I love my kids. They’re great. And not just because they’re nice to have around when I need another cup of coffee and don’t feel like going to the kitchen myself, or when it would really be nice for somebody to hand me the remote control because I already sat down, or on those occasions when I just feel like ordering someone around for no other reason than because I feel like it.
No surprise to me that some people call these the “wonder years.” I would agree wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, children do not come into this world directly into the “wonder years”. Prior to that is a much darker period of time known as the “diaper years”, and it is a time perhaps not quite filled so much with wonder as it is with something else altogether.
I learned many things during the diaper years. I learned that I had badly underestimated how expensive diapers are, not to mention how many are required for the daily care of a baby. I learned that there is no such thing as a “leak proof” diaper. I learned that the Diaper Genie we purchased to dispose of dirty diapers was a complete waste of money because the kitchen trash was much easier to use and would fill up so fast that you had to empty it every 4 hours anyway.
And, in one very memorable rookie mistake, I learned that you should never stick your finger inside of a baby’s diaper to see if it needs to be changed.
Because sometimes it does.
But the biggest thing I learned during these years is that I did not want to change a diaper AT ALL if I could possibly avoid it, and being a quick study, I did find a few ways to get out of it. Gentlemen, the information that follows is priceless knowledge that was gleaned from my own personal trials of slogging through many a diaper year. It is yours to use as you see fit. All that I would ask in return is that when you speak of me, speak well.
* Over-powder. Nothing will rankle your wife more than to have a cloud of baby powder shoot out of your baby’s diaper every time she picks them up or sets them down. It won’t be long before she starts saying those 5 blessed little words that you love to hear: “Just let me do it.” After that, it’s all football & Fritos, baby.
* Claim complete ignorance of the female anatomy. Only works for baby girls, obviously. The basis for this excuse is that you might possible hurt the baby and/or not clean them properly because, well, you’re completely ignorant of the female anatomy. The best part about this excuse is that you don’t have to lie to pull it off. (Note: To help illustrate your ignorance, take the time to earnestly question your wife about how it was again that she became pregnant in the first place.)
* Install Diapers Very Loosely. There’s nothing like a good poopy dribbling down your baby’s leg and onto her dress while she’s breastfeeding to get your wife’s attention. Also very cool when - much to her horror - Grandma or Grandpa pick the baby up and the diaper falls off completely. If asked, you put the diapers on loosely because you don’t want them to constrict the baby and cause them pain. Your wife won’t argue that point, but she will feel compelled to attempt to show you the right way to put the diaper on. Stick to your guns no matter how many times she does this and continue to tell her in your most adamant voice, “that’s exactly what I did!”. Eventually she’ll give up, but you may take a few shots before she does.
* Pretend That You’re “Right in the Middle of Something.” Tell your wife that you are at a “critical juncture” of a project and you can’t stop right at the moment because “you just mixed the epoxy”, and then run out of the room. Women don’t know what epoxy is or what it’s for, but that’s exactly why they won’t call your bluff. If the “project” in question is something on the “Honey-Do” list, so much the better, because they’re the ones that wanted it done in the first place. WARNING: Do not attempt this excuse if you’ve been sitting on the couch watching TV. She won’t buy it.
* Barter. Let’s face it, no new father wants to fold laundry, clean up the dishes, make the bed, or buy his wife that trip to Paris that she’s been begging for, but if you can’t fake your way out of diaper duty, there’s nothing dishonorable about buying your way out. Many a man has done it, and if my guess is correct, this is probably how the whole concept of “trade” was invented in the first place.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
What He Won't Remember
(from the book "Finding Liberty")
We always felt fairly isolated in Orlando; homeschooling was frowned upon by almost everyone, churches were big & impersonal, and finding like-minded people who simply didn’t care what the “Jones'’” did were few and far between. Although it didn’t really bother Catherine and I for ourselves that we seemed a little isolated, it did bother us for our children, because there were so few other kids around for them to play with.
I don’t know where all the kids in the neighborhood went when they came home from school – to their TV’s, computers, and video games, I guess – but they sure weren’t outside. I’m not just exaggerating either; you never saw them.
One morning Catherine was talking to a neighbor across the street and our son David, who was about 6 years old then, came up and asked our neighbor if her boys could come out to play. She kind of hemmed & hawed and then said that maybe they could come out to play around 3 O’clock. Well, to David this was firm date set in stone, and as the hours clicked away our little boy got more and more excited. But Cat & I knew that this lady never let her kids play with anyone in the neighborhood, and even as David’s excitement grew, we became more unsettled about what would actually happen.
3 O’clock finally rolled around, and David was ready to play. He was so excited! With something almost like dread, we took him outside where he ran to the end of the driveway and just stood there looking across the street – so excited and expectant – as he waited for a playmate who would never come. They weren’t home. Of course they weren’t home; she never had any intention of letting her boys play with David. I had known that, and Catherine had known that, but David didn’t.
I can still see him there; standing at first, then eventually sitting with his hands folded on his lap, so patient and happy, even as we tried to gently make excuses for why there would be no one for him to play with that day. “Just a few more minutes Daddy”, he would say, and then patiently continue to wait, eyes watching the empty house across the street.
My heart cried for my son that day. Why would you not want your kids to play with this beautiful little boy? He doesn’t swear, he doesn’t smart off, he doesn’t bully; he’s polite, he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, and he has an imagination that is pure and joyful. Isn’t that the kind of boy you want your kids to play with? I don’t care if you hurt me, but don’t hurt my son. Not that way.
I mention that incident because shortly after moving to Liberty, David was invited to a birthday party. After living for years in a world almost sterile of friends for our kids, this was as much a joy for Cat & I as it was for David, and we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
When we arrived, the 8 or so boys already at the party were playing Whiffle-Ball in the backyard, and David was invited to join in. It came his time to bat, and after several swings he was able to hit the ball. I was so proud.
And then he just stood there. The other kids were screaming at him, “Run! Run! Run!”, and after a few confused moments and many pointing fingers he finally took off and made it to first base. I stood there watching and felt my heart crack a little.
The next batter came to the plate and hit the first pitch. And David, so excited to be included and playing a game with other kids, just stood there on first base, not knowing what to do.
Again, the boys all began screaming, “Run! Run! Run!”, and my heart broke into pieces as I watched my beautiful little boy start running after the ball instead of towards 2nd base.
He didn’t know how to play baseball. I had never taught him.
I stood there hurting and embarrassed for this little boy named after a noble king. I stood there helplessly, watching him flounder in bewildered confusion as he tried so hard to do good, while bearing the brunt of mockery and laughter and screaming, and not even understanding why.
If there could be this much pain involved just watching my son get ridiculed by others, how much more must there have been for God when He watched His get murdered?
To their credit, the other boys didn’t give David too hard of a time, and once they learned that he had simply never played before, they did a pretty good job taking him under their wing and helping him out. In other words, doing what I should have already done long ago.
And just where had I been all that time? What had I been doing?
Like so many of those around me in that past world, I had been doing all of those things which were important to me, but not to my son. David never cared whether or not his dad closed “that big deal”, or that he was successful at “leveraging partnerships”, or that his management skills resulted in “good synergy” within the workplace. Those aren’t things that have any meaning to him whatsoever. They don’t affect his life at all, and he won’t remember me for them.
What he will remember me for is how well I’ve prepared him for this world that I brought him into. He’ll remember me for what I teach him about life & love, anger & fear, and honor & integrity. He’ll remember me for teaching him about losing with dignity & winning with grace, coping with rejection & acknowledging praise, doing what is right & leading by example, and standing your ground for what you believe in, even if others don’t like it.
Regardless of how good or bad I may do those things, he’ll at least remember that I tried, and if nothing else, he’ll have a starting point from which he can then further develop his own ideas and values as he goes through his life. That’s the only real legacy that I can give him. Those are the things that he will remember me for.
To my shame, however, he’ll never remember me for teaching him how to play baseball.
We always felt fairly isolated in Orlando; homeschooling was frowned upon by almost everyone, churches were big & impersonal, and finding like-minded people who simply didn’t care what the “Jones'’” did were few and far between. Although it didn’t really bother Catherine and I for ourselves that we seemed a little isolated, it did bother us for our children, because there were so few other kids around for them to play with.
I don’t know where all the kids in the neighborhood went when they came home from school – to their TV’s, computers, and video games, I guess – but they sure weren’t outside. I’m not just exaggerating either; you never saw them.
One morning Catherine was talking to a neighbor across the street and our son David, who was about 6 years old then, came up and asked our neighbor if her boys could come out to play. She kind of hemmed & hawed and then said that maybe they could come out to play around 3 O’clock. Well, to David this was firm date set in stone, and as the hours clicked away our little boy got more and more excited. But Cat & I knew that this lady never let her kids play with anyone in the neighborhood, and even as David’s excitement grew, we became more unsettled about what would actually happen.
3 O’clock finally rolled around, and David was ready to play. He was so excited! With something almost like dread, we took him outside where he ran to the end of the driveway and just stood there looking across the street – so excited and expectant – as he waited for a playmate who would never come. They weren’t home. Of course they weren’t home; she never had any intention of letting her boys play with David. I had known that, and Catherine had known that, but David didn’t.
I can still see him there; standing at first, then eventually sitting with his hands folded on his lap, so patient and happy, even as we tried to gently make excuses for why there would be no one for him to play with that day. “Just a few more minutes Daddy”, he would say, and then patiently continue to wait, eyes watching the empty house across the street.
My heart cried for my son that day. Why would you not want your kids to play with this beautiful little boy? He doesn’t swear, he doesn’t smart off, he doesn’t bully; he’s polite, he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, and he has an imagination that is pure and joyful. Isn’t that the kind of boy you want your kids to play with? I don’t care if you hurt me, but don’t hurt my son. Not that way.
I mention that incident because shortly after moving to Liberty, David was invited to a birthday party. After living for years in a world almost sterile of friends for our kids, this was as much a joy for Cat & I as it was for David, and we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
When we arrived, the 8 or so boys already at the party were playing Whiffle-Ball in the backyard, and David was invited to join in. It came his time to bat, and after several swings he was able to hit the ball. I was so proud.
And then he just stood there. The other kids were screaming at him, “Run! Run! Run!”, and after a few confused moments and many pointing fingers he finally took off and made it to first base. I stood there watching and felt my heart crack a little.
The next batter came to the plate and hit the first pitch. And David, so excited to be included and playing a game with other kids, just stood there on first base, not knowing what to do.
Again, the boys all began screaming, “Run! Run! Run!”, and my heart broke into pieces as I watched my beautiful little boy start running after the ball instead of towards 2nd base.
He didn’t know how to play baseball. I had never taught him.
I stood there hurting and embarrassed for this little boy named after a noble king. I stood there helplessly, watching him flounder in bewildered confusion as he tried so hard to do good, while bearing the brunt of mockery and laughter and screaming, and not even understanding why.
If there could be this much pain involved just watching my son get ridiculed by others, how much more must there have been for God when He watched His get murdered?
To their credit, the other boys didn’t give David too hard of a time, and once they learned that he had simply never played before, they did a pretty good job taking him under their wing and helping him out. In other words, doing what I should have already done long ago.
And just where had I been all that time? What had I been doing?
Like so many of those around me in that past world, I had been doing all of those things which were important to me, but not to my son. David never cared whether or not his dad closed “that big deal”, or that he was successful at “leveraging partnerships”, or that his management skills resulted in “good synergy” within the workplace. Those aren’t things that have any meaning to him whatsoever. They don’t affect his life at all, and he won’t remember me for them.
What he will remember me for is how well I’ve prepared him for this world that I brought him into. He’ll remember me for what I teach him about life & love, anger & fear, and honor & integrity. He’ll remember me for teaching him about losing with dignity & winning with grace, coping with rejection & acknowledging praise, doing what is right & leading by example, and standing your ground for what you believe in, even if others don’t like it.
Regardless of how good or bad I may do those things, he’ll at least remember that I tried, and if nothing else, he’ll have a starting point from which he can then further develop his own ideas and values as he goes through his life. That’s the only real legacy that I can give him. Those are the things that he will remember me for.
To my shame, however, he’ll never remember me for teaching him how to play baseball.
Monday, April 21, 2008
An excerpt from "What So Proudly We Hailed"
A.J. didn’t show up until late September, but when we finally met up, he was the one impatient to see me, not the other way around. He had been at the host family’s house that we had agreed upon months earlier for over two weeks, waiting on me. I had just been wandering around like I said, checking in every so often to see if he had arrived, and then heading back off again after a couple days to be by myself. He must have shown up right after my last departure.
“Where have you been?” he asked. Something about his tone struck me as odd, and he had a look in his eye that made me feel guilty of something. The look you give someone when they’ve done something wrong.
“Where have I been? What are you talking about? I’ve been waiting for you.”
He shook his head.
“That’s not what I mean. I’ve been trying to contact you. Everybody’s been trying to contact you. How come you haven’t replied to any of your messages?”
“What messages?” I asked, truly confused.
“Haven’t you checked your PDA?”
My PDA was in a bundle with my gun and the rest of what little I had out in a loft in the barn. David had given it to me almost a year ago and I had long since stopped checking it because nobody ever sent me anything. And why would they? Who even knew I existed?
“No,” I said, getting a little defensive. I know it was stupid, but I felt like he was accusing me of something and I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not to him anyway.
“Why should I?” I added quickly. “Who’s going to send me a message, anyway? You and David are about the only ones who even know who I am. You knew where I was. And what took you so long to get here? It’s been three months, you know. ”
A.J. looked at me like I was nuts.
“Don’t you know what’s been going on?” he asked. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“No, I’ve been waiting for you. What do I want to watch the news for?”
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it, and yet at the same time, like he finally understood something too. He even chuckled under his breath, like it was funny.
“What?” I said, truly exasperated.
“Come here,” he said. “I need to show you something.”
He sat me in front of the TV and switched it to one of the news networks.
“Watch,” he said.
“What am I watching for?” I asked.
“Just watch. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Still feeling bewildered, but now also more than a bit curious, I did as I was told.
It was just news. Everything was as different and the same as it ever was. The Department of Labor reported that unemployment was holding steady at 0.4%. There was a story about a woman who claimed that her RFID implant allowed her to communicate with aliens. Another about a group termination of five D-chipped felons who had been planning to kidnap a surgeon from Bethesda to relieve them of their implants (which apparently didn’t allow them to talk to aliens, ha ha ha, wasn’t that funny?).
The Dow had slipped 4,700 points – mostly in a frantic morning sell off that was brought on by fears of Russia withholding oil supplies in retaliation to new US sanctions against Brazil – to finish the day at just over 84,500. The Nasdaq 1000 also dropped accordingly. Of course it did.
And then the commercials: A new drug for Billy, a new car for Sue, would you like insurance with that?, and don’t forget to trust your broker with everything else that hasn’t already taken because retirement was coming and you were going to be seventy-five sooner than you thought.
I looked over at A.J. He just sat there and nodded his head at the screen.
“Be patient, he said.
So I sat and I watched and suddenly, there it was.
He was right, A.J. was; I knew it when I saw it. But I still couldn’t believe it when I did.
The update started with the bad news.
Attacks from domestic terrorists were still on the rise across the country and were showing no signs of abating. Also disturbing was that the number of people who were attempting to remove their implants and join these terrorists had tripled over the past month as many previously thought “law abiding patriotic Americans” were showing their true colors (for shock value they included a short clip of an angry woman whose husband had been one of these traitors and who now warned everyone that “you just can’t be too sure about who you’re sharing your bed with”).
And most disturbing of all was that some people were actually sympathizing with these terrorists; in fact, just the day before a group of 30 people had tried to demonstrate – with picket signs and everything – on the courthouse steps in Seattle in protest of what they called “violations of their civil liberties”. Protesting against America! Could you believe it? Luckily, the Department of Homeland Security got there quickly and put a stop to it before anyone got hurt, God Bless America.
The relieved anchorman was happy to let us know – while his pretty blonde co-anchor nodded her head in agreement – that the ringleaders were now in custody and scheduled for D-chipping, while the rest of the protestors had already been stripped of their possessions and entered into the new government WPA labor program for reorientation.
But fear not good citizens, there is also good news to report, because the DHS crackdown was yielding impressive results. Over 1400 of these known – or suspected – domestic terrorists had been arrested or killed just in the month of September alone, along with more than 300 others who had been covertly providing assistance and safe haven for them. Progress was being made, and the DHS assured everyone that removing this threat to the American people was of top priority and all efforts would continue to be made until it was stamped out completely.
The segment closed with an interview of DHS director Roger Benedict urging all Americans to assist them in this fight by maintaining “uncompromising vigilance” in reporting suspicious activity, and warning each and every one of us to prepare ourselves for the possibility that performing our patriotic duty may even require the unenviable task of turning in a loved one.
I was numb watching it all. Shocked. But not so much because of what was being reported; what was truly incredible to me was the name that they had given to these “domestic terrorists”.
They were calling them “Gideons.”
I looked over at A.J., not knowing what to say.
“The resistance finally has a name, brother,” he said. “And you’re it.”
“Where have you been?” he asked. Something about his tone struck me as odd, and he had a look in his eye that made me feel guilty of something. The look you give someone when they’ve done something wrong.
“Where have I been? What are you talking about? I’ve been waiting for you.”
He shook his head.
“That’s not what I mean. I’ve been trying to contact you. Everybody’s been trying to contact you. How come you haven’t replied to any of your messages?”
“What messages?” I asked, truly confused.
“Haven’t you checked your PDA?”
My PDA was in a bundle with my gun and the rest of what little I had out in a loft in the barn. David had given it to me almost a year ago and I had long since stopped checking it because nobody ever sent me anything. And why would they? Who even knew I existed?
“No,” I said, getting a little defensive. I know it was stupid, but I felt like he was accusing me of something and I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not to him anyway.
“Why should I?” I added quickly. “Who’s going to send me a message, anyway? You and David are about the only ones who even know who I am. You knew where I was. And what took you so long to get here? It’s been three months, you know. ”
A.J. looked at me like I was nuts.
“Don’t you know what’s been going on?” he asked. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“No, I’ve been waiting for you. What do I want to watch the news for?”
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it, and yet at the same time, like he finally understood something too. He even chuckled under his breath, like it was funny.
“What?” I said, truly exasperated.
“Come here,” he said. “I need to show you something.”
He sat me in front of the TV and switched it to one of the news networks.
“Watch,” he said.
“What am I watching for?” I asked.
“Just watch. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Still feeling bewildered, but now also more than a bit curious, I did as I was told.
It was just news. Everything was as different and the same as it ever was. The Department of Labor reported that unemployment was holding steady at 0.4%. There was a story about a woman who claimed that her RFID implant allowed her to communicate with aliens. Another about a group termination of five D-chipped felons who had been planning to kidnap a surgeon from Bethesda to relieve them of their implants (which apparently didn’t allow them to talk to aliens, ha ha ha, wasn’t that funny?).
The Dow had slipped 4,700 points – mostly in a frantic morning sell off that was brought on by fears of Russia withholding oil supplies in retaliation to new US sanctions against Brazil – to finish the day at just over 84,500. The Nasdaq 1000 also dropped accordingly. Of course it did.
And then the commercials: A new drug for Billy, a new car for Sue, would you like insurance with that?, and don’t forget to trust your broker with everything else that hasn’t already taken because retirement was coming and you were going to be seventy-five sooner than you thought.
I looked over at A.J. He just sat there and nodded his head at the screen.
“Be patient, he said.
So I sat and I watched and suddenly, there it was.
He was right, A.J. was; I knew it when I saw it. But I still couldn’t believe it when I did.
The update started with the bad news.
Attacks from domestic terrorists were still on the rise across the country and were showing no signs of abating. Also disturbing was that the number of people who were attempting to remove their implants and join these terrorists had tripled over the past month as many previously thought “law abiding patriotic Americans” were showing their true colors (for shock value they included a short clip of an angry woman whose husband had been one of these traitors and who now warned everyone that “you just can’t be too sure about who you’re sharing your bed with”).
And most disturbing of all was that some people were actually sympathizing with these terrorists; in fact, just the day before a group of 30 people had tried to demonstrate – with picket signs and everything – on the courthouse steps in Seattle in protest of what they called “violations of their civil liberties”. Protesting against America! Could you believe it? Luckily, the Department of Homeland Security got there quickly and put a stop to it before anyone got hurt, God Bless America.
The relieved anchorman was happy to let us know – while his pretty blonde co-anchor nodded her head in agreement – that the ringleaders were now in custody and scheduled for D-chipping, while the rest of the protestors had already been stripped of their possessions and entered into the new government WPA labor program for reorientation.
But fear not good citizens, there is also good news to report, because the DHS crackdown was yielding impressive results. Over 1400 of these known – or suspected – domestic terrorists had been arrested or killed just in the month of September alone, along with more than 300 others who had been covertly providing assistance and safe haven for them. Progress was being made, and the DHS assured everyone that removing this threat to the American people was of top priority and all efforts would continue to be made until it was stamped out completely.
The segment closed with an interview of DHS director Roger Benedict urging all Americans to assist them in this fight by maintaining “uncompromising vigilance” in reporting suspicious activity, and warning each and every one of us to prepare ourselves for the possibility that performing our patriotic duty may even require the unenviable task of turning in a loved one.
I was numb watching it all. Shocked. But not so much because of what was being reported; what was truly incredible to me was the name that they had given to these “domestic terrorists”.
They were calling them “Gideons.”
I looked over at A.J., not knowing what to say.
“The resistance finally has a name, brother,” he said. “And you’re it.”
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Just a little status . . .
Hi all, I just wanted to take a moment to apologize for not posting more often lately. I kind of messed up and got a real job again (by necessity) so that's been taking up some time. They actually expect me to be there every day for 8 whole hours. In a row. Well, almost anyway. Can you believe it? So that's been taking up some time. Plus we've had some nice days now that spring is here so I've had to fight the pull to be outside rather than at a desk writing. And now there's softball coaching to do a couple nights of every week . . .
The bottom line is that I won't be able to post quite as often as I have in past months. I do still have plenty of things to write about (the questions never stop, in fact), but I'd rather take the time to try to write something that is worth reading rather than just slapping down some incoherent thoughts in order to meet some kind of "blog quota". So if you can bear with me on that, I'd be much obliged.
If you happen to be in Central Kentucky on the weekend of April 26 & 27, drop on by Penn's Store (located a couple miles outside of Gravel Switch, KY if that helps . . . probably not) for their annual "Writer's Day" celebration. I'll be there (with my lovely if not slightly high maintenance wife Catherine) to read and talk and meet people and just chill out at this little general store out in the middle of nowhere. Here's the link if you're interested: Writer's Day.
Thanks again for your patience.
The bottom line is that I won't be able to post quite as often as I have in past months. I do still have plenty of things to write about (the questions never stop, in fact), but I'd rather take the time to try to write something that is worth reading rather than just slapping down some incoherent thoughts in order to meet some kind of "blog quota". So if you can bear with me on that, I'd be much obliged.
If you happen to be in Central Kentucky on the weekend of April 26 & 27, drop on by Penn's Store (located a couple miles outside of Gravel Switch, KY if that helps . . . probably not) for their annual "Writer's Day" celebration. I'll be there (with my lovely if not slightly high maintenance wife Catherine) to read and talk and meet people and just chill out at this little general store out in the middle of nowhere. Here's the link if you're interested: Writer's Day.
Thanks again for your patience.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
He Said - The Call of the Domestic
There I am, braving the elements of the Yukon winter, ice crystals frozen to my face as my trusty sled dogs bravely charge across the frozen wasteland. As I fight against the blinding light of the cold sun, the frigid wind lashing my face, and the uncertainty of my own survival, I have never felt more like a man.
Jack London’s world has become my own, but just as I begin to think that nothing could ever tear me away from this land, a jagged crack rips through the sky, and The Call of the Wild is suddenly – viciously – overwhelmed by the call of the domestic.
“Blaine, honey,” she calls. “Can you come here for a second?”
I snap back to the present, and with some chagrin I find that I am of course relaxing in a warm, comfortable chair. (Despite appearances, I am not completely stupid; while I certainly don’t mind reading about 60 degrees below zero, I could certainly make it to my grave with no great amount of disappointment if I never actually experience it).
I quickly analyze the “Blaine, honey”. While I proclaim general ignorance to the overall ways of women, like most men who have shared years of their lives with a woman, I have come to some understanding of the subtle nuances of how my name is called. From the common you’re in big trouble “Blaine” to the less frequent that was so sweet of you “Blaine”, I can often prepare myself for what lies ahead (and sometimes actually put the shovel away) prior to answering.
To my dismay, I realize that this is the I want to completely rearrange the furniture in the living room for no particular reason “Blaine”, with the “can you come here for a second?” meaning that she intends to have this done right now. Tentacles of basic instinct reach out to me from the rapidly fading arctic, urging me to make a decision on which my life may depend:
Fight or flight?
I don’t think most men really understand the “rearranging of the room” disorder that seems to constantly plague the fairer sex. In fact, I doubt that the thought would ever even occur to us. Left to my own devices, I can fairly admit that wherever the moving guys put the stuff when they unloaded the truck would no doubt be perfectly okay with me. They are trained professionals, you know.
But whether it’s some aberrant genetic trait or simply a less appealing aspect of “nesting syndrome”, it is a predicament that husbands often seem to find themselves in for no good reason at all. And no matter how reassuring my agreement is to her that “it most certainly does in fact need to be done”, I’m still puzzled that it should be so bewildering to Catherine that I don’t share the urgency of the situation. It’s not like it can’t be done tomorrow.
“Blaine,” she calls, with the I know you can hear me and if you don’t come down here in the next few seconds you’re going to be in big trouble “Blaine.”
Well, I’ve got to go. Like I said, I’m not completely stupid.
Jack London’s world has become my own, but just as I begin to think that nothing could ever tear me away from this land, a jagged crack rips through the sky, and The Call of the Wild is suddenly – viciously – overwhelmed by the call of the domestic.
“Blaine, honey,” she calls. “Can you come here for a second?”
I snap back to the present, and with some chagrin I find that I am of course relaxing in a warm, comfortable chair. (Despite appearances, I am not completely stupid; while I certainly don’t mind reading about 60 degrees below zero, I could certainly make it to my grave with no great amount of disappointment if I never actually experience it).
I quickly analyze the “Blaine, honey”. While I proclaim general ignorance to the overall ways of women, like most men who have shared years of their lives with a woman, I have come to some understanding of the subtle nuances of how my name is called. From the common you’re in big trouble “Blaine” to the less frequent that was so sweet of you “Blaine”, I can often prepare myself for what lies ahead (and sometimes actually put the shovel away) prior to answering.
To my dismay, I realize that this is the I want to completely rearrange the furniture in the living room for no particular reason “Blaine”, with the “can you come here for a second?” meaning that she intends to have this done right now. Tentacles of basic instinct reach out to me from the rapidly fading arctic, urging me to make a decision on which my life may depend:
Fight or flight?
I don’t think most men really understand the “rearranging of the room” disorder that seems to constantly plague the fairer sex. In fact, I doubt that the thought would ever even occur to us. Left to my own devices, I can fairly admit that wherever the moving guys put the stuff when they unloaded the truck would no doubt be perfectly okay with me. They are trained professionals, you know.
But whether it’s some aberrant genetic trait or simply a less appealing aspect of “nesting syndrome”, it is a predicament that husbands often seem to find themselves in for no good reason at all. And no matter how reassuring my agreement is to her that “it most certainly does in fact need to be done”, I’m still puzzled that it should be so bewildering to Catherine that I don’t share the urgency of the situation. It’s not like it can’t be done tomorrow.
“Blaine,” she calls, with the I know you can hear me and if you don’t come down here in the next few seconds you’re going to be in big trouble “Blaine.”
Well, I’ve got to go. Like I said, I’m not completely stupid.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Flotsam & Jetsam
Words & Phrases That Don’t Mean Anything Anymore
I’ve heard these words and phrases used – and misused – so often that it now makes me wince every time I hear them:
“Defining moment” – Just yesterday the President told us that we had yet another “defining moment” in Iraq. How many is that now in the last 5 years? It’s interesting because I’ve only had about 3 defining moments in my entire life. I’m not sure Dubya really understands what a “defining moment” is, because it seems he throws it out there every time he opens his mouth about whatever is happening in Iraq. Calling every single thing that happens a “defining moment” is kind of like saying that you had an “epiphany” every time you learned something new.
“War on terror” – For those of you who don't realize it yet, there is no “war on terror”. What there is is a handy-dandy slogan which is continuously used to justify whatever the government wants to do next. It’s kind of like having a “get out of jail free” card, or maybe the “immunity rock” on the TV show “Survivor”. It makes your actions untouchable. The difference is that it can be used pro-actively. Handy indeed.
“Progress” – It amazes me how much progress we’ve made in Iraq. Every day I hear how about how much progress we’re making. Makes me feel real good. I just wish somebody would tell me where we’re going, and how we’ll know when we get there. Apparently the noun form of the word “objective” must still mean something, otherwise we might actually hear it used too. In a bad homage to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”;
Progress, progress, every where,
And all the dead did stink;
Progress, progress, every where,
What end? did no one think.
“Sorry” and “Regret” – Do I even need to give examples for these? Everybody’s apologizing these days. Everybody regrets something. And nobody really means it.
Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm . . .
Have you ever wondered why people will pay $6 or $7 dollars for a small bottle of dog shampoo and then pay $1 or $2 for the shampoo that they intend to use for themselves? Isn’t that a little weird?
For that matter, do you ever wonder why we’ll buy dog treats (very expensive, by the way) that we won’t even eat ourselves? I switched to Ginger Snaps. They’re cheaper, my dogs are spastic about them, and we can all share a treat together.
Does anyone else realize that “tuna flavored” canned cat food costs significantly more than a can of actual tuna in a can the same size? Do cats not like real fish?
Isn’t it interesting that while the stock of just about every other major company has tumbled in the past 12 months, Monsanto’s stock has doubled in the last year? (and in case you’re wondering, it has tripled in the last 2 years and has had a 12x increase in the last 5). They’re just a bunch of good guys, those Monsanto guys are.
Why does it always seem that we leave it to auto manufacturers to “lead the way” in designing an electric car for the masses, and we wait for the big oil companies to find good, alternate fuels? Isn’t that kind of like leaving it to the pedophiles to stop child pornography?
and finally . . .
“Your Papers, Please”
Mayra Figueroa — a naturalized U.S. citizen, community organizer and licensed driver — had no reason to fear being arrested, no need to worry about deported. Then she was pulled over by a Houston police officer, who told her he found it suspicious that a Latina was driving a late-model car. The first thing the officer requested? Figueroa's Social Security card, as proof of citizenship.
"I have been living here for the last 17 years, and to have an officer stop me for no reason and ask for papers, it made me feel like he didn't think I belong here," said Figueroa.
Land of the free, brother. Land of the free.
I’ve heard these words and phrases used – and misused – so often that it now makes me wince every time I hear them:
“Defining moment” – Just yesterday the President told us that we had yet another “defining moment” in Iraq. How many is that now in the last 5 years? It’s interesting because I’ve only had about 3 defining moments in my entire life. I’m not sure Dubya really understands what a “defining moment” is, because it seems he throws it out there every time he opens his mouth about whatever is happening in Iraq. Calling every single thing that happens a “defining moment” is kind of like saying that you had an “epiphany” every time you learned something new.
“War on terror” – For those of you who don't realize it yet, there is no “war on terror”. What there is is a handy-dandy slogan which is continuously used to justify whatever the government wants to do next. It’s kind of like having a “get out of jail free” card, or maybe the “immunity rock” on the TV show “Survivor”. It makes your actions untouchable. The difference is that it can be used pro-actively. Handy indeed.
“Progress” – It amazes me how much progress we’ve made in Iraq. Every day I hear how about how much progress we’re making. Makes me feel real good. I just wish somebody would tell me where we’re going, and how we’ll know when we get there. Apparently the noun form of the word “objective” must still mean something, otherwise we might actually hear it used too. In a bad homage to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”;
Progress, progress, every where,
And all the dead did stink;
Progress, progress, every where,
What end? did no one think.
“Sorry” and “Regret” – Do I even need to give examples for these? Everybody’s apologizing these days. Everybody regrets something. And nobody really means it.
Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm . . .
Have you ever wondered why people will pay $6 or $7 dollars for a small bottle of dog shampoo and then pay $1 or $2 for the shampoo that they intend to use for themselves? Isn’t that a little weird?
For that matter, do you ever wonder why we’ll buy dog treats (very expensive, by the way) that we won’t even eat ourselves? I switched to Ginger Snaps. They’re cheaper, my dogs are spastic about them, and we can all share a treat together.
Does anyone else realize that “tuna flavored” canned cat food costs significantly more than a can of actual tuna in a can the same size? Do cats not like real fish?
Isn’t it interesting that while the stock of just about every other major company has tumbled in the past 12 months, Monsanto’s stock has doubled in the last year? (and in case you’re wondering, it has tripled in the last 2 years and has had a 12x increase in the last 5). They’re just a bunch of good guys, those Monsanto guys are.
Why does it always seem that we leave it to auto manufacturers to “lead the way” in designing an electric car for the masses, and we wait for the big oil companies to find good, alternate fuels? Isn’t that kind of like leaving it to the pedophiles to stop child pornography?
and finally . . .
“Your Papers, Please”
Mayra Figueroa — a naturalized U.S. citizen, community organizer and licensed driver — had no reason to fear being arrested, no need to worry about deported. Then she was pulled over by a Houston police officer, who told her he found it suspicious that a Latina was driving a late-model car. The first thing the officer requested? Figueroa's Social Security card, as proof of citizenship.
"I have been living here for the last 17 years, and to have an officer stop me for no reason and ask for papers, it made me feel like he didn't think I belong here," said Figueroa.
Land of the free, brother. Land of the free.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Mexican dis-Connection
According to the news reports that have been running (ad nauseum) for the past year or so, one of the biggest problems that the United States is presently facing is the “invasion” of 11 million illegal Mexicans currently working, living, and – should you believe the mainstream news – sponging off of the American people.
They are getting free healthcare, courtesy of our taxpayer dollars. They are taking jobs away from lawful American citizens. They contribute to a criminal element in this country that has already taxed the resources of law enforcement. In short, they are an unwanted, unneeded, and unnecessary burden to the American people.
Something has to be done. The border must be secured. Not only to keep this unwanted rabble out of our country, but to ensure that the threat of terrorism remains pushed back beyond our borders.
So we’re told.
For all of the talk that I hear about this “pressing problem”, there sure are a lot of questions that I don’t hear anybody asking. Maybe nobody is asking these questions because nobody really wants to hear the answers, so if that’s the case, I won’t trouble anyone by stating what I think the answers are. I will, however, at least put the questions into play.
The first question deals with the fact that these 11 million Mexican immigrants are illegally in the country. I’m fairly certain that this is true and that the number is probably correct. But the question is this: Would these 11 million immigrants bother us if they were in our country legally? In other words, if our immigration system had the capacity to allow these people to enter legally and become American citizens, would anyone be shouting about it?
I ask because, unless you are a direct blood descendant of a Native American, somewhere along the line, your ancestors – and therefore you by association – also immigrated to the United States. The only difference is that your ancestors were allowed to enter. If our system today could handle the volume of immigrants wanting to enter the U.S., and the result was that they were all here legally, would there still be a problem?
Could the real problem be, perhaps, that we don’t want to let other people into the U.S. because we simply don’t want to share?
Several years ago I watched the movie “Gangs of New York”. I didn’t care for the movie too much, but I was fascinated with the very real historical concept that the movie was based on; namely, that the descendants of immigrants who were born in the U.S. in the 1800’s absolutely hated the new immigrants who kept arriving. They didn’t want them coming into “their” country.
So I’ll ask again; would it still be an issue if they were in fact legal residents, or do we just not want someone else messing up a good thing and taking a piece of our pie and this is just a convenient excuse to use so that we don’t have to actually look our own selfishness in the face? All of us being immigrants ourselves from somewhere down the line, what would give us the right to say that other people are not also allowed to immigrate, other than the fact that “we were here first”?
Here are some other questions that no one seems to be asking:
Why do we get so upset about the "burden" illegal immigrants put on our welfare & healthcare systems but we don’t get all bent out of shape on the 80 billion dollar a year Haliburton revenue machine known as the Iraq War? Do we really think that insurance companies would suddenly make healthcare accessible & affordable for everyone if there were no illegal immigrants? Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.
Why do we focus so acutely on those illegals – a very tiny portion of that 11 million whole – that are involved with gangs, or drugs, or that get busted for a DUI? Have we, as card-carrying members of the “legal” American society, ever had a problem producing our own home-grown gang members, drug dealers, or sloppy drunks (and in much higher percentages by the way)?
And one big question that really baffles me: Why do we get all upset with Mexicans for taking jobs that we don’t want anyway, and yet we don’t get upset with our own corporate American “Captains of Industry” – fully legal in every sense – when they send jobs that we do want overseas? Whose actions are crippling the average American more?
Several years ago in Casey County, KY, an American company (Oshkosh) closed down a plant here that employed 1,200 people and sent their jobs overseas. To put that into perspective, realize that 1,200 people represents a full 20% of the available workforce of the entire county! Try to comprehend for a moment the economic impact that that single action had on this rural area and the people in it. And yet I’m supposed to be upset with a bunch of poor Mexicans who are trying to feed their families?
These are all just questions, mind you. I’m not saying I know the answers; I’m just asking.
Something else that puzzles me. What is causing this sudden "influx" of illegal Mexican immigrants anyway? What I mean is this: our border with Mexico has pretty much been “open” for 200 years. This was never a big problem before; why now? What has changed in just the past few decades to drive this trend?
I don’t claim to know much about Hispanic culture, but I did learn a few things from working with many Latinos while I lived in Florida. One thing I learned is that they are a hugely family oriented culture (to a point that should shame most Americans). Another is that they are fiercely proud of their heritage and their countries.
Americans often make the mistake of generically lumping all Latin Americans into one big pot, as if everything south of the U.S. were just one big country. But that’s patently not true. Puerto Ricans are Puerto Ricans, Cubans are Cubans, Mexicans are Mexicans, Argentines are Argentines, etc., and none of them likes to be mistaken for anything else. Are we any different in the U.S.?
So knowing that family is very important to Mexicans, and knowing that they love their countries much as we do our own, isn’t it at least a little odd that they would leave both behind to come into the U.S. illegally and live a life as a second class person? Why would they do that?
Because this is the big payoff for that sacrifice: They get a chance to work at a job that most Americans won’t do ourselves under any circumstances for a wage that we would consider absolutely insulting.
So again, what is the real problem here? That Mexicans are invading our country with greedy selfish abandon, or that they come here because they can’t scratch out a decent existence living in Mexico?
If the problem is the latter, building a billion dollar wall will only be a band-aid on the symptom, while the real problem – whatever it is – will still exist. And when the wall fails to resolve the problem (and it will fail because it will only address a symptom instead of the actual problem), what then? Watchtowers, razorwire, & snipers?
Doesn’t all of this "border wall" stuff sound a little bit too much like the Berlin Wall? And wasn’t the destruction of that wall something that the world rejoiced in? Why then would we want to build one of our own?
You may say, But this is different; the Berlin Wall was used to keep people in, our wall will be used to keep people out.
That’s a valid point, I guess, but I think we would be very shortsighted if we failed to recognize the fact that a wall works just as well from either side.
One final question:
Let’s say that we get our wish. Let’s say that we deport all of these pesky illegal aliens back to their side of the border. Let’s say that we build our wall, and let’s even go as far as to say that our beautiful, horizontal monolith does exactly what it was designed to do.
Who then, I ask, would do the jobs that those 11 million people are presently doing? Who would volunteer to work bent over in the sun all day picking lettuce or tobacco for minimum wage? Who would take that place on the assembly line on the night shift at the chicken processing plant? Who would provide maid service for such a bargain basement price? Who would brave those Wisconsin winters just to have the opportunity to hose down stalls at a dairy farm?
Would you? Would any of us?
I’m just asking.
They are getting free healthcare, courtesy of our taxpayer dollars. They are taking jobs away from lawful American citizens. They contribute to a criminal element in this country that has already taxed the resources of law enforcement. In short, they are an unwanted, unneeded, and unnecessary burden to the American people.
Something has to be done. The border must be secured. Not only to keep this unwanted rabble out of our country, but to ensure that the threat of terrorism remains pushed back beyond our borders.
So we’re told.
For all of the talk that I hear about this “pressing problem”, there sure are a lot of questions that I don’t hear anybody asking. Maybe nobody is asking these questions because nobody really wants to hear the answers, so if that’s the case, I won’t trouble anyone by stating what I think the answers are. I will, however, at least put the questions into play.
The first question deals with the fact that these 11 million Mexican immigrants are illegally in the country. I’m fairly certain that this is true and that the number is probably correct. But the question is this: Would these 11 million immigrants bother us if they were in our country legally? In other words, if our immigration system had the capacity to allow these people to enter legally and become American citizens, would anyone be shouting about it?
I ask because, unless you are a direct blood descendant of a Native American, somewhere along the line, your ancestors – and therefore you by association – also immigrated to the United States. The only difference is that your ancestors were allowed to enter. If our system today could handle the volume of immigrants wanting to enter the U.S., and the result was that they were all here legally, would there still be a problem?
Could the real problem be, perhaps, that we don’t want to let other people into the U.S. because we simply don’t want to share?
Several years ago I watched the movie “Gangs of New York”. I didn’t care for the movie too much, but I was fascinated with the very real historical concept that the movie was based on; namely, that the descendants of immigrants who were born in the U.S. in the 1800’s absolutely hated the new immigrants who kept arriving. They didn’t want them coming into “their” country.
So I’ll ask again; would it still be an issue if they were in fact legal residents, or do we just not want someone else messing up a good thing and taking a piece of our pie and this is just a convenient excuse to use so that we don’t have to actually look our own selfishness in the face? All of us being immigrants ourselves from somewhere down the line, what would give us the right to say that other people are not also allowed to immigrate, other than the fact that “we were here first”?
Here are some other questions that no one seems to be asking:
Why do we get so upset about the "burden" illegal immigrants put on our welfare & healthcare systems but we don’t get all bent out of shape on the 80 billion dollar a year Haliburton revenue machine known as the Iraq War? Do we really think that insurance companies would suddenly make healthcare accessible & affordable for everyone if there were no illegal immigrants? Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.
Why do we focus so acutely on those illegals – a very tiny portion of that 11 million whole – that are involved with gangs, or drugs, or that get busted for a DUI? Have we, as card-carrying members of the “legal” American society, ever had a problem producing our own home-grown gang members, drug dealers, or sloppy drunks (and in much higher percentages by the way)?
And one big question that really baffles me: Why do we get all upset with Mexicans for taking jobs that we don’t want anyway, and yet we don’t get upset with our own corporate American “Captains of Industry” – fully legal in every sense – when they send jobs that we do want overseas? Whose actions are crippling the average American more?
Several years ago in Casey County, KY, an American company (Oshkosh) closed down a plant here that employed 1,200 people and sent their jobs overseas. To put that into perspective, realize that 1,200 people represents a full 20% of the available workforce of the entire county! Try to comprehend for a moment the economic impact that that single action had on this rural area and the people in it. And yet I’m supposed to be upset with a bunch of poor Mexicans who are trying to feed their families?
These are all just questions, mind you. I’m not saying I know the answers; I’m just asking.
Something else that puzzles me. What is causing this sudden "influx" of illegal Mexican immigrants anyway? What I mean is this: our border with Mexico has pretty much been “open” for 200 years. This was never a big problem before; why now? What has changed in just the past few decades to drive this trend?
I don’t claim to know much about Hispanic culture, but I did learn a few things from working with many Latinos while I lived in Florida. One thing I learned is that they are a hugely family oriented culture (to a point that should shame most Americans). Another is that they are fiercely proud of their heritage and their countries.
Americans often make the mistake of generically lumping all Latin Americans into one big pot, as if everything south of the U.S. were just one big country. But that’s patently not true. Puerto Ricans are Puerto Ricans, Cubans are Cubans, Mexicans are Mexicans, Argentines are Argentines, etc., and none of them likes to be mistaken for anything else. Are we any different in the U.S.?
So knowing that family is very important to Mexicans, and knowing that they love their countries much as we do our own, isn’t it at least a little odd that they would leave both behind to come into the U.S. illegally and live a life as a second class person? Why would they do that?
Because this is the big payoff for that sacrifice: They get a chance to work at a job that most Americans won’t do ourselves under any circumstances for a wage that we would consider absolutely insulting.
So again, what is the real problem here? That Mexicans are invading our country with greedy selfish abandon, or that they come here because they can’t scratch out a decent existence living in Mexico?
If the problem is the latter, building a billion dollar wall will only be a band-aid on the symptom, while the real problem – whatever it is – will still exist. And when the wall fails to resolve the problem (and it will fail because it will only address a symptom instead of the actual problem), what then? Watchtowers, razorwire, & snipers?
Doesn’t all of this "border wall" stuff sound a little bit too much like the Berlin Wall? And wasn’t the destruction of that wall something that the world rejoiced in? Why then would we want to build one of our own?
You may say, But this is different; the Berlin Wall was used to keep people in, our wall will be used to keep people out.
That’s a valid point, I guess, but I think we would be very shortsighted if we failed to recognize the fact that a wall works just as well from either side.
One final question:
Let’s say that we get our wish. Let’s say that we deport all of these pesky illegal aliens back to their side of the border. Let’s say that we build our wall, and let’s even go as far as to say that our beautiful, horizontal monolith does exactly what it was designed to do.
Who then, I ask, would do the jobs that those 11 million people are presently doing? Who would volunteer to work bent over in the sun all day picking lettuce or tobacco for minimum wage? Who would take that place on the assembly line on the night shift at the chicken processing plant? Who would provide maid service for such a bargain basement price? Who would brave those Wisconsin winters just to have the opportunity to hose down stalls at a dairy farm?
Would you? Would any of us?
I’m just asking.
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