February 23, 2012

The Birth of a Super-Hero.

A while back, I took a Creative Writing class at school, and I loved it. The following is a three chapter short story that I wrote, which is another story in line with my old blog, where normal people become super-heroes. Reagan is a real person, as is his wife. The names of the children have been changed for personal privacy. Many events in the story are true. Many are not. But whose to say they are impossible? Enjoy.

The Birth of a Super-Hero

            In the end, it was an act of selflessness that got Reagan the acceptance he wanted, and so many other amazing things. I’m telling you that in case you don’t get to finish the story. I think it’s important that you see right now the power you gain from being unselfish and thinking about others. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning…

No one would ever call Reagan Tennant a bad man. He was friendly, outgoing at times, and he had a warm disposition. He was married to the love of his life, Tiffany, and they had two handsome sons; a three year old named Kipton, and a nine month old named Dalton. Reagan was a car salesman, but not the kind that normally comes to mind. Because of this, they were a comfortably upper-middle class family who owned their own home and who had money to save every month. He enjoyed playing basketball, fishing, and anything created by the late Steve Jobs. He drove demo cars – cars that salesmen get to “test drive” as a perk for working at a dealership – to work, and his wife drove a Suburban.

You might be asking yourself why I’m describing Reagan in such mundane detail. The truth is, I’m doing it so you can see how normal he was. He wasn’t a body builder, he was six foot six and weighed maybe two hundred pounds soaking wet. He was balding slightly and it bothered him. He had the American dream by its coattails, and he was pulling it slowly towards him. He was normal. I can’t stress that enough.

For all of his redeeming qualities, Reagan had a few flaws that seemed to keep him from making any “real” friends. For starters, Reagan might have been a closet hipster. He liked Pabst Blue Ribbon, listened to a lot of indie music, and always seemed to have on something made of flannel. Also, if you asked anyone who knew him, they’d tell you he seemed a bit self-centered, to the point it was a turn off if you were around him for longer than an hour. He liked to talk about himself more than you, and he dominated the conversation most of the time. Because of this, Reagan didn’t have a “best” friend, or even any “good” friends. He had several people that would call themselves his friends, but none that would drive out of their way to fill his gas tank if he called in the middle of the night. Reagan also had a deep-rooted desire to be accepted by everyone, and it showed visibly, which brought into reality the old adage, “desperation is a stinky cologne.”

Perhaps this need for acceptance is what drove Reagan to create a Friendlist account. Friendlist was the latest social networking craze, and it seemed like everyone was doing it. Reagan was well networked in his job, and he you could practically see the reflection of his escalating friend count in his eyes as he filled in the required information. So you can imagine his surprise, when after three weeks and literally a thousand friend requests later, the only people listed on his friends page were his wife, his mother, and one of the detailers at the car dealership.    

After the Friendlist debacle, Reagan was more desperate than ever to gain some sort of social acceptance from his peers. As a car salesman, Reagan could “demo” cars. This meant that he could take home a car from the lot to test drive it, learn about it, and ultimately make recommendations from a personal standpoint to his customers. So you can imagine his boss’s surprise when Reagan walked into his office and said, “I want to buy that red 350Z out front.”

“But Reagan, you get to drive cars for free. I’ll even let you demo one of the base model Z’s if that’s what you want.”

“No, I want to buy the red one,” said Reagan forcefully.

“Okay,” replied his boss “But you do realize that because it’s such a tricked out car, I can’t offer you much in the way of an employee discount, right?”

“I understand,” growled Reagan. “Now are you going to sell me that car or do I have to go somewhere else?”

And so Reagan became the proud owner of a brand new 350Z, as well as appreciative stares and whistles as he drove down the street. Even his co-workers, confused as they were, jealously admitted that Reagan looked good behind the wheel of that car. He latched onto this meager improvement in his social status in much the same way that teenage girls latched onto the “Twilight” series, insatiably, with the rest of the world left wondering why it was ever such a big deal in the first place.

Reagan was two months into his brand new car, loving every minute of driving it, and he often spent his rides to and from work debating on what he could do to gain even more popularity, both at the dealership and in his personal life, which was sadly still lacking in things to do on Saturday nights. It wasn’t long before he had that Z tricked out beyond belief. Custom wheels, additions to the already fine paint job, a sound system, and a hi-definition lighting system that was out of this world were a few of the things that he added.

There were whispers among the other salespeople at the dealership that Reagan was off his nut. “Did you hear that he put an XBOX in the console?” asked one employee of the other.

“No, but I heard he put confetti in the airbags,” came the ridiculous reply.

Reagan took all these whispers in stride, mistaking them for glamour and fame, and he was perfectly happy in the world he’d created, when the hammer dropped. “Reagan, can I see you in my office?” asked his boss one afternoon.

“Sure,” replied Reagan.

“Son, do you know what this is?” his boss questioned, holding a piece of paper in the air.

“Looks like a recall notice,” said Reagan.

“That’s exactly right,” replied the boss. “However, this is a recall notice specifically for the 350Z. Even more specifically, it’s for Z’s with hi-definition headlamps installed.”

Reagan felt his blood run cold. “Oh yeah? What happens?”

“A short circuit happens,” informed the boss. “A short circuit that causes the car to catch on fire.”

It was just about then that a shout of alarm was heard up front. As he turned in his seat, Reagan noticed that a lot of folks were pointing to the parking lot. Particularly, they were pointing at the parking lot where Reagan liked to showcase his 350Z. Reagan could often be found just staring out at that parking lot, smiling to himself, nodding his head and saying things like, “That’s it, that’s my baby.” to no one in particular.

So you can imagine his surprise when he looked up at that parking lot and saw that his car, his beautiful 350Z, was on fire.

There are a good number of calculators in the world today that would not have been able to accurately measure the amount of embarrassment Reagan felt from the car fire fiasco. His head hung lower than ever, and his ears were constantly bombarded with both the whispers behind his back and the jokes made to his face about his precious 350Z. He was, to put it mildly, abashed.

So Reagan got to thinking about how he could change things for the better. He weighed the options, considered the consequences, and finally came up with an idea that wasn’t too terrible. He decided that he and his family would join a church. “People HAVE to like you at a church,” was the motivating thought behind the decision, and so he gathered his wife and sons, and they darkened the doors of the local Baptist church for the first time since they’d become a family.

This church was enormous. It ran about seven hundred in attendance on Sunday mornings, and it was very nicely furnished. It had an enormous stage, an elegantly carved pulpit, a massive baptistery, stain glass windows, a balcony where Reagan could sit mostly unseen, and a crystal chandelier that would have made Tiffany (the jeweler, not Reagan’s wife) jealous. It also had a Sunday School class that was a perfect fit for Reagan and Tiffany…with one exception.

The Sunday School teacher and his wife became fast friends with Reagan and Tiffany, and it wasn’t long before they saw some of Reagan’s insecurities. The wife in particular would tease Reagan mercilessly about these things, to the point where he would be so furious he was incapable of speech. It even got to where others would join her, and Reagan desperately wanted to leave the class, the church, the town, and even the state. He wanted to start over. He wanted acceptance without exceptions.

In the end, it was an act of selflessness that got Reagan the acceptance he wanted, and so many other amazing things. In the end, he shined. In the end, Reagan reached a level of transcendence that most mere mortals dream about, and all it cost him was a brief moment of agony.

“Tiffany, this is our last Sunday at this church,” said Reagan on the car ride there.

“But…why?” replied Tiffany. “Is it because of Nancy? She’s really not making fun of you as much any more.”

“Yeah, that’s it mostly,” came Reagan’s retort. “I can’t stand her. She’s just too snotty, and she’s making fun of me MORE, not less. She just does it behind your back!”

“Reagan, I really think you should consider this more carefully,” said Tiffany. “Are you there to win popularity contests, or are you there for the right reasons?”

“I don’t know what the right reasons are anymore,” said Reagan, and the conversation was closed.

They snuck in the back, late, and Reagan began to brood about his decision. It was true he didn’t know what the right reasons were for anything anymore. He contemplated his wife’s question, turning answers over and over in his mind. Slowly, as he sat there listening to the pastor talk about sacrifice, he began to see a bigger picture. Then it happened.

There was a loud crack, and the chandelier – the beautiful crystal chandelier – started to fall from the ceiling directly onto several elderly worshippers in the pews below. It fell quickly, but someone was quicker.

Reagan had left his seat in the balcony the moment he heard the plaster begin to break. He leapt over the edge of the glass banister, and landed on his feet below. The jump in itself was amazing, but what happened next was something you only see in movies.

As the stunned churchgoers sat paralyzed in disbelief, Reagan jumped onto the pew directly under the chandelier, and he caught it. He stood, arms stretched, back straight, standing in the gap between the parishioners and certain death.

CRACK! The pew standing underneath Reagan broke, its occupants trying to crawl to safety. Reagan held on.

CRACK! The chandelier started to break now, as the laws of physics had not given it the same reprieve it seemed to have given Reagan. Still, Reagan held on as the last person scampered to safety.

CRACK!

This time it was Reagan who broke.

The congregation sat in stunned silence, staring at the destruction before them. A siren wailed in the distance; it seemed at least one person had been able to call for help. Reagan lay there, a terrible sight, his back twisted at an unnatural angle, his arms shattered. As the definitive realization set in that he must be dead, a scream tore through the crowd. It was the scream of his widow.

“Reagan Tennant was a loving father, husband, son, brother, and friend. He is survived by his wife, Tiffany, their two sons…” More than six thousand people turned out for his funeral. In the final moments of his life, his act of selflessness and courage temporarily distracted everyone from the fact that Reagan had performed a feat of strength not seen since the days of Samson. However, it would be the subject of much controversy in weeks to come, and eventually studies would be done proving it impossible. But seven hundred people witnessed the “impossible” that Sunday morning. They witnessed the death of a man…and the birth of a super-hero.

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February 21, 2012

What Your Temple Run Character Says About You.

If you own an iPhone (sorry Android lovers, but it’s supposedly in the works) then chances are you’ve played, watched someone play, borrowed someone’s phone and played, heard of, or seen a passing mention of, the game Temple Run.

This is a contradiction of terms. Trust me.

Temple Run is incredibly popular, incredibly addictive, and incredibly frustrating, especially if you happen to be that guy who has completed all the accomplishments EXCEPT joining the ten million point club. I’m not saying that’s me, but…okay, well yeah it’s me, and I’m still pissed.

Work, school, a wife, kids, bills due, tax season, saving to buy a house...and THIS is what stresses me out the most.

But that’s not what this is about. This post is about what your Temple Run character says about you. We each have our favorite, and if you look real close, who you use might just tell you something about yourself you didn’t know. So let’s dive into the realms of personal psychology, shall we?

Guy Dangerous: 

Guy Dangerous is the default character and “Just your average explorer.” If you use Guy, there’s a good chance that you’re a Temple Run rookie, and you’ll move on to greener pastures later on in the game. If you are still using Guy after unlocking other characters, then you have an unwillingness to change. You are a stable and stoic person, not prone to mood swings, and are more than likely a staunch member of the deacon board at your local Baptist church. You probably have a Nintendo laying around that you play religiously, and you scoff at anyone who owns any game system with more bits than a SNES. You listen to whatever music was popular the year you turned thirteen, and if you aren’t thirteen yet then you probably listen to your parent’s old Nirvana CDs. If you are old enough to have a love life, it probably reaches its peak every Tuesday at 9:00 PM, because that’s when it has always happened. You’ve never left the country, and you probably would vote for a fence on the USA/Mexico border. You’ve eaten the same breakfast every day for the last ten years and probably carry a pocket planner.

Scarlett Fox:

If you’re using Scarlett Fox, you probably have trouble starting a savings account, or you have a redhead fetish. You’ve never been at a job longer than  six months, and you probably stopped playing Temple Run right after you unlocked her because it cost you all your coins and you couldn’t bear the thought of saving them up again. If you are a guy, you picked her over Barry Bones because she’s a chick and you thought playing with a burly black dude would be gay. If you’re a girl, you picked her because, “my friends say she looks like me,” even though you probably don’t have red hair or her figure. If you’re a prepubescent boy who steals his mom’s phone to play, then you pick her because you don’t really have a thing for Asian chicks yet, which means your mom probably doesn’t trust you on the Internet. Scarlett Fox is the safest pick of the “cheap” characters to avoid any awkward social situations.

Barry Bones:

You’re probably not a police officer, but chances are you’re a security guard somewhere that isn’t allowed to have a gun on duty and hangs out with a lot of real cops on the weekends. You’re probably more of a basketball fan, or you feel like Barry’s lack of football cleats give him a strategic advantage while running on slippery temple surfaces. You probably have about nineteen thousand coins saved up to buy the Asian chick, and you probably are over the age of twenty. If you’re a white male and you use Barry, you’re more than likely a closet racist who uses him just in case one of your three black friends pick up your phone to play a game. You’re not fooling your three black friends. You’re also probably a Democrat, but you’re going to vote for someone else in the next presidential election. Most women will use this character.

Karma Lee:

You are probably the type that stays up late watching infomercials and buying things like the “Super Awesome Chamois Whammy Deluxe” and the “Amazing Fast Cooker Roaster Oven Induction Broiler” because, by God, how do they do it so cheap? You more than likely passed on the first three “cheap” characters, saying to your friends, “I  know I could buy two of the others, but this is the faster player on the game!” You’re probably older than twenty five, a male, and you’ve probably been married for longer than five years, and you probably have at least two kids and your love life is really suffering. This is the closest you can get to an affair without your wife getting suspicious, so you lock yourself in the bathroom and make Karma Lee jump a lot. You also probably got that joke without having to play the game to make her jump. You have a 401k, good health insurance, and a five year plan, but you can’t shake that infomercial habit, and you probably read a lot of manga.

Montana Smith:

You’re able to quote every movie line that’s ever come out of the mouth of Harrison Ford. You liked Star Wars, but probably not as much as Star Trek, and you’re a snappy dresser. You prefer beer to wine, even if you’re a woman. You have a terrible habit of trying to keep things in order, and more than likely have an OCD problem that hasn’t been diagnosed because you “don’t trust doctors and hate pills.” When someone asks you what your favorite holiday is, you never say Christmas because that’s expected, so you say “My birthday.” You have a collection of something that your significant other hates and has been begging you to get rid of for years. Your friends see you as the person they want to go out with them because you might do something entertaining and wind up in jail, but you won’t be mad if no one bails you out. Man or woman, your hair is cut short. Your dream job is to be an astronaut.

Francisco Montoya: 

You probably have long hair and wear thick-framed glasses. You live in Seattle, or a place that’s called “little Seattle,” and not in a loving way. You prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and you listen to music no one has ever heard of. One in five million users of Francisco will actually be a geography buff. You use a lot of gel in your hair, and you’re a liberal who is voting for Ron Paul because no one else will. Your friends all use Francisco, but they won’t ever show you their phones, and they all claim to be using someone else. You drink a lot of coffee, and are probably very skinny and wear clothes from thrift stores, but only “clean” ones. You have pierced ears, but stopped wearing earrings a long time ago and instead pierced something you hadn’t seen anyone else pierce. You have a lot of forearm tattoos and yell at people in job interviews when they ask you if you’d wear a long-sleeved shirt to cover them up. If this isn’t you, then you’re one Portlandia episode away from being this person. You claim you can taste the difference between free-range and “tortured” chicken.

Zack Wonder:

You probably yell a lot, and still think high fiving is cool. You played football in high school, you were terrible, and you moved to a new state and told people how awesome you were. You drink heavily at work lunches, and always try to get everyone else to join you. If you’re under the legal drinking age, then you probably yell at your parents a lot and call them stupid. You probably have your own iPhone, iPad, and iPod, as well as a substantial inheritance coming your way when someone dies. You have fifteen hundred friends on Facebook, but if someone asks you when you last logged on you punch them in the arm just a little too hard and laugh about how lame they are. Society labels you a bully, but your parents insist on telling everyone that it’s just a phase, no matter if you’re thirteen or thirty. You call women “chicks,” and at some point you have worked or will work at either Banana Republic, Hollister, or A&F. You have a gym membership and are on a first name basis with the staff there, as well as the guy that sells steroids. Your whole life revolves around your letter jacket. There is no way you’re a woman, but in ten years you’ll tell your therapist you like to wear women’s clothing around your apartment. You hate all the other characters and yell at the people who use them. You’ve thrown your phone at least once because of the game.

So there you have it, folks. The ultimate dissertation of what your Temple Run character says about your personality. These are, of course, only generalized assumptions, and are in no way meant to be construed as sound psychological advice. But hey, I probably got real close, didn’t I?

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February 14, 2012

“What’s That on Your Sleeve? Oh, It’s Just Your Heart.” *Poke*

Most of you know me.

You know I’m a big guy, jolly, quick to laugh, resilient, and hard to put in a bad mood.

For those that know me very well, YOU know that as quick as I am to laugh, I’m almost as quick to cry. That’s right folks, I may or may not have the emotional hardwiring of a pre-pubescent girl about to start her first…well…ahem…THINGY.

I am absolutely certain that this will come in handy should I ever pursue my dream job of being a character actor in a soap opera who always has someone close to him die. In the meantime though, it can be quiet inconvenient, as well as terrifying for those who don’t know me and see this big jowly face start to crumble and start leaking.

I do know that ladies “love a sensitive guy,” but I’m pretty sure The Missus is tired of the fact that anytime we go and see a romantic movie, I’m the one who needs the tissues instead of her. So I really work on it in public places, such as movie theaters. The other night, we went to see The Vow, we stood in line for 25 minutes, joked with a cop about how stupid teenagers can be, and headed into a theater packed with 15 year old girls checking Facebook every two minutes and hoping to get a look at Channing Tatum’s backside (which they did).

As an aside, I’m sick of getting shortchanged on the butt/boobs tradeoff in PG-13 movies. If I have to see all these butts, I should definitely be getting more than a side boob shot in a love-making scene. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s how I feel. Maybe I should email the MPAA.

Anyway, we’re in the theater, the hormones are almost tangible, cloying the air like a bad perfume, and the movie gets sad. I did sort of a quick huff, you know what I’m talking about, that little intake of air when you’re trying not to cry. The Missus just stared at me, but I held strong.

Now, I’ve told you all of that to tell you this.

Meet Fabulous Sloat.

"Excuse me, I think I said no photographs."

Fabulous is my two pound Pomeranian.

About three months ago, I looked at my wife and children and made a family decision with absolutely no input from anyone else. I said, “FAMILY!” That’s how I address them, I just yell FAMILY real loud. “FAMILY! We are going to get a dog today.” The kids didn’t know what to do, and The Missus just said, “You aren’t spending any money, we’re broke.” I didn’t really listen to her, because she’s started telling me that at least once every four hours. So we went forth, and we got a dog. I paid fifty bucks for her, which doesn’t bother me too much, but it turns out she’s been a shade more expensive than I anticipated.

About a week after we got her, she took a flying kamikaze leap off of my recliner to try and attack the kids as they walked through the door. That resulted in this:

"I don't need your sympathy. I also don't need that camera in my face."

That set us back about fifty dollars. But that’s fine, for some reason, I love this dog. No idea why, because I haven’t truly loved a dog since my black lab Lizzie died.

Fast forward to Sunday morning, a couple of days ago. Fabulous is walking down the hallway, sits down, and immediately starts yelping like someone is beating her with a bag of oranges. God-awful sounds, and heart wrenching at that. So I immediately called the vet and we start trying to find out what could be wrong. Of course the vet has no idea how to diagnose yelping over the phone, so I have to take her in. On a Sunday. For an emergency visit. Which is not cheap.

Again, this little diva of a dog is costing me big.

So I fix her up a little basket with a blanket to drive her over there in, and I take her inside the office, and the vet starts looking at her. She starts listing things that could be wrong, the last of which is “a neck injury.”

Then…something dumb happened.

The vet looks at me solemnly and says the following. “

“If she’s ready to go home later this afternoon, I’ll make sure to call you.”

Go home.

GO HOME.

GO HOME. 

So I started crying. Just these huge alligator tears, followed by me trying to talk about how it doesn’t seem that bad, and why her, and how life isn’t fair, and how I love her, and how I really need to go because I’m teaching the old folks at the nursing home in twenty minutes.

And this vet, God love her, she took a step back, and this absolutely horrified look crosses her face, like I’ve just insulted her mother or called her fat.

And she says, “Travis, no, no, I mean, go home. Like, you will be able to take her home.”

Oh.

Well, this has certainly gotten awkward.

So I handed over the dog, and as it turns out, she had just broken a tooth. Something worth crying over? Well that depends on who you are. But as for me, my eyes are dry as a stone.

And I am hereby declaring that from this day forward, I will strike the phrasing “going home” as a euphemism for death from my vocabulary. It’s got to go, that’s real talk.

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February 8, 2012

Christmas in February…Part One.

It happens at least two times a year.

Last year, we were blessed with three times.

It’s never happened in the NCAA tournament, and I sincerely hope it does before I die.

It’s Duke. My team. The blue in my veins flows royal, and I hinge the happiness of my marriage and now my family upon these games.

It’s North Carolina. The hated. The shunned. The…respected. Without respect, a rivalry can’t happen.

It happens tonight, at eight PM, at the Place Where God Refuses to Go.

Chapel Hill.

All that I love. Annnnd, my wife and kids too.

VS.

The devil's spawn. The representation of all that is wrong with America. Annnnnd Democrats.

I have the heart for my beloved Blue Devils this year, but unfortunately, I also have the cold hard facts to look at. UNC is a national championship caliber team, Duke isn’t.

Luckily for me, that’s never mattered much in this historic rivalry. It’s always been about moxie, desire, and sometimes a little bit of luck.

The Missus’ advice to me for this evening?

“Just don’t get mad.”

Right. As anyone who has ever had a foot in either of these camps can tell you…that’s impossible.

GO DUKE! GTHC!

*as an aside, if my mom reads this, “GTHC” stands for “God totally hates Carolina.”  Just FYI.

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February 6, 2012

The Chinese Restaurant…

Yes, that’s a blatant Seinfeld episode title rip-off. Sue me. Actually, don’t. We’re trying to save money to build a house.

This morning I sat down to type out a blog, and I thought, “Dang, I don’t really have any material. I wish the kids would do something funny or stupid.” Then I immediately asked forgiveness for that thought, knowing full well it would come to fruition just because I’d wished it. So I settled into work and forgot about the blog.

On my lunch break, I went to get my hair cut. I decided to go a little shorter than I normally do, and I told Alicia that I’m considering trying to pull off the John Travolta “From Paris with Love” look. I really think I could rock the bald head and goatee look, and I’d like to try it out.

I can do this. Minus the earring. And the sex appeal. Oh, and the scarf.

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either, so there’s a chance.

So I’m now done with the haircut and decide to go get Chinese for lunch. When I walk in, I’m seated next to a gentleman who is…rocking the bald head and goatee look. I’m telling you, it’s a sign from God. Anyway, apart from being a divine symbol encouraging me to rid myself of these reddish blonde locks that alight my lumpy head, this guy wasn’t the interesting person in his party. It was his sidekick.

This guy had THE BEST stories I have ever heard. He opened with a story about how his cousin had lifted a six foot four guy in the air with one arm until he peed on himself. Then he moved straight into a story about how his uncle was in Folsom prison with Merle Haggard. I have since searched the Wiki on Merle, and it said he was in San Quentin, but who am I to call this ol’ boy a liar? After telling about the imprisonment of his wayward uncle, GOB, (Good ol Boy) regaled his table with a story of how he played with some kids for forty five minutes by himself one time before someone told him they’d been molested before. Then he moved straight into a life lesson for the young man at the table, explaining that “men are designed to get angry, but they aren’t allowed to show it anymore, and most of us just die inside cause of that.” Then he enlightened his co-worker with the knowledge about ATM fees from Bank of America, saying, “Two dollars is two dollars!” He closed by asking his ride if he could swing him by the “Wall D Mart,” which triggered the mental image below.

*insert long monologue about how K-Mart is the mart who lived...come to die*

After they left their table, I got up wondering how my day could get anymore interesting. I mean, so far I’d had a decent haircut, a sign from God, and I’d been held rapt with the cunning linguistic stylings of the Bard of the New China Buffet.

But there was more.

You see, yesterday, my wonderful Duke Blue Devils got beat by the Miami Hurricanes. It was a terrible and completely preventable loss, and it pretty much ruined my day.

Well, as I’m leaving the Chinese restaurant, I happen to notice that they have a vending machine that sells mini plastic college logo basketballs. I look closer, and lo and behold, they advertise there are Duke balls in that machine. So I start looking around the machine, prepared to spend any amount of money needed to fish a Duke ball out of there. I searched and searched, but they were all out of Duke University basketballs. Booooooooo. Not the way I want to start Rivalry Week.

I walk out the front door, and I see a kid throw the tiny plastic basketball he just got out into the parking lot. The mom looked very frustrated, and she did not move to get the ball, which was now rolling into the road. The kid is crying, and I’m thinking, “The kid’s a douche, he shouldn’t get that ball anyway, he needs to learn not to throw stuff.” Then I think, “Wait, our Sunday School lesson yesterday was about helping people. Maybe God wants me to help this kid, after all he did give me the bald hair goatee sign earlier.”

So I amble out to the road to pick this thing up, and I look at the mom and say, “I got it.” She thanks me and waits. I get to the ball, bend over, pick it up, flip it around to see the logo, and…

Boom. In my face.

After all that took place, I just KNEW my fortune cookie was going to have the kind of wisdom in it that can explain these things. Something like, “Hurricanes will make you bald, but they will leave your facial hair to capture the stories of men in overalls.”

What it actually said was, “Deep faith destroys fear.”

What an anti-climax.

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February 3, 2012

Can There Be a Title For This?

This little blog won’t take much of your Friday. There has just been too much happen today to Tweet or Facebook all of it, and I thought a succinct little update on the ol’ blog would be the way to go.

I hope these few things make you laugh as much as they did me.

First things first, I was awoken this morning by a Facebook message from my first and second grade crush. She was seriously one of the two girls in elementary school that I swore I would marry when I got older. I’ve actually blogged about her before, in my post about having accidental scary accuracy. She was the little girl I brained with a rock as she was swinging on the playground so I could show her how much I liked her.

So…she doesn’t remember that happening.

I apologized to her for giving her irreparable brain damage, and we’re working it out.

Also this morning, I walked in on my daughter using the bathroom. The Missus looked at me and said, “The door was closed, that was your own fault.”

We all know about my crippling sense of bathroom shame. I don’t talk about bathroom stuff, I am dead set against open door bathroom stuff, I don’t want to SEE bathroom stuff, and I for dang sure don’t need to walk in on my beautiful young daughter as SHE’S doing her bathroom stuff. I don’t want to walk in on ANYONE doing that. Bathroom time is private time.

I HATE BATHROOM STUFF.

So anyway, after she got out of the bathroom, I said, “Come child. It’s time you learned about shame.” And I proceeded to show her that the bathroom door had a lock, and she should utilize that lock to protect her own privacy as well as the sanctity of my precious memories of her. I will teach these children bathroom shame if it’s the last thing I do.

Another thing I said this morning, to my son, was “That’s not how you use a basketball goal.” To which my wife replied, “That’s how uncle Josh was playing with it last night.” So…shout out to my baby brother (Happy Birthday also) for being the most nonathletic Sloat boy, and passing that down to my son, who I’ve determined will be recruited by Duke and then go to the NBA as one of three successful white point guards since the seventies.

I was also on point on Facebook this morning with the smart-@ss comments, as evidenced in the following picture.

Boom. Roasted.

Then…there is the piece de resistance.

My son was asked to draw a picture for his class yesterday. It was a picture of his family as he saw them. This is what he came up with.

The Sloat Family Portrait

As you can see, he plainly traced around a cantaloupe to draw me, then apparently remembered I have trouble supporting my head on my bulbous body. I also have a goiter and a black hole for a face. Maybe I need to work on yelling less.

His sister is just a mere 35 pounds away from me, a tad shorter, but at least she was given a facial expression and an “X” on her clothing. I think that may stand for the first person he’s planning to knock off. I am pretty sure I should get him in counseling.

Then we move to his self-portrait. I would have to say it’s astonishing to me how accurate it is, minus the pompadour haircut. The torso to legs ratio may be a tad off, but by far it is the most spot-0n drawing in the picture because…

…my lovely wife has a solid red face, green legs, lacks any arms whatsoever, and loves brown tops with green skirts. Also, SHE HAS SPRINGY SHOES. I think this solidifies how my son feels about his mother, in that she’s launched herself to a favorable position as the head of the family by being the highest in the air.

I’m seriously considering having him do artwork for the blog. I could pay him with bags of chips and Capri Sun, and that’s cheaper than most “photographers” out there. “Art by Aven” has a nice ring to it. Here’s to shamelessly selling out my children!

That pretty much rounds out my Friday, and I hope I’ve given you something laugh about until the weekend starts. Turns out, kids are GREAT blogging material. Who knew?

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January 23, 2012

On Comfort Zones.

My family and I walked in the front door, after a long conversation in the car with the kids about being on their best behavior. We walked down a long hallway to a central counter. Off to the right, a TV was on, with a couple of people in wheelchairs watching it. I looked around, and EVERYONE was in a wheelchair. The only people walking were in white scrubs…and us. Someone noticed us standing at the counter and said, “Can we help you?” I looked around and almost said no, almost left right then. I was in over my head. What was I thinking bringing my family here? But I replied, “Yeah, we’re here from FBC Muskogee. We’re here to help with the church service. Where is that?” The nurse told us and pointed down another long hallway, where more people in wheelchairs were busily rolling along. I took a deep breath, filled with doubt, but I took that first step, my family followed, and we walked into the room…

This whole thing started several months ago when my brother Brad and I were at lunch with a friend of ours who used to be our Youth Minister and who is now the head pastor at a church in Muskogee. His name is Donnie, and to this day he is one of the people I look to when I need spiritual help.

(Real quick, as an aside, for those of you who don’t want to stick around to read a “Church Post,” I would consider at least reading the italicized parts. This won’t be as churchy as you might think, it’s really more about stepping outside of your comfort zones).

So we were eating with Donnie, and he asks, “How are you guys liking your new church?” Of course, Brad and I had all kinds of answers for that, ranging from “We love it,” to “It’s so great, our Sunday School class is the best!” Donnie takes all that in stride, then cuts to the heart with a simple question. “How are you serving?”

“God, you can’t have meant for us to do this. There isn’t a single person in the room who looks under ninety. They all look so close to death. My children won’t understand this place. These aren’t the friendly elderly people who pinch cheeks and give out candy. These people are dying. They aren’t enjoying these years, this place, their lives. I’m going to call Clint and tell him I can’t do this. If you want me to do this, I need a sign. Tell me I’m supposed to be doing this.” Those were the words in my head as we walked over to the folks that were leading the service this morning and introduced ourselves. They were much older than us, probably by twenty years. It was their first Sunday too, and unlike us, they weren’t given the benefit of seeing someone do a trial run. They were in head first…but they hadn’t brought their kids…

Brad and I both kind of stammered and hem-hawed around with a reply to Donnie’s question, so we moved on to another topic and had a wonderful time avoiding the piercing question. It wasn’t too long after that when the opportunity came for me. I was informed of a “Nursing Home Ministry” that needed people to do a Bible lesson once a month for folks that couldn’t make it to church. I thought about it for a while, prayed about it a bit longer, and finally decided this was going to be the perfect area for me and my family to serve our church. I get along GREAT with older people. Always have. I have this sort of relationship with them that brings out the old school polite and respectful Travis that old people love.

But I had forgotten about those folks in nursing homes.

The gentleman leading the service started out kind of shaky. He introduced themselves, and turns out he’s an ex-Army guy. Meanwhile, when The Missus had taken a seat with the kids, she’d neglected to take my Bible with her. So it’s clear on the other side of the room, and there are at least ten wheelchairs that I have to walk through to get to it. With a very self-conscious attitude, I start that journey. I get back to my seat, which is wicker by the way (the old comedy bit about people who utilize wicker furniture also hate fat people is running through my head) and sit down to listen to the rest of the introduction. About halfway through, a man sitting next to Aven starts to wheel out the door. As he’s leaving, he looks at an orderly and says, “I CAN’T HEAR A WORD HE’S SAYING!” I have never been more embarrassed for a human being than I was at that moment…

So we got it all set up, and I decided that it would be a great idea to take the kids with us on this trip. We’d only be going once a month on the second Sunday of each month, and the service was just forty-five minutes long, so why couldn’t they come? They can sit still that long. Also, don’t old people love kids? Don’t they want them to sit on their laps and tell them stories about how lucky they are because when they were six they had to sign up for the draft and plant gardens for the war effort? This is the attitude I have going into it. That’s my brilliant scientific mind in action. The kids are coming. That is my executive decision. To her credit, if The Missus thought better of it, she didn’t say a word, she just allowed things to happen.

Before we even started the first song, I had made up my mind that we weren’t going to do this. I couldn’t handle the pressure. I was nervous, and I wasn’t even the one up talking this week. All these things weren’t signs for me to do it…all these things were signs that I shouldn’t. 

Last Sunday night, a very good friend of mine was ordained as a deacon in our church. We went to the service that night to support him in his ordination. The kids and I got there a little early, and so Akeeli spent a good portion of her time going through the Baptist Hymnal, which is almost as outdated as the BlackBerry. These days they have the PowerPoint displays and all the songs are choruses, and rarely does an old-school hymn make the cut. But as she was looking through it, I told her, “Turn to number 426. The name of the song should be ‘Victory in Jesus.’ That’s my absolute favorite hymn in the whole world, and when I was kid your age, I used to request it all the time.” She turned to 426, and boom, there it was.

The gentleman finally wrapped up his introduction, and told us we were opening in song. “If you have a hymnal, turn to page 426. We’re going to sing ‘Victory in Jesus.’” What? Could this be? Is this my sign? “But God, I don’t WANT to do this. This is too far outside of my comfort zone. These people are not what I thought of when I agreed to try this. I want out.” But there was no ignoring it. This was what I needed to do. I NEEDED to be out of my comfort zone. I spend too long in my comfort zones, and I learned a long time ago that you can get awful stagnant sitting in a nice house on Comfort Zone Avenue. The Missus was out of her comfort zone, I could tell. The kids were WAY outside of it. But this was right. Somehow…this was where we needed to be. 

About halfway through the service, someone started snoring, and then someone told a story about how she heard the voice of God one day while she was hanging laundry, and she thought it was the Chinese coming to cut her head off. At one point I looked over at The Missus, and she was crying. Later, when Aven asked her why, she explained that those folks “sang like her grandma.” In the end, we wound up helping wheel some of the folks into the lunchroom. My kids met an older lady who tried to talk Aven into staying with her, then proceeded to tell my wife that her dog had gotten stolen last night. She doesn’t have a dog. There were missteps, miscues, and misdirections. But we’ll be back. On the second Sunday of each month for at least the next year, we’ll be back. I can do anything twelve times. It might be outside our comfort zone, but I’m absolutely sure God will show us something through this. 

In my dad’s Bible, and now in the front of mine, there is a quote that simply says, “God does not call the qualified, God qualifies them he calls. A-MEN” I don’t think my dad had the best of grammar, or the best spelling, but when he heard that quote he copied it down in his words, and to me it proves the point. I’m not qualified to be teaching a Sunday School lesson to senior adults in a nursing home. But I have been called. That’s all the assurance I need.

How are you going to step outside your comfort zone this week, this month, or this year? You don’t have to be a baptist, or even a Christian. All you have to be is human. Step outside your zone. Do something new. Don’t stagnate. 

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