebody else might have an equally viable approach that seemingly contradicts me. 

I've always judged my perfection status on how well things are going in my life.  My life is pretty good.  I've got a wonderful wife, great kids and we've got what we need to live.  So one could only assume that my decisions have been spot on.  Turns out I can't take any more credit for how my life has turned out than I can for the autumn leaves changing colors.  The real kicker is that my life has turned out well almost in spite of some of my past choices rather than because of them.

As you can imagine, this new found self-awareness has been more than a little disconcerting.  I find myself second guessing everything I do, and then I second guess my second guesses.  I suppose that would be called tertiary guessing, or would it be quaternary, or maybe I should just call it poly-guessing?  Oh, who knows what is right?

You see, now that I know for sure that I'm not always right, I'm not sure if I should keep on going as before, making stupid mistakes, that I believe to be correct, and hoping that things will continue to turn out well.  Or, am I now obligated to making no more mistakes and, if I'm ever wrong again, facing the fact that irreparable harm has been done to my future?

It seems like the more I think something is right, the more I'm sure that I must be completely out of my mind.  This is the dilemma that doesn't end but instead it perpetually regenerates itself.  I am truly at a loss with this one.  I can't continue forward because I will certainly make the same stupid mistakes that I have made in the past.  I might even make some entirely new mistakes and add a whole new dimension to my imperfection.   

There really is no moral to this story.  I can't draw any conclusions or wrap up my thoughts into a neat little package of polished enlightenment.  Sorry to disappoint.

I suppose I could give the old stand-by responses of "keep trying" and "never give up."  Those sound good in theory, but in practice, well, they kind of make me want to find the happiest person I can see and break an egg over their head.  Serves them right.

What I really need is a set of specifications to follow.  Clearly worded and not in the least bit vague.  The problem is that I could never write them for myself, for obvious reasons that I have already explained.  But I can write them for everyone else because, even though I'm not always right about my own life, I can tell you that if the world worked the way I think it should then everyone would be much better off.

So here are just a few rules to live by, and as always, no charge.

1 - If possible, choose the graveled over the paved road.  You may not get to your destination as fast but, in the event of an unexpected blizzard, you'll have better traction.  Anyone who lives in Idaho can tell you that, on any day of the year, blizzard conditions could be only moments away.

2 - To my knowledge, nobody has ever actually died from yellow snow, but that is no reason to test your luck just because you're not quite sure it's the real thing.

3 - Toilet seat ... down!  It's just not worth the convenience, no matter how long you've been holding it.

4 - Pick the diesel truck every time.  I'm sorry, but that is truly the way an engine is supposed to sound.

5 - A 12oz RibEye with no sauce and nothing for dessert, definitely qualifies as a lowfat meal.  Live it up!

In Their Own Special Way

How do you give thanks?  What does it really mean to give thanks?  I can give a person a dollar or an ice cream cone but it escapes me how I can give someone a thing that I can't see, feel or smell.   Rarely do I give things that can only be smelled, and usually it's on accident.

There is something about giving thanks that defies all logic.  On my birthday, for example, I receive gifts.  My response to receiving these tangible items is two words, "thank you."  I am a cheapskate but this takes it to an extreme!  The crazy thing is that those two words seem to do the trick, and not just for me.  It seems to be somewhat universal.

The whole thing just doesn't make sense.  How can a gift giver be satisfied with a simple phrase expressing gratitude?  It's human nature to want something in return, yet most people are more content with a simple acknowledgment of the gift and a word or two of sincere appreciation from the receiver.

It seems that there must be something deep down inside each one of us that triggers our most complete joy when those around us are thriving.  Indeed, there is something a little more shallow within us that wants to thrive just a little bit more than everyone else, but that joy is fleeting.  Maybe when we get a "thank you" from someone it triggers the deeper joy because we had some small part in improving the well being of another.

So here we are at Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday of the year by the way.  Probably because it involves engorging myself with a weeks worth of outstanding cuisine in one afternoon.  Yes, I like Thanksgiving  even more than Christmas, and, what's more, I have a grown-up reason for liking it better.   I think it's because, in my opinion, Thanksgiving still celebrates what Christmas is supposed to be all about.  Saying thank you for a Gift, and giving in return, the truest sense of joy to the Giver.

It's good to be thankful and it's nice to be thanked every once in a while, even though it defies all logic and goes against human nature.  I suppose, as they say in the Hoky Poky, "that's what it's all about."

Is There a Doctor in the House?

We were probably the last family in the industrialized world to finally buy a microwave.  I remember that Christmas fondly.  You see, up until then we had still been heating our food like the cavemen did, in the oven!  I think that's why I started to like cold fried chicken.  Who has the patience to wait that long for leftovers to heat up?

I remember one time when Mom had reheated something for me in the oven.  I don't recall now what it was but I'm sure it was good.  I was anxious to dig in and she knew it, so she warned me that the plate was still very hot and not to touch it.  As if I hadn't just seen her removing the plate from the red hot oven.  So I gave her some kind of indignant response like "duh, of course I won't touch it."  However, for some mysterious reason, even as the words were leaving my lips, I reached out and grabbed the plate to slide it towards me and freakish pain instantly shot through my fingers.

I replayed the event in my mind trying to determine exactly what had gone wrong.  Why had I grabbed the plate even when I knew very well that it was roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun?  Mom's reaction was a mixture of concern, anger and amusement.  Of course my sister was rolling on the floor.  I have to admit that I laughed a little bit too, between each shot of searing pain.  That might have been the moment that my parents finally decided it was time to get the microwave.  My ineptitude had convinced them that they needed to take action, and soon.

Unfortunately, grabbing hot plates wasn't my only flaw.  We lived quite far away from the city.  In fact we lived a great distance from pretty much everything.  There were people who lived in more secluded areas than we did, but they only left they're homes during certain phases of the moon.  Anyway, it was in a time and place that we didn't worry about locking our doors.  So when the door lock broke we didn't really hurry to fix it.  That is until it was discovered that I had a sleep walking problem.

When I would sleep walk, it wasn't like you see in cartoons with my eyes closed and my hands held out in front of me, wandering aimlessly.  No, I would carry out complex and often bizarre tasks.  On one such occasion I got out of bed and carried my shoes out into the living room, where my parents were still awake.  I carefully placed the shoes in the middle of the room and, having completed my work, returned to bed.  Of course I don't remember doing any of this.  It was all related to me the next morning.

So, with the door unlocked, there was a fear that I would get up in the middle of the night and wander out of the house and possibly out onto the road.  I can't imagine why I would have needed to put my shoes on the road but obviously somewhere in my subconscious was a flare for the eccentric.  The solution was to insert a butter knife into a crack in the door frame with the knife handle barring the door from opening, like an old fashioned door latch.  Apparently it worked, I never wandered out of the house in my sleep.  Although, it did pose a problem on several mornings when I was running out the door to catch the school bus.  I suppose that's why they used a butter knife instead of a steak knife.

I seemed to have a knack for finding danger in the safest of situations.  My first broken bone, for example, happened during band class.  Not marching band, just band.  I was approximately 4 feet, 7 inches tall in the 7th grade, so naturally I played the trombone.  That didn't have anything to do with my injury though.  There is an unwritten, universal rule that says there should not be bleacher risers in a band room when there is a substitute teacher.  Needless to say, I broke my foot.  Well, three toes to be more precise.

I can't really explain why, but it seemed like a terrific idea to run full speed and jump off the risers into the wall directly behind them.  After the first attempt, my foot started to hurt a little bit.  So of course I did it again.  I'm not exactly sure at what point my toes were actually broken.  It might have been upon impacting the wall, or when I landed with my foot wedged between the wall and the floor.  Or it might have been when my concerned friends ripped my unlaced shoes from my feet and began delightedly wiggling my toes asking, "is this one broken?", as I screamed in agony.  It was probably their heroics that saved me from a whole summer of moving sprinkler pipe.

It's strange to think back on all these things.  At the time I never would have considered myself an accident prone person.  Apparently I didn't know myself as well as I thought I did. 

Although it didn't solve everything, at least once we got the microwave I didn't have to worry as much about hot plates.  However, I seem to have passed my dangerous eccentricity to my son who recently kindled a fire in our microwave with some macaroni noodles because he neglected to add water.  For his safety we'll definitely have to discourage him from band and persuade him to take up something safer, like rugby.

Myriads of Nothing

What do you see when you close your eyes?  If you tend to be a smart mouth, like me, then you just answered "nothing" and, like me, you would be wrong.  (It takes a rare kind of honesty to admit that you've just answered your own question incorrectly.)  It's impossible to see 'nothing' because if you are seeing 'something' and calling it 'nothing' then it obviously isn't 'nothing', is it?

The word "nothing" is probably one of the most inappropriately used words out there.  Second only to myriad.  For the record myriad is an adjective, not a noun.  You don't have a myriad of something, rather you have myriad somethings.  Unfortunately the dictionary writers are more interested in catering to public opinion than in preserving language and therefore they have decided that 'myriad' can be used in whatever way is convenient.  Noun, adverb, adjective, preposition, conjunction... it really doesn't matter!  I don't know why it bothers me so much, we all have our pet peeves right?

What were we talking about again?  Oh yeah, nothing.  If you think about it the right way, which is my way, then it becomes obvious that there is no such thing as nothing.  It's sort of like tomorrow, as soon as it comes it's called today, so tomorrow doesn't really exist either.

So when somebody asks what you are doing and you reply "nothing" then you are lying unabashedly to them because in the very act of replying you are most definitely doing something.  The proper, and most honest response would be that you are currently replying to their unsolicited query into your present actions.  That should stop the conversation dead in its tracks.

Here's another example.  Let's say you have just finished drinking a cup of your favorite beverage and someone asks "hey, what's in that cup?"  You might reply, "nothing."  Again, not true.  The correct response would be that there are a few drops of beverage, a little saliva and a mixture of Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide, Nitrogen and a few other trace elements.  Clearly not 'nothing'!

If you need more examples I've got them.  My head is jam packed full of examples about nothing.  In fact, nothing is what I think about for most of the day.  I've tried hard to do nothing in the past, but I always end up doing something instead.  In fact I'm trying to do nothing at this very moment... it's still not working.

Like UFO's and Puff the Magic Dragon sightings, documented instances of nothing happening are very few and of dubious origin.  However, I recently heard a publicized report of a documented nothing occurrence which has shaken my convictions about the existence of nothing.  An inexplicable non-event that has been widely recognized and seems to prove that 'nothing' may in fact exist.  Even in the act of describing the phenomenon, it can still logically be described as 'nothing'.

So, what was this non-happening?  Believe it or not, it involves none other than the President of these United States.  Apparently, according to trusted sources, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for doing... you guessed it... absolutely nothing!  I can't explain it, but there it is.  Seemingly irrefutable proof that nothing exists.  Just saying that is a little disconcerting.

I still hold that in most cases nothing is used improperly.  However, when the President does nothing, it can apparently have a significant impact on our lives and peace.  So, hopefully he will keep on doing nothing in the world so that we can all have peace.

Well, I have nothing else to say, which is this:  My myriad went myriadingly along the myriad path until he came to an intersection with myriad directions, so he myriad the myriad all the way home.  Wow, that was liberating like nothing else!

Not With a Bang, but a Whimper

I understand that the year 2012 is going to be the end of the world.  We know this because that's when the Mayan calendar ends.  If I'm not mistaken, our own calendar ends on December 31, this year!  Not to stir up a panic but shouldn't somebody be looking into this, or at least trying to sell the movie rights?

Come to think of it, though, our calendar ended on December 31 last year too and the world didn't end, we just got Change.  Maybe that's all 2012 will bring as well.  Boy, wouldn't that be a relief!

Just for arguments sake, let's say that 2012 doesn't simply bring change, but indeed the end of the world.  I think we can all agree that the end of the world could be devastating to earths fragile ecosystem.  I'm no expert in biodiversity, few actually are, but I would venture to guess that all life coming to an abrupt end is not in our best interest.

Sure, some may argue that the end of the world is just another cycle in the eons of time.  I hear the same thing about global warming too.  They say it's just weather cycles and that humans couldn't be causing global climate change.  Hogwash!  I go outside everyday and I've felt the warming.  Particularly between the hours of 6 AM to 5 PM.  It's scary!  I've started wearing a coat around to insulate me from the effects of the changing climate because the anxiety is messing with my mind to the point that it actually feels colder!

Coincidentally, the solution to preventing the end of the world is similar to stopping global climate change.  It's the "fight fire with fire" approach.  Before the world ends we must do everything we can to destroy the human race.  If there are no humans, then there will be nobody to document the ending of the world and, therefore, it won't happen.  Likewise, if there are no humans then nobody will be bothered by the rising oceans and sub-tropical weather in the Tundra. 

Now I know this approach won't be popular, but most conservation groups agree that this is the elephant in the room that nobody wants to acknowledge.  Regardless, it comes to this, we must either destroy our lives or face inevitable destruction.  I know it sounds morbid, but studies show (I just conducted two scientific surveys of everyone sitting in my chair and the results were unanimous) that there is far more satisfaction in destroying our own quality of life than in taking the chance of something else destroying it for us.

However, there has recently been some promising news from the moon.  Apparently the surface of the moon is able to absorb incredible amounts of energy without even so much as a poof of smoke.  It was widely documented recently on television when millions watched in anticipation and delight as we slammed a missile into the moon at twice the speed of Superman.  The stunned faces and inaudible cheers told the story that the fruit of countless man hours and millions of dollars was ... nothing!  Miraculous!

So, before the world ends, my suggestion is that we all go to the moon, because nothing happens there and that is exactly the kind of life we all want.  Obviously I am anxious to stake my property in the best crater, however, there are many who have been working tirelessly to forewarn us about the disastrous effects of our past prosperity.  I should be a gentleman.  Therefore, to all those who's hearts have bled over dwindling  polar ice caps, please be my guest and take the first available renewable energy powered vessel to the moon!

My Tree of Life

When I think about my life I try to imagine it as a mosaic made up of many different characteristics, each with a different personality and purpose.  I try to imagine my mosaic forming a picture, maybe a professional athlete or a logger.  I mean, who doesn't want to be a logger?

Oddly enough, though, my mosaic ends up looking less like a logger and more like a tree.  I can't explain it but I can tell you one thing, I've never been so grateful for the spotted owl.  

In my case, my tree starts from hope.  I think most peoples' trees start with hope but sometimes they try to replace hope with something like ambition or desire.  While those can be good, I'm not sure they offer enough strength to make it through all that life can bring.  Hope is the best for me anyway.

The best parts of my life are derived from hope.  I'll try to explain it but please remember that I'm a very simple person and therefore I don't really have the right words to describe the tree that I imagine in my mind.  That being said, I'll do my best to do it justice.

Hope gave me adventure.  From adventure I have gained the ability to imagine entirely different worlds and to see this world, not as it is, but as it can be.  Like most adventures, mine is unpredictable and often hard to understand in the moment.  Only when looking back can I fully grasp the incredible experiences and knowledge  I have gained from adventure.  Adventure gives my tree variety and originality.  I am always proud to go along with the adventure that has come to me.

Hope gave me courage.  When I imagine all of the wonderful things in life that I may never be able to experience, courage shows me that nothing is impossible.  Going through life is confusing and everything I do seems to only make things more difficult.  Although my best efforts are never enough and misunderstanding hampers the way, courage moves me forward and makes me do my best anyway.  Courage can make it through the darkest times where nothing makes sense and desperately grasping for safety appears to others as defiance and ingratitude.  Yet after the trials, courage makes you forget the hard times and cherish the blessings that are gained.

Hope gave me joy.  Joy is the heart of all good things.  There is no unhappiness that joy can't overcome and even when negativity fills my thoughts I can always remember my joy.  Joy makes me want to be a better person and look for the good in everyone and everything.  Joy is a kindred spirit to hope and they often go hand in hand.  I am thrilled when an expression of my joy can bring happiness to others, although I'm often reluctant to share. 

Anything is possible when adventure, courage and joy go together.  Like a great paradox, they bring me stress and peace, anxiety and exhilaration.  Adventure usually leads the way, with courage and joy following closely behind.  Although, sometimes it seems that they are all going in different directions.  Adventure takes me to the brink of my sanity, courage runs away and joy fades into gloom.  But they are all guided by the same hope and we all manage to come together at the end of the day.

I wake up every morning with hope, and hope calls to me throughout the day, to beckon me onward and give me strength.  Every day ends with hope and I look forward to the next day being even better than the last.  I can't imagine it any other way.  They say that "hope springs eternal."  Well, I don't really know what that means.  I do know, however, that I look forward to the eternities with hope.

My hope, adventure, courage and joy make my life wonderful.   That is adventure spelled with an 'S', courage spelled with a 'J', joy spelled with an 'E' and, of course, hope spelled with an 'M'.  I'm sure I haven't described them the way I picture them in my mind but maybe you are lucky enough to have your own tree that you can envision.  Maybe you have grafted a part into your tree that wouldn't have normally been there.  Once the branch takes hold, it's all the same tree.

Or, then again, maybe you imagine your life's mosaic as a logger. In which case I'm sorry, I just don't have a good analogy for that.

What's that? ... Speak up!

The other day I was talking to myself and we finally figured out why I have such a difficult time alternating between speaking and writing.  Unfortunately I was talking my way through the question and therefore can't write a word about it.

I seem to have a disconnect between my thoughts and my mouth.  Even when the words do come out right I don't put the proper inflection in my voice to convey my feelings.  A few weeks ago I was "teaching" a class of eight year olds at church.  My wife usually teaches them but she wasn't feeling well that Sunday so she stayed home.  We never figured out what was wrong with her but it must have been terrible because she had fever of 115 degrees and she was so pale that it looked like she had just rubbed baby powder all over her face.  No kidding!  Just like baby powder.  Fortunately she was feeling better soon after I left and had no more problems for the rest of the day.

So I'm sitting in this class thinking I've got things under control.  The kids are sitting relatively quietly and I'm humming through the lesson, methodically hitting all the points of doctrine that were suggested in the lesson plan.

Finally one boy raises his hand, and as I prepare to answer his question I'm thinking, how good it feels to plant the seeds of thought in the minds of these children.  So the kid looks at me and says, "you need to speak with more enthusiasm, you're too boring."  He then proceeded to demonstrate how to speak enthusiastically by dancing around the room, snapping his fingers over his head, and repeating the last few words I had just said.

At the same time three other kids, who I thought were quietly listening to the lesson, suddenly snorted in unison as they awoke from a semi-hypnotic stupor.  Which, by the way, I would dearly love to learn how to do on purpose.

So I asked my vociferous young friend if he would like to help with the rest of the lesson.  He agreed and for the rest of the time I would say a few words and then he would translate them into a semi-accurate, but much more exciting version of what I had just said.  I'm sure some odd questions were asked over the dinner table that evening.  Even I had to take a few minutes to ponder what had been said.

I remember taking a class in college where we had to read a statement and then we were tutored on  how to make it sound more interesting.  I know some people are tone-deaf when it comes to music but I think I am emphasis-deaf when it comes to speaking.  I would read the words and then the tutor would say them in a way that apparently sounded more interesting.  To me it could have been a recording of how I had just said it.  I couldn't hear any difference.

I don't even speak in monotone, it's more like void-of-tone.  Maybe that's why it is easier for me to write my feelings.  I can write the words down and then it's up to the reader to apply the proper tone.  (Does anybody else smell coconut?)  So if you are reading this and you like the way it sounds, then pat yourself on the back, you are an exciting reader.  However, if you are, at this moment, thinking of old gym shorts that you would rather be smelling than reading any further, then I know of a talented eight year old who just might be able to help you out.

Can You Dig It?

Back when I was nine or ten years old I would often dig holes just for the sake of digging.  I would search out an unsuspecting piece of ground and when a satisfactory spot was located I would plunge in my shovel and dig with all my might.  My criteria for a satisfactory spot consisted of finding soft dirt with nothing edible growing in it.  Digging up unripened garden vegetables was frowned upon by my parents, as was shooting out windows with a BB gun.  How was I supposed to know?  It happened that most of my digging took place in my Uncle's garden.  He lived next door to us and would pretty much let me do anything I wanted to do.  Hence the windows and the BB gun.  So I would find a spot in his garden and dig the merry day away.  Luckily there was an impenetrable clay layer about three feet down or I might still be there digging.

Most folks have a purpose for digging a hole - gold, oil, dinosaur bones, China - but not me.  I was just digging because there was dirt and I needed to excavate.  Sometimes I would fill the hole with water and pretend to have just dug a well.  Coincidentally, this was the same logic used by the government in the recent economic stimulus spending.

My excavations weren't always so large in scale as to require a shovel.  Often a spoon was sufficient.  Not because my ambition was slackened but because it was the proper tool for the job.  With a spoon, for example, if you have the right soil moisture content you can dig a shallow tunnel that is perfectly sized for a Hot Wheels underpass.  I witnessed many an unfortunate 1:64 scale car being buried beneath the rubble of one of these seismically unsound traffic structures.  It usually only took two big stomps and the whole thing would crumble.  You're probably wondering why it took two stomps to crush a six inch archway made of silty loam soil.  Have you ever seen someone do a front flip because they tried to stomp so hard that they missed the ground altogether?  Believe me, it can happen. Occasionally it was even necessary to call in an air strike to finish the job.  I'll just let your imagination run with that one.  (This is where my wife dolefully laments, "Boys!!", and rolls her eyes.)

I'm not quite sure where my desire to dig came from.  If you trace my geneology back to Jolly Old England you will find that many of my ancestors were coal miners.  Perhaps they were calling to me through the ages to remind me of my heritage.  Or, more likely, I have Hobbit blood in me and I was instinctively trying to burrow out a home.  This would explain my excessively hairy toes and less than towering stature.  It would also explain why I have an overwhelming urge to mark "Other" for my ethnicity.  I figure I must be either part Hobbit or part Pygmy Sasquatch.  Either way I would make a terrific candidate for the Circus -- "The Great Hairy Human Cannonball!!!"

The strange thing was that every time I filled in the hole there would be some dirt that had inexplicably vanished.  No matter how carefully I stowed the dirt I always ended up short, which meant that I had to dig another hole to fill in the first.  It was like a Ponzi scheme, only with dirt instead of money.  Eventually, though, it would all even out and I was able to avoid a lengthy prison sentence.  Mr. Madoff could learn a thing or two from me, most importantly that people with sub-par judgement should stick to playing with dirt and leave the money alone.

As I've gotten older my tendency to dig has diminished.  I just don't have it in me anymore and besides, I blister easily.   I'm afraid digging is yet another pastime that is fading into memory.  It makes me a little sad.  Maybe I should go out and dig a hole right now for old times sake.  I can see the headlines now: "Thirty four year old Hobbit-American prospecting for gold in back yard; Simultaneously strikes underground gas and power lines; Explosion leaves crater halfway to China; Unearths T-Rex fossil; Records longest human cannonball flight; Lands safely on unexplained dirt pile."