Fiction 101: Fun with Elves

Santa had flown all night, despite having the flu. Somewhere in Tulsa he instructed Don Fabio, his chief elf, to deliver the toys—strictly taboo—while Santa shivered and moaned on the sleigh’s floorboards.

There was a ruckus below. Glass shattered. Words were exchanged. Don Fabio never returned.

Santa pulled himself into the seat and snapped the reigns. The sleigh groaned and popped as the reindeer leapt over an alley and landed atop another set of track houses. Santa slouched down, took a swig of cocoa, and gently punched the knee of Lord Willy, his newly-promoted chief elf. “You’re up.”

[Note: Boise Weekly holds a “Fiction 101” contest each year. The rules are simple: write a short story in exactly 101 words. While I have never entered the contest, I write these Fiction 101’s to kill time at work.]

So long, 2008!

I started writing a "Farewell to 2008" blog entry, but it turned into a long-winded blubber-fest about what a hard yet exciting year this has been. My sister, Tracy, wrapped up her year in a tidy top-ten list, which is what I've decided to do instead.

Top-Ten Happenings of 2008:

1. After five months of agonizing silence, finally being accepted to four of the five grad schools to which I applied. (Fie upon Purdue!)

2. Letting go of the safe and comfortable choice (University of Utah) and choosing the exciting and unfamiliar (University of New Hampshire).

3. Celebrating my ten-year anniversary with my beautiful, funny, and sometimes clumsy bride. Here’s to ten more!

4. Turning 31. 30 was nice, but I prefer the ambiguity of being 30-something.

5. Finally finishing my master’s degree at Boise State. That was supposed to be on my 2007 top-ten list, but my thesis committee disagreed.

6. Selling my house at the bottom of the housing slump (nothing sucks worse than handing over a check when you close on your house) and then driving a moving truck and mini-van across the United States at $4 a gallon. Thank you Tom for helping to alleviate the financial burden, thank you Larry for being good company in the Penske, and thank you Marie for keeping the kids entertained and taken care of in the van.

7. Buying my plasma TV. Folks who say material things can’t bring you happiness have never watched Conan O’Brien in 42-inches of high-definition glory.

8. Having my mom and my sister, Tracy, visit us in New Hampshire. We toured the UNH campus, walked through ancient Maine graveyards, ate crab cakes and clam chowder at Fosters, and relaxed on the chilly and abandoned (but still exquisitely beautiful) Short-Sands Beach in York.

9. Finishing my first-semester of the Ph.D. program. I’m not ready to talk about it yet, but it’s over.

10. Surviving the New England Ice Storm of 2008, which has reignited my love affair with electricity.

My Jelly Bean

Elliot threw a fit last night until I turned on Nick Toons.
Then she transformed into...this.

Joke of the Week

Why Do Gorillas Have Big Nostrils?

Because They Have Big Fingers.

Things I Should Have Learned as a Boy Scout

I read a news story about the elk in Idaho that like to eat tree branches and twigs because it's easier than digging through the snow to get to the grass. Entire herds go to sleep bloated and happy, and then they die.

I spent most of today sitting on my couch, waiting for the power to come back on, eating candy canes and breath mints, despite having a kitchen full of food.

My wife dusted off an old barbecue from under the porch and asked me to help her carry it to the deck so we could get some water boiling. “What’s the use?” I said, and crunched my Bubbalicious candy cane. I had given up the moment the power went out. It wasn’t worth leaving my 40-degree living room to cook mac-and-cheese and hot chocolate on my 10-degree porch. I don't like labor-intensive food. It's the same reason I won't eat lobster. I threw the candy-cane wrapper on the floor and started eating some Wheat Thins and Skittles I had found between the couch cushions.

Laura told me that our neighbor, Jeff, had made everyone a dutch-oven breakfast while I was sleeping off my graveyard shift. It sounded terribly Eagle-Scoutish, and I couldn’t imagine the effort involved in lighting briquettes, cracking eggs, mixing in “ingredients,” and putting it all into the Dutch oven. I get cranky when my microwave breakfast sandwich tells me to rotate the patty after two minutes. Do I look like a chef? Three minutes, full power, no rotating. I don’t mind if the inside is still a little frozen.

I told Laura, in a moment of malnourished delusion, that we should buy a Dutch oven for Christmas so we could actually cook the food in our food storage. I even had visions of myself moving the little coals around on the lid and babying the pot for twelve hours while our Pioneer-Trek Stew simmered to perfection.

Not going to happen. Unless, of course, Laura agrees to move Dutch-oven cooking out of the “Barbecuing, Auto Mechanics, and Other Things Men Should Do” category and into the “Things I’m Stuck Doing While Mike Sits on the Couch Wishing Jeopardy Was On” category.

Weekly Top Five Lists

This is my new thing. Since I don't have a lot of time to write, I thought I could at least make a couple weekly lists of my top-five most-awesome and least-awesome moments.

Top Five Least-Awesome Moments of the Week

1. C.C., my coworker, yelling, “Hey Mike, you’ve got mail!” every time I log onto AOL.
2. Elliot sticking her finger up my nose and then head-butting me.
3. Mile’s and Elliot’s new-found obsession with smashing light bulbs.
4. Removing the AC units from my windows. (I’m not a manual labor type of guy).
5. Hearing that Joseph B. Wirthlin died.

Top Five Most-Awesome Moments of the Week

1. Sleeping 12 hours on Wednesday night.
2. James bringing in a box of chocolates to work that no one but me felt like eating.
3. Matty’s post-op Frankenstein mug shot.
4. Cancelling class on Wednesday night simply because I wanted to.
5. Miles daring me to whip him in the butt with a wet dishtowel.

Chuck Norris Facts

I stole these from my friend Paula's blog. You can also visit the Chuck Norris website of pure awesomeness. Enjoy!

If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars, Chuck Norris has more money than you.

There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris's computer. Chuck Norris is always in control.

Apple pays Chuck Norris 99 cents every time he listens to a song.

Chuck Norris can sneeze with his eyes open.

Chuck Norris can eat just one Lay's potato chip.

Chuck Norris is suing Myspace for taking the name of what he calls everything around you.

Chuck Norris destroyed the periodic table, because he only recognizes the element of surprise.

Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.

When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.

Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.

Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.

When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.

Chuck Norris is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.

Chuck Norris’ hand is the only hand that can beat a Royal Flush.

Chuck Norris can lead a horse to water AND make it drink.

Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is.

Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.

Chuck Norris does not get frostbite. Chuck Norris bites frost

Remember the Soviet Union? They decided to quit after watching a DeltaForce marathon on Satellite TV.

Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.

Dad's Business Advice

(I sent this as an e-mail to my family a long time ago, but I thought it was worth re-printing here.)

I was rummaging through my old papers, and I found a profile I wrote of dad my sophomore year of college. I asked him what his one piece of advice would be for an up-and-coming person in the business world. "When you're in your office," he said, "someone will always walk in five seconds after you fart. It's good to have a fish aquarium nearby that you can blame the smell on."

What a blessing it is to have a Harvard Alum with thirty years of experience at our disposal. You can't buy wisdom like that.

Now or Never

As I drove to school yesterday, I was listening to Josh Groban the only way I know how: at the top of my lungs. I usually hunch down in my seat to avoid witnesses, but I was in fine spirits, so I rolled down the windows for all to enjoy. I was in the middle of a moving rendition of “Now or Never” (from Groban’s third album, Awake, available at Barnes and Noble and other fine retailers), when I saw something rather intriguing.

In front of me, there was a young Asian man with a huge backpack running along the shoulder of the road with his hands in his pockets. A hundred yards ahead, there was an overweight curly-headed guy in cut-offs running toward the Asian man. I thought I saw a spark between them as they ran toward each other. I belted out, “Oh, darling can’t you see, it’s now or never. It’s now or never,” as they picked up speed and approached what I hoped would be a monumental embrace.

But, for reasons I will never know, the embrace never happened. The Asian guy, hands still in his pockets, ran right past the fat guy, eyes on the horizon. I’m not going to lie: I was disappointed. How cool would that hug have been, with me serenading them as I drove by?

I continued singing, but the song had lost all meaning. In my rear-view mirror I could see the fat guy picking a wedgy as he ran, impervious to the opportunity he had just missed. “And it’s no one’s fault; there’s no black and white…it’s now or never. It’s now or never.”

Maybe they didn’t realize it was now or never. Perhaps they never will.

A Memory

When I was young, we had a baby grand piano in our front room. My father had a small repertoire of songs he could play: the Irish Reel, On Top of the World, and a handful of Christmas Carols. There were a few more that I’m sure he made up. One in particular stands out. It was a succession of chords similar to Heart and Souls, where my father would start humming along softly, and soon he would be in a roar of yodeling and bellowing. There were no words, but none were needed. It filled the house with joy.

One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.

He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.

A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.

I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.

Potty Humor

Yesterday, in a teaching seminar, there were fourteen of us cramped around a tiny, wooden table while my professor stood by the chalkboard lecturing about something.

I was trying to stifle a yawn when I heard her say, “One thing we do do as instructors is…”

I chuckled and turned to Henry, my office partner from Kenya, and said, “She said doo-doo.”

Henry picked up his pen and held it to his notebook with a look of great concern. “What was it she said?”

I felt embarrassed for making a potty joke to someone who really had no way of understanding it. “Never mind,” I said.

A graduate student sitting across the table shook her head disapprovingly. I must have said it louder than I thought. Henry turned to the student on the other side of him. “What was it she said?”

I’m a 31 year old PhD student who laughs when his teacher says doo-doo. Does this make me a bad person?

Miles doesn’t think so.

Mystery Phone

Despite the fact that I don’t have a telephone in my office, or even a phone jack, there’s a phone number listed by my name in the faculty directory. I put this number on my syllabus and told my students to call me with any problems they might have, day or night.

About an hour before class on Wednesday, I got an e-mail from a student saying she had tried calling me all weekend because the bookstore was out of books and she had no way to do the assignment. This made me wonder: Who exactly was she calling all weekend? As I sat in my office, feet perched on my desk, corduroy blazer folded across my lap, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the mystery number. It rang a few times, and for a brief moment I got nervous about who might answer the phone.

To my surprise, a female answered. “Hello,” she said.

“Uh, yes, I’m looking for Mike.”

“Mike who?”

“Mike Peterson.”

“Is he an instructor here?”

“I believe so.”

“Hold on, let me see if he’s here.”

There was some shuffling on the other end, what sounded like whispering, a hiccup and a belch, and then silence. I picked lint off my shirt and waited, half expecting someone to peek their head around the corner and tell me I was on the phone asking for myself. After thirty seconds or so the woman came back on the line. “He’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”

“He’s not? Did you check his office?”

“Yeah, he’s not in.”

“OK,” I said. “That's weird. Can you tell him Mike called?”

She assured me she would.

I finished reading over some student papers (and by student papers, I mean a copy of US Weekly I found in the trash), put on my blazer and walked to the English office. A woman of indeterminable age with a pencil behind her ear sat at the main desk. When she asked what she could do for me, I was pretty certain she was the woman answering my phone. I introduced myself and asked if there were any messages. She looked around her desk, lifted up a pile of manila folders, half opened a drawer and then shut it quickly, and then said, “I’m not really sure.” She then downsized a spreadsheet and stared at a picture of a cat sleeping in a rocking chair for a few seconds. “Nope, nope…I’m not seeing anything here.”

“OK,” I said. “I was expecting a call from a guy named Mike.”

“Hmmm. Did you check your mailbox?”

I stepped into the broom-closet slash mailroom adjoining the office where I found a neon-pink coupon for Wildcat Pizza in my mail tray. “Got it!” I said, and held it up for her to see. “You’re a life saver.”

She smiled and reinserted the pencil behind her ear.

I later told my students to be patient with my secretary if they ever try to call me. But as I write this, I can't help wondering if she really wasn't the lady who took my message. I plan to wait until a quiet evening when everyone's gone, dial my mystery number and wander the building until I hear a phone ring.

Or maybe not. That sounds too much like the start of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

My New Office

I started my pre-semester workshops yesterday at UNH. I was hoping to take some pictures of what I'm up against, but my camera just beeps and flips me off when I try to use it. It's still mad that I dropped it in the sand.

Teaching at UNH is truly an old-school experience. My office is at the top of a narrow, four-story staircase, and conveniently located next to a drinking fountain that broke late in the Carter administration. We're not supplied with computers like at BSU. In fact, we don't even get phones. My office, which I share with a nice young man who arrived from Kenya 3 days ago, has two wooden desks, two wooden chairs, two wooden book cases, and 48-layers of peeling paint, the most recent of which I call "psychedelic puke train." It's a shade of neon green that can only be achieved through high levels of lead.

When I inquired about whether or not we would be getting modern conveniences, I was told that if I stand on my desk and lean toward the window, I can get half a bar on my cell phone. There's also Wi-Fi in the building, but it doesn't work beyond the second floor.

My office partner reassured me that this was good: no distractions while we study our books. He then excused himself to the bathroom. I haven't seen him since.

Oh T.V., Where Art Thou?

We only get one channel, and it's too fuzzy to tell which one it is. I've pleaded with my wife to let me order DirectTV, but she reminds me that I'm unemployed and living off credit cards. Woman are so irrational. I sit in my rocking chair and stare at the wall. She tells me it creeps her out when I stare at the wall, so I lie on the wood floor and stare at the ceiling instead. I've lost all sense of purpose. What's the use of being unemployed if I can't watch T.V. all day?

I think I sympathize more with Islamic Fundamentalists now. You try sitting in a sweltering hut all day with nothing to look at but dirt walls and your hairy brothers and see if you don't take an interest in assault rifles and suicide bombings. I'd be interested to see how many terrorists had a good HD satellite package before pulling the trigger. Probably none. The ones that have T.V.'s probably only get one channel, and it's probably too fuzzy to even tell what it is. Forget peace in the Middle East. Has George W. considered DirectTV in the Middle East? We could set up some nice amnesty packages, like "trade in your assault rifle for half-off the NFL Sunday Ticket." Void where prohibited.

I used to wonder how Middle-Easterners could blame all their problems on the United States. I was pretty sure we didn't ship all that sand and heat to them and then declare "no give backs!" But as I stared at my T.V., feeling the sweat trickle down my back while my tiny AC unit only made the room hotter, I couldn't help but feel an irrational anger for Chechnya. I didn't know how, but I was sure they were responsible for all the heat and humidity and poor television reception in New Hampshire. That night, as the heat broke, and as we found a decent DVD to watch, I suddenly realized that Chechnya wasn't to blame, and then I later decided it probably wasn't even a real country. Heat and boredom short-circuit the anger wires in your brain. If we could get terrorists hooked up to DirectTV, I imagine they would sit on their couches and wonder why they ever hated the United States. They certainly wouldn't love us, but they wouldn't hate us, either. It would be something more like French apathy. A terrorist sits on his couch wearing his little beret, holding a cigarette limply in his hand, and watches The Real World, Baghdad. "Deez American's are stupid," he says. "Day zink we are dumb enough to sit here all day and watch dis crap." He puffs on his cigarette and spends the next six hours watching, never once thinking of his assault rifle.

The Day before the Fifth of July

We decided the Fourth in Boston would be too crazy with the kids, so we drove to Portland, Maine, and found the Wadsworth-Longfellow house where we listened to a reading of the Declaration of Independence. Very inspiring. We visited some lighthouses and ended up at York Beach where we swam and caught tiny hermit crabs in a sand-bucket. We ended the night lighting fireworks with our neighbors. Legal fireworks here rock--lots of aerials and explosives. One of my "Freaky Friday" light shows launched towards us and exploded on my neighbor's foot. It left some nice little blisters.


The frount steps of our new house.


Griffy in front of the Wadsworth-Longfellow house.


Portland-Head Light (Portland, Maine)


Nubble Light (York, Maine)

York Beach, Maine

Farewell to Dispatch

After seven plus years, it’s time to say goodbye to dispatch. I started this job because I wanted to be a cop, but it turns out I’m really not that interested in patting down a criminal’s crotch and asking him if he’s packing. Not at work, anyway. But my time in dispatch has been fun. I’ve earned two degrees, raised four children, and made a lot of great friends. I’m sure I’ll love my time in New Hampshire as I earn my Ph.D., but there will always be things about dispatch that I’ll miss. Here they are:

-Working with Tim K. or Susan for ten hours without even realizing they were there.
-Ta’ne’s lemon craison cookies.
-Teresa’s breath-amplifying salsa.
-Potlucks for every real or made-up occasion, especially with Cassie’s homemade chicken noodle soup.
-Tim R. asking what the good word is, and me always answering him literally with words like supercilious or sesquipedalian.
-Conversations that are only appropriate after 0200.
-Changing Cassie’s screensavers (we all know she’s really a Dallas fan).
-Teasing Jones when he’s grumpy.
-Larry clapping his hands and saying frickstones and coolio.
-Jerry telling Larry to stop clapping his hands.
-Larry calling everyone a slime-gooch, though he clearly doesn’t know what a slime-gooch is (KJ can tell you what it means).
-Larry ending everything in “a-roni,” as in “Go to Tac Five-a-roni.”
-Whapping people with a rubber band and blaming it on Brandon.
-Erin’s Caramelos.
-Trying to beat Brenda at crosswords, and making her feel guilty for cheating.
-Ginna wandering off for break and returning two hours later.
-Megan’s mobile candy store.
-Jeff on Sunday in his BSU gear. Sexy!
-Clinton straightening the chairs, and then straightening them again.
-Sonia laughing till she cries on primary, even when the joke wasn’t that funny.
-Link’s costumes.
-Tracey’s Sonic runs.
-Big Tim’s ability to thrust any conversation into the gutter with nothing more than a nod and a chuckle.
-The fact that Big Tim probably can’t spell conversation or chuckle.
-Cody Howerton’s man-crush on Matthew Mcconaughey.
-Larry’s crickets.
-Big Tim’s Charlie Brown costume.
-The Darigold stench.
-Blaming the Darigold stench on Brenda.
-Brenda taking full credit for the stench.

I’ll miss everyone I’ve worked with at dispatch. Thanks for making it a great time. Ciao!