Monday, as a few of you read, I was pretty down on this state as a whole. I was reminded of every reason I wanted to leave this state. Which for the record is a fairly extensive list. Then yesterday I was reminded of one of the things that makes this area great.
Don’t get me wrong, yesterday was a bad day. It was a bad day on top of a bad week on top of a bad month. In fact I pretty much hate 2012 so far, I do not think I’ve seen one thing go right. So I needed a little unexpected pick me up.
I was on my way to a meeting and as soon as I turned on Cantrell I heard a small pop. Almost immediately my low tire pressure light came on. No big deal I thought, I have a small service station that I use on Cantrell that was only about 2 miles away. I figured I would just pull in and have them plug it real quick. Then as I drove I watched my tire pressure go from 30 (when the light came on) to 25, 20, 15… it was losing about 2-3 pounds of pressure every second. There was no way I could make it.
For those of you local to here you know the only real place to pull over in that stretch is either the Dillard’s HQ parking lot or the Episcopal school. I went with Dillard’s. I was around 5 ppi when I entered the parking lot, quickly saw there were no visitor spots I could park and change a tire. At the last second I just pulled into a handicap spot for the extra space. I figured I could talk my way out of that ticket if I needed to.
I grab the spare and the jack and realize that the tire iron does not have a way to lift the jack and there is nothing else in the car to do it with. It is a new car and this is the first time I’ve had to change a tire on it. For whatever reason the manufacturer forgot to put something in to lift the jack.
I sit and think for a minute, then I realize that I pay $20 something a month for OnStar roadside, I’ll just have them come change it. I go through the 20 minute process of calling OnStar to have them send someone. They tell me they will call me back with an estimated time.
About that time a Dillard’s employee walks up and ask if I need some help. I say thanks, I’ve called OnStar and they will get here at some point. He absolutely refuses my refusal for him to help. Instead he drives his car over, digs out a floor jack, and starts lifting my car before I can tell him no. I got that call back from OnStar shortly after I was pulling out of the parking lot with my spare on. The estimated time was 50 minutes to 2 hours. I just told them no thanks.
See, that is the thing about this area that makes it special. People don’t just offer to care, or do it because they feel some obligation to offer assistance. They do it because helping people is just who they are. It is a cultural thing. I am fully capable of changing my own tire, the guy could see that. There was an issue with the jack and I was using what resources I had, and none of the facts of the situation mattered.
There is a kindness in certain people in this area that makes them shine out against the dirt and trash that make up things like what happen on Monday. We are still talking about a select few of our society, I’d venture to guess that there are more that shine than the others. However the content of their character is what really sets them apart.
I took the tire down to Austin Brothers, another example of people helping. We have been taking our cars there for 6 years now, after one day I (again) had a flat and it was the first place I could pull into. They promptly plugged it, aired it up, checked the air in my other tires, and then refused to let me pay them for their service. Since then we have bought 2 sets of tires and countless oil changes. All because they are the right kind of people.
The guy at Dillard’s name was Steve Brown, who was almost hesitant to tell me his name. Humility is a common characteristic of people who truly have culture of helping. I’ll probably never run into Steve again, but some of you may. See people with this culture are serial, they don’t just stop with helping one person. They do it over and over again. This was not the only thing that went wrong yesterday, but it ended up being the only one that mattered because of Steve.
Those are the type of people in this world that I want my daughter to know exist. That is the world I want her to know.
It was inevitable.
With all of the moving and bouncing around the girl does it was only a matter of time before she hit something. I was just desperately hoping it was not on my watch that she did it.
There have been a few times when she has fallen back too hard and bumped the back of her head or rolled off the side of something. Those mostly startle her more than anything. There was this one incident with her crawling off the edge of the bed while the Mom was suppose to be watching her, but I am not allowed to talk about that or I give up the rights to actually sleep in said bed.
This one hurt though, unlike the others. The girl and I were sitting in the chair after a bottle, she was sitting up on me watching TV. Out of no where she lunged forward and before I could react she smacked her face on the edge of the hard wood armrest of the chair. We spent the next 10 minutes looking at each other with tears streaming out of all four eyes. I felt terrible.
Somewhere in all of that I looked at Brandie and said “Punch me in the eye”. “Why in the world would I do that” she said. “So I can take her to day care tomorrow and it looks like you just beat both of us up. If not they are going to think I did it.”
Sometime before bed she got a knot to the side of her left eye, which was gone by morning, just a little puffy but no black eye. Which makes it a good thing that Brandie did not punch me in the eye because I would have looked a bit ridiculous flying solo with my black eye.
Today was a day, like many days here lately, I had just one blog post in mind. I sat down and posted a blog post that I wrote last night and decided to write my typical dry humor account of something that happen last night shortly after that post was written.
This is not that post. I assure you there is no humor to the following words.
As I was relaxing with the house to myself all day, something that has not happen in quite a while, I stumbled across something that made me sick at my stomach.
A local television station, KATV, posted the question on their facebook page “What does Dr. Martin Luther King mean to you?” I would have missed this completely if it were not for a brief acquaintance in my life who mentioned it on twitter. Thankfully he grabbed a screen of the first few comments. Some have been removed. As of this writing there were a little north of 200 comments. Most written in a manner that represents the ignorance of the authors.
The comments range from “not a damn thing” to “a day off work” and about everything imaginable in between.
I grew up in Arkansas. Some people know that, few people believe it, but I swear to you it is the truth. I like to imagine for whatever reason that racisim, which has no real place in this world, is on it’s way out the door. I try not to live in too many bubbles, but this is one I cling to very hard.
I did something I shouldn’t have done. I dug into this a little more. I’ve found example after example of people from this state bursting my bubble. This is not to say that everyone in the state is, that is far from the case. The voice of a few does not make the consensus of many. However in our own ways we accept this activity by as a state sharing Dr. King’s day with Robert E Lee, or allowing those around us to make these types of comments with nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders or at best a bad look.
This is not the type of world I want my daughter to know. In the words of Dr. King I believe in a world where people are not judged by the color of their skin but the content of their character.
I must say, that for some people the content of their character is in a sad state of affairs. For the rest of us I believe that it is past time for us to sit back and allow this virus of society to continue to spread from generation to generation. I believe it is our job to do everything we can to end this now. For my kid, for your kids, and for a better world.
My fellow Arkansas Bill Clinton once said “I still believe in a place called Hope”. One thing I learned a long time ago Bill is that hope can give you a vision, but it takes people who share that vision to make it a reality. I think you understand that, in fact I know you do.
Dr. King’s I have a dream speech will be 50 years old next year. That hope has gone on long enough. Let’s make the next year about bringing that to a reality for all our sons and daughters.
I am certainly not the one to start any interior decorating or remodling blog. I’ll return to my normal absurdness and cute daughter posting after this brief intermission. But I am sort of proud of my new bathroom. Mostly because it does not look like a Pepto Bismol bottle threw up all over it.
Several months back I introduced you all to Little Rock’s ugliest bathroom. That bathroom is no more thank goodness. This weekend we were able to put the finishing touches on the new bathroom. I know several of you have asked, and no I did not do the work myself. It was way beyond my handy man skill set (which pretty much stops at screwing together furniture). I did however for the most part design it, because designing things is sort of what I do.
Being such a small bathroom this represented a bit of a challenge. I went with a clean minimalistic look. We used ceramic tiles made to look like wood which helped carry the hardwood from the house over while still giving it a distinct look. The longer tiles also added a bit of visual space to a room that really needs it.
In the shower we went kept the longer tiles but added in an accent strip. We ditched the old shower door that had a frosted look in favor of clear glass, which gives the full dept of the room. I again kept the clean look with the shower head and valve. I went with a river stone shower floor which turned out really nice.
In the rest of the bathroom we went with a slim toilet to add a little additional space. I had a custom cabinet built to fit the area that was narrower to save space. Then I went with a vessel sink to attempt to re-capture almost all of the lost storage by being able to utilize the space directly under the countertop. The only two things kept from the old bathroom were the mirror and light fixture, which were purchased new just a year or so ago.
Before
After
Now most of the time I am a fairly passive guy. My girls do pretty much whatever they want within reason. I am outnumbered now, so it really is just easier that way. They control the temperature, television, meals, bed times and a whole list of other things. Occasionally however things get a little out of hand. When that happens the only real option is to beat my wife.
Now I am not one of those guys who take pride in beating my wife. It is a necessary evil. Some guys like to come home every night and beat their wives. That is a little out of control and they should get that checked out with a psychiatrist. But I think a good strong beating at the appropriate time is necessary to maintain balance and remind my 1st girl that she does not always get her way. I am sure at some point I’ll have to introduce carefully planned beatings for the little one as well.
All this of course stems from the wife’s love of board games (you didn’t think I was talking about a physical beating did you?). She loves those things. I however can’t stand them. There is nothing more soul sucking than pushing a little thimble around a board. So typically I just sit back and let her have her fun when the need to be thrilled the same way our forefathers did before video games arises.
The fun part about it is that the mom hates to lose, but she doesn’t want to feel like you are letting her win either. This is a fine balance that must be played at all times and almost becomes a game within a game. One that is infinitely more interesting than the game itself. If played poorly she goes into a meltdown and thinks that I don’t enjoy spending time with her.
The flipside is that it can go on forever. This woman really likes playing games after all. Things start getting a little out of hand, and after the 4th or 5th time I’ve let her hole my army up in Kamchatka I lay the beat down.
Now just beating her at the game a little would be pointless. She would either write it off as a fluke or want to resume play after a brief intermission of popcorn and some home decorating television show. The beating has to be severe enough where she is afraid of it happening again that she calls off playing all together. Occasionally this means just picking up another game, in which case a follow up beating that is equally as severe is in order.
I do however worry about my future. The girl is not old enough to play games yet, and she has actually put a temporary embargo on all fun in our house that does not involve her. However when she does become old enough it reduces my ability to beat both of my girls severe enough to cause a cease fire to just 33.3%. I might soon have to take applications for reinforcements. I’ll keep you posted.
For the majority of my life I grew up Southern Baptist. I went to youth camps, sung in the choir, and even when the choice was to be made I went to college all around Southern Baptist. Needless to say I was a bit indoctrinated.
Now that is not to say that I didn’t have any interaction with the heathens other denominations. My mother worked at a Methodist church and I stayed well rounded by allowing a Catholic, a Presbyterian, a Church of God person, and even a Jehovah Witness to bask in the presence of a properly born again boy.
My junior year of college I decided to work at a Methodist youth camp, which lead to a very interesting sequence of events. However even with that I somehow was not prepared for the culture shock that would happen once I married and eventually slummed it in a Methodist church on a semi-regular basis.
They had their own freakin holidays! (linked for other Baptist who don’t believe me)
In the Baptist church we have two: Christmas and Easter. That was all I ever knew. Imagine my shock the first time around that they start talking about Lent (which I clean out once a week from the dryer, not that special), fat Tuesday (I am fat every day), Maunday Thursday(which shouldn’t that be on Monday?) and a few other that I still have yet to learn. Keep in mind I actually went to a Baptist College and studied biblical studies and I never was once exposed to these. They simply do not exist in our world.
Now I have heard of Fat Tuesday before, but that involves going to New Orleans and throwing beads I believe. As Baptist we had to take turns doing those devil activities because we were not allowed to see each other doing it. Who knew it was actually a church holiday, I really hope they don’t throw beads though, I always skip that one because there are several members I don’t want to experience that with.
It seems every year I find some new random church holiday. So if you see me at any point in this time period giving you presents or colored eggs just assume I found a new holiday and have no clue what to do with it.
In this little journey of being a dad, which is fairly well documented over the course of the blog, some days are easy. More days than not are great days. Fun days. Days where my daughter walks and says dada. Days where we crash a bakery party. Days when you hear a first heartbeat or feel a kick. Days when you hear your daughter cry for the first time and you know that your entire world has changed. I like those days.
Then there are hard days, the dark ones. Days that you spend in the hospital with a sick baby hoping it is going to be ok. Days when you hear no heartbeat and they rush you to a backroom to confirm. Days when you watch a good friend go through the exact same thing just a few weeks later.
A couple of years ago there were three of us friends from the geeky side of Little Rock who all managed to have a pregnant wife due within a 10 day span. Must have been a Battle Star Galactica marathon on or something. @tsudo, @cottonr, and myself were in the midst of one of those easy days, the fun days, when we got together for what we dubbed our geekup, the refresh meetings we once held.
After a doctor’s appointment once we returned for a winter getaway to Chicago made us realize what a hard day trying to be a dad is like we had an overwhelming amount of support. I appreciated it, but there were two that stood out to me. Both @tsudo and @cottonr were some of the first to not just provide comfort but share their story of similar experiences.
A couple of weeks after @cottonr experienced almost the exact same thing for his second time, and then again a year later. That was after trying so hard to get there in the first place. It is not my story to tell, but through it all I’ve grown to admire Cotton’s strength and perseverance. How every time he gets knocked down at the first sign of good news he gets up and laughs with the spirit of a little boy that he is on the inside.
For those of you who don’t know us well, my wife Brandie works most of the time in neonatal ICU at UAMS. Because of the highly skilled doctors that they share with Children’s Hospital they get most of the high risk pregnancies in the state. The entire staff do a phenomenal job, that is why we chose to deliver there. As with everything high risk there are good days, days when Brandie comes home excited because they delivered another miracle baby that she has helped live. Then there are hard days, dark days, when you get great parents who so badly want a child and it just doesn’t work out.
I’ve learned a lot about premature babies over the years of her working there. They absolutely push the envelope every single day of what is possible, but there is a point where it is just simply not in their reach. Those are the worst days. Not to say that miracles do not happen and a baby that is outside of their limit lives, it happens all the time, but if miracles happened every time that would sort of defeat their nature.
Babies and birth issues are hard on our house, we just know too much. 99% of the time it is a nameless, faceless family that we mourn for. Sometimes we know a little of the details, most of the time we do not. Typically all we know is how much the parent cared, and it is hard when they do. But to put a name, a face, and most importantly a story that you have shared a small part of with that baby, now that is the worst kind of hard day.
Again. It is not my story to tell. For that matter the story is not over. Anything can happen. For something to happen now would be on the fringe of possible. If you pray, then pray. If you send positive vibes, I am sure they would appreciate all the good vibrations they can get. Me? I do both, but mostly I tell stories. So that is what I felt the need to do. Because I know that no matter what the outcome this moment has a bigger impact than just a hard day for me or potential tragedy for them. It can provide hope to someone lost, comfort to someone down, and maybe a little humility for someone too high.
the cupcakes I was almost killed over
Stop me if you have heard this story before. ” A guy walks into a bakery special opening…”
Of course you have never heard that story before. I am convinced it was a story never told before last night. Before the story, first a little background.
About 10 months ago a good friend of mine @kellimarks was on her last straw with her honestly crappy job. Typically my advice to anyone (including myself at times) in that situation is to start connecting with anyone and everyone you can and make sure they know what you are best at. That way when the time comes to make the move it is easier. The problem I saw with Kelli however is that what she was best at was not a job.
Kelli for the previous few months before that had been making awesome sweets for just about anything she could. She was not looking for a job in that area, she was just doing it because she wanted to. As good as Kelli is at baking though she had an even higher calling, she understood how to make people like something. Might be a natural gift, might be several years in advertising and a few more in retail. Who knows.
The point is that yes, she could be a baker with her cooking talent, but the real talent was not being a baker but making people like whatever it was she put in front of them. Which is why my advice was to quit her job and start a bakery. I am sure I was not the only person to suggest it, but I might be the only person who didn’t suggest it for her cooking talents.
So fast forward a bit from there. In the between time I tried to give Kelli any support I could think of as well as use her for one awesome anniversary surprise. Last night after months of setbacks Kelli finally opened the bakery to a select few of us. I got the invitation and decided to go. Mostly to support Kelli, but somewhat because I was curious to see if she nailed it like I expected. She did for the record.
note the toothpicks, can be used as a weapon in special situations
Nowhere in preparing to go to the opening though did I have the thought “what sort of people go to a bakery opening?”. Instead I grabbed the girl and went.
Thankfully Kelli had hired a guy to assist her, because without him I would have been the only guy. I honestly should have expected it, the entire place is painted pink after all. Being the only guy is not always a bad thing for the record. Being the only guy between a bunch of women and free cupcakes however is. As I stood trying to get a few decent shots of the food the women stood behind me waiting to pounce like a starved caged lion on a rare steak.
The girl and I somehow made it out alive, although I did have to rescue her from @katiemcmanners who along with a crowd of other women were trying to add top her with pink frosting and bake her in the back.
Kelli’s bakery, Sweet Love Bakes opens Friday and is located at 8210 Cantrell Road, by Taziki’s. Stop by and grab some sweets, I promise you will love it. If you are a guy, you might want to stand at a safe distance from the cupcakes on the counter however.
I consider myself a lucky dad. For the past 4 months Ava has been completely engrossed in one thing only on our Saturdays together. Football. This is a dad’s dream. While all the other dads are getting up to watch Dora or some other sub par programming, we are watching college game day. Not because it is what I force on her, but because she really loves it.
There is one tiny problem. This is the little one’s first official trip around the sun and she doesn’t realize that college football ends really soon. So I’ve began planning ahead to ensure that she does not slip out of her fascination with our Saturday tradition.
- Record: This is the most obvious solution to our football situation. Set the DVR to record a couple of select games then re-watch them on Saturdays. She is not old enough to realize that it is the same game over and over.
- Stream: While the girl will not realize it is the same game over and over it does get a little old for the dad. Thankfully ESPN3 streams old football games from the previous season.
- Play: My wife walked in the other day and I was playing NCAA 12, she asked me what game was on. If the wife cannot immediately tell the difference between a game and tv coverage the girl stands no chance.
- Find a new sport: We began introducing the girl to basketball a few months ago. Slowly of course, we don’t want her to confuse her sports naturally. It may be time to make the big shift. The problem with this strategy of course is mid summer. Baseball has no chance of keeping her attention. However this is a summer olympic year, so I will just postpone this problem until next year, I am good.
With any luck by the time Ava enters Kindergarten and all the kids are talking about watching Dora on Saturday mornings she is going to ask what team he plays for. I raise my children right.
Like many kids growing up, I watched Sesame Street. I believe that every child has their favorite. Most people go with big bird, these people lack creativity and self worth. Some like Cookie Monster, these people tend to snack a lot and are possessive. Others like Snuffaluffagus, these people are awkward and typically excel at killing any conversation no matter how engaging. Finally there are people who like Burt and Ernie, these people are extremely friendly, however they feel the need for constant companionship and tend to suffocate people who are not Burt or Ernies.
Then there is me. I liked Oscar the Grouch. Take that back, I LOVED Oscar. I went as far as having my grandfather buy me a trashcan to hang out in. Of course he drilled a few holes so that I would not suffocate. I am sure there is a warning label for that by now.
I am not sure what all my loving Oscar says about me, although it may be reflected in the first paragraph describing the other characters. One thing I know for sure is that it makes Christmas time nearly unbearable. I see no reason to get excited around this time. I live near the main shopping area in Little Rock and I can’t stand the long lines everywhere or the idiot people who drive in from the sticks and can’t properly understand red lights (because they have none) or turning lanes (there is only one lane where they come from).
I don’t understand how people enjoy Christmas music, which is really just the Big Birds of the world trying to make a buck by poorly re-singing an already bad and uncreative song. There are endless sweets that the Cookie Monster’s put out to send everyone into a diabetic coma. The odd office presents that Snuffaluffaguses give that will promptly be given back to them next Christmas because I have no clue what to do with this junk.
Or worst of all, here are the Burt and Ernies. There are people who you spend 11 1/2 months avoiding like they have some infectious plague destine to wipe out all of civilization. Then for that half month you are forced to visit with them and pretend like you have yet to realized that their 100 yard proximity will wipe out the human population all because Burt and Ernies feel like since it is Christmas we should all spend time cordial to each other because they need their togetherness.
For 27 Christmases my grouchiness has been fine. Those close to me come to expect it. This year however I have one tiny little 13.5 lbs problem. When I see the girl’s eyes light up every time she looks at her own Christmas tree that my wife (not an Oscar) put up I know that I have to control my Oscar-ness. To her it is all magical full of lights and glitter. Kids have a terrible taste in music anyway so she probably likes the Big Bird remixes. We are also talking about a kid who plays with a anatomically incorrect rubber giraffe so the awkwardness is fine with her. Plus she loves playing with all people so the Burt and Ernies are wonderful.
Even an Oscar cannot deny her a happy Christmas.
