Dream Job

I'm grading resumes right now for my technical writing class, and one of my students put that he was a “Part-Time Tooter” at a youth center.

I don't know how to respond to that.

Flower Girl

Today, I stood at the top of a steep hill in front of the elementary school and watched my kids run down it. I wished I had my camera, because I knew it was only a matter of seconds before they would crash and burn.

Surprisingly, Elliot was the only one to fall.

She was wearing pink slippers and as she gained speed, she yelled, “Ooh, a flower.” Her attempt to bend over and pluck the flower despite her velocity proved problematic. “I’m Okay!” she yelled as she rolled and tumbled down the hill. “I’m Okay!”

She crawled back up to the flower, which turned out to be a wilted dandelion. “Oooh,” she said, and plucked it. She got to her feet and began running down the hill again. She only made it ten feet before face planting. As she tumbled, she held her dandelion up so it wouldn’t get smooshed. “I’m Okay!” she yelled. “I’m Okay!”

A Good Honest Book

One of the few perks of being a college instructor is the free textbooks. If I like a book, I just email the publisher, tell them what class I’m teaching, and a couple days later it’s sitting on my doorstep. They usually don’t ask how a book on theoretical physics or the history of salt applies to freshman composition. But when they do, I fire my fancy words at them like synecdoche and terministic screen and then tell them, “I really don’t know how I can put this in a way that you would understand.”

I’ve been somewhat liberal in my acquisition of textbooks over the years. Our basement is full of boxes of books that I’ve never read and never will read, but the covers are so pretty, and the only thing harder for me to get rid of than a book is a FREE book.

One fateful morning last year it occurred to me that ordering books that I had no intention of using for teaching was dishonest. Maybe even a form of stealing. I remembered a sign in a music store that said, “Want Lower Prices? Tell Your Friends to Stop Shoplifting.” I was ashamed to think I might be the reason textbooks were so expensive for students. If only I could break my free-textbook addiction, my students might not have to shell out seventy-eight bucks for a copy of Huck Finn and could use their money, instead, to buy printers that didn’t break every time an assignment was due.

So I vowed to not be dishonest anymore with book publishers. If I wasn’t actually teaching from the book, I wouldn’t request it.

I started a graduate seminar this week, and my teacher flashed a book in front of me with earthy-green covers called The Norton Book of Composition Studies.

I had to have it. Not only because it was required for the class, but because it would look so nice on my bookshelf. But it cost fifty bucks, even in paperback.

Seeing my despair, one of my classmates slid a piece of paper to me. “Call this number,” she whispered. It was a number for Norton, who are notorious for denying free textbook requests—they know the difference between a professor and a cheap grad student. “This isn’t the normal book rep,” she said. “She’s an old lady that fills book orders. She won’t give you any problems.”

I’d like to say there was an inner struggle where I debated endlessly about whether I should call the number or just do the right thing and buy the book, but I knew as soon as she gave me the number that I couldn’t go through with it. I’m just not that guy anymore. So I threw the number away and decided to buy the book the old-fashioned way: with a credit card at Barnesandnoble.com.

Before hitting the Proceed-to-Checkout button and parting with fifty dollars, I decided to try one last thing I hadn't thought of before: being honest with the book seller.

I sent my local book rep an email and told her that I wasn’t going to lie: I’m a grad student and I’m not teaching with the book and probably never will, but I really, really want a free copy.

Today she sent me an email thanking me for my honesty and said my free copy is in the mail.

I love being rewarded for my honesty. I feel like I’m in third grade again! Now if I could just find a juice box and someone willing to read to me.

Swedish Conspiracy

I’m not sure I like Volvos anymore. I got a flat today, which isn’t technically Volvo’s fault, but trying to change the tire in the middle of a crowded UNH parking lot with their factory-issued jack made me wonder a couple things about Swedish engineers: do they have a weird sense of humor, or do they just hate us?

The jack was standard issue so far as it was black and metal and tucked next to the spare tire. But it looked more like a post-modern sculpture of an old man kneeling and holding up his empty hands, like he’s begging forgiveness or offering me something and saying, “Here, take it, I’m all set.” I stared at it for several minutes before deciding which side was up and then guessed that the man’s golden tail was the hand crank.

My driver’s manual pointed out the two (and the ONLY two) spots on each side of the car where the jack fits: one under the back door, and one under the front door, and both are surprisingly close to the center of the car. I’m not a Swedish engineer, but even before I started cranking the old man’s tail, I knew that if you jack a car up halfway between the tires, you’re going to get a three-thousand pound teeter-totter. But what I didn’t figure out, until a few minutes later, is that when Volvos teeter, they don’t totter—they just come crashing down off the jack.

I’ll admit that it was my fault for letting this happen three times. The first time surprised me, and I did the squatting backwards jump with my hands in the air yelling, “I’m OK! I’m OK!”

No one walking by cared.

The second time I remained squatting and watched the rotor dig deep into the pavement.

The third time, I managed to stand up in time to threaten the car before it fell off the jack. “Come on,” I yelled. “We’ve been over this!”

A nice lady with gray hair picked up my jack and said, “Is this your jack?”

“I think so,” I said.

She turned it over in her hands a few times. “Really?”

She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later with a real jack from her GMC. I was then able to jack up the car the American way: under the axel.

I drove away feeling more leery than usual towards Sweden, but with a newfound respect for American engineering. And I totally dig cool gray-haired ladies willing to stop and help a sweaty fat guy yelling at his Volvo.

Top Ten Reasons I Love My Wife

Today is our eleven-year anniversary, so I thought I would publicly applaud Laura’s wonderfulness. Here, in no particular order, are the top ten reasons I love my wife:

She’s supportive – I put Laura through a lot. Too many times I’ve come home to find her frazzled from watching the kids all day. All she wants is a little quiet time away from the kids or to spend some time with me, but when I tell her I’m sorry, that I have to run off to another meeting or to go out with the missionaries, she never complains. I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have without her at my side. There are days when it’s hard being away from home so much, between work and school and teaching and church responsibilities, but I always take comfort in knowing the house and kids are taken care of and that Laura supports what I’m doing. Plus, when I told her she would have to leave her family and Boise and truck to the other side of the country so I could do even more graduate work, she never hesitated. And when I get down on myself and doubt my decisions she reminds me of the bigger picture.

She’s a great mom – Laura hates it when I say “you’re a great mom” when citing the reasons why I love her. “Gee, thanks,” she says. “That’s what every woman wants to hear.” I think she’s looking for a more romantic answer, like “My heart turns to Jell-o every time I see you,” or something. But it’s true. She signs the kids up for soccer and piano and basketball and gets them to their games and practices and helps them with their homework and teaches them how to read and buys them arts-and-crafts supplies and takes them to the library and washes their clothes and cleans up their messes and kisses their boo-boos and gets them to church on time and laughs at their corny knock-knock jokes. She’s a fantastic mother.

She forces me off the couch – Laura and I don’t argue much, but when we do, it’s usually on my day off, and it usually involves Laura wanting to do something fun and me wanting to just sit on the couch and catch up on my Scrubs episodes. But she always wins (she ALWAYS wins), and we end up spending the day in Boston or at the beach or at a museum. I think New England would be wasted on me if it weren’t for her.

She mows the lawn – She does. Every week. Now if she would just figure out the weed-whacker, my life would be golden.

She’s a great cook – Remember how skinny I used to be before I met Laura?

She is funny – One of my faults is that I don’t laugh out loud very often. When I watch comedies I’m usually pretty quiet, which bothers Laura because she thinks I’m not enjoying the movie. Unfortunately, I’m the same way with Laura. I don’t laugh nearly enough at the funny things she does and says. She really is a crack up, and she can take me from a grouchy mood to a good mood with just one comment. She also maintains a very funny blog. Half the things the kids do aren’t nearly as funny and cute as when Laura retells it.

She’s smart – And she’s humble about it. I often take too much credit for the brains of the bunch. When people compliment us for how smart our kids are, Laura usually says they get it from me. She’s just being kind, probably because she feels bad that everyone already knows that the kids got their great looks from her. But most people don’t realize how often I have to ask Laura to explain things to me, like how our medical insurance works, which still baffles me. When we watched John Adams together, I saw a lot of similarities in Laura and Abigail Adams, who was the real brains and voice of reason in the relationship.

She’s beautiful – I remember sitting at Shari’s restaurant while on a date with Laura. I don’t think we were engaged yet. I kept looking at her nose and thinking, “My word, that’s a perfect nose! I want my kids to have that nose.” And, as luck would have it, they do. Or at least they don’t have my beak. She complains a lot that she looks frumpy when cleaning the house or mowing the lawn, but who doesn’t look frumpy when they’re working in sweatpants and a T-shirt? Even then, I still think she’s gorgeous. And she cleans up real nice too!

She loves God – If it weren’t for Laura, I probably would have stopped going to church years ago. It was particularly hard after the twins were born, and then again when I started my master’s degree. But no matter how tired or frustrated I was with going to church after two hours of sleep and wandering the halls with fussy babies, she made me do it. And I appreciate it.

She laughs at my jokes – They’re usually potty jokes, which I know she hates, but she laughs anyway. One of these days I’ll get her to finally “pull my finger,” and she’ll see how hilarious it really is.

Fiction 101: Big Bad, by Mike Peterson

Allen the Ferocious winced as hot wax dribbled down his fingers. He switched hands and proceeded with the chant, but the wax soon oozed down his other hand, onto his wrist. The shop girl never said anything about this, only that black candles were super sexy. And he believed her.

He jumped when wax landed on his toes, bumping the offering table. A chicken’s foot rolled off.

“It’s fine,” he reassured himself. “No one sees this part.” He bent to pick it up, and the candle went out.

In darkness he knelt, searching for the chicken’s foot. He refused to cry.

Fiction 101: Thicker than Water, by Mike Peterson

Max didn’t know Dax was a swamp monster. Dax didn’t even know it. Their dad had suspected it, but he was curious to see how it would all play out.

As Max descended the spiral staircase for breakfast, he felt Dax’s teeth sink into his Achilles tendon. Max wailed in pain, but mostly he wailed for justice. Mom intervened. A time-out was issued. Band-aids were applied.

Max finished his Cocoa Puffs and yelled, “Last one in the pool is donkey drool!” He slapped Dax’s forehead and darted out the door.

Dax waited before following. He patted his growling stomach and smiled.