Monday, May 07, 2007
Deleting post
Deleted the previous post. There are some people around who read my stuff and I don't want to get in trouble or cause any undue tention among people I know.
Monday, April 09, 2007
To ask, or not to ask
I should have known better than to question how to perform a sonogram on a horse.
Obviously it's not something you talk about every day. In fact, I don't think I have ever talked about it. I have definitely never seen someone perform a sonogram on a horse. I didn’t know how it was done and I was obviously talking to someone who did, so before I knew it, I was uncomfortably ensconced in a full-blown conversation about horse breeding.
A young student stopped by my office earlier today. She is a student worker for an office that works closely with ours, so she spends quite a bit of time in our building working on various projects. We all know her as the girl from Arizona who rode her horse to school.
She didn’t literally ride it, but as a high school student, she was looking for a small university where she might be able to board her horse so she could continue to train it and ride it. She looked at several other school nearer to her hometown, but they didn’t have any way for her to bring her horse with her. When she contacted our admissions office, somebody knew somebody who trains and breeds (apparently) horses in the area. They put her in contact with this family and the family agreed to let her board her horse at their place in exchange for some afternoon help with their other horses. It was a good deal for her and a good deal for us because she is basically a good kid and is fun to pick on.
Knowing, however, that she spends much of her spare time with horses, I always like to ask how her horse is doing. Apparently it’s breeding season in the world of horses. They just birthed a colt at the old stables and are expecting another one any day. She had pictures of the new critter of which she is quite proud. Then she told me that later in the afternoon she was going to have to perform a sonogram on a mare. This is where I made the mistake.
“That must be interesting,” I said.
“Yea,” she answered, “but it's kind of gross because the glove only goes up to here.” She pointed to her shoulder.
Now, I’ve watched enough television and heard enough stories to know that there are times when a human must stick their arm up an animal’s rear end to accomplish certain necessary functions. I was not aware that sonograms were such a function.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you do a sonogram on a horse?”
And there it was -- the simple question that led to a discussion about horses and their mating habits.
Did you know that horses in captivity are artificially inseminated because they “go crazy” and are so rough that they could actually kill each other? Horses in the wild can apparently handle it, although there might be significant bruising.
She proceeded to tell me that she would much rather be the one who sticks her arm up the female as opposed to the one who has to deal with the male. At which point I just stared at here because I couldn’t quite imagine what that would entail. I mean, do they usher the male horse to a private room and give him a dirty magazine?
I didn’t really ask because I was moderately uncomfortable at this point, but she proceeded to tell me about the male horse and the dummy and how she would much rather work on the female than be the one on the other side of the dummy with the bag.
“With the bag?” I should have kept my mouth shut but the question was out before I could stop myself.
“Well, somebody has to catch it.”
Yeah … that’s what I thought, too. I’ll admit, however, that while the conversation was a bit disturbing, it was also enlightening in that I didn’t really know that much about breeding horses.
I pointed out to the young lady that she would have to forgive me if I failed shake her hand any time in the near future. To which she replied that shaking hands wasn’t so bad … “You should be the one who has to eat with them.”
Obviously it's not something you talk about every day. In fact, I don't think I have ever talked about it. I have definitely never seen someone perform a sonogram on a horse. I didn’t know how it was done and I was obviously talking to someone who did, so before I knew it, I was uncomfortably ensconced in a full-blown conversation about horse breeding.
A young student stopped by my office earlier today. She is a student worker for an office that works closely with ours, so she spends quite a bit of time in our building working on various projects. We all know her as the girl from Arizona who rode her horse to school.
She didn’t literally ride it, but as a high school student, she was looking for a small university where she might be able to board her horse so she could continue to train it and ride it. She looked at several other school nearer to her hometown, but they didn’t have any way for her to bring her horse with her. When she contacted our admissions office, somebody knew somebody who trains and breeds (apparently) horses in the area. They put her in contact with this family and the family agreed to let her board her horse at their place in exchange for some afternoon help with their other horses. It was a good deal for her and a good deal for us because she is basically a good kid and is fun to pick on.
Knowing, however, that she spends much of her spare time with horses, I always like to ask how her horse is doing. Apparently it’s breeding season in the world of horses. They just birthed a colt at the old stables and are expecting another one any day. She had pictures of the new critter of which she is quite proud. Then she told me that later in the afternoon she was going to have to perform a sonogram on a mare. This is where I made the mistake.
“That must be interesting,” I said.
“Yea,” she answered, “but it's kind of gross because the glove only goes up to here.” She pointed to her shoulder.
Now, I’ve watched enough television and heard enough stories to know that there are times when a human must stick their arm up an animal’s rear end to accomplish certain necessary functions. I was not aware that sonograms were such a function.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you do a sonogram on a horse?”
And there it was -- the simple question that led to a discussion about horses and their mating habits.
Did you know that horses in captivity are artificially inseminated because they “go crazy” and are so rough that they could actually kill each other? Horses in the wild can apparently handle it, although there might be significant bruising.
She proceeded to tell me that she would much rather be the one who sticks her arm up the female as opposed to the one who has to deal with the male. At which point I just stared at here because I couldn’t quite imagine what that would entail. I mean, do they usher the male horse to a private room and give him a dirty magazine?
I didn’t really ask because I was moderately uncomfortable at this point, but she proceeded to tell me about the male horse and the dummy and how she would much rather work on the female than be the one on the other side of the dummy with the bag.
“With the bag?” I should have kept my mouth shut but the question was out before I could stop myself.
“Well, somebody has to catch it.”
Yeah … that’s what I thought, too. I’ll admit, however, that while the conversation was a bit disturbing, it was also enlightening in that I didn’t really know that much about breeding horses.
I pointed out to the young lady that she would have to forgive me if I failed shake her hand any time in the near future. To which she replied that shaking hands wasn’t so bad … “You should be the one who has to eat with them.”
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Time to Play
I got a new toy.
This was a completely unnecessary purchase on the part of my wife and I. I didn't really need a new toy, but living life as a male in West Texas meant that something was seriously lacking if I didn't own a truck.
I had a small truck a few years ago, but we outgrew Lao Che (the Isuzu) and traded it in for a more family friendly Jeep Liberty. Since then, the urge to own a truck has been ever present. This weekend we ran across a pretty good deal.
Meet, Shaggy! Shaggy is a 1986 Ford F150 XLT Supercab with a V8 and only 56,000 original miles (as verified by a mechanic who said there was no way this engine has 100,000 miles on it.) I bought it from a co-worker, who bought it from the original owner. For nearly 20 years this truck was just driven to work and back.
As with most of us over time, there are a few cosmetic issues that need to be ironed out. I had the motors for the electric windows replaced yesterday, and if you'll look closely at the windshield, you will see a piece of duct tape holding the bracket for the new rear view mirror in place. (Have I ever mentioned that you can do anything with duct tape?)
Shaggy didn't officially get named until Monday afternoon. We had the truck for three days and I thought we were going to call him Mater, a name which my daughter really liked, but after sleeping on it, the offspring decided we would be better off naming the newest family member Shaggy. Afterall, our other vehicles are named The Mystery Machine and Scooby. So ... Shaggy it is.
And now I can truly say that I am living the American Dream -- three automobiles in the garage and only two licensed drivers. What more could a guy ask for?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Random Thoughts
I sat in the doctor's office yesterday. Nothin' major, just a routine check up so he can tell me that I still have diabetes and that my cholesterol is still too high ... for someone with diabetes that is. Normal people would love to have my cholesterol level, but I guess I'm abnormal.
As I sat in the waiting room, I pulled out my textbook to catch up on some reading for my class later that day. I had to chuckle to myself. Unfortunately, I was all alone in the waiting room, but I was wondering how much fun it would be to sit in the waiting room of a doctor's office, reading a text book about death and dying and spouting off statistics to some poor old lady sitting beside you?
As I sat in the waiting room, I pulled out my textbook to catch up on some reading for my class later that day. I had to chuckle to myself. Unfortunately, I was all alone in the waiting room, but I was wondering how much fun it would be to sit in the waiting room of a doctor's office, reading a text book about death and dying and spouting off statistics to some poor old lady sitting beside you?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Pink Room
I’m a guy.
That’s never really been in question. I enjoy backyard barbecues, playing sports and napping through Sunday afternoon golf tournaments. I take care of the lawn, pay the bills, do minor house repairs. I watch ESPN as I’m getting ready for work every morning. I enjoy action flicks and watching things blow up. … just guy stuff …
I’m secure in my manhood, so it doesn’t bother me to drive a minivan or let my daughter dress me up like a princess. But this weekend I did something that I’m not sure I would have considered doing in years past … I painted my daughter’s room.
This was no ordinary painting project. About five years ago, when my daughter was 2, we moved into this house. It’s a simple, good sized, two-bedroom facility. In our master bedroom, we have two closets, a king size bed, two bed-side tables, two full chests of drawers, a bookshelf, sofa, treadmill and a fireplace. And we still have plenty of room to maneuver. My daughter’s room isn’t much smaller.
The color schemes in our house are rather interesting. Our bedroom has grayish paneled walls with hunter green carpet. It doesn’t really match the beige carpet that is in the living area and small hallway leading to our bedroom. My daughter’s room has the same paneling, but it was painted an off-white color. On the floor, however, was break-out-the-shades electric blue carpet. When we first looked at the house, we walked into this room and my daughter immediately began running in circles and calling it the blue room.
We have always wanted to renovate her room, but we waited several years for her to get past the drawing-on-the-walls stage of life. She did a pretty good job of marking up her room. We didn’t say much, because as long as she wasn’t writing on the other walls in the house, we were happy. We knew we would be painting her room at some point. That point was last Saturday.
As always happens when I begin a project, it tends to grow exponentially and become a true beast. Not only did I end up painting the room, but we decided to pull out the electric blue carpet and re-finish the original hardwood that was underneath. Let me tell you right now that polyurethane is a mad-dog killer. A friend of mine once said in college that chemicals only kill the weak brain cells. I’m sure I lost a large portion of atrophied cells as well as some that I was using on a regular basis. My poor cats didn’t have much to work with in the first place, but survived the fumes fairly well after moderate freak-outs.
Once the floor was finished, it was time to paint. I know what you’re asking, ‘Why didn’t you paint before you did the floors?’ That was my original plan, but as I said before these projects tend to grow exponentially. As it turned out, in order to avoid paying a full weekend rental for the floor sander, I had to get it finished and returned on Friday. Therefore, the painting was pushed back to Saturday.
The true test of masculinity came in the form of painting. Being a father, I tend to spoil my child and give in to her wishes in matters that I don’t deem overly important in the greater scheme of life, such as which fast-food restaurant to eat at, which children's movie to rent and so on. This non argument centered around color. Her choice of color … pink!
Not just pink, but by-gosh, hide-the-women-and-children pink! Pink on steroids! A cotton candy machine with delusions of grandeur, trying to take over the world. Pink! Pink! Pink! With, of course, tasteful purple curtains selected to match her new butterfly themed pink and purple bedding. All-in-all, a $60 painting project turned into a $400 remodeling weekend. … And the room is now pink!
When the lights are off and just a little ambient light filters through the purple haze splashed across the windows, the room comes to life with an unearthly pinkish glow that escapes through the gaps below the doors. The unholy hue reaches out its tethered paw in an attempt to spread its aura to whatever comes within reach. The filtered pink and purple light against the dark wood floors has an almost black light affect on our solid white cat. He becomes a odd yellowish tinted fur ball that is just short of an ethereal glow. It's weird.
But while pink is not my first color of choice … in fact it is nowhere on my pallet … my daughter is happy and she is no longer sleeping on the couch in our room. Last night we returned to our normal bedtime routine of reading her a story (or two), having “mommy time,” saying a prayer then clicking off her pink bedside lamp and tucking her in while Billy Idol sings her to sleep.
… and all is well.
That’s never really been in question. I enjoy backyard barbecues, playing sports and napping through Sunday afternoon golf tournaments. I take care of the lawn, pay the bills, do minor house repairs. I watch ESPN as I’m getting ready for work every morning. I enjoy action flicks and watching things blow up. … just guy stuff …
I’m secure in my manhood, so it doesn’t bother me to drive a minivan or let my daughter dress me up like a princess. But this weekend I did something that I’m not sure I would have considered doing in years past … I painted my daughter’s room.
This was no ordinary painting project. About five years ago, when my daughter was 2, we moved into this house. It’s a simple, good sized, two-bedroom facility. In our master bedroom, we have two closets, a king size bed, two bed-side tables, two full chests of drawers, a bookshelf, sofa, treadmill and a fireplace. And we still have plenty of room to maneuver. My daughter’s room isn’t much smaller.
The color schemes in our house are rather interesting. Our bedroom has grayish paneled walls with hunter green carpet. It doesn’t really match the beige carpet that is in the living area and small hallway leading to our bedroom. My daughter’s room has the same paneling, but it was painted an off-white color. On the floor, however, was break-out-the-shades electric blue carpet. When we first looked at the house, we walked into this room and my daughter immediately began running in circles and calling it the blue room.
We have always wanted to renovate her room, but we waited several years for her to get past the drawing-on-the-walls stage of life. She did a pretty good job of marking up her room. We didn’t say much, because as long as she wasn’t writing on the other walls in the house, we were happy. We knew we would be painting her room at some point. That point was last Saturday.
As always happens when I begin a project, it tends to grow exponentially and become a true beast. Not only did I end up painting the room, but we decided to pull out the electric blue carpet and re-finish the original hardwood that was underneath. Let me tell you right now that polyurethane is a mad-dog killer. A friend of mine once said in college that chemicals only kill the weak brain cells. I’m sure I lost a large portion of atrophied cells as well as some that I was using on a regular basis. My poor cats didn’t have much to work with in the first place, but survived the fumes fairly well after moderate freak-outs.
Once the floor was finished, it was time to paint. I know what you’re asking, ‘Why didn’t you paint before you did the floors?’ That was my original plan, but as I said before these projects tend to grow exponentially. As it turned out, in order to avoid paying a full weekend rental for the floor sander, I had to get it finished and returned on Friday. Therefore, the painting was pushed back to Saturday.
The true test of masculinity came in the form of painting. Being a father, I tend to spoil my child and give in to her wishes in matters that I don’t deem overly important in the greater scheme of life, such as which fast-food restaurant to eat at, which children's movie to rent and so on. This non argument centered around color. Her choice of color … pink!
Not just pink, but by-gosh, hide-the-women-and-children pink! Pink on steroids! A cotton candy machine with delusions of grandeur, trying to take over the world. Pink! Pink! Pink! With, of course, tasteful purple curtains selected to match her new butterfly themed pink and purple bedding. All-in-all, a $60 painting project turned into a $400 remodeling weekend. … And the room is now pink!
When the lights are off and just a little ambient light filters through the purple haze splashed across the windows, the room comes to life with an unearthly pinkish glow that escapes through the gaps below the doors. The unholy hue reaches out its tethered paw in an attempt to spread its aura to whatever comes within reach. The filtered pink and purple light against the dark wood floors has an almost black light affect on our solid white cat. He becomes a odd yellowish tinted fur ball that is just short of an ethereal glow. It's weird.
But while pink is not my first color of choice … in fact it is nowhere on my pallet … my daughter is happy and she is no longer sleeping on the couch in our room. Last night we returned to our normal bedtime routine of reading her a story (or two), having “mommy time,” saying a prayer then clicking off her pink bedside lamp and tucking her in while Billy Idol sings her to sleep.
… and all is well.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Hoops Chapter Two
We are now three games into our intramural basketball season and us old guys are standing near the top of the heap. Last week we played two games in three days. Thank God we have had eight days to recover before tonight’s game.
Last week, we played the team that is favored to win the whole thing … and they might because there is a good chance most of us aren’t going to be able to perform at the top of our ability once the “playoffs” roll around. As for this night, however, we were victorious.
The game didn’t start until 10 p.m., well past the bedtime for most of us older fellows, and our young opponents had a definite game plan: They were going to run us and be physical. We, of course, were macho enough to try to keep up with them, regardless of our own personal wellbeing. Fortunately, we have two former collegiate All-Americans on our team.
Finally, in the second half as the teams were trading buckets, I yelled from my position on the sidelines that we should slow it down and put our big fella in the paint. We put the other All-American on the wing and let them play a two-man game. It worked. The rest of us played defense and rebounded while these two carried the offensive load.
But when it was all said and done, the other team failed to recognize our secret weapon: the theatre technical director. Trailing by a point with 11 seconds left, we brought the ball up the floor. Somehow the ball got loose and the technical director scooped it up and dropped in what we like to call a jump hook (although I’m using the term loosely) for the win. It was a huge victory for the ‘old guys.’
With the game over, we stood around looking at each other and comparing wounds: bruised knee, swollen knee, hyper-extended knee, bruised and bloodied ankle, and a complete inability to comfortably walk up the flight stairs in order to get out of the building. But other than that we were all good. The technical director was happy. His wife was at the game and he said he would probably get lucky after hitting the winning shot. Needless to say, he was the first one out of the gym. I just hope his knees aren’t too weak to play tonight.
Last week, we played the team that is favored to win the whole thing … and they might because there is a good chance most of us aren’t going to be able to perform at the top of our ability once the “playoffs” roll around. As for this night, however, we were victorious.
The game didn’t start until 10 p.m., well past the bedtime for most of us older fellows, and our young opponents had a definite game plan: They were going to run us and be physical. We, of course, were macho enough to try to keep up with them, regardless of our own personal wellbeing. Fortunately, we have two former collegiate All-Americans on our team.
Finally, in the second half as the teams were trading buckets, I yelled from my position on the sidelines that we should slow it down and put our big fella in the paint. We put the other All-American on the wing and let them play a two-man game. It worked. The rest of us played defense and rebounded while these two carried the offensive load.
But when it was all said and done, the other team failed to recognize our secret weapon: the theatre technical director. Trailing by a point with 11 seconds left, we brought the ball up the floor. Somehow the ball got loose and the technical director scooped it up and dropped in what we like to call a jump hook (although I’m using the term loosely) for the win. It was a huge victory for the ‘old guys.’
With the game over, we stood around looking at each other and comparing wounds: bruised knee, swollen knee, hyper-extended knee, bruised and bloodied ankle, and a complete inability to comfortably walk up the flight stairs in order to get out of the building. But other than that we were all good. The technical director was happy. His wife was at the game and he said he would probably get lucky after hitting the winning shot. Needless to say, he was the first one out of the gym. I just hope his knees aren’t too weak to play tonight.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Hoops Chapter One
There we were, seven valiant warriors. The task laid out before us was daunting, but we faced it like men. Grown men. Unfortunately, that was the problem … we were grown men and standing in our way were kids. There must have been 20 of them …and they must have all been 6-foot-5, 230 pounds … big Germans … yeah, that’s it … the superior race, Arians … and they were snarling.
As we stood across the way, sizing up our opponents, realization came crashing down. This was it. It was time. Time for, intramural basketball.
Time is a funny thing. It is the ultimate life lesson in give-and-take. While time gives you experience, wisdom and hopefully a bigger bank account than you had when you were young, it takes from you your … well … youth. Gone are the days of competitive basketball when the coach would yell at the team to get the ball inside and you knew that meant it was coming to you. Gone are the days when you would annoy, hound and harass your opponent into making mistakes and capitalizing with easy scores. Gone are the days when shear energy and quickness could propel you past any opponent no matter their size or ability. Gone are the days when you could run circles around the other team and never get tired.
… Completely gone!
Yet, together, our small band forged on. We were shorthanded as four of our team members had other obligations. Yet we met our challenge. We proudly wore our badges as “The Over the Hill Gang.” Fortunately three of our teammates were still in their mid to late 20s and able to carry the load as far as superior conditioning is concerned. One member is right at 30 years old, a barrier that the rest of us had eclipsed by several years.
It was brutal. It was bloody. Three minutes in, some of us were screaming for oxygen. But we kept going. After all, what else could we do? We had signed up for this inhumane torture of our own free will. There was no turning back now.
It’s funny how I didn’t remember basketball being a physical game. I remembered the easy baskets. The 20-point, 10-rebound nights. I remembered lay-ups, jump shots, tipped balls and quick, decisive rebounds. I remembered picking and rolling and seeing nothing in your way when you were lucky enough to get the ball. I remembered posting up and going around bigger players or shooting over smaller ones.
But when those assets that once made you a fearsome competitor are gone, reality quickly settles in. It all came screaming back after taking that first solid shoulder in the paint … the bruises, the sore muscles, being shoved, hit and even picked up and slung around by a bigger player because it was the only chance he had at stopping you. I remember the three pair of sports goggled shattered and broken throughout the seasons and the blood streaming down your cheeks and soaking a jersey during a playoff game.
Yet as time ran out, we were still standing. I sat against the cold gymnasium wall resting an ice bag on my upper lip. The bleeding had finally stopped. As we took off our jersey smocks and changed our shoes, I looked at our small group. No, we did not win the game, losing by a narrow, 3-point margin, but what we won was of greater value. We proved that we could do it. We were still standing. We may be breathing hard, but we were still breathing.
Unlike our competitors, we will go home and take some pain medicine. We will flex our joints so they don’t get too stiff. We will try to get comfortable enough to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before getting up and going to work the next day. Our younger competitors don’t understand that just yet, but they will one day. And we, as grown men, will take our place in society. We will continue to work and uphold our responsibilities to our employers and our families. We will be cordial and professional to all those who walk through our office doors. We will hide our wounds and rest our sore muscles … and we’ll be back!
Oh yes! We'll be back!
As we stood across the way, sizing up our opponents, realization came crashing down. This was it. It was time. Time for, intramural basketball.
Time is a funny thing. It is the ultimate life lesson in give-and-take. While time gives you experience, wisdom and hopefully a bigger bank account than you had when you were young, it takes from you your … well … youth. Gone are the days of competitive basketball when the coach would yell at the team to get the ball inside and you knew that meant it was coming to you. Gone are the days when you would annoy, hound and harass your opponent into making mistakes and capitalizing with easy scores. Gone are the days when shear energy and quickness could propel you past any opponent no matter their size or ability. Gone are the days when you could run circles around the other team and never get tired.
… Completely gone!
Yet, together, our small band forged on. We were shorthanded as four of our team members had other obligations. Yet we met our challenge. We proudly wore our badges as “The Over the Hill Gang.” Fortunately three of our teammates were still in their mid to late 20s and able to carry the load as far as superior conditioning is concerned. One member is right at 30 years old, a barrier that the rest of us had eclipsed by several years.
It was brutal. It was bloody. Three minutes in, some of us were screaming for oxygen. But we kept going. After all, what else could we do? We had signed up for this inhumane torture of our own free will. There was no turning back now.
It’s funny how I didn’t remember basketball being a physical game. I remembered the easy baskets. The 20-point, 10-rebound nights. I remembered lay-ups, jump shots, tipped balls and quick, decisive rebounds. I remembered picking and rolling and seeing nothing in your way when you were lucky enough to get the ball. I remembered posting up and going around bigger players or shooting over smaller ones.
But when those assets that once made you a fearsome competitor are gone, reality quickly settles in. It all came screaming back after taking that first solid shoulder in the paint … the bruises, the sore muscles, being shoved, hit and even picked up and slung around by a bigger player because it was the only chance he had at stopping you. I remember the three pair of sports goggled shattered and broken throughout the seasons and the blood streaming down your cheeks and soaking a jersey during a playoff game.
Yet as time ran out, we were still standing. I sat against the cold gymnasium wall resting an ice bag on my upper lip. The bleeding had finally stopped. As we took off our jersey smocks and changed our shoes, I looked at our small group. No, we did not win the game, losing by a narrow, 3-point margin, but what we won was of greater value. We proved that we could do it. We were still standing. We may be breathing hard, but we were still breathing.
Unlike our competitors, we will go home and take some pain medicine. We will flex our joints so they don’t get too stiff. We will try to get comfortable enough to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before getting up and going to work the next day. Our younger competitors don’t understand that just yet, but they will one day. And we, as grown men, will take our place in society. We will continue to work and uphold our responsibilities to our employers and our families. We will be cordial and professional to all those who walk through our office doors. We will hide our wounds and rest our sore muscles … and we’ll be back!
Oh yes! We'll be back!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Random thoughts
1. How can a state believe in capital punishment, but not spanking?
2. Does anyone besides me absolutely love those new "un pimp your auto" Volkswagon commercials? They make me want to be a fair-skinned, light-haired, blue-eyed, non-rapper who talks with a funny accent. Oh ... I guess I already have four of those criteria covered and people who aren't from around here might already think that I talk with a funny accent. I guess those commercials were made for people just like me.
3. Did y'all know that I can now ocassionally beat Little David in ping pong? I'm so proud.
2. Does anyone besides me absolutely love those new "un pimp your auto" Volkswagon commercials? They make me want to be a fair-skinned, light-haired, blue-eyed, non-rapper who talks with a funny accent. Oh ... I guess I already have four of those criteria covered and people who aren't from around here might already think that I talk with a funny accent. I guess those commercials were made for people just like me.
3. Did y'all know that I can now ocassionally beat Little David in ping pong? I'm so proud.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Committee on Committees
I have been described as many things: crotchety, old, cantankerous, cranky, and that is just from my sister. Of course, I think she is just jealous because I spend my days hanging out with 18-22 year olds and am in essence way cooler and more up-to-date than she is. She, after all, hangs out with people who are one urine test away from the big house. I will admit, however, that I am not the type who enjoys social events. A friend of mine, who is very much a social animal, says that when he talks to his wife about going to an event, the first thing she asks is if there will be other people there. That’s kind of the way I feel. I’m much more comfortable in small groups where I feel in control of the situations.
So how did I end up on the “hospitality committee” at work? Another “friend” of mine decided it would be moderately humorous to nominate me for the committee. I know that in a job situation like this, we are all expected to serve on various committees, many of which never meet or do anything, but I’m not exactly known as the best party planner for social events. My standard phrase is, ‘I don’t like dealing with people,’ which explains perfectly how I ended up with a career in public relations.
It’s not that I don’t like the other people on the committee. They are all nice people and I get along with them very well, but I just don’t feel that party planning is one of my strengths.
However, as I sat through a meeting of the committee on Monday, I began to wonder how certain things would get done if I hadn’t been there. I went to the meeting expecting it to be a short affair concerning decorating for our winter employee banquet which was only five days away. That is how the meeting started as we sat around discussing things like tool, chargers and votives. I’m still not sure what a votive is or if I even spelled it correctly, but I was shocked when I discovered they were not talking about hardware.
It was during this course of discussion about decorations when someone broached the question: What are we doing for entertainment? Need I remind you we were only five short days from showtime. The reply to the question was even more interesting: Well, I was thinking we could ask Amy, one of our students, to sing.
Now, I am not a party planner, but I do work on deadlines and I understand the need to give people an appropriate amount of time to plan and prepare. This was apparently lost on all but one other member of the committee. We were meeting five days before the event and no one had planned the entertainment.
As we sat there, the group began making grand plans for how Amy could do this or do that at which point I, being the only person in the group who actually knows Amy, said, “Wait a minute. You can’t count on anything yet. This is extremely short notice and Amy might have other plans.”
The concept seemed lost and suddenly I realized why it makes me so angry when people ask me to produce and eight-page table piece and have it printed and ready to go by next Tuesday – they just don’t get it.
As it turns out Amy is free on Saturday. She is a gracious young lady and said she would be glad to perform and she will do a wonderful job. I won’t get to see or hear it, however, as I have somehow managed to double-book myself and I just can’t seem to get away to enjoy the social event of the year. Aww Shucks!
So how did I end up on the “hospitality committee” at work? Another “friend” of mine decided it would be moderately humorous to nominate me for the committee. I know that in a job situation like this, we are all expected to serve on various committees, many of which never meet or do anything, but I’m not exactly known as the best party planner for social events. My standard phrase is, ‘I don’t like dealing with people,’ which explains perfectly how I ended up with a career in public relations.
It’s not that I don’t like the other people on the committee. They are all nice people and I get along with them very well, but I just don’t feel that party planning is one of my strengths.
However, as I sat through a meeting of the committee on Monday, I began to wonder how certain things would get done if I hadn’t been there. I went to the meeting expecting it to be a short affair concerning decorating for our winter employee banquet which was only five days away. That is how the meeting started as we sat around discussing things like tool, chargers and votives. I’m still not sure what a votive is or if I even spelled it correctly, but I was shocked when I discovered they were not talking about hardware.
It was during this course of discussion about decorations when someone broached the question: What are we doing for entertainment? Need I remind you we were only five short days from showtime. The reply to the question was even more interesting: Well, I was thinking we could ask Amy, one of our students, to sing.
Now, I am not a party planner, but I do work on deadlines and I understand the need to give people an appropriate amount of time to plan and prepare. This was apparently lost on all but one other member of the committee. We were meeting five days before the event and no one had planned the entertainment.
As we sat there, the group began making grand plans for how Amy could do this or do that at which point I, being the only person in the group who actually knows Amy, said, “Wait a minute. You can’t count on anything yet. This is extremely short notice and Amy might have other plans.”
The concept seemed lost and suddenly I realized why it makes me so angry when people ask me to produce and eight-page table piece and have it printed and ready to go by next Tuesday – they just don’t get it.
As it turns out Amy is free on Saturday. She is a gracious young lady and said she would be glad to perform and she will do a wonderful job. I won’t get to see or hear it, however, as I have somehow managed to double-book myself and I just can’t seem to get away to enjoy the social event of the year. Aww Shucks!
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Crime and Punishment
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned discipline? My wife is a school teacher in the public school system. It’s little more than a glorified day care and we wonder why our education system is in such a mess. Teachers really have little control over what goes on in the classroom. Unruly students and litigious parents drive the policy making. There’s just no such thing as good, old-fashioned discipline -- unless, of course, you happen to be a coach at a private institution of higher education where you are free to discipline your charges as you feel led.
Our women’s basketball team has been up and down this year which is a vast improvement over the constant state of 'down' to which these young women aspired last season. They are very talented, but at times seem to lack the drive and focus it takes to be competitive. I would say they have more raw talent than most of the teams in our conference, but have yet to actually believe in themselves.
Last Saturday, as an arctic ice storm blanketed our area of West Texas, our young ladies played the No. 2 ranked team in the nation. After falling behind by 18 points at the half, our team fought back and controlled the second half. We lost by six, but the second-half performance was one to remember and hopefully build on.
So how does our team respond to their strong performance? By showing up late for practice on Monday. Not all of them were late, just three. But when you only have eight players to begin with, that is a significant percentage of the team. As a result, the coach wasn’t in a good mood and decided to take it out on his players.
Each week, I make a point to stop by practice and watch for a little bit before interviewing our coaches in order to prepare a special PR related newspaper page for the local media. This day was no different, other than the fact that the coach had something special planned.
I arrived at practice just in time to hear him outline his discipline program, and it was not pretty. To get a better understanding of what the team was required to do, you need to understand our gymnasium. The court is a sunken court, so in essence our gymnasium has two levels with the majority of the seating on the upper level. Seating is on either side of the court and the gymnasium has the capacity to seat 3,000 people.
In his little exercise the coach required the players to sprint up to the second level, around a corner, then sprint up to the top of the upper level seating area. They would then walk across to the next isle, walk down the steps, sprint to the next isle, sprint up the steps, walk over to the next isle, walk down, then sprint all the way to the other end where they entered the seating area, sprint down the steps and run a lap around the court where they would stop and do 20 pushups. They were then required to repeat the process on the other side of the floor, this time doing 20 crunches upon completing the lap around the floor.
… And that was one circuit. The players who arrived on time had to complete five circuits. The players who were late … 27, one for each minute. I sat with the coach and watched as his team began the drill. About 30 minutes into it, the player who finished first, a great young lady with an excellent attitude and work ethic, you’ve met her before, finally completed her five circuits. As they ran, the coach sat there and contemplated the rest of the day. His original plan was to practice from 1-2:30 and give the players a chance to rest their legs after the weekend’s tough games. His new plan was a little more intense. The girls ran from 1-3 p.m., then had to return at 6 p.m. for practice. And after practice, “they are going to run some more,” he said.
While I sat there contemplating mortality and how a drill like this would easily send me to my grave several times over, I realized that the chances of any player showing up late for practice again were exceedingly slim. And if one were looking for a way to adjust someone’s behavioral patterns, this would probably do the trick.
It's a shame you can't do this to ignorant fourth-graders ... or better yet to the parents of ignorant fourth graders. After all, isn't adjusting someone's attitude what punishment is all about?
Our women’s basketball team has been up and down this year which is a vast improvement over the constant state of 'down' to which these young women aspired last season. They are very talented, but at times seem to lack the drive and focus it takes to be competitive. I would say they have more raw talent than most of the teams in our conference, but have yet to actually believe in themselves.
Last Saturday, as an arctic ice storm blanketed our area of West Texas, our young ladies played the No. 2 ranked team in the nation. After falling behind by 18 points at the half, our team fought back and controlled the second half. We lost by six, but the second-half performance was one to remember and hopefully build on.
So how does our team respond to their strong performance? By showing up late for practice on Monday. Not all of them were late, just three. But when you only have eight players to begin with, that is a significant percentage of the team. As a result, the coach wasn’t in a good mood and decided to take it out on his players.
Each week, I make a point to stop by practice and watch for a little bit before interviewing our coaches in order to prepare a special PR related newspaper page for the local media. This day was no different, other than the fact that the coach had something special planned.
I arrived at practice just in time to hear him outline his discipline program, and it was not pretty. To get a better understanding of what the team was required to do, you need to understand our gymnasium. The court is a sunken court, so in essence our gymnasium has two levels with the majority of the seating on the upper level. Seating is on either side of the court and the gymnasium has the capacity to seat 3,000 people.In his little exercise the coach required the players to sprint up to the second level, around a corner, then sprint up to the top of the upper level seating area. They would then walk across to the next isle, walk down the steps, sprint to the next isle, sprint up the steps, walk over to the next isle, walk down, then sprint all the way to the other end where they entered the seating area, sprint down the steps and run a lap around the court where they would stop and do 20 pushups. They were then required to repeat the process on the other side of the floor, this time doing 20 crunches upon completing the lap around the floor.
… And that was one circuit. The players who arrived on time had to complete five circuits. The players who were late … 27, one for each minute. I sat with the coach and watched as his team began the drill. About 30 minutes into it, the player who finished first, a great young lady with an excellent attitude and work ethic, you’ve met her before, finally completed her five circuits. As they ran, the coach sat there and contemplated the rest of the day. His original plan was to practice from 1-2:30 and give the players a chance to rest their legs after the weekend’s tough games. His new plan was a little more intense. The girls ran from 1-3 p.m., then had to return at 6 p.m. for practice. And after practice, “they are going to run some more,” he said.
While I sat there contemplating mortality and how a drill like this would easily send me to my grave several times over, I realized that the chances of any player showing up late for practice again were exceedingly slim. And if one were looking for a way to adjust someone’s behavioral patterns, this would probably do the trick.
It's a shame you can't do this to ignorant fourth-graders ... or better yet to the parents of ignorant fourth graders. After all, isn't adjusting someone's attitude what punishment is all about?
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Holiday Meme
1. Eggnog or Hot Chocolate? Eggnog, definitely eggnog. My 6-year-old really enjoys it, too, and likes to drink eggnog with her dad. Or she likes to drink her dad’s eggnog … something like that.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? Just puts them under the tree. But for some weird reason, he thinks his elves have to assemble it, in the loving room floor at 1 or 2 in the morning so that it is fully assembled when the child wakes up. Annoying little elves.
3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? I used to say white, but that’s all anybody does anymore, so I’m going with colored. But it has to be a solid color like all red or all blue. Multicolored lights are still ugly.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? No!
5. When do you put your decorations up? Whenever we get around to it.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? All of them. I even like green bean casserole. Basically, I like to eat during the holidays and it really doesn’t matter if we are having the traditional turkey and dressing or enchiladas, it’s all good.
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? As I have mentioned before in these meme’s I have long since forgotten my childhood. It must have been traumatic.
8. When or how did you learn the truth about Santa? Never believed in Santa. I told you it was traumatic.
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Sometimes yes, Sometimes no
10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? Let the kid do it. This year it is decorated, but all the ornaments are on one side. But, hey, I didn’t have to do it.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Love it. It makes things more interesting.
12. Can you ice skate? Sure … maybe … I would like to think that I can if I ever tried.
13. Have you ever fallen on the ice? What kind of stupid question is this? Show me someone who hasn’t fallen on the ice and I’ll show you an habitual liar with serious delusions of grandeur.
14. Do you remember your favorite gift? Of course I do. If I didn’t remember it, it wouldn’t be my favorite, now would it?
15. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family gatherings and time off from work. It’s also pretty cool to see your child’s face light up throughout all the excitement.
16. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? Pumpkin dessert that my wife makes.
17. What is your favorite holiday tradition? I kind of like the rather new tradition that my family has started, having Christmas on New Year’s. It allows us to visit both families during the holidays and the excitement of opening gifts isn’t blown all in one wad.
18. What tops your tree? An Angel.
19. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Depends. Generally I really prefer giving gifts, but there are those people that I really don’t like that I’m expected to give gifts too. It’s not that I prefer getting gifts from them. I would really prefer that we do away with all the false pretenses and crap like that and just let people know what we really think of them.
20. What is your favorite Christmas Song? “What Child is This” is pretty cool, and I really love Whiteheart’s version of The Little Drummer Boy. It rocks.
21. CANDY CANES!! YUCK OR YUM?? Yuck. What a waste of candy. Does anybody ever eat the whole thing? Or do you just suck on it until the end of it gets really sharp and pointed and then you try to pierce the top of the empty Cool Whip bowl when your throwing it in the trash.
22. What is your favorite Christmas movie? National Lampoons Christmas Vacation is pretty good, and I like Nightmare Before Christmas. Gremlins and Die Hard provide some moments of entertainment. I really don’t like those sappy, disgusting holiday movies.
23. Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman or Charlie Brown? Charlie Brown. I’m so indifferent to the other two that I can’t even think of anything derogatory to say about them.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? Just puts them under the tree. But for some weird reason, he thinks his elves have to assemble it, in the loving room floor at 1 or 2 in the morning so that it is fully assembled when the child wakes up. Annoying little elves.
3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? I used to say white, but that’s all anybody does anymore, so I’m going with colored. But it has to be a solid color like all red or all blue. Multicolored lights are still ugly.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? No!
5. When do you put your decorations up? Whenever we get around to it.
6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? All of them. I even like green bean casserole. Basically, I like to eat during the holidays and it really doesn’t matter if we are having the traditional turkey and dressing or enchiladas, it’s all good.
7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child? As I have mentioned before in these meme’s I have long since forgotten my childhood. It must have been traumatic.
8. When or how did you learn the truth about Santa? Never believed in Santa. I told you it was traumatic.
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Sometimes yes, Sometimes no
10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree? Let the kid do it. This year it is decorated, but all the ornaments are on one side. But, hey, I didn’t have to do it.
11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Love it. It makes things more interesting.
12. Can you ice skate? Sure … maybe … I would like to think that I can if I ever tried.
13. Have you ever fallen on the ice? What kind of stupid question is this? Show me someone who hasn’t fallen on the ice and I’ll show you an habitual liar with serious delusions of grandeur.
14. Do you remember your favorite gift? Of course I do. If I didn’t remember it, it wouldn’t be my favorite, now would it?
15. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Family gatherings and time off from work. It’s also pretty cool to see your child’s face light up throughout all the excitement.
16. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? Pumpkin dessert that my wife makes.
17. What is your favorite holiday tradition? I kind of like the rather new tradition that my family has started, having Christmas on New Year’s. It allows us to visit both families during the holidays and the excitement of opening gifts isn’t blown all in one wad.
18. What tops your tree? An Angel.
19. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Depends. Generally I really prefer giving gifts, but there are those people that I really don’t like that I’m expected to give gifts too. It’s not that I prefer getting gifts from them. I would really prefer that we do away with all the false pretenses and crap like that and just let people know what we really think of them.
20. What is your favorite Christmas Song? “What Child is This” is pretty cool, and I really love Whiteheart’s version of The Little Drummer Boy. It rocks.
21. CANDY CANES!! YUCK OR YUM?? Yuck. What a waste of candy. Does anybody ever eat the whole thing? Or do you just suck on it until the end of it gets really sharp and pointed and then you try to pierce the top of the empty Cool Whip bowl when your throwing it in the trash.
22. What is your favorite Christmas movie? National Lampoons Christmas Vacation is pretty good, and I like Nightmare Before Christmas. Gremlins and Die Hard provide some moments of entertainment. I really don’t like those sappy, disgusting holiday movies.
23. Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman or Charlie Brown? Charlie Brown. I’m so indifferent to the other two that I can’t even think of anything derogatory to say about them.
Monday, December 04, 2006
It Must be Monday
The day started off like most other days. I woke up.
Then things took a turn for the Monday.
While getting ready for work, my wife comes in and says she needs to leave early. She asks if I can take the child to school. Of course I say sure and begin working on the child to get her all spit polished for her day. While rushing around to put the finishing touches on her, my wife comes in the back door and yells, “I just blew up the garage door opener!”
Our garage door opener has been rather cantankerous lately. We would have to nurse it first thing on a cold morning, working it up and down until if finally opened all the way. We had no such luck today. I ran out to the garage where I was met by a fully smoking door opener. As black smoke billowed out of the motor, I began working on detaching the device so that my wife could get to work. Yes, I know door openers are supposed to have a release button, but if this one does, it is well hidden. I’m guessing it was put in 30 years ago and has finally just worn out. I finally get the arm detached only to find out that the door still won't open because the door hits the arem on the way up. Frustrating.
While working on the door, my child starts laughing.
“Daddy’s got water on his boom-boom.”
Boom-boom, of course, is the descriptor we used for "rear end" when she was really small and it just kind of stuck.
How in the world could I have gotten a wet spot on my rear end? As I was rushing around, dealing with the garage door I had a hunch where the liquid may have originated. Racing into the house to grab my stuff so I can drive my wife to work, I decide to check out my hunch.
Sure enough, I was right. My child had spilled her milk on the living room chair and I had sat in it while brushing her hair. Now, not only was I trying to get my wife to work on time, but I was going to have to return home to wash and dry my pants before I went to work.
We finally decided that I would just drive the family to school in my vehicle. While heading that way, I proceeded to make my daughter cry as I scolded her for not telling anyone that she had spilled her milk. I told her I wasn’t mad for spilling of the the milk, but for not telling anyone and trying to hide it because it was now going to cause me extra time.
After dropping them off at school (my wife is a teacher), I raced back home, disrobed, washed the pants and dried them with the iron, dressed again and headed for the office.
And after all that, I still made it to work on time.
Then things took a turn for the Monday.
While getting ready for work, my wife comes in and says she needs to leave early. She asks if I can take the child to school. Of course I say sure and begin working on the child to get her all spit polished for her day. While rushing around to put the finishing touches on her, my wife comes in the back door and yells, “I just blew up the garage door opener!”
Our garage door opener has been rather cantankerous lately. We would have to nurse it first thing on a cold morning, working it up and down until if finally opened all the way. We had no such luck today. I ran out to the garage where I was met by a fully smoking door opener. As black smoke billowed out of the motor, I began working on detaching the device so that my wife could get to work. Yes, I know door openers are supposed to have a release button, but if this one does, it is well hidden. I’m guessing it was put in 30 years ago and has finally just worn out. I finally get the arm detached only to find out that the door still won't open because the door hits the arem on the way up. Frustrating.
While working on the door, my child starts laughing.
“Daddy’s got water on his boom-boom.”
Boom-boom, of course, is the descriptor we used for "rear end" when she was really small and it just kind of stuck.
How in the world could I have gotten a wet spot on my rear end? As I was rushing around, dealing with the garage door I had a hunch where the liquid may have originated. Racing into the house to grab my stuff so I can drive my wife to work, I decide to check out my hunch.
Sure enough, I was right. My child had spilled her milk on the living room chair and I had sat in it while brushing her hair. Now, not only was I trying to get my wife to work on time, but I was going to have to return home to wash and dry my pants before I went to work.
We finally decided that I would just drive the family to school in my vehicle. While heading that way, I proceeded to make my daughter cry as I scolded her for not telling anyone that she had spilled her milk. I told her I wasn’t mad for spilling of the the milk, but for not telling anyone and trying to hide it because it was now going to cause me extra time.
After dropping them off at school (my wife is a teacher), I raced back home, disrobed, washed the pants and dried them with the iron, dressed again and headed for the office.
And after all that, I still made it to work on time.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
To Proofread, or Not to Proofread?
We’ve all done it. Anyone who has ever written anything comes to that point where you just want to get it over with and you don’t want to see it anymore. Therefore, you cut corners and fail to give it that one last read, assuming that everything is will be fine, only to find a glaring mistake once it is too late to correct.
Working as a journalist, I have had more than my fair share of mistakes. Many of which are pointed out so graciously by blue-haired, bitter, old women who desperately need a life.
I had to chuckle, however, as I glanced over a story written by a co-worker. I was about to send it to the local media outlets. Our school’s annual “scholarship pageant” will be held within the next couple of weeks. Being a good, faith-based institution we are especially careful not to call it a beauty pageant. In fact, we are so worried about stereotyping that we go way out of our way to not pick the prettiest girl, even if she is also the most deserving. ... but that's a soap box for another post.
Anyway, about four paragraphs down, as the story talked about the talents and abilities of the young ladies it said, "... it will be a touch decision for the judges.”
… ooops!
Working as a journalist, I have had more than my fair share of mistakes. Many of which are pointed out so graciously by blue-haired, bitter, old women who desperately need a life.
I had to chuckle, however, as I glanced over a story written by a co-worker. I was about to send it to the local media outlets. Our school’s annual “scholarship pageant” will be held within the next couple of weeks. Being a good, faith-based institution we are especially careful not to call it a beauty pageant. In fact, we are so worried about stereotyping that we go way out of our way to not pick the prettiest girl, even if she is also the most deserving. ... but that's a soap box for another post.
Anyway, about four paragraphs down, as the story talked about the talents and abilities of the young ladies it said, "... it will be a touch decision for the judges.”
… ooops!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Silly questions ...
I stole this from my sister who said I should do this.
1. List two things that are true of you that are not stereotypically true of members of some group that you belong to.
a. I never sleep past 7 a.m., even on weekends, no matter how late I stay up the night before.
b. I cook the majority of my own meals.
2. List two unusual talents that you have.
a. I can wiggle my eyes back and forth really quickly.
b. I can curl my tongue.
3. List two unusual weaknesses that you have.
a. I have a very strong gag reflex. I get the dry heaves while brushing my teeth.
b. There may be others, but I’m not going to tip off my mortal enemies in fear that they may use the information against me.
4. List two unusual things that you aspire to.
a. I want to write a book.
b. … apparently I have very low aspirations for myself …
5. List two words that you use more than most people do.
a. I don’t use any words more than other people. No catch phrases, no identifying statements. Some people think I am rather quiet and don’t talk much at all. They apparently just haven’t found the right topic to get me motivated.
b. …………….
6. List two foods that you dislike and most other people like
a. onions
b. more onions
7. List two strange habits that you have
a. I am not a habitual person … or I’m habitually not a person; something like that
b. I tend to fabricate the nature of my unorthodox behavior.
1. List two things that are true of you that are not stereotypically true of members of some group that you belong to.
a. I never sleep past 7 a.m., even on weekends, no matter how late I stay up the night before.
b. I cook the majority of my own meals.
2. List two unusual talents that you have.
a. I can wiggle my eyes back and forth really quickly.
b. I can curl my tongue.
3. List two unusual weaknesses that you have.
a. I have a very strong gag reflex. I get the dry heaves while brushing my teeth.
b. There may be others, but I’m not going to tip off my mortal enemies in fear that they may use the information against me.
4. List two unusual things that you aspire to.
a. I want to write a book.
b. … apparently I have very low aspirations for myself …
5. List two words that you use more than most people do.
a. I don’t use any words more than other people. No catch phrases, no identifying statements. Some people think I am rather quiet and don’t talk much at all. They apparently just haven’t found the right topic to get me motivated.
b. …………….
6. List two foods that you dislike and most other people like
a. onions
b. more onions
7. List two strange habits that you have
a. I am not a habitual person … or I’m habitually not a person; something like that
b. I tend to fabricate the nature of my unorthodox behavior.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Inquiring Minds Part II ...
... And furthermore, just because a mouse has a bigger head, ears, eyes and teeth, does that really make it a new species? I've seen humans like that and we don't classify them as a new species.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Inquiring minds ...
Breaking news from the world of science!
It appears that a new species of mouse has been discovered on Cyprus. I just read an article on the MSNBC Web site that says, and I quote:
“The "living fossil" mouse has a bigger head, ears, eyes and teeth than other European mice and is found only on Cyprus…"
My question is, if they just found it … it has just recently been discovered … it has been hidden and undetected for however many thousands of years (or perhaps just a few days) … then how do they know it is found “only on Cyprus?”
… just thought I’d ask.
It appears that a new species of mouse has been discovered on Cyprus. I just read an article on the MSNBC Web site that says, and I quote:
“The "living fossil" mouse has a bigger head, ears, eyes and teeth than other European mice and is found only on Cyprus…"
My question is, if they just found it … it has just recently been discovered … it has been hidden and undetected for however many thousands of years (or perhaps just a few days) … then how do they know it is found “only on Cyprus?”
… just thought I’d ask.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
What can we do?
I should be working right now, but I must admit that the thought of being a slave to anything at the moment is relatively unpleasant.
I’m sure anyone who is half-way human and some of those who aren’t have heard all about the school shootings in the news lately. I don’t know the full stories about what all is going on and I don’t care to know. Watching the news programs disturb me a great deal. I get so tired of hearing all the crap surrounding the idiots in society. I hate hearing all the bad news all the time. And that’s exactly how new stations should promote themselves … “All bad news! All the time!”
To top it off, the reason I don’t really feel like working at the moment is that we had a shooting/non-shooting at the local high school this morning. I haven’t heard any of the facts, but unsubstantiated rumors say that no one was injured and there were no fatalities. Radio reports are saying there were no shots fired at all, but a mother of a high school student just walked past my door after picking up her son who said he heard the shots and hit the ground.
At this point, I don’t know the truth and I don’t really care. It still invokes in me a rage, born from disgust, discouragement and cloud of depression about the state of society. I would love to rid the world of stupid, bad people, but that is not an option. The Christian in me knows that we should love these people, pity their situations and pray for them, but the human in me wants to see them disappear.
Why do I get so upset about these things? My wife is a teacher in the school system. My daughter is a first-grader in the school system. The university for which I work currently has student teachers working in the school system, several of whom I consider friends. And some of those were at the high school this morning.
… As I walked out of the class just the day before, a young lady in the class walked beside me. This class is doubling as an undergraduate level course for traditional students like her, as well as a graduate level class for old(er) people like me. As we exited the building she said in a somewhat light-hearted manner, “I thought we were all going to die today.”
Our class ran a little long and in the process one of the students for the next class came into the room. He was a big guy, a wide body, with a slicked back pony tail and had the general look of someone who might want to thwart the government. I can’t really explain the look other than to say he didn’t really look like the proverbial alter boy. He was wearing an oversized shirt and moderately baggy pants.
“When he came in,” the young lady said, “he had his arms down by his side and I couldn’t see his hands. I wasn’t sure if he was carrying his books or a gun.”
Although she said it in a light-hearted manner, I could tell there was a hint of seriousness about it as well. In moments like that, you realize how much these situations affect the people around us. While that thought never crossed my mind, it had crossed hers and it is apparently something some of our students worry about. And what could I do? I couldn’t reassure her. I couldn’t tell her not to worry because that will never happen here. I couldn’t tell her that if someone did attack our school they would surely choose to shoot up the education building, not the business building.
So what did I do? I reassured her that we had all survived. … Boy, that’s a big help isn’t it.
I guess there’s no real point to this blog entry other than to say I just don’t understand what makes people do this kind of thing. And furthermore, I have no idea what can be done to prevent it.
… I guess that’s why I’m not ultimately in charge. Thank God.
I’m sure anyone who is half-way human and some of those who aren’t have heard all about the school shootings in the news lately. I don’t know the full stories about what all is going on and I don’t care to know. Watching the news programs disturb me a great deal. I get so tired of hearing all the crap surrounding the idiots in society. I hate hearing all the bad news all the time. And that’s exactly how new stations should promote themselves … “All bad news! All the time!”
To top it off, the reason I don’t really feel like working at the moment is that we had a shooting/non-shooting at the local high school this morning. I haven’t heard any of the facts, but unsubstantiated rumors say that no one was injured and there were no fatalities. Radio reports are saying there were no shots fired at all, but a mother of a high school student just walked past my door after picking up her son who said he heard the shots and hit the ground.
At this point, I don’t know the truth and I don’t really care. It still invokes in me a rage, born from disgust, discouragement and cloud of depression about the state of society. I would love to rid the world of stupid, bad people, but that is not an option. The Christian in me knows that we should love these people, pity their situations and pray for them, but the human in me wants to see them disappear.
Why do I get so upset about these things? My wife is a teacher in the school system. My daughter is a first-grader in the school system. The university for which I work currently has student teachers working in the school system, several of whom I consider friends. And some of those were at the high school this morning.
… As I walked out of the class just the day before, a young lady in the class walked beside me. This class is doubling as an undergraduate level course for traditional students like her, as well as a graduate level class for old(er) people like me. As we exited the building she said in a somewhat light-hearted manner, “I thought we were all going to die today.”
Our class ran a little long and in the process one of the students for the next class came into the room. He was a big guy, a wide body, with a slicked back pony tail and had the general look of someone who might want to thwart the government. I can’t really explain the look other than to say he didn’t really look like the proverbial alter boy. He was wearing an oversized shirt and moderately baggy pants.
“When he came in,” the young lady said, “he had his arms down by his side and I couldn’t see his hands. I wasn’t sure if he was carrying his books or a gun.”
Although she said it in a light-hearted manner, I could tell there was a hint of seriousness about it as well. In moments like that, you realize how much these situations affect the people around us. While that thought never crossed my mind, it had crossed hers and it is apparently something some of our students worry about. And what could I do? I couldn’t reassure her. I couldn’t tell her not to worry because that will never happen here. I couldn’t tell her that if someone did attack our school they would surely choose to shoot up the education building, not the business building.
So what did I do? I reassured her that we had all survived. … Boy, that’s a big help isn’t it.
I guess there’s no real point to this blog entry other than to say I just don’t understand what makes people do this kind of thing. And furthermore, I have no idea what can be done to prevent it.
… I guess that’s why I’m not ultimately in charge. Thank God.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
A Sign of the Times
A sign of the times, or simply a linguistic faux pas? I’ll let you decide.
Last weekend was freshmen orientation weekend out the ol' alma mater. This is a weekend where the kiddies come in, play games, get introduced to various university faculty and staff members, learn the rules and, among other things, participate in various service projects.
One such project involved a large group of newbies and their group leaders, students who volunteered to help teach the fish the ropes, cleaning up an area of road near our town’s cemetery.
Being the PR whore that I am, when I got wind of the project I grabbed my camera and rushed out to make sure the work was properly documented and sent to the local paper. Not that we would ever do something like that just for the public relations value, but you just can’t buy that kind of advertising.
Obviously, I have been out to the cemetery many times. I have several family members buried out there and I drive by it every time I visit my sister. However, I have never run across the family plot for our university’s founder.
He was a doctor who donated land and money to jump start the school back in 1908. He died in 1948 and is buried in the cemetery along with his wife, parents and one child.
As we are currently making plans to celebrate our centennial, one idea is to plan some special junk out at the family plot. Therefore, I thought I should know where it is. Another university employee who has done a lot of research and work on the idea was serving water and crackers to the students who must have felt like they were on a chain gang as they were lining up next to a chain link fence, hoeing and digging up weeds by the bucket fulls, dragging them to the dump truck and sweating profusely in the 90-degree temeperatures on a very humid day. I broke a pretty good sweat just standing there watching.
By the way, who in their right mind would decide that wearing flip-flops to go out and dig up weeds and trash in the hot/humid West Texas sun would ever be a good idea? Freshmen!
Anyway ... I ran across said employee as she completed handing out bottles of water. We struck up a conversation at which point I asked her, “Will you show me Dr. John’s Web site.”
Gives a whole new meaning to “visit myspace,” doesn’t it?
Last weekend was freshmen orientation weekend out the ol' alma mater. This is a weekend where the kiddies come in, play games, get introduced to various university faculty and staff members, learn the rules and, among other things, participate in various service projects.
One such project involved a large group of newbies and their group leaders, students who volunteered to help teach the fish the ropes, cleaning up an area of road near our town’s cemetery.
Being the PR whore that I am, when I got wind of the project I grabbed my camera and rushed out to make sure the work was properly documented and sent to the local paper. Not that we would ever do something like that just for the public relations value, but you just can’t buy that kind of advertising.
Obviously, I have been out to the cemetery many times. I have several family members buried out there and I drive by it every time I visit my sister. However, I have never run across the family plot for our university’s founder.
He was a doctor who donated land and money to jump start the school back in 1908. He died in 1948 and is buried in the cemetery along with his wife, parents and one child.
As we are currently making plans to celebrate our centennial, one idea is to plan some special junk out at the family plot. Therefore, I thought I should know where it is. Another university employee who has done a lot of research and work on the idea was serving water and crackers to the students who must have felt like they were on a chain gang as they were lining up next to a chain link fence, hoeing and digging up weeds by the bucket fulls, dragging them to the dump truck and sweating profusely in the 90-degree temeperatures on a very humid day. I broke a pretty good sweat just standing there watching.
By the way, who in their right mind would decide that wearing flip-flops to go out and dig up weeds and trash in the hot/humid West Texas sun would ever be a good idea? Freshmen!
Anyway ... I ran across said employee as she completed handing out bottles of water. We struck up a conversation at which point I asked her, “Will you show me Dr. John’s Web site.”
Gives a whole new meaning to “visit myspace,” doesn’t it?
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
petty poetry
There once was a man with a shoe.
It smelled like a big pile of poo.
He turned about,
But it knocked him out.
Thank goodness he didn't have two.
It smelled like a big pile of poo.
He turned about,
But it knocked him out.
Thank goodness he didn't have two.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Surviving the frontier
I typically don’t like flying, although I am becoming more accustomed to it. But it’s just not natural. The only thing I dislike more than the thought of being on board a massive passenger jet as it plummets to its fiery doom is the thought of drowning in a cold, unforgiving body of water. I’ve always heard people say that drowning is a peaceful way to die, but how do they know? Have they done it?
I’m not really afraid of flying. I’m secure in my Christianity and I know that all my post-life arrangements have been taken care of. I also realize that if I’m suddenly called home to glory, I won’t have to worry about making the house payment at the end of the month. Life will be much easier when it’s over.
Still, flying is just not natural. (Unless you're a seagull)
However, when duty calls, one must answer. To this end, a co-worker and I boarded a plane for Alaska last Sunday. We had a week’s worth of work ahead of us in the northern most state, a place neither of us had been before.
The flight was relatively uneventful and the airline only lost one piece of luggage. As my co-worker was discussing this at the flight counter at 3 a.m. on a Monday morning in Fairbanks, Alaska, the lady working there pointed out that we should be happy. After all, five of our six pieces showed up. Interesting concept, but apparently she failed to realize that we really wanted all six pieces of luggage.
All in all, though, our experience was good. We ate our fill of reindeer sausage, fish and crab legs. And the fact that there was about 22 hours of sunlight a day didn’t bother us much when we turned in each night.
The scenery around Fairbanks was really interesting. From a distance, the mountains were a gorgeous, imposing image in every direction. But on further inspection … let’s just say I didn’t know that Alaska had that much swampy, marsh land.
And the trees were none too impressive. The landscape was covered with black fir trees. These were skinny, scraggly trees reaching skyward with awkwardly placed limbs and fronds. They are called black fir trees for a reason … because they are black except for some blueish-greenish fronds on the ends of their scrawny little limbs. Apparently, they are one of the few trees that will grow in that cold, marsh land.
Anchorage was a little different. There was more green greenery covering the mountains, and there was, of course, earthquakes.
At roughly 5:20 a.m. on Thursday morning I awoke to the violent shaking of my motel room. The quake nearly rattled me completely off the bed. It didn’t last long, however. By the time I realized what was going on, it was over. My co-worker got online and discovered that it was a 4.9 on the Richter scale, centered about 4 miles from where we were staying.
I can honestly say I didn’t mind the quake so much. It was no big deal. But I was angry that it woke me up so early in the morning. I’m not someone who can just crawl back in bed after I have woken up, especially when I was scheduled to be up in another hour-and-a-half anyway. The problem was that it was 5:20 a.m. on Thursday and I knew I wouldn’t see another bed until we got home at 2 p.m. on Friday.
Another thing one should know about Alaska is that every business of any type is apparently required by law to have a bear on display as you enter through the front door. Our motel in Anchorage had two. I referred to this as the “Bear in a Box” phenomenon, drawing a few chuckles from our Alaskan hosts as we sat down to lunch on Thursday afternoon.
It was at this lunch that I experienced another strange Alaskan phenomenon known to locals as chicken fried steak. Being from Texas, I know darn good and well what a chicken fried steak is. Legend has it that the western cuisine originally found its way onto the plate in Lamesa, Texas, my birth place. Being a connoisseur of this West Texas staple I decided to try the Alaskan variety to see if they do it justice.
Now … don’t get me wrong … I like sausage gravy. My mom used to make it all the time. It is a rare treat to find a restaurant that actually cooks the sausage, then makes the gravy using sausage grease. A lot of places will dump some crumbled up sausage into their already prepared gravy mix and call it sausage gravy, but we all know that is not the real deal. However, it is safe to say that sausage gravy belongs on a biscuit, not on a breaded, deep fried processed meat patty. Apparently, Alaskans are unaware of this notion. The taste sensation was somewhat unique. The mixing of the meats created a sensory overload for my taste buds. It’s not that it was bad, but I just wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be eating. But then, why would expect anything different. This was, in fact, the only time I have ever been served chicken fried steak in a bowl.
The flight home wasn't too bad. I was seated on the back row of the plane. The only seat behind me was the lavatory, a seat that saw plenty of action throughout the nearly seven hour flight. I wish someone would explain to me what the fascination is with airplane lavatories. As soon as the plane is off the ground, people are lining up for the lavatory. Flight attendants are moving serving carts one way or another to make room for the constant stream of people wandering up and down the isle in search of relief. Do these people not use the bathroom before they get on the plane? My idea of a good time is not spending seven hours on a cramped airplane eagerly anticipating my turn in the john. But maybe that’s just me.
I also understand that people flying coach are going to experience a certain level of discomfort during a seven-hour flight. The seats are cramped and there is very little leg room. And I know that people want to lean their seats back and try to relax as much as possible during the flight. However, I would like to believe that most people would be kind and gentle when they prepare to lean back, invading the personal space of the person behind them. Once again, apparently that’s just me.
I’m a little above average in height, making plane rides all the more uncomfortable. The person sitting in front of me apparently had no concern for anyone else’s needs during the flight home. As soon as the wheels left the runway, the older gentlemen slammed his seat as far back as it would go, crashing into my knees. The two people sitting next to me looked in disbelief as a pained expression crossed my face.
No apology. No explanation. No moving the seat back up even a whisker to alleviate the pressure on my joints. But that was OK. I’m sure this gentleman didn’t rest very well because I know he felt it every time I shifted in my seat. Which turned out to be quite often … you know … since the seats were so cramped and uncomfortable.
But we made it back no worse for the wear. I survived the plane flight and all of our luggage made it back, too. Which is a good thing. We will need it next week when we head for Austin.
I’m not really afraid of flying. I’m secure in my Christianity and I know that all my post-life arrangements have been taken care of. I also realize that if I’m suddenly called home to glory, I won’t have to worry about making the house payment at the end of the month. Life will be much easier when it’s over.
Still, flying is just not natural. (Unless you're a seagull)However, when duty calls, one must answer. To this end, a co-worker and I boarded a plane for Alaska last Sunday. We had a week’s worth of work ahead of us in the northern most state, a place neither of us had been before.
The flight was relatively uneventful and the airline only lost one piece of luggage. As my co-worker was discussing this at the flight counter at 3 a.m. on a Monday morning in Fairbanks, Alaska, the lady working there pointed out that we should be happy. After all, five of our six pieces showed up. Interesting concept, but apparently she failed to realize that we really wanted all six pieces of luggage.
All in all, though, our experience was good. We ate our fill of reindeer sausage, fish and crab legs. And the fact that there was about 22 hours of sunlight a day didn’t bother us much when we turned in each night.
The scenery around Fairbanks was really interesting. From a distance, the mountains were a gorgeous, imposing image in every direction. But on further inspection … let’s just say I didn’t know that Alaska had that much swampy, marsh land.
And the trees were none too impressive. The landscape was covered with black fir trees. These were skinny, scraggly trees reaching skyward with awkwardly placed limbs and fronds. They are called black fir trees for a reason … because they are black except for some blueish-greenish fronds on the ends of their scrawny little limbs. Apparently, they are one of the few trees that will grow in that cold, marsh land.
Anchorage was a little different. There was more green greenery covering the mountains, and there was, of course, earthquakes.
At roughly 5:20 a.m. on Thursday morning I awoke to the violent shaking of my motel room. The quake nearly rattled me completely off the bed. It didn’t last long, however. By the time I realized what was going on, it was over. My co-worker got online and discovered that it was a 4.9 on the Richter scale, centered about 4 miles from where we were staying.
I can honestly say I didn’t mind the quake so much. It was no big deal. But I was angry that it woke me up so early in the morning. I’m not someone who can just crawl back in bed after I have woken up, especially when I was scheduled to be up in another hour-and-a-half anyway. The problem was that it was 5:20 a.m. on Thursday and I knew I wouldn’t see another bed until we got home at 2 p.m. on Friday.
Another thing one should know about Alaska is that every business of any type is apparently required by law to have a bear on display as you enter through the front door. Our motel in Anchorage had two. I referred to this as the “Bear in a Box” phenomenon, drawing a few chuckles from our Alaskan hosts as we sat down to lunch on Thursday afternoon.
It was at this lunch that I experienced another strange Alaskan phenomenon known to locals as chicken fried steak. Being from Texas, I know darn good and well what a chicken fried steak is. Legend has it that the western cuisine originally found its way onto the plate in Lamesa, Texas, my birth place. Being a connoisseur of this West Texas staple I decided to try the Alaskan variety to see if they do it justice.
Now … don’t get me wrong … I like sausage gravy. My mom used to make it all the time. It is a rare treat to find a restaurant that actually cooks the sausage, then makes the gravy using sausage grease. A lot of places will dump some crumbled up sausage into their already prepared gravy mix and call it sausage gravy, but we all know that is not the real deal. However, it is safe to say that sausage gravy belongs on a biscuit, not on a breaded, deep fried processed meat patty. Apparently, Alaskans are unaware of this notion. The taste sensation was somewhat unique. The mixing of the meats created a sensory overload for my taste buds. It’s not that it was bad, but I just wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be eating. But then, why would expect anything different. This was, in fact, the only time I have ever been served chicken fried steak in a bowl.
The flight home wasn't too bad. I was seated on the back row of the plane. The only seat behind me was the lavatory, a seat that saw plenty of action throughout the nearly seven hour flight. I wish someone would explain to me what the fascination is with airplane lavatories. As soon as the plane is off the ground, people are lining up for the lavatory. Flight attendants are moving serving carts one way or another to make room for the constant stream of people wandering up and down the isle in search of relief. Do these people not use the bathroom before they get on the plane? My idea of a good time is not spending seven hours on a cramped airplane eagerly anticipating my turn in the john. But maybe that’s just me.
I also understand that people flying coach are going to experience a certain level of discomfort during a seven-hour flight. The seats are cramped and there is very little leg room. And I know that people want to lean their seats back and try to relax as much as possible during the flight. However, I would like to believe that most people would be kind and gentle when they prepare to lean back, invading the personal space of the person behind them. Once again, apparently that’s just me.
I’m a little above average in height, making plane rides all the more uncomfortable. The person sitting in front of me apparently had no concern for anyone else’s needs during the flight home. As soon as the wheels left the runway, the older gentlemen slammed his seat as far back as it would go, crashing into my knees. The two people sitting next to me looked in disbelief as a pained expression crossed my face.
No apology. No explanation. No moving the seat back up even a whisker to alleviate the pressure on my joints. But that was OK. I’m sure this gentleman didn’t rest very well because I know he felt it every time I shifted in my seat. Which turned out to be quite often … you know … since the seats were so cramped and uncomfortable.
But we made it back no worse for the wear. I survived the plane flight and all of our luggage made it back, too. Which is a good thing. We will need it next week when we head for Austin.
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