Sand, Sunscreen, and Sundry Other Items of Annoyance

Two and a half weeks at the beach. RUF Summer Conference. Panama City. Anyone else would have been thrilled, I'm sure. They probably would even be aghast to hear me complaining about it. But complain I will. And complain I must. I don't like the beach. I don't think I ever want to return.

Last year I wrote a similar blog entry entitled, "Son of a Beach," where I elaborated a familiar rant of displeasure with the ocean, the sand, the sunscreen, the subsequent sunburns, the salt water, the sea weed, the smells, etc. And yes, all of those things still burrow into my patience and rob me of any enjoyment. After 2.5 weeks at the beach I stepped into the water twice. I walked on the sand four times. I'm sorry. It's just not my thing.

Sure I enjoy looking at it. That is fun. But that can only last so long. Don't get me wrong, the beach is beautiful. The relentless rhythm of foamy waves lapping on the sparkling, hot sand is a glorious sight. I just prefer to view it from within an air conditioned room. Call me spoiled. Go ahead. Call me that. Spoiled.

The routine is what gets me. You squeeze into that netted, uncomfortable swim suit and remove every other article of clothing. You smear smelly ointment over every square inch of skin that will be exposed to the sun. This requires calling in reinforcements to smear it on that part of your back you can't quite reach, which is most awkward if the only one around to administer help is a male. Awkward to say the least. Then you leave your pleasantly cool room and step out into the glaring, merciless sun (I forgot to bring sunglasses. Didn't wear them the entire time) and squint your way across the street to the beach front. It is hot. Sweat has begun to bead on your shoulders and forehead. You've only been simply walking. Walking. Once you arrive at the sand, you toss your sandals aside and trudge through the unbearably difficult-to-walk-through sand, which gives way under every step forcing you to put in twice as much energy into the next. Once you make it to the water (if you can muster the strength to walk that far) you step in only to have your skin constrict and your arms raise up in a spastic tauntness due to the surprisingly frozen temperature of the ocean. You may gradually and bravely go further into the rising tide, careful not to get certain extremities wet. Once you've had enough of the saltwater spilling into your mouth and the sweat stinging your eyes you return to the sand, only to have it almost magnetically stuck to your now wet feet. You trudge back up to the road collecting more sand as you go (which everyone knows never fully leaves your body. I've heard of people finding granules in their scalp weeks after leaving the beach). You snag your abandoned sandals, assuming someone else hasn't first, and tip toe your way across wood and hot concrete to those foot-showers where you are again blasted with frozen water on your legs to rinse off the glued-on sand. You slip back on the sandals and now walk back to the room, which ironically is no longer plagued by the blazing, suffocating heat, rather it is replaced by the ocean-driven winds whipping you and driving the chill into your shriveled, exposed skin. Back in the room you shower and more sand appears in the bottom on the tub. And thankfully that suntan lotion is now cooked into your skin, so the smell can linger about you everywhere you go. And when you step out of the shower you realize that the bathroon floors have collected large puddles from when you walked in from the beach, dripping swimsuit in tow.

Misery. Utter misery. You can have it. I was there for two and half weeks and I read three books. I sat by the pool. I swam a bit. I played basketball and volleyball. I played Pool Game with the LSUers. I ate ice cream. I talked with folk. But I did not go to the beach much. Nor do I think I'll return.

The Jones House Archives...UNLOCKED!

A Link to the Past

College. It was a time of many pranks, many adventures, and little studying. It was a chapter of life riddled with late night free pizza runs, water ballooning frat guys, running from angry frat guys, and touring unsuspecting people through abandoned slaughter houses. These are the memories and moments that stand out. These are what I look back on with great excitement and subsequent nostalgia. It was a chapter of life that is closed and forever behind me.

Or is it?

With being married I have discovered that the metaphorical "college years" of my life do not necessarily have to be forever locked away in the memory vault. In the dorms I had Steve, Clint, Jason, Blake, Russ and countless other idiots to parade the town, search out free food from closing fast food chains, and terrorize pedestrians with. Now I have Kathryn. And we will carry on the torch together. We will. We must.

Last week while in Charlotte we were on one of our many, exhausting, yet necessary errands around the city to pick up something that was 'needed' for the apartment. The errand was Best Buy to try and snag a very-much needed television before they closed at 9:00 with some of our very-much appreciated wedding cash. We found one, grabbed it, and had it loaded in the back of my car by 9:15. It was dark now, of course, and the metal bars that Best Buy rigged up on the doors behind us reminded me that places were closing down at this time. So when I saw the Domino's Pizza neon blue sign glaring at me on the same strip mall, two and two were instantly put together. Like the Kingdom of God in reverse, the age before broke into the present and I menacingly convinced Kathryn to step inside to attempt a free pizza scam.

I couldn't hear anything from the car outside. I sat in the driver's seat and saw her through the window talking with the young man behind the counter. The tension was mounting. What was she saying? Why was it taking so long? I was trying to piece together the conversation given their behavior and head nods. But there was nothing to go off of. It was a silent movie with manikans. Then the man turned and began looking around behind him. My heart began to race, for I knew that if you can just get the employee to turn and search, the battle has already been won. He is now on your side. He is now looking for pizzas that have been put into the pile identified as "messed up orders" or "pick-ups that were never picked up." It was that set of pizzas that the employees ate on while they worked and it promised to be the set of pizzas we would eat on as well, though without cost. Kathyryn emerged from the door moments later with three pizza boxes in her arms, boasting of thin crusts' pepperoni and pineapple, jalepeno and canadian bacon, and hamburger and sausage. The score was big. The emotions ran high. The celebration had begun.

On her way out to the car, the employee that gave her the pizzas burst out the door shouting, "I hate Domino's. I quit!" As we drove away we could see him walking out to his car in the parking lot. Terrified and embarrassed that she had somehow gotten the poor man fired, Kathryn called up the Domino's to check it out. It turns out the young man was simply going out to his car to get something and wanted a little attention from Kathryn as she left. No harm done.

Kathryn wouldn't touch the half-eaten-on pizza, leaving three large pies just for me. For free. And in so doing, a new era of life has been ushered in, a strange hybrid of past and present, single and married, adolescent and adult. And with this new era I will enjoy not only the adrenaline and newfound company, but the fruits of free pizza, free chicken and biscuits, free rice, free tacos, free custard, and free food wherever Kathryn can be convinced of going into next. May the trumpets of marriage resound.

married merriment

i am married now. we are very excited. thrilled, even. marriage is so much fun. we can hardly stand it. we can't take it. we're married. it is every thing we ever wanted. marital bliss. that's what it is. bliss.

we're so happy.

we're matthryn.

The Wedding Bells Toll For Me

The countdown is 48 hours. Wedding. Details. Insanity. This is my life right now. Parents meeting the in-laws. Opening gifts. Finalizing details. Checking into hotels. Running around town. Checking the weather. Packing. Getting sick and needing vitamins. More gifts. More weather checking. More insanity. More details.

48 hours.

And then it will all be over. Kathryn put it best - it has been interesting to enjoy all the preparation and at the same time wish it all away. And that is very true. You love it. You hate it. Light meets darkness. Ying meets yang. You love the wedding and you also desperately want it over. You cling to your last few hours of singleness and also can't wait to toss them away forever. Life is very strange in that regard. Very strange indeed.

48 hours.

I have nothing else to write here. I am spent.

U Haul?...Screw Yall

In the past 2 years, I will have moved 5 times. Gross.

1. Oklahoma to Dallas
2. Dallas to Baton Rouge (with Benn)
3. Benn in Baton Rouge to Nick in Baton Rouge
4. Nick in Baton Rouge to Barrett in Baton Rouge
5. Barrett in Baton Rouge to Kathryn in Charlotte

I hate moving.

Never before had I rented a U Haul truck to move with and never again will I. Despite the obvious name recognition, U Haul is no good. I'm not sure if I could be sued for libel here but I don't care. I hate U Haul. Don't ever use them. They are no good. Repeat: no good.

Kathryn reserved us the truck in Atlanta two weeks ago and just like Seinfeld, when we arrive our reservation proved to be pointless. They did not have the furniture pads for us that we had reserved and they only had one truck left - an old, worn out old-man of a truck with no gas in it and the check engine light on. Kathryn complained to them (actually, just to 'her' since there was only one woman working there that day) and asked them (again, 'her') what the point of "reserving" a truck and furniture pads was. The incompetent woman replied, "You just better be glad you even got a truck." And the whole Seinfeld episode repeated in our minds. "I don't think you understand the point of the reservation. The reservation reserves us a truck. You know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. Anyone can just take them..."

So without furniture pads and no time left to go somewhere else for a better truck, Kathryn drove Ol' Halfdead home and when I arrived the next day we loaded it up. To the brim. And when Saturday morning hit, we headed out for Charlotte with me behind the wheel of Ol' This-Truck-Is-About-To-Die and Kathryn in my car. When we made our way into Hill Country, I could tell the U Haul was having difficulty on the inclines. I found myself rocking back and forth in the driver's seat with the dillusional assumption that I was helping it creep over the hills. It miraculously was getting there. And making good time I might add.

Until we hit Gastonia, the smaller city just 30 miles west of Charlotte. Ol' Halfdead began to buck and sputter and was dropping speed quickly. 60 miles an hour descended to 50. Then 40. Then 30. I had to pull over. Cars were blasting by me. I rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road and she died on me. Completely passed out. Ol' Halfdead had breathed her last. With all of our stuff in the back. And 30 miles away from its destination. I tried restarting it only to have it lurch back and forth and sputter dead again. In defeat I rested my forehead against the wheel cursing the doomed truck and the diabolical company that gave it to us.

I knew it would happen. I had numerous people tell me to not go with U Haul. They told me similiar stories. Trucks have broken down before. The employees are completely worthless. But I didn't listen. I let the numbers dictate my decision. Never again.

Kathryn sat on hold for 25 minutes with the U Haul idiots while I opened up the hood and looked at the engine. What I was looking for, I have no idea, but I have seen men on the side of the road do the same thing. Open it up. Make it look like you at least have some idea what you are doing. There is no desperation like sitting on the shoulder of a highway with a broken down car, having the loud woosh of cars force you to yell over the noise and cover your face from the wind. You begin to think crazy thoughts like "Maybe we'll have to sleep out here tonight" or "What if a car from the highway crashes into the back of our truck and all our stuff catches on fire?" There was no hope. U Haul was not picking up. Cell phone batteries were running low. I had no idea where to go, who to call, what to do. It was not a good moment for me.

After a half hour (Kathryn still was on hold) I cranked up the engine again and miraculously it started. I put it in park and hit the gas and it slowly eased its way onto the highway. I got it up to 30 and then 40 and then 50 and then 60. She came back to life. Like a spiritual regeneration, Ol' I-Hate-This-Truck was born again. Kathryn hopped back in my car and we were again on the road. For the remainder on my 40 minute drive into Charlotte I was praying that God would sustain the life of the worn out, rusty, old shell of what used to be a truck. And He did.

But never again will I use U Haul and I recommend you do the same. You might think like I did - hey, U Haul has the name you know. You just sort of call all sorts of moving trucks and trailers 'u hauls.' But be not fooled. There is more to this company than meets the ears. Screw yall, U Haul. You should change your name to We Suck. I can hear it now, "Hey, man will you help me move this Saturday? All I got is one car load and a We Suck."

Baby Teeth (And All That Jazz)

It has been a long time since I found myself tongue-ing a loose cuspid or molar. But some neighbor children here in BR find themselves with wiggling and loose teeth, only to wiggle them long enough to pop them out. And of course there is a bit of a reward for this feat in our culture. Why there is a reward for losing teeth will perhaps be the topic of another post, but not here. I wish to explore something different. I do.

What is the point of baby teeth? What purpose do they serve? Why don't we just grow in a layer of teeth and...you know....keep them? I don't know, but are humans the only things that lose teeth?

It is so bizarre to me. We don't have baby arms that we shed off only to grow 'adult' arms. Or baby livers. Or baby eyes. Why the teeth? Here we have a whole set of perfectly good teeth that just...eventually fall out. And new ones that are bigger and stronger somehow emerge right beneath them. Why didn't the first set just come bigger and stronger? Or better yet, why do they stop growing when they hit a certain size? Surely they could grow up with you and grow into the adult, bigger, stronger sort of teeth. Surely. But no.

Chew on that for a bit.

Today is the Day

I am quite familiar with Coffee Shop Culture. There's no pride in that sentence, I simply live in coffee shops. I understand what the clientele will look like. I know what 'cool' people order. I know what sorority girls order. I can tell a great deal about somebody by whether or not they put sugar and cream in their coffee. I know where to sit. I can tell who is there to study and work and who is there to be seen. There is a whole new culture surrounding these little coffee houses. And with culture comes etiquette.

One of the things I have come to sadly expect in coffee shops are those who don't understand the rules. Rule number one: Don't make/answer phone calls within the walls of the coffee shop. You take that trash outside. If somebody calls and you desperately need to take it, walk outside. No one wants to hear your isolated, loud, terribly selfish conversation 2 feet away. And yet people do it. They do it consistently.

I have come to expect the etiquette to be broken simply because IT ALWAYS HAPPENS. Even this morning, while I found myself in a local coffee house, someone picked up a phone call and carried on an entire conversation in the seat next to me. How in the world am I expected to concentrate in these conditions? And here’s the thing, when the phone call ended, this guy got up and left. That was his sole purpose of being in the coffee shop – to take the phone call. Unbelievable. Take that trash to the streets.

Today was the day where I almost made a phone call and talked on it as obnoxiously loud as I could to teach everyone in there a lesson. “Hey, what’s up?….oh, I’m just hanging out in a coffee shop….nothing…..ha! ha! ha!…..sure……no, what time are you going to the thing?.....no, nobody else is here but me......ha! ha! ha!.....oh, that's a riot!!!"

You people with cell phones are ruining the coffee shop culture because you are breaking the coffee shop etiquette. Put down the phone. Take it to the streets if you must.

It's Getting Hot in Here

Why is Louisiana so freakin humid? I'm sweating right now. I was sweating in January. I wore a sweater twice this year. When will it ever be cool again? When will it stop? Why must it be so hot?

Plan "It" Earth

An interesting play on words was the title of a speech recently delivered by Tupac Shakur's mother at McKinnley High School here in Baton Rouge a few days ago. Though I only heard about this event after the fact, I have heard enough about it to feel as though I actually was there. And I have decided to take up the call to Plan "It."

What 'it' is, I have no idea. But here speech was basically about teenagers and their problems today, how everything is all about the upcoming kids (makes me think of - "I believe the children are our future..."), etc. She said that the suicide rate is higher today than...I don't know...I guess yesterday. And she noted that racism isn't the problem, it's that people aren't living long enough to actually deal with racism.

That's about all I know. Perhaps I am not qualified to report on the speech because I have no idea what it was about, what 'it' is, and why she thinks people aren't living that long today (perhaps she is using OT figures as her standard for life span. Noah did live 950 years). Regardless, I think Mrs. Shakur had a point. We must join forces and Plan "It." Earth, there is this thing we need to plan. In other words, we need to Plan "It," Earth!

Her poetry, her sense of vocabulary, her unparalleled wit in playing with words is evidenced in the legacy she has left behind in her son/rap artist/social hero/martyr/general Tupac. Racism isn't the problem. It's life span. The children are our future. Don't do drugs. True love waits. Click it or ticket. He who smelt it dealt it. Don't drink and drive. Plan "It" Earth.

The Beetle's Purpose

In my overly reflective and pensive moments, I tend to read much into what I observe around me. Meaning becomes robust in the little things. Illustrations abound all around me. Parables envelop me.

Tonight I was sitting on the back porch with a friend and my attention was fixated on a small, June-bug like beetle. The porch light was on, which was what I assumed was the catalyst to drive this beetle into a reckless frenzy. Time after time it would fly through the air and smack head on with full force into the wall. And like one of those paddles with the rubber ball connected to it by an elastic string, it bounced back again. Over and over driving itself against the wall. I couldn't help but laugh at the poor bug. What in the world was it doing? Why did it not learn the first few times that it couldn't/shouldn't fly in that direction? His suicide piloting ended in just that. He doubled up his efforts and collided with all its strength into the wall, falling to its demise, never to be heard from again. It actually killed itself.

And in a strange way, that poor, ridiculous beetle demonstrated to me my poor, ridiculous life. Over and over again I smash my head against the metaphorical wall, promising myself that I had learned my lesson and that that would in fact be the last time I ever did that again. And without fail I find myself rubbing out another welt, wiping away a bloody mess. With reckless abandon I careen through my life knowing full well I should have learned by now what is destructive and what is helpful. I hope for progress and yet sadly discover it comes much slower than expected. I hope for change and yet at times wonder if it will ever come. Will I struggle with these things forever? I wonder. Am I simply hopeless? Am I beyond repair?

It's funny how God uses silly things like beetle's smashing themselves to death to teach us lessons. He gives us little pictures into our lives. He uses beetles. Dead theolgians call this General Revelation. I am just like the beetle. Perhaps Kafka was on to something.

Excellentlymagnificentitious

There is nothing worse than selecting groomsmen. What a terrible, terrible thing we have made it. It has been twisted into one big friendship competition where the Best Man wins and takes all. It is a self-created fraternity of the elite. Only the upper echelon are included. It creates a visible divide between the insiders and the outsiders. A mere "usher" is almost an insult. At least in our society, to be an usher is to 'almost make it' into the fraternity. But you didn't make it. No, you got beat out.

The whole thing is just so awkward. Selecting the groomsmen puts the groom in a terrible position. He has to look at his friends and actually pick which ones he's closest to. Think through your own friends. Obvious ones come to mind. But then down at the bottom of the list it gets trickier and fuzzier and people must be selected over others. People must be discarded. Elitism reigns.

Now if you happen to be one of the privileged, selected groomsmen, life is alright. You were chosen. You are one of the elite. You are one of the insiders. Perhaps that is how some people think about God's election and why they are so angry at it. Their assumption is that God picks the good ones and throws out all the "ushers."

I wish groomsmen and ushers didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, it's a great idea and I very much look forward to having my dearest friends up there with me when I get married, but count on us to make it into a pick and choose game of matrimonial elitism. If I had to do it over, I'd gather a group of homeless people from off the streets, dress them up in tuxes and have them be my groomsmen. I'd make a grand theological statement. "This is what God does. All of those people you marginalize and write off, those are the ones I'm closest to. They are the elite, not those who think they are the elite. The last will be first." I should have done that.

And all my real friends would have been sitting there pissed at me.

Galactic Real Estate

While bouncing around the world wide web in search of groomsmen gifts, I stumbled across something quite peculiar. As a gift, you can purchase real estate on the surface of the moon. And it is not a joke. Right now, one acre of moon land is going for $29.99. Here is the add:

It is true. You can purchase land on the Moon. 100% legal and real! Moon property is: a great gift, potential prudent investment and an interesting conversation piece. Attractive gift pack.

Now what in the world is going on?? "Potential prudent investment????" Sure, it is stuffed with potential. Maybe in 800 years when civilizations are forming on the moon and some huge corporation needs your acre to expand their office space, then you can hold out and raise the stakes and cash in on that investment you made 800 years ago. That $29.99 would bring back like a million fold.

Who even owns the moon in the first place? Who would I be buying this acre from? The government? Would I get a picture to know what my plot of land looks like? Do they have coordinates where exactly it is or is it just "somewhere up there on the moon."

What a complete joke.

Tuesday is Fat!!

It is Mardi Gras here in Louisiana. Fat!! Yep. You can't really miss it here. You know why? Because the school is shut down for 3 days. That's right. LSU is not in session Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. You know what I have to say to that? Fat!!

Kathryn was here this past weekend and on Sunday we dipped down to New Orleans before her flight that evening. While Mardi Gras is a little depleted this year, given the current events, it was still a Fat!! time. Bourbon Street was a carnival of sorts with the ever-present street preachers. They help up big signs that read, "Homosexuals, Fornicators, Drunkards, Theives, Burn in Hell." The preacher had a Fat!! megaphone and was shouting to people, "You must have lost your mind!!!!" There was a huge crowd surrounding him shouting back at him. I think they were throwing beads at him. Now that's Fat!!

We were only there for about 15 minutes but I had this recurring nag to want to buy a Hand Grenade, the New Orleans famous, enormous, plastic green test tube filled up with who-knows-what combination of hard liquor. I just felt like I needed one amidst the Fat!! insanity. I didn't get one though. Looking back, I should have. Drat!!

Today is Ash Wednesday and I have already seen several people with the black, ashy cross on their forehead. I go back and forth on this one. At times I think this is silly and embarrasing and I wouldn't want that blemish on my forehead. And at other times I think it is a great way to participate in a tradition that announces, "Yes, I am sealed and branded by Christ." Either way you look at it, you have to admit it's Fat!! Any one can see that.

I'm thinking about giving up my cell phone for Lent. Or toilet paper. Maybe belly lint. That would be Fat!! I could tell people I'm giving up lint for Lent. Maybe I should give up Fat!!

Pride and Pies

The fact that Eating Contests exist is the ultimate proof that humans are saturated to their core with sinful pride. We compete at everything. There is not one area of life that is not transformed into some sort of competition to provide a platform for people to step on each other while all simultaneously groping for a trophy or some form of recognition that they are in fact "the greatest." This seems to be the driving questions behind the disciples who hung around with Jesus. (Mark 9:34). I wonder if they ever had eating contests.

When I was younger and would hang out with my friends there were no doubt days that were fraught with mind-numbing boredom. "What do you want to do?" was the only question that always got answered by the other person repeating the same question. And so we would be laying there on our backs watching the ceiling fan and one of us would get the idea to raise our legs up and try to connect our exposed toes to the spinning fan blades above. The other one would see this happening and try to accomplish it as well, only with more expertise, which meant reaching up higher, or balancing on only one hand or something. And suddenly both people are entertained for they are now in the midst of a competition, albeit over something ridiculous, but nevertheless they were competing. And this still happens all the time. Our driving competitive nature just gets more subtle and sophisticated as we grow up.

Adults try to 'one up' each other by telling a more impressive story about their children or droping a better joke or funnier anecdote. Guys in college try to out-do each other at the sushi bar by seeing who can load up the most wasabi on their dinner. Girls compete with each other for attention - both from each other and from men. Students eagerly compare test scores. Drivers fight for the "best" lane. Businesses compete for patrons.

And in light of the ongoing Olympics, it is obvious that we still have that distant disease of the disciples - the fighting for who is indeed "the greatest." And all of the ways we do this are...well...sometimes simply embarrassing. My point: Eating Contests. I think we have hit rock bottom with this one. Have we simply run out of things to compete in? We've taken care of running, swimming, jumping, throwing, walking, skating, and skiing. It was only a matter of time before someone said, "Hey, I bet you I can eat more than you." And it will only be a matter of time before this contest makes its way into the Olympics as an official event.

Just picture it. By the way, I can eat more than you.

Metaphysics and Sushi

I'm not sure how one would actually define sushi, but I'm sure the word "fresh" would have to be included somewhere in it. For what makes sushi sushi - at the least, it is a fresh piece of edible raw fish. See this got me thinking. What if you went to a sushi place and didn't finish it all (maybe you filled up on doritos earlier or something) and so you stuffed up a doggie bag with leftovers? You go home and put them in the fridge. But the next day you couldn't get around to eating it because you had plans with Johnny Handshake or something.

So there it sits in your fridge for a day or two. When does it cease to be sushi? When does it simply become rotting slabs of raw fish? How long does sushi "keep?"

See at conception, sushi is edible and fresh, stripped straight from the fish. If that isn't eaten somewhat quickly, it becomes...well...not sushi anymore. It is then simply disgusting. But when does this change take place? How long will sushi keep? How long will sushi remain sushi?

Shush.

Cell Phones or Hell Phones?

Cell phones have gotten worse. I hate them now. I really do. And I'm pretty sure you do too.

Is it just me, or are more calls being dropped? I certainly am asking, "Hey? You there?" a lot more. I certainly have found myself talking on and on about something, notice that I have not received any affirming 'uh huhs', and then discover that the call had been dropped five minutes ago and I had been talking to myself.

What is the deal? Have they made too many cell phones and the towers are overloading? Is the service just REALLY bad where I am? Is it my phone? Should I get a new one?

Help me out here people. Let me know I am not alone. If your cell phone sucks and you want answers raise your fist with me. I demand justice. I want my money back. I want my life back. I will not talk to myself with a plastic box up against my face any longer.

I hate cell phones. Bitter, boiling, acrid, hatred.

Hygiene, Bathrooms, and Deception

Sometimes when I use a public restroom I don't wash my hands after I'm finished. But I put on an elaborate production to make those around me THINK I am washing my hands. I run the water. Sometimes I put my hands under the stream, sometimes I don't (it depends if the others in the restroom can see me or if they are just listening). I tap the soap dispenser to make the noise like I was in fact actually pumping soap out of it. So with the water running, I stand there and wait for about how long it would take for me to actually wash my hands. Then I turn off the water, tear off a few pieces of paper towel, rub them all over my dry hands and toss the dry towels into the trash. Then I leave the bathroom confident that whoever happened to share that room with me knew that I took the time to wash my hands. They believe I'm not one of "those" people, you know, the kind that just do their business and then disgustingly walk out.

I am not joking. I actually do this. I just did in fact (that was what gave me this idea).

Here's my question: Am I alone in this sickness? Is there anyone else out there as disgusting as me and willing to admit it or am I, as I suspect, the only one who would go to such lengths to avoid having to actually wash my hands? Now is the time. You can come forward and admit it. There is no shame. Consider this an altar call. Just imagine the song "Just As I Am" playing over and over in the background.

Nightmares and Daymares

I awoke this morning with a vivid memory of a terrible nightmare I had. It was my own rehearsal dinner night. It was a grand party with tons of folks there enjoying themselves. And at the end of the dinner I finally put two and two together and say, "Wait! We didn't do any toasts or anything! Where are my groomsmen?" I brought this up to my mother who, by her reaction demonstrated that she had also failed to notice their absence. The night ended on a sour note once we realized that none of my groomsmen showed up. Well, except Russ.

In my dream I called up Blake and Clint and got no answer. Then I called Doug. He picked up. But he probably regretted that decision after the romping I gave him. The next scene of the dream was a bedroom with a bunk bed and Clint was sitting up on the top bunk and I was down below. Doug was somewhere in the room and I was continuing my said romp. I remember part of my argument was "you don't agree to be a groomsmen and not show up for the rehearsal dinner. it is part of the package. when you agree to be a groomsmen, you are making a promise to be there, not just for the wedding, but for everything involved in the weekend." This was my thought. And I let Doug know what I thought filled with aggression and hostility.

And of course, Clint has to enter the argument. In a soft, yet firm, counter action, Clint responds, "Well, I'm not so sure an agreement to be a "groomsmen" necessarily means an agreement to show up at the rehearsal dinner. That to me simply means that they agreed to stand up there and be a groosmen."

Typical Clint.

I don't remember anything else about the dream/mare other than I was very upset and Doug was very ashamed. But surprisingly enough, it did raise an interesting question - When one agrees to be a groomsmen in someone's wedding, does that obligate them to all of the activities of that given weekend? Or they confined simply to the actual wedding ceremony?

Your thoughts/opinions are welcome.

Gratuitous Gratitude

I will not names here but a "friend of mine" recently received a gift from a "friend of theirs." I'm not sure what the gift was or the occasion behind the giving of this certain gift, but whatever it was it warranted the response of a thank-you note. You are well aware of the thank-you note, the burden of writing them, and the irrelevance of receiving them. But that is beside the point. My "friend" wrote this thank-you note and sent it. Everything is normal so far.

Then my "friend" received an email from their "friend" thanking them for the thank-you note. This sounds like a joke, but it is very true. My "friend" received a thank-you note for sending a thank-you note for them sending a gift. When will it stop? Should my "friend" write a thank-you note back? When will the gratitude exchange come to an end? It has to, lest it spin out into an endless, relentless exchange of thanking them for thanking you.

I'm not a fan of the thank-you note. Any time I receive something now the question pops in the back of my head, "I wonder if I have to write a thank-you note for this." Can you receive any gift without it being connected to an obligation to write a thank-you note in return? Is there anything that bypasses the obligation? (Pez dispensers, the passing of a pencil, roommates buying toilet paper??) I don't even like receiving things anymore. I associate it now with the difficulty of trying to think of something nice to write, the difficulty of trying to think of enough things to write so I actually fill up the entire card, and the difficulty of keeping up with the given postage of the day.

Ever had someone get upset with you because they did not receive a thank-you note? Or one that arrived "on time?" That all is so silly to me. To give something with ANY expectation is to defeat the purpose of GIVING it, right? It is not a business transaction (I give you gift, you give me recognition that I gave you the gift), it is a GIFT, that is, a free, gracious, giving of something with no obligations, expectations, or strings attached. The moment you demand something after the giving of a gift, it no longer is a gift. It then becomes a business deal (see my thoughts on "tipping").

I think it is a good thing that we thank each other for things and that we remain thankful for all of our gifts and blessings and graces; however, the moment it becomes obligated and expected, it taints it and removes the sincerity of the gratitude.

Thank you for reading.