Shegazelle's post of a few days ago reminded me that I'm supposed to be working on a guest post for Normal is Broke. I Wanna be WEIRD. It's not that I don't WANT to guest post-I'm perfectly content--in fact excited--to write a post about our journey to financial freedom.
It's just that our story isn't all that exciting. But I'll write it. Soon (I promise). If I have to, I'll make something up.
The kids, though, have overheard us talking about money, and our quest to be more frugal, and they periodically pitch in, without our asking.
I figured this was the case when I realized that Gentry has taken to wearing no underwear on occassion.
For example, the other morning, I woke him up, and started to dress him for the day. He pulled down his pajama pants, and there was nothing underneath.
"Gentry!" I said. "Where are your underwear?"
He just looked at me sheepishly.
I figured that he thought that, between his wearing the underwear out less frequently, and the energy savings associated with fewer laundry loads, he was contributing to the family's bottom line.
"Bubs," I told him, "as much as Mommy and Daddy appreciate your help with our finances, there are some things that you shouldn't sacrifice. This is probably one of them."
He looked at me puzzled.
"Well, we appreciate you wanting to help the family get ahead financially, but maybe we can identify a better way of doing it, huh?"
He smiled and leaned close.
"Dad," he whispered. "I'm NOT twying to help you save money! It's just that it's YOUW week to wash clothes!"
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Sheriff Called
Shawna woke me last night from the dark, dreamless NyQuil induced sleep of the dead. I looked up at the ceiling; we have one of those clocks that projects the time in enormous red numbers on whatever surface you aim it at. We pointed at the ceiling-not sure why. It's not the ideal place if you happen to be an insomniac (I sleep fine; Shawna doesn't sleep nearly as soundly); there's nothing worse than lying in bed, trying desperately to fall asleep, and watching the minutes tick away directly above you. It was 2:23.
"That was the sheriff's office."
"What'd they want," I asked, barely awake.
"They asked to talk to you."
"Oh," I said, hoping beyond hope that they'd at least have the decency to wait until morning to come pick me up for whatever crime I'd committed.
"I told them that you weren't available."
Apparently she wanted them to wait until morning too.
"Oh."
"They said they found your car."
"WHAT?!?!" I asked, wide awake now. "Which car?"
"The Honda," she said. We've only had the thing three weeks or so. Thing was, it was right out front when I'd fallen asleep a few hours earlier. If I'd thought for a moment, I'd have realized that it couldn't be that car; we haven't yet registered it in our name.
"I asked them which Honda, 'cuz ours is still out front," she said. "They said it's a '96 green Honda Accord."
We sold that three years ago. To a girl who goes to church with us.
"Oh," I said. "Let's go back to sleep."
"I told them we haven't owned that car for awhile," she said. "They asked if I was sure. I told them that I was pretty sure. They said they'd get back to us."
You'd think law enforcement would have access to current Department of Motor Vehicles records.
She text messaged the girl who now owns the car. She replied a few minutes later that the car was fine. It hadn't been stolen; she'd left it in the church parking lot the evening before, and our diligent law enforcement agency "found" it for her a few hours later. They drove down to the church parking lot and picked it up, safe and intact, at 2:30 in the morning.
I told Shawna to come back to bed; she was standing at the bedroom window staring out at our cars, as if they were in increased danger. She came to bed; she lay there shaking-adrenaline pumping, for a few minutes. I fell asleep. This sleep wasn't dark and dreamless.
In the dream, I was reading a newspaper story that quoted me. The quote was something like:
"Ah don't rahtly know, t'be awnest witcha. Ah reckon that they'll get some of thar money-ah shore do hope so."
The story then pointed out, apparently to support the reporters' supposition that I'm unlearned and ignorant, that I did not know what colors were in the US flag; nor did I know that California and Mexico each had their own flag.
I woke up in a sweat, cursing Donald Trump vehemently (well, I sort of silently cursed him, minus expletives, as I don't curse).
The newspaper story was chronicling the rise and fall of the business that I'd been a partner in-well, really, it was chronicling the fall because that's what sells papers (and, perhaps, because it was my dream, and thoughts of that fall are what eat away at my sanity, day after day). It was telling about a project that we'd worked on, the project that was to be our crowning achievement. And it was telling how we'd ran out of money, and had to walk away from the project. It was telling the story of how we'd had to pursue legal action against the developer, who promised to pay us. And it was telling the story of thirty or so homeowners with partially completed homes, left in the lurch when that same developer who owed us money, filed bankruptcy, leaving them without the means to finish their homes.
And it was making me out to be the dummy who charged in like a fool, and caused the whole house of cards to collapse.
I can't recall, but I'd guess that if I'd searched for the byline on that newspaper story, it would have had my name in it. After all, it was my dream wasn't it?
But then, I'm telling the last chapter first, aren't I?
It really started back in 2002 when Dad, my brother-in-law and I went into business for ourselves. In hindsight it was foolhardy, if not downright stupid. We were each in debt personally, and none of us had any cash (about $4,000 to our names-collectively). Nor did we have any business (that is, we had no customers).
Dad had carried a California General Contractor's license for a little over twenty years, and had quite a bit of on-and-off building experience. We'd talked, half-jokingly, for a number of years, of starting our own home-building business, but had never progressed past the talking point. Then, suddenly, circumstances changed, and the stars were suddenly aligned. So we made the plunge.
Our first job was, strangely enough, installing linoleum on the top of four cash register stands in a newly remodeled grocery store. We bid it at $700. It cost us $900 to get a professional to come in and fix our mistakes.
Our second job was to tile a shower. We got smart and charged what the job was worth this time-$900. Three full weekends later, the shower was tiled (to a tile bill of about $400-leaving $500 to cover our combined labor for three weekends; as best I can figure, it worked out to about $4.50/hour for each of us). That paid for our new logo and business cards.
We were in business!
We picked up a remodel job in a nearby city. The homeowner wanted to remove a number of walls, install a brand new kitchen (maple cabinetry, granite counters, recessed lighting-the "Architectural Digest" package). We quoted somewhere around $17,000. I think, in hindsight, if we'd finished the project, the cabinetry alone would have cost us $17,000. We didn't, though. Somewhere between removing the various walls, and installing a 38' long engineering beam in the ceiling, with ceiling and walls exposed, insulation removed, and electrical wires hanging like spaghetti from the ceiling (all to the tune of about $6,000 worth of billing-unpaid), the owner found out that his bank loan wasn't going to happen. He had a total of $11,000 to complete this project that we'd already started, and he decided he didn't want to pay us the $6,000 that we'd not yet billed.
This was my introduction to the world of small business. Small business, in my experience, is not glamorous; it's not even very fun most of the time. It's hand-to-mouth; you eat what you make. You sometimes chase checks to the bank. You borrow a nice suit and tie, and a respectable vehicle, from a friend, so that you can present a decent image to some prospective customer who likely wouldn't pay you a dime if they knew that your checking account had $27 in it. You meet customers at their home-and tell them it's a "value-added" service, when in reality, it's because your office doubles as your garage.
And when a customer decides he doesn't want to pay you for work you've already completed, you come home, and realize that you have two children who probably won't eat tomorrow if you don't get some money from someone. So you call that customer, and you grit your teeth, and you, in the steeliest tone you can muster, explain all the state contractor's codes, and the various penalties for non-payment, and you reference all the court cases you can find (and some that you've made up, to boot) in which non-paying customers are punished severely by our prudent justice system. And you explain how, if there's not a check waiting first thing in the morning, you'll drive down to the building department, and tell them about this guy who's doing a major remodel without a building permit.
And then you hate yourself. But you cry and laugh all the same as you hang up the phone, because he tells you, with fear and resignation in his voice, that first thing in the morning, there'll be a check waiting.
I slept well that night, for the first time in a few months. Our first real payday was tomorrow; tomorrow it would all begin to pay off.
We laughed and joked on the way to pick up the check. Just as he'd said, the check was waiting. We took it to the bank, hoping there were funds to cover it. It was good. We almost laughed out loud standing there in the bank.
For the first time since we'd opened the business checking account, we sat down that night to do the books with smiles on our faces.
We jumped in, mentally tallying up our individual paychecks. We joked as we organized various receipts and invoices. Then we started tallying them up. By the time the Accounts Payable were fully tallied, none of us were smiling. Mother, I think, might have been crying softly. It didn't leave more than $400 or so to go around. Our first paycheck since we'd been in business, and the three of us (no other real income between us, to speak of) had to find a way to split $400.
"Paul, what are we going to do?" Mother asked Dad, as I recall.
"God will take care of us Becky," he told her. "He always has."
And He did. He always has.
There's more to the story; I'll tell it, perhaps, over the next few weeks. It really is an interesting story. And while I KNOW it doesn't seem to relate AT ALL with my dream from last night, it will all come together-including why I don't like Donald Trump. But I realize now that I'd have avoided a little heartache if, in all my reading, I'd spent some time reading the best business book ever written:
"But don't begin until you count the cost. For who would begin construction of a building without first getting estimates and then checking to see if there is enough money to pay the bills? Otherwise, you might complete only the foundation before running out of funds. And then how everyone would laugh at you! They would say, `There's the person who started that building and ran out of money before it was finished!'
-Luke 14:28-30 (NLT)
I imagine a few people laughed at us and said things like, "There are those guys who started that construction project, and lost money on it! They've not had a paycheck in four months!" I know that, lying in bed that sleepless night, after learning that I would have to scramble to find some cash, I berated myself. I lay there, heart beating a hole in my chest, fear holding the sleep at bay, wondering how Shawna could still love me, how she could ever stay with a person who couldn't adequately provide for his family.
She knew. She could tell what was going through my mind. She pulled me close and held me. And I cried, ashamed of myself. And she told me not to worry, that she loved me, and that it would all be OK.
And it was.
-to be continued...
"That was the sheriff's office."
"What'd they want," I asked, barely awake.
"They asked to talk to you."
"Oh," I said, hoping beyond hope that they'd at least have the decency to wait until morning to come pick me up for whatever crime I'd committed.
"I told them that you weren't available."
Apparently she wanted them to wait until morning too.
"Oh."
"They said they found your car."
"WHAT?!?!" I asked, wide awake now. "Which car?"
"The Honda," she said. We've only had the thing three weeks or so. Thing was, it was right out front when I'd fallen asleep a few hours earlier. If I'd thought for a moment, I'd have realized that it couldn't be that car; we haven't yet registered it in our name.
"I asked them which Honda, 'cuz ours is still out front," she said. "They said it's a '96 green Honda Accord."
We sold that three years ago. To a girl who goes to church with us.
"Oh," I said. "Let's go back to sleep."
"I told them we haven't owned that car for awhile," she said. "They asked if I was sure. I told them that I was pretty sure. They said they'd get back to us."
You'd think law enforcement would have access to current Department of Motor Vehicles records.
She text messaged the girl who now owns the car. She replied a few minutes later that the car was fine. It hadn't been stolen; she'd left it in the church parking lot the evening before, and our diligent law enforcement agency "found" it for her a few hours later. They drove down to the church parking lot and picked it up, safe and intact, at 2:30 in the morning.
I told Shawna to come back to bed; she was standing at the bedroom window staring out at our cars, as if they were in increased danger. She came to bed; she lay there shaking-adrenaline pumping, for a few minutes. I fell asleep. This sleep wasn't dark and dreamless.
In the dream, I was reading a newspaper story that quoted me. The quote was something like:
"Ah don't rahtly know, t'be awnest witcha. Ah reckon that they'll get some of thar money-ah shore do hope so."
The story then pointed out, apparently to support the reporters' supposition that I'm unlearned and ignorant, that I did not know what colors were in the US flag; nor did I know that California and Mexico each had their own flag.
I woke up in a sweat, cursing Donald Trump vehemently (well, I sort of silently cursed him, minus expletives, as I don't curse).
The newspaper story was chronicling the rise and fall of the business that I'd been a partner in-well, really, it was chronicling the fall because that's what sells papers (and, perhaps, because it was my dream, and thoughts of that fall are what eat away at my sanity, day after day). It was telling about a project that we'd worked on, the project that was to be our crowning achievement. And it was telling how we'd ran out of money, and had to walk away from the project. It was telling the story of how we'd had to pursue legal action against the developer, who promised to pay us. And it was telling the story of thirty or so homeowners with partially completed homes, left in the lurch when that same developer who owed us money, filed bankruptcy, leaving them without the means to finish their homes.
And it was making me out to be the dummy who charged in like a fool, and caused the whole house of cards to collapse.
I can't recall, but I'd guess that if I'd searched for the byline on that newspaper story, it would have had my name in it. After all, it was my dream wasn't it?
But then, I'm telling the last chapter first, aren't I?
It really started back in 2002 when Dad, my brother-in-law and I went into business for ourselves. In hindsight it was foolhardy, if not downright stupid. We were each in debt personally, and none of us had any cash (about $4,000 to our names-collectively). Nor did we have any business (that is, we had no customers).
Dad had carried a California General Contractor's license for a little over twenty years, and had quite a bit of on-and-off building experience. We'd talked, half-jokingly, for a number of years, of starting our own home-building business, but had never progressed past the talking point. Then, suddenly, circumstances changed, and the stars were suddenly aligned. So we made the plunge.
Our first job was, strangely enough, installing linoleum on the top of four cash register stands in a newly remodeled grocery store. We bid it at $700. It cost us $900 to get a professional to come in and fix our mistakes.
Our second job was to tile a shower. We got smart and charged what the job was worth this time-$900. Three full weekends later, the shower was tiled (to a tile bill of about $400-leaving $500 to cover our combined labor for three weekends; as best I can figure, it worked out to about $4.50/hour for each of us). That paid for our new logo and business cards.
We were in business!
We picked up a remodel job in a nearby city. The homeowner wanted to remove a number of walls, install a brand new kitchen (maple cabinetry, granite counters, recessed lighting-the "Architectural Digest" package). We quoted somewhere around $17,000. I think, in hindsight, if we'd finished the project, the cabinetry alone would have cost us $17,000. We didn't, though. Somewhere between removing the various walls, and installing a 38' long engineering beam in the ceiling, with ceiling and walls exposed, insulation removed, and electrical wires hanging like spaghetti from the ceiling (all to the tune of about $6,000 worth of billing-unpaid), the owner found out that his bank loan wasn't going to happen. He had a total of $11,000 to complete this project that we'd already started, and he decided he didn't want to pay us the $6,000 that we'd not yet billed.
This was my introduction to the world of small business. Small business, in my experience, is not glamorous; it's not even very fun most of the time. It's hand-to-mouth; you eat what you make. You sometimes chase checks to the bank. You borrow a nice suit and tie, and a respectable vehicle, from a friend, so that you can present a decent image to some prospective customer who likely wouldn't pay you a dime if they knew that your checking account had $27 in it. You meet customers at their home-and tell them it's a "value-added" service, when in reality, it's because your office doubles as your garage.
And when a customer decides he doesn't want to pay you for work you've already completed, you come home, and realize that you have two children who probably won't eat tomorrow if you don't get some money from someone. So you call that customer, and you grit your teeth, and you, in the steeliest tone you can muster, explain all the state contractor's codes, and the various penalties for non-payment, and you reference all the court cases you can find (and some that you've made up, to boot) in which non-paying customers are punished severely by our prudent justice system. And you explain how, if there's not a check waiting first thing in the morning, you'll drive down to the building department, and tell them about this guy who's doing a major remodel without a building permit.
And then you hate yourself. But you cry and laugh all the same as you hang up the phone, because he tells you, with fear and resignation in his voice, that first thing in the morning, there'll be a check waiting.
I slept well that night, for the first time in a few months. Our first real payday was tomorrow; tomorrow it would all begin to pay off.
We laughed and joked on the way to pick up the check. Just as he'd said, the check was waiting. We took it to the bank, hoping there were funds to cover it. It was good. We almost laughed out loud standing there in the bank.
For the first time since we'd opened the business checking account, we sat down that night to do the books with smiles on our faces.
We jumped in, mentally tallying up our individual paychecks. We joked as we organized various receipts and invoices. Then we started tallying them up. By the time the Accounts Payable were fully tallied, none of us were smiling. Mother, I think, might have been crying softly. It didn't leave more than $400 or so to go around. Our first paycheck since we'd been in business, and the three of us (no other real income between us, to speak of) had to find a way to split $400.
"Paul, what are we going to do?" Mother asked Dad, as I recall.
"God will take care of us Becky," he told her. "He always has."
And He did. He always has.
There's more to the story; I'll tell it, perhaps, over the next few weeks. It really is an interesting story. And while I KNOW it doesn't seem to relate AT ALL with my dream from last night, it will all come together-including why I don't like Donald Trump. But I realize now that I'd have avoided a little heartache if, in all my reading, I'd spent some time reading the best business book ever written:
"But don't begin until you count the cost. For who would begin construction of a building without first getting estimates and then checking to see if there is enough money to pay the bills? Otherwise, you might complete only the foundation before running out of funds. And then how everyone would laugh at you! They would say, `There's the person who started that building and ran out of money before it was finished!'
-Luke 14:28-30 (NLT)
I imagine a few people laughed at us and said things like, "There are those guys who started that construction project, and lost money on it! They've not had a paycheck in four months!" I know that, lying in bed that sleepless night, after learning that I would have to scramble to find some cash, I berated myself. I lay there, heart beating a hole in my chest, fear holding the sleep at bay, wondering how Shawna could still love me, how she could ever stay with a person who couldn't adequately provide for his family.
She knew. She could tell what was going through my mind. She pulled me close and held me. And I cried, ashamed of myself. And she told me not to worry, that she loved me, and that it would all be OK.
And it was.
-to be continued...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
My Gift to Alexis and Gentry
NewScientist.com reported this week that curvier women have been scientifically shown to give birth to intellectually superior children.
Apparently, their research has shown that hip fat contains polyunsaturated fatty acids, which contribute greatly to the development of the fetus' brain. They found that children's scores on cognition tests are correlated to their mothers hip-to-waist ration, an indicator of the amount of fat stored on the hips.
I'm digging around here, but I can't seem to find any photographs of Mother, pre-PJ, so I can't say for certain whether or not I'm intelligent. I certainly hope that I am.
On that note, though; my personal research has proven that there CAN be exception, in that Shawna has NEVER had an ounce of extra fat on her hips (or anywhere else for that matter; it's frustrating, I ain't gonna lie to ya). But our children are both still extremely intelligent.
I contemplated this phenomenon for quite a while this evening, and I think I've figured it out.
Those of you who know me know that, during the time Shawna was pregnant with both Lex and Gentry, I was...obese-NO; fat-uh uh; robust-umm...; large-weeell; fluffy-YES! Shawna, on the other hand, was perpetually slim and svelte, despite our unborn children's best efforts to nearly break all known birth-weight records (well, not quite; but they WERE relatively large!). Now, though, I'm a bit slimmer. I now realize that there was a divine purpose in it! I, personally (by virtue of the polyunsaturated fatty acids I stored in my hips-as well as my stomach, butt and face), contributed to the high intelligence of both my children!
I'm quite proud!
I'm sure glad God made me fat! Gave me something to pass on to future generations!
Apparently, their research has shown that hip fat contains polyunsaturated fatty acids, which contribute greatly to the development of the fetus' brain. They found that children's scores on cognition tests are correlated to their mothers hip-to-waist ration, an indicator of the amount of fat stored on the hips.
I'm digging around here, but I can't seem to find any photographs of Mother, pre-PJ, so I can't say for certain whether or not I'm intelligent. I certainly hope that I am.
On that note, though; my personal research has proven that there CAN be exception, in that Shawna has NEVER had an ounce of extra fat on her hips (or anywhere else for that matter; it's frustrating, I ain't gonna lie to ya). But our children are both still extremely intelligent.
I contemplated this phenomenon for quite a while this evening, and I think I've figured it out.
Those of you who know me know that, during the time Shawna was pregnant with both Lex and Gentry, I was...obese-NO; fat-uh uh; robust-umm...; large-weeell; fluffy-YES! Shawna, on the other hand, was perpetually slim and svelte, despite our unborn children's best efforts to nearly break all known birth-weight records (well, not quite; but they WERE relatively large!). Now, though, I'm a bit slimmer. I now realize that there was a divine purpose in it! I, personally (by virtue of the polyunsaturated fatty acids I stored in my hips-as well as my stomach, butt and face), contributed to the high intelligence of both my children!
I'm quite proud!
I'm sure glad God made me fat! Gave me something to pass on to future generations!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Reason for the Season
We took the kids to a cornfield maze the other evening. The thing was far more difficult than I'd imagined; it took us nearly an hour to get through. At one point, we were so lost that we hunkered down, and decided to rough it out until dawn. I fashioned a makeshift tent out of my sweatshirt, and was trying to cook a few ears of corn with the heat from my cell phone battery. Luckily, a lady in a yellow jacket came by, and showed us the way out.
A good thing, too; corn leaves would have made for very abrasive toilet paper.
We finally found our way out, packed into the car, and drove away. On our way out, the kids spotted a small house (about the size of a playhouse), that sits up on a pole, so that it can be seen from the freeway. The house is adorned with Christmas lights; it serves as an advertisement for the Christmas trees that they sell at the farm there during the Christmas season.
At any rate, as we were driving out, I heard Gentry's breath catch.
"Lexis," he said, whispering in awe. "Lookit! That's Santa Claus's house!" he said.
"Oh, yeah! It is!" Lex said.
"Daddy," Gentry said, "do you know what we just saw? We saw Santa's house!"
"You did?" I asked. "You mean that little house with the Christmas Lights?"
"Yes," Gentry said. "That's Santa's house!"
"Where does he keep all the toys in there, do you think," I asked them.
They thought for a moment. "It's magic," Lex said.
"Nuh-uh!" Bubs said, a little loudly. "He keeps those in his big bag that he cawwies."
"And then he comes at Christmas and brings us our presents," Lex proclaimed excitedly. "He comes down our fireplace!" she said.
"Our fireplace," I asked? "You mean chimney. How does he fit down there, do you think?"
A good thing, too; corn leaves would have made for very abrasive toilet paper.
We finally found our way out, packed into the car, and drove away. On our way out, the kids spotted a small house (about the size of a playhouse), that sits up on a pole, so that it can be seen from the freeway. The house is adorned with Christmas lights; it serves as an advertisement for the Christmas trees that they sell at the farm there during the Christmas season.
At any rate, as we were driving out, I heard Gentry's breath catch.
"Lexis," he said, whispering in awe. "Lookit! That's Santa Claus's house!" he said.
"Oh, yeah! It is!" Lex said.
"Daddy," Gentry said, "do you know what we just saw? We saw Santa's house!"
"You did?" I asked. "You mean that little house with the Christmas Lights?"
"Yes," Gentry said. "That's Santa's house!"
"Where does he keep all the toys in there, do you think," I asked them.
They thought for a moment. "It's magic," Lex said.
"Nuh-uh!" Bubs said, a little loudly. "He keeps those in his big bag that he cawwies."
"And then he comes at Christmas and brings us our presents," Lex proclaimed excitedly. "He comes down our fireplace!" she said.
"Our fireplace," I asked? "You mean chimney. How does he fit down there, do you think?"
They were silent for a few moments. We've never really pushed the idea of a Santa with our kids, but we've not been adamant about insisting that he doesn't exist either. The conversation was shaping up into the "does-Santa-really-exist" conversation that so many parents dread. I was curious to see how traumatic the realization would be.
"If he comes down our chimney, how does he get back up it," Lex asked?
"No," Bubs said. "He doesn't come down ouw chimminee. He lives in ouw fiyapwace," he said.
"He doesn't live in our fireplace, Bubs," Lexis argued. "Check when we get home. He's not there. Maybe he lives on our roof!"
"Our roof, huh?" I asked. "We must be pretty special, don't you think, for him to choose to live on our roof."
"No-" Lex started.
"Yes he-" Gentry piped up at the same time. "Lexis! Let me talk! I wanna tell you guys somethin!"
"Well hurry then," she told him, exasperated.
"Santa Claus lives on the woof of that house at the cownfield maze! He bwings ouw pwesents down ouw fiweplace at Chwistmas. And....and....and..."
"Bubba! Are you going to finish, or are you just going to keep saying 'and' forever?" Lex interrupted.
"LEXIS!! I'm telling you a stowy! Be quiet!"
"Well, HURRY UP," she answered.
He paused for a moment. "K. I'm done"
"Good," Lex said. "Santa doesn't live at that house at the maze or on our roof. Remember, Christmas is about Jesus' birthday!"
I was so pleased! She'd come to the realization all on her own. My chest swelled; I smiled, and grabbed Shawna's hand, so thankful that our wholesome parenting was paying off.
"So what does that mean, Alexis," I asked.
"Well, it means that Santa Claus must live on JESUS' roof!"
I give up.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
That Boy Ain't Right!
I was not a normal boy.
Shawna and the kids spent the time that I was traveling with her family. Gentry's fifth birthday is next month, but since Shawna's family won't be around, they threw him a small party. He got what he wanted. I was walking back to the hotel from dinner (alone), and my cell phone buzzed. It was a picture; of Gentry-standing on his new "skatebowd" a big toothy smile on his face. Shawna was concerned she said, because he was "already getting dangerous" on it. I asked what she meant.
"Well, he's already trying to stand up on it!"
Isn't that what you're supposed to do with a skateboard?
At any rate, I drove to meet them at the tail end of my business trip, and spent a day there with the family before coming home. A group of us went out for the evening, and Gentry, having received the thing he most wanted, moved on to loftier goals.
"Dad, you know what I want fow my birfday," he asked?
"No, Bubs; what do you want?"
"I want a gun."
"Bubba, you already have way too many guns. Let's get creative this birthday," I said. "Let's get you something different."
"No, Daddy," he exclaimed. "Not THAT kinda gun! I want a WEAL gun!"
"A real gun, Bubs? You've got to be kidding me!"
"Pwease, Daddy? I WEALLY want a weal gun fow my birfday."
Papa Marc and Uncle Casey (both Soldier of Fortune type gun aficionados) just laughed.
I never wanted a real gun growing up. I think it concerned my parents, because they bought me one when I was twelve or thirteen. I took it shooting once. I sold it four or five years later. I never had a skateboard either. I was scared of skateboards.
In fact, in hindsight, I was, at best, an eccentric boy; at worst, strange. I only had three real friends as a child. One really quiet guy who was also in band; a really smart girl (who was, in fourth grade, about 5' 10", and maybe 200 lbs); and a guy who lived across the street from me (he was about five years older than me, but was only a grade ahead of me); he was the only one who ever came over to visit, but looking back, it seems that he only came over to let out some pent up anger. Once a week or so, he'd come by under the pretense of playing, and he'd end up grinding my face in the grass for a good 15-20 minutes (until Mother came running out and made him stop). It was a testament to either my long suffering compassion-or my stupidity-that I never turned him away; week after week, he came and beat me up.
In hindsight, I think the lack of friends might have been due to the camouflage, elastic-waisted home-made pants that I wore until I was 12 or so (they had no fly-I don't think Mother knew how to sew in a zipper, so I had to pull them down to use the restroom). They were decidedly uncool (although I didn't know it at the time). Or maybe it was due to the fact that I was good at almost nothing. When choosing teams for baseball, they'd choose the kid in a wheelchair before they chose me. I could NEVER do a pull-up or a push-up (still can't, to be honest).
I couldn't even cuss well. I got sent home (and almost suspended) from school once for cussing a kid out. His name was Jesus (pronounced "hay-soos"). I found out how it was spelled, and started calling him Jesus (pronounced like the one from Nazareth). He must not have been a Christian, because he said a few choice words (none of which, honestly, I knew); I said a few of my own right back; then he hit me. I fell down and started crying. He stood over me, looking down at me incredulously, not sure what to do.
The teacher marched us both to the principals office. He heard Jesus' side of the story first, then called me in, and asked if I'd called him any bad names. I started crying and said yes. He looked at me, disappointed, picked up the telephone, and called Mother. She came and picked me up, furious. She ranted the whole way home. When we finally got home, I sat down at the kitchen table. She sat across from me.
"PJ," she said, "what did you say to that kid?"
"I called him a stupid jerk," I told her.
"Besides that."
"Nothing Mom," I said. "That's all I said!"
She looked at me for a moment, then started laughing. She picked up the phone and called the principal. They had a good laugh, then she loaded me into the car, and took me back to school.
And I've never enjoyed playing outside; you get dirty playing outside, and I have always hated to be dirty. In fact, I have, almost since I was Gentry's age, showered at least twice per day (sometimes thrice). I did ask for a BB gun when I was 8 or 9. My parents got excited (hoping, I think, that this was a sign that their son might, in fact, be normal). They got me the gun. I took it out one Saturday, and accidentally shot a bird. I cried. I never shot the gun again.
In fourth grade, kids stopped calling me PJ or Paul and started calling me Picker (because they caught me picking my nose one day in class; a habit that I still enjoy from time to time). But, interestingly enough, that was the grade that kids actually started hanging around me. The two coolest guys in the school suddenly were my best friends (at least in class). It took me a year or so to figure it out, but I eventually realized that their sudden friendship coincided with the earliest group projects. I was their willing intellectual slave; it bought me some measure of admiration (although they still called me Picker).
I saw one of those guys a few months ago. He's a mechanic; lives in an apartment; drives an old beat up car, and is struggling financially. He still calls me Picker.
None of the girls ever wanted to date me. In fact, I didn't have a girlfriend until my senior year in high school. I'm half convinced, to this day, that a few of my friends might have paid her to date me for a few weeks because they felt sorry for me (Katie: is that the case?).
Early on, I was oblivious to my abnormalcy. It didn't phase me. But about the time my name was changed to "Picker" I began to realize that I wasn't well liked; I wasn't popular-in fact I wasn't unpopular; to most, I simply didn't exist. It started to bother me. By that point, though, I simply didn't know how to be cool; I was so far removed from the norm that the idea of my fitting in was almost laughable.
I'm sure I cried quite a few tears to Mother and Dad, and I'm sure they watched, pained, as I fell flat on my face socially time and again. I've never asked. But I look back now, and I'm thankful that I wasn't cool. Most (though not all) of the cool people are now living lives of mediocrity. Once the wave of "coolness" deposited them on the beach of real-life, they realized they couldn't actually walk on their own.
So, there's a part of me that's relieved that Gentry wants a gun for his birthday. I hope that he's a little more normal that I was (I think he is). Not too normal though! I don't want him to be lulled into thinking that his social status as a kid will carry him through to success as an adult. I want to make sure that he can walk when it's time to walk.
So, we make him wear camouflage, elastic-waisted, flyless pants.
Shawna and the kids spent the time that I was traveling with her family. Gentry's fifth birthday is next month, but since Shawna's family won't be around, they threw him a small party. He got what he wanted. I was walking back to the hotel from dinner (alone), and my cell phone buzzed. It was a picture; of Gentry-standing on his new "skatebowd" a big toothy smile on his face. Shawna was concerned she said, because he was "already getting dangerous" on it. I asked what she meant.
"Well, he's already trying to stand up on it!"
Isn't that what you're supposed to do with a skateboard?
At any rate, I drove to meet them at the tail end of my business trip, and spent a day there with the family before coming home. A group of us went out for the evening, and Gentry, having received the thing he most wanted, moved on to loftier goals.
"Dad, you know what I want fow my birfday," he asked?
"No, Bubs; what do you want?"
"I want a gun."
"Bubba, you already have way too many guns. Let's get creative this birthday," I said. "Let's get you something different."
"No, Daddy," he exclaimed. "Not THAT kinda gun! I want a WEAL gun!"
"A real gun, Bubs? You've got to be kidding me!"
"Pwease, Daddy? I WEALLY want a weal gun fow my birfday."
Papa Marc and Uncle Casey (both Soldier of Fortune type gun aficionados) just laughed.
I never wanted a real gun growing up. I think it concerned my parents, because they bought me one when I was twelve or thirteen. I took it shooting once. I sold it four or five years later. I never had a skateboard either. I was scared of skateboards.
In fact, in hindsight, I was, at best, an eccentric boy; at worst, strange. I only had three real friends as a child. One really quiet guy who was also in band; a really smart girl (who was, in fourth grade, about 5' 10", and maybe 200 lbs); and a guy who lived across the street from me (he was about five years older than me, but was only a grade ahead of me); he was the only one who ever came over to visit, but looking back, it seems that he only came over to let out some pent up anger. Once a week or so, he'd come by under the pretense of playing, and he'd end up grinding my face in the grass for a good 15-20 minutes (until Mother came running out and made him stop). It was a testament to either my long suffering compassion-or my stupidity-that I never turned him away; week after week, he came and beat me up.
In hindsight, I think the lack of friends might have been due to the camouflage, elastic-waisted home-made pants that I wore until I was 12 or so (they had no fly-I don't think Mother knew how to sew in a zipper, so I had to pull them down to use the restroom). They were decidedly uncool (although I didn't know it at the time). Or maybe it was due to the fact that I was good at almost nothing. When choosing teams for baseball, they'd choose the kid in a wheelchair before they chose me. I could NEVER do a pull-up or a push-up (still can't, to be honest).
I couldn't even cuss well. I got sent home (and almost suspended) from school once for cussing a kid out. His name was Jesus (pronounced "hay-soos"). I found out how it was spelled, and started calling him Jesus (pronounced like the one from Nazareth). He must not have been a Christian, because he said a few choice words (none of which, honestly, I knew); I said a few of my own right back; then he hit me. I fell down and started crying. He stood over me, looking down at me incredulously, not sure what to do.
The teacher marched us both to the principals office. He heard Jesus' side of the story first, then called me in, and asked if I'd called him any bad names. I started crying and said yes. He looked at me, disappointed, picked up the telephone, and called Mother. She came and picked me up, furious. She ranted the whole way home. When we finally got home, I sat down at the kitchen table. She sat across from me.
"PJ," she said, "what did you say to that kid?"
"I called him a stupid jerk," I told her.
"Besides that."
"Nothing Mom," I said. "That's all I said!"
She looked at me for a moment, then started laughing. She picked up the phone and called the principal. They had a good laugh, then she loaded me into the car, and took me back to school.
And I've never enjoyed playing outside; you get dirty playing outside, and I have always hated to be dirty. In fact, I have, almost since I was Gentry's age, showered at least twice per day (sometimes thrice). I did ask for a BB gun when I was 8 or 9. My parents got excited (hoping, I think, that this was a sign that their son might, in fact, be normal). They got me the gun. I took it out one Saturday, and accidentally shot a bird. I cried. I never shot the gun again.
In fourth grade, kids stopped calling me PJ or Paul and started calling me Picker (because they caught me picking my nose one day in class; a habit that I still enjoy from time to time). But, interestingly enough, that was the grade that kids actually started hanging around me. The two coolest guys in the school suddenly were my best friends (at least in class). It took me a year or so to figure it out, but I eventually realized that their sudden friendship coincided with the earliest group projects. I was their willing intellectual slave; it bought me some measure of admiration (although they still called me Picker).
I saw one of those guys a few months ago. He's a mechanic; lives in an apartment; drives an old beat up car, and is struggling financially. He still calls me Picker.
None of the girls ever wanted to date me. In fact, I didn't have a girlfriend until my senior year in high school. I'm half convinced, to this day, that a few of my friends might have paid her to date me for a few weeks because they felt sorry for me (Katie: is that the case?).
Early on, I was oblivious to my abnormalcy. It didn't phase me. But about the time my name was changed to "Picker" I began to realize that I wasn't well liked; I wasn't popular-in fact I wasn't unpopular; to most, I simply didn't exist. It started to bother me. By that point, though, I simply didn't know how to be cool; I was so far removed from the norm that the idea of my fitting in was almost laughable.
I'm sure I cried quite a few tears to Mother and Dad, and I'm sure they watched, pained, as I fell flat on my face socially time and again. I've never asked. But I look back now, and I'm thankful that I wasn't cool. Most (though not all) of the cool people are now living lives of mediocrity. Once the wave of "coolness" deposited them on the beach of real-life, they realized they couldn't actually walk on their own.
So, there's a part of me that's relieved that Gentry wants a gun for his birthday. I hope that he's a little more normal that I was (I think he is). Not too normal though! I don't want him to be lulled into thinking that his social status as a kid will carry him through to success as an adult. I want to make sure that he can walk when it's time to walk.
So, we make him wear camouflage, elastic-waisted, flyless pants.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Business Travel
I'm traveling again. On business. Which, I've decided, I detest.
No offense to my colleagues who happen to read MyndFood; I don't dislike what I do at all, and I enjoy all of you that I work with. But business, in my (admittedly jaded) estimation, is 20% actual productive activity, and 80% people trying to uncover some obscure problem in order to justify their existence (or in the absence of an actual problem, inventing some new, revolutionary business concept that then-due to it's conspicuous absence within the organization in question-becomes a problem).
Hear me out-please.
I'm at a two-day seminar. I know what I paid for the seminar (it wasn't inexpensive, by any measure), and at the price I paid, multiplied by the number of attendees (thirty, give or take), the seminar tuition alone cost the attending companies about $100K. Add to that the cost of a hotel stay for two nights ($179 a night-a bargain, to be sure), parking ($15 to self-park; $20 for valet-per night, that is), and travel (I'd guess $600 per person, on average), you could probably tack on another $40 to the total pricetag of the seminar. Not to mention the opportunity cost associated with 30 or so highly paid professionals sitting in a room on the coast of California for two full days. Assuming the average person in the room makes $130K per year, that would add up to somewhere in the neighborhood of another $45,000.
For a grand total cost of around $185,000.
Money well-spent if there's anything to be gained by participating.
But, invariably, I receive a flyer for some seminar, read through it, get excited, and register. I attend, and find myself agreeing-wholeheartedly-with almost everything they have to say. But also realizing that they're not really telling me anything I didn't already know. Not that I'm some business prodigy. The reality is, when you parse it all down, the basics of business are pretty intuitive. It doesn't take a genius to get the concepts right.
But common sense and intuition don't sell. So intellectuals (admittedly, very bright, competent and talented people) go out, wrap their suble flair around a common sense concept, develop a Powerpoint presentation, throw out business buzzwords, and charge a fortune to speak about them.
And then people like me come, nod their heads, smile, and go back, enthused, and make some sort of (hopefully positive) change.
Do you see, though? They're not really instructors; there's nothing there to instruct. They're cheerleaders. They exist to get us (the business community) excited about some concept, to get us enthused and pump us up, make us believe we can affect positive change (or, make us believe that we NEED to change-whether we do or not-THEN make us believe we can do it).
But, alas, I freely admit that I'm jaded and dejected. Because I sit here in a beautiful hotel room, overlooking a magnificent golf course, a stone's throw from a gorgeous beach-alone. You see, I'm projecting. There's probably some truth to that whole diatribe, but the simple fact is, I am of the firm opinion that the enjoyment in life is found in sharing experiences with those you love. Happiness doesn't exist in my world unless I have someone to share it with.
So, a beautiful hotel, the ocean, and even the opportunity to learn-none of them have any interest to me.
Because I'm alone.
I miss you...
No offense to my colleagues who happen to read MyndFood; I don't dislike what I do at all, and I enjoy all of you that I work with. But business, in my (admittedly jaded) estimation, is 20% actual productive activity, and 80% people trying to uncover some obscure problem in order to justify their existence (or in the absence of an actual problem, inventing some new, revolutionary business concept that then-due to it's conspicuous absence within the organization in question-becomes a problem).
Hear me out-please.
I'm at a two-day seminar. I know what I paid for the seminar (it wasn't inexpensive, by any measure), and at the price I paid, multiplied by the number of attendees (thirty, give or take), the seminar tuition alone cost the attending companies about $100K. Add to that the cost of a hotel stay for two nights ($179 a night-a bargain, to be sure), parking ($15 to self-park; $20 for valet-per night, that is), and travel (I'd guess $600 per person, on average), you could probably tack on another $40 to the total pricetag of the seminar. Not to mention the opportunity cost associated with 30 or so highly paid professionals sitting in a room on the coast of California for two full days. Assuming the average person in the room makes $130K per year, that would add up to somewhere in the neighborhood of another $45,000.
For a grand total cost of around $185,000.
Money well-spent if there's anything to be gained by participating.
But, invariably, I receive a flyer for some seminar, read through it, get excited, and register. I attend, and find myself agreeing-wholeheartedly-with almost everything they have to say. But also realizing that they're not really telling me anything I didn't already know. Not that I'm some business prodigy. The reality is, when you parse it all down, the basics of business are pretty intuitive. It doesn't take a genius to get the concepts right.
But common sense and intuition don't sell. So intellectuals (admittedly, very bright, competent and talented people) go out, wrap their suble flair around a common sense concept, develop a Powerpoint presentation, throw out business buzzwords, and charge a fortune to speak about them.
And then people like me come, nod their heads, smile, and go back, enthused, and make some sort of (hopefully positive) change.
Do you see, though? They're not really instructors; there's nothing there to instruct. They're cheerleaders. They exist to get us (the business community) excited about some concept, to get us enthused and pump us up, make us believe we can affect positive change (or, make us believe that we NEED to change-whether we do or not-THEN make us believe we can do it).
But, alas, I freely admit that I'm jaded and dejected. Because I sit here in a beautiful hotel room, overlooking a magnificent golf course, a stone's throw from a gorgeous beach-alone. You see, I'm projecting. There's probably some truth to that whole diatribe, but the simple fact is, I am of the firm opinion that the enjoyment in life is found in sharing experiences with those you love. Happiness doesn't exist in my world unless I have someone to share it with.
So, a beautiful hotel, the ocean, and even the opportunity to learn-none of them have any interest to me.
Because I'm alone.
I miss you...
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Fences
Yesterday evening, after work, I dug around in the depths of our hall closet (where I keep the clothes that I rarely wear), pulled out my overalls and my favorite flannel shirt, threw them on, along with my favorite, sweat-stained straw hat, and went out to build a fence.
Yeah, the fence on the south end of the property was in a terrible state of disrepair, and Shawna was worried that the livestock would begin to disappear, so...
Ok-stop that! You're laughing at me!
Ok, ok! The truth is, I don't have a pair of overalls (or a flannel shirt, for that matter-cringe), nor a sweat-stained ANYTHING, let alone a straw hat! And the south end of the property is a 10'x25' section of backyard-on our 7,000 square foot city lot. Oh, and the livestock? Our two dogs: Rowy (a 2 year old chocolate Lab), and Chloe (an insanely hyper 1 year old Dachshund, who has a strange affinity for laser pointers and watch reflections).
But-I DID go out and work! I know, I know-those of you who actually know me have a VERY hard time believing it. To be honest, Shawna didn't believe it either. In fact, when she pulled up to the house, she sat in the car for some time; I kept right on working. A few moments later, my cellphone rang. It was Shawna.
"PJ: where are you," she asked, "because there's a tall guy working out behind our house, building a fence. He's built kind of like you, pretty good looking, but I don't know who he is. I don't want to get out of my car! Should I call the police?"
"It IS me, Shawna!" I said.
"PJ-I'm serious! This guy's working; why is he in our yard? Did you hire him?"
I convinced her, and she ran in to grab the camera so that she could show all our friends and family that her husband does, in fact, occasionally do physical labor. She forgot that she sold the stinking camera at the yard sale this weekend, so you're gonna have to trust us on this one (by the way: whomever bought our kitchen table, if you're reading this, I'll pay you $20 more than the amount you bought it for if you'll bring it back; I'm getting so tired of eating on the floor. Thanks a lot shegazelle!).
But, as I worked there in the yard, building the fence, I started thinking about fences, and why we build them, and I have to say, sometimes a fence is just a lazy man's substitute for discipline.
Hear me out: part of the reason we're building the fence is so that our kids have a place to play. Fair enough, except that the act of building the fence doesn't actually create space for the kids to play. It creates a space that we feel comfortable allowing them to occupy, without having to worry about their running out in the street. An admirable purpose, as a parent, to be sure; but consider this:
Imagine with me, if you will, for just a moment, that we build this fence, and allow Lex and Gentry to go out back every day and play to their hearts content. Imagine this goes on for a year...two years...five years...ten. At some point, they're tall enough and curious enough to reach the gate latch, and begin to try to get the gate open. They, naturally, want to explore-to see what's on the other side.
But Shawna catches them in the act, and calls me at work, and asks me to run to Home Depot on the way home, and pick up a padlock. I do, and we lock the gate, keep the keys in our pockets. A few more years go by, and always, in the back in Lex and Gentry's mind, is this thought that good or bad-the other side of that fence must be something to behold. I can't wait 'til I'm tall and strong enough to climb over.
And so it goes. Don't get me wrong: It's natural to want to explore the other side, to see what marvels (or dangers) might exist there. But I have to ask myself: have I, in fact, done my children a disservice? Because at some point, we'll let our guard down, and they'll get over, around or under the fence. And make their way, in fascination, out to the street, to stare at the large objects on wheels that go speeding by.
You see, I don't think you can build a fence tall enough, or wide enough, or deep enough, to keep my children out of the road indefinitely. There is a desire, built into each of us, to explore, to understand (not necessarily to be stupid-and don't get me wrong, running out into the street is flat stupid-but to really comprehend).
Proverbs 2:11 says this: "Discretions shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee."
You see, in my mind, the fence is a temporary measure that is effective for only a short period of time (at least when it comes to protecting Lex and Gentry). In the long-term, the only thing that's going to keep them-protect them, is true understanding.
And so you ask, why are kids/young people today so prone to veer off as they hit young-adulthood? This, in my mind, is a key contributing factor: because we, as parents, have, for too long, allowed fences to do the parenting for us.
You see, in my mind, the fence is a temporary measure that is effective for only a short period of time (at least when it comes to protecting Lex and Gentry). In the long-term, the only thing that's going to keep them-protect them, is true understanding.
And so you ask, why are kids/young people today so prone to veer off as they hit young-adulthood? This, in my mind, is a key contributing factor: because we, as parents, have, for too long, allowed fences to do the parenting for us.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Cousin Again!!!
Below, in its entirety, the text of an email received just moments ago, from my cousin, Ashtyn Teel:
Subject: ANSWERED PRAYER READ NOW
Congratulations Rick, Gina and Ashtyn! Shawna, Lex, Gentry and I are incredibly excited for you! We might even make the long trek out to Georgia to see the new addition (once he/she arrives)!
We love you guys!
Subject: ANSWERED PRAYER READ NOW
dear family and friends,
how are you all hope good. I have some great exciting news.
god has answered one of my greatest prayers. that i will be once again a big sister. for my mom and dad have just told me tonight that my mom is pregnant.
we are all very excited and nervous.please pray with us that all will go well.
I'm not lying my mom is going to have a baby.
just remember that I'm the baby of the house.
love and miss you all
love,ashtyn
Congratulations Rick, Gina and Ashtyn! Shawna, Lex, Gentry and I are incredibly excited for you! We might even make the long trek out to Georgia to see the new addition (once he/she arrives)!
We love you guys!
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