Garbage Day

Every Sunday evening, I get my butt off the couch, put on some slippers and head out the garage where our recycle and garbage bins are located. Monday morning is garbage day in our neighborhood, and I like to move the bins to the curb the night before so the raccoons have at least one bin night to sift through it.

It’s been this way for a couple of years now, yet our neighbor hasn’t figure this out yet.

See my neighbor is like an impatient fisherman who swaps bait every other cast.

Last week he decided to roll out his garbage bins on Wednesday night. The week before that he gave Thursday morning a try hoping to reel in a pick up. A while back he rolled them out on Monday evening as I was returning mine to the garage.

Each week I try to guess which night I’ll look out my window and watch my confused neighbor roll his bins to the curb. After both are in place, he’ll give a quick glance down the street. I suspect he’s looking for validation in the form of more bins on the curb.

Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once and a while, right?

Maybe I should just tip him off to the elusive Monday morning pickup.

But only if he agrees to stop parking his incredibly ugly van in front of my house.

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Oh Grow Up

When I’m out of high school I’ll start to feel like a grown up.

When I return from my mission I’ll start acting more grown up.

Or maybe when I finally walk across the stage to receive my college diploma I’ll feel like I’ve matured into a grown up.

Or when I get married. Or buy a home. Or find a job with a dress code that’s more stringent than shorts and flip flops.

Each step along the way I’ve felt both an internal and external push to grow up. As if acting grown up was a prerequisite to enter that next stage of life.

Maybe someone was keeping track. Two points for wearing a sport coat with tie. Minus three for watching Beavis and Butthead at 2 am while eating a Chalupa and chugging Mountain Dew.

And then a strange thing happened: I became a father.

All that grown up stuff I’d been practicing for years? Out the window. Down the toilet. Gonzo.

Kids relish the goofiest of times. The times I stuff pillows down my shirt and pants and walk around the house as “Big Butt Bertha”. Or the times we see who can belch the most letters of the alphabet. The times we’re in the car waiting for mom and we play a game called “Which is the GROSSEST?”

Yet I still feel this pressure to act like a grown up. But I’m not sure what that means anymore. So until then I’ll be myself.

Besides, who else is going to download 16 different fart sounds onto his iPhone when church is only 5 days away?

Calling the Taco Bell Customer Hotline

While working late on my computer a few days ago, I decided to make a run for the border. The Taco Bell Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme was calling my name. It’s my favorite item on the menu. In fact, it’s the only item on the menu that I love.

Two features draw me to the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme:

  1. the spicy chicken
  2. easy to eat while driving

One can’t go wrong ordering a Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme day or night. So I found myself at the drive-thru late Saturday night. I ordered two Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supremes, and before I could place an order for a large Diet Pepsi, a voice came over the intercom announcing they only carry the Crunchwrap Supreme with beef.

What??!!

I asked again just to be sure, but the gentleman working the window confirmed the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme has been removed from the menu.

So I decided to call the Taco Bell Customer Hotline to see who was responsible for this obvious oversight. I visited the Taco Bell website where I found the customer hotline (1-800-TACO-BELL). I dialed the number and was immediately connected with Cheryl, Taco Bell Customer Hotline Rep.

Here’s how the call unfolded:

Cheryl: Thank you for calling the Taco Bell customer hotline. This is Cheryl. Can I get your name and your phone number?

Me: (I give her my name and bogus phone number)

Cheryl: How can I help you today?

Me: I have a few questions concerning the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme which is my favorite item on your menu.

Cheryl: I’m sorry, we’re longer serving the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme.

Me: That’s why I’m calling. Do you know why it was yanked and when it’s coming back?

Cheryl: Decisions, such as what’s on the menu, are made at our corporate headquarters. I can’t confirm it’s ever coming back, but I will note that you’d like us to bring it back.

Me: Do you know the name of the person at corporate who made that decision? Maybe hearing it’s a favorite among my family and friends would change his mind.

Cheryl: I have no way of connecting you. Do you know that we still offer the original Crunchwrap Supreme with beef?

Me: Yes, but it’s the spicy chicken that makes it magical. Do you think if I called ahead, I could place a special order for the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme?

Cheryl: Sir, I’m sorry but we currently only offer the one with beef.

Me: So there’s no spicy chicken stash hiding in a freezer that could be unthawed and cooked up if I called ahead?

Cheryl: Uhhh….no.

Me: Have you taken many calls from customers like myself who have asked for the return of the Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme?

Cheryl: Oh yes. Quite a few people have called in asking us to bring it back.

Me: What would you say the chances corporate decides to bring it back for the summer? Better than 50%?

Cheryl: Sir, I can’t say for certain. All I can do is pass on your suggestion to bring it back. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: Not today. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.

Homework

Luca pulled up a chair next to me as I sat at the computer tonight. With a pencil and papers in hand she asks, “Dad, will you help me finish my homework?”

“Of course”

Only by sitting on her knees is she able to reach the desk from the chair that’s twice her size.

As I thumb through her packet I notice every section but one is completed.

“All you have left is the imaginary trip part”

“Yep. I waited till you came home”

Luca decides she’d like to take an imaginary trip to Utah where she’ll visit both sets of grandparents. I show her how to use Google Maps to determine the distance from Seattle to St. George (1144 miles).

Her #2 pencil dances across the paper in a grip that looks like someone trying to use chopsticks for the first time. The eraser is used frequently. But she’s persistent. Extra care is given to that final period that brings the report to an end.

“The last period is always the biggest", she tells me.

She gathers her papers, scoots the chair away from my desk, and gives me a hug before running off to chase her brother.

And it’s about this time that I realize she didn’t need my help tonight. She was looking for something else.

I made a small contribution to Luca’s trip report tonight.

And she gave me the best 15 minutes of the day.

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For the Love of Basketball

Ask Kim. She’ll tell you I’m addicted to basketball. Even the kids now greet me at the door each evening asking, “Are you going to leave us AGAIN to play basketball?”

I don’t know when the switch flipped. I played in basketball leagues from the time I could dribble a ball up through high school. This was before the three point line was introduced so I spent my time at point guard pounding the ball inside to our big men. If I could get a steal or fill the lane on a fast break, I might get an easy layup.

When I moved to Salt Lake to attend the University of Utah, I began playing ball at the Deseret Gym. It didn’t take long before I realized I had a decent outside shot. I practiced and played pickup games five days a week the last two years of college.

And I was totally hooked. I love the competition and the camaraderie. I love the swish of the net on a 3 pointer.  I love the exercise and sore muscles the next morning. I’m addicted to the flow of the game. The games to 15 by ones and twos, the fast breaks, and the high fives and needle threading passes. I even like coming home and collapsing on the couch from sheer exhaustion.

Tonight I shot hoops with Luca. She can granny it off the backboard and into the cylinder now. I can’t wait till we can play H-O-R-S-E or one on one together. I’ll be happy if my kids learn to play an instrument or participate in scouts or make the honor roll. But I’ll jump for joy if if they take to  basketball!

The game tonight ended when this kid darted out of the stands and ran off with our ball.

basketball

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Bare Foot Piggy-Back Rides

Kim and I have a goal of getting our kids in bed by 8 pm on school nights. Any bed will do. We are not beyond bribing when Lost or The Office is on. Whatever it takes. Just find a bed, couch, or sleeping bag and keep it down.

On the weekends, we’re less structured and allow the kids to stay up later. When coercion and bribes have failed, I use the only tool I have left at my disposal: Offering piggy-back rides.

I don’t know what it is about a piggy-back ride, but the kids will do anything for them. Homework, chores, flushing the toilet – you name it and a piggy-back ride will get them in line faster than anything else I can offer.

The fact is I enjoy giving them to the kids. As long as they don’t strangle me by gripping my neck too tightly, enough oxygen gets to my brain and I’m able to make it through three tours for our three oldest.

I have to be careful to follow the exact same route through the house or I’ll be called out as having given a sibling a longer ride.

Tonight, Anna jumped on my back and I decided to change things up a bit. Lucky for me, Child Protection Services wasn’t in the neighborhood because I created a game called “Where Can Dad Put Your Bare Foot”.

The game isn’t complex. As Anna held on to my neck, I walked into the kitchen and held her foot under cold water from the tap. I then put it in the freezer and told her the microwave was next as she laughed and shrieked. She didn’t like the idea of her foot on the stove or in the toaster so merely walking towards both had the intended effect. How about a wet foot getting too close to a wall socket? I’m glad I was there to only simulate the shock!

Of course, Luca and Lincoln demanded the same level of danger on their rides. When I tried to substitute putting Lincoln’s foot in the dishwasher instead of on the stove he said, “Hey, Anna got to do the stove!!”

Games like this one and the Jaws of Death probably aren’t going to show up in any parenting magazines as recommended activities to do with your kids.

But I’m still convinced the games one makes up on the spot are the best.

When I dropped Anna off onto her bed, she gave me a kiss goodnight and asked if we could do it again tomorrow.

“Only if you’re not afraid of the waffle iron”

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A Game of Marbles

As a fourth grader at Grandview Elementary, few things in life mattered more to me than my marble collection. Hong Kong Phooey was a distant second on my list of priorities. All I cared about was my little blue pouch of marbles I carried to school every day.

The most competitive games were played during recess. The game we played consisted of one player dropping a marble on the grass and the other player trying to hit it. If he was successful, he’d take both marbles. We’d alternate back and forth until someone pocketed  all the marbles.

But occasionally a kid would show up with a steely which looks like a regular marble but made of steel. This character would play a fair game until he saw me toss one of my bigger and better marbles. That’s when he’d pull out the steely and let it fly. At the very least, he’d knock a chip off my marble. And sometimes he’d shatter it to pieces with a solid hit.

marbles

The kid packing steelies didn’t care about the competition or the chance to win a few marbles. Nope. All he wanted to do was disrupt the game and then run off laughing.

My pouch of marbles is long gone, but I’m convinced some adults continue to carry around “steelies” looking to disrupt whatever project, meeting, or idea they come across. They seldom bring anything constructive to the table yet they’re ready to pounce on any idea or suggestion with a virtual steely. They aren’t difficult to recognize. They have a laundry list of reasons an idea can’t be tested.  The mock ideas they don’t understand, and have a knack for dreaming up highly unlikely scenarios where the new idea will fail.

I once had a coworker who brought a bag full of steelies to work every day. He liked to argue about the smallest and most random details. He loved to chime in on topics well out of his scope of responsibility. I occasionally fell for his trap and tried to debate him. But the debates never ended because he didn’t want them to end.

Over time I realized he wasn’t interested in solving the problem in much the same way the kid tossing the steely wasn’t interested in the game. His interest was in the debate. If he could escalate it into a shouting match, even better.

I’ve found the best way for me to deal with such people is to ignore them. Don’t play their game by jumping into the fight with your own steely.

Sometimes it’s easier to pickup your bag of marbles and search for someone else who wants to play the game.

Photo by Nico Cavallotto

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30 Years of Hurt

Hearing first hand how my actions hurt someone nearly 30 years ago wasn’t the most uncomfortable part of the conversation.

Not even close.

What stung the most was the fact this person could recite the hurtful words I called her verbatim.

As quickly and as callously they flew from my mouth, they were long gone and forgotten. Like a bomb that inflicts damage on impact while the plane safely flies away.

But for her they lingered. Etched in memory all these years.

When I called her an “MR”, the neighbor kids knew it stood for “Mental Retard”. Maybe such language was funny to a 10-year old boy. But it wasn’t to a young girl. And that was just the start.

How could I have been so mean? I never considered myself a bully. But I’m now forced to consider how inappropriate my actions were to this person who was shy and never tossed hurtful comments in my direction.

What is the appropriate response? I wasn’t sure so I sat back and listened. What I learned was that this wasn’t a one time occurrence. My behavior took place over a number of years.

When she finished, I wasn’t sure what to say. How do I apologize for 30 years worth of hurt?

“I feel so bad. Is it too late to say I’m sorry?”

“Of course not”

And with that the forgiveness process began. There’s no statute of limitations when it comes to asking for forgiveness.

I wouldn’t have blamed her if she decided to get this off her chest and then move on, wanting nothing to do with me again.

But she gave me a second chance. That it came many years later makes no difference. Not everyone gets a second chance. Especially in friendships.

So I will embrace this one.

Because today I not only learned a valuable lesson, I may have gained a friend, 30 years in the making.

Rainbow Sprinkles

Nine little girls invaded our home last week to celebrate Luca’s 8th birthday. They have so much excitement and energy their little bodies can barely contain it. And I had no idea what they talked about because the speak a language that’s foreign to me.

One little girl asked Kim if she could perform a dance for the group. Another girl wolfed down three hotdogs.

But my favorite memory can be summed up in this card that was made for Luca by her friend:

sprinkles

Grilled to a Crisp

On the way home from my basketball game tonight, I decided stop by Burger King. I pulled up to the drive-thru and ordered a Tendergrill Chicken Salad.

“We’re all out of salads tonight” came the reply over the intercom.

Ok. 

I looked over the menu for a grilled sandwich and stumbled upon the Tendergrill Chicken Sandwich. And it’s in stock!

Also in stock was a large Diet Coke so I order one of those too. Six bucks and change later, I’m heading home with a late dinner.

If you’re unfamiliar with Burger King’s offerings, here’s the Tendergrill Chicken Sandwich as depicted on the menu:

tendergrill

But when I got home and opened the bag, here’s what I got:

bking

It’s grilled all right but it’s far from tender. Only the buns look vaguely similar.

bking2

Normally I would have returned the sandwich and asked for one that doesn’t look like a nasty third degree burn. But it was now 11:30 pm and I live a good 15 minutes from the Burger King.

So I decided to stay home, take a few pictures and pour a bowl of Frosted Flakes instead.

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