I have been in trial the last few days. From what I understand, this is a rare opportunity for a first year associate. Rare enough, in fact, that my four days experience this week has given me more trial experience that all of the other 1st through 3rd year associates in my office (and even some fourth years) combined.
Yesterday morning I made my way to the office early, as I had the previous three mornings. The partner on the case had decided to get me “wet behind the ears” and have me do the direct examination of our star witness – the defendant. I wanted our client to be confident, and I had been trying the past few days to hide any signs of being a rookie. This was a little more difficult since, on the first morning of trial, I was in such a rush to get out of the office and down to the courthouse that I forgot to bring a pen with me. I ended up borrowing our client’s pen much of the day, and then eventually pleading with the bailiff for one. [I’ve still not heard the end of that].
So as I readied yesterday morning at the office, I placed everything I needed in a brief case the partner on the case had loaned me [I don’t have my own at the moment]. I shut it as I’d done on previous days and made my way confidently down to the courthouse with the partner and our client.
We arrived, and were waiting outside the courtroom about 15 minutes early. The partner I was working with decided to go downstairs and get some juice, so I waited with the client. As we talked, the client wondered about a certain document and if I had it. I went to open the briefcase to find it and…it was locked.
It hadn’t locked on any of the previous three days. I tried pressing and squeezing things for the next few minutes to get it open – feeling a bit more desperate with every failed attempt. At first I kept to myself the fact that I couldn’t open the briefcase – but eventually I was concerned enough that I nervously joked with the client about it. Everything I needed was in the briefcase, and the courtroom would be open in minutes. A thousand different scenarios played through my mind of what was going to happen if I couldn’t get it open – none of them pleasant.
The client eventually tried his hand at opening the brief case. No luck. He then half-jokingly said we could cut open the briefcase and then just take it to a shoe repair place to have the leather replaced. That comment only made things more desperate in my mind, and I tried again – now somewhat frantically – to get that blasted briefcase open. Nothing. The client relished the uneasiness I was feeling and make jokes at my expense. I put my best face on and tried to brush them off. The client did eventually, though, offer to go find the partner to see what he could do. My lone hope seemed to be that the partner had a key with him for the brief case. That seemed like a long shot, though, because this was his backup briefcase, and I thought I’d remembered him telling me he didn’t have a key anymore. So at this point, I was in a state of near panic, sure that a full day of embarrassment would follow.
After a few minutes of anxiousness, the client returned with the partner. I could see they were joking with each other on the walk down the hallway – surely at my expense. [That was a good sign]. The partner then asked what I’d done, walked over and pushed down on the lock of the briefcase, and within half a second had it opened. I was pleasantly dumbfounded, and tried my best the rest of the day to act like that had never happened.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Relationship on the Rocks
As my family readies to move itself to San Diego in six weeks, my one time amicable relationship with Ralph’s Grocery Store is on the rocks.
This morning, at 7:30 a.m., I took Jared with me for an early morning run to Ralphs. I’d set my mind on some day old donuts -- if there were any to be had. Jared and I were early enough this morning that we actually caught the baker setting out the day old items – among them a dozen chocolate donuts for only a dollar. It was a great find.
We also needed some bread, so I picked up two loaves from the same rack at 50 cents a loaf (It’ll actually be very difficult for me if I ever have to go back to paying full price for bread). Jared and I also found some Honey Bunches of Oats on sale (with Almonds) for $1.50 a box – just about the right price to make me feel like I’m getting a bargain.
We brought our treasures proudly to the check out stand, and the lone morning checker – an aging woman perhaps in her late 40s – scanned our purchases. Rarely had I ever found so many things at such a good price. I was feeling good.
The donuts rang up just fine. So did the cereal. The bread, however, rang up at its original price of $2.99 a loaf. At this point, I intervened. “We got the bread from the day old rack,” I said. “They’ve both got .50 price tags on them.”
The checker looked over the price tags, and her reaction surprised me.
“Who marked these?” she said, noting that the price tags were uncharacteristically written in pen – not pre-printed.
“I got them from the day old rack”, I stated for the second time.
She started to get testy. “This isn’t how we mark things.”
“Well that’s how it was marked,” I replied calmly. I was a little surprised, though, by the growing hostility I sensed in her voice.
She kept scanning the loaves of bread, almost as though she were looking for evidence of a crime. She then told me, half angrily and without looking me in the eye, “This brand doesn’t mark down its bread. I can’t give you this bread at this price.” [Contrary to what she says, this brand of bread is marked down all the time]. Without any word from me, she started rescanning the bread to take them off my receipt, all the while repeating in accusatory tones, “This isn’t how things are marked.”
So there it was. Maybe it was because I hadn’t showered yet this morning, and my hair was messed up just enough to make me look suspicious. Maybe I looked a little too eager to get those donuts home and start scarfing them with milk. Maybe Jared spent too much time looking at the lobsters in the seafood tank. Whatever her reason, this woman was sneering at me, and appeared to be accusing me [and Jared] of a crime!
No bread was worth this aggravation. Donuts, maybe, but not bread. So I muffled something akin to “Whatever” and was ready to pay and leave feeling ticked.
However, the manager happened to be at a desk 15 feet away and no doubt heard the checker accusing me of trying to mark down bread. The manager called the check over and asked her to bring the bread. I heard the manager tell her “That’s how it’s marked” followed by a muffled discussion wherein the checker expressed disbelief and aggravation all in the same tone.
As they talked, the woman behind me asked, “So she’s not letting you by the bread?”
“No,” I replied, “apparently not.”
“But that’s how it’s marked” the woman rejoined with her own sense of frustration and desperation. At this point, I noticed a few day old items among her groceries – including a loaf of bread.
The checker soon enough made her way back to the checkstand. Without looking at me she rescanned the loaves of bread at 50 cents but continued to grumble loud enough for everyone to hear “That’s not how they’re supposed to be marked.”
I waited for something akin to an apology, but nothing came – and when it didn’t my frustration grew. Instead, the woman continued grumbling about the apparent incompetence of the new baker, as though she were trying to reason her way out of an apology. We paid and made our way out the store, and I heard the woman behind me say to the checker sheepishly, “I guess I’ve got the same thing.”
The checker apparently couldn’t resist: “That’s not how the bread is supposed to be marked” she grumbled yet again.
Perhaps I should've gone back and bought more bread.
This morning, at 7:30 a.m., I took Jared with me for an early morning run to Ralphs. I’d set my mind on some day old donuts -- if there were any to be had. Jared and I were early enough this morning that we actually caught the baker setting out the day old items – among them a dozen chocolate donuts for only a dollar. It was a great find.
We also needed some bread, so I picked up two loaves from the same rack at 50 cents a loaf (It’ll actually be very difficult for me if I ever have to go back to paying full price for bread). Jared and I also found some Honey Bunches of Oats on sale (with Almonds) for $1.50 a box – just about the right price to make me feel like I’m getting a bargain.
We brought our treasures proudly to the check out stand, and the lone morning checker – an aging woman perhaps in her late 40s – scanned our purchases. Rarely had I ever found so many things at such a good price. I was feeling good.
The donuts rang up just fine. So did the cereal. The bread, however, rang up at its original price of $2.99 a loaf. At this point, I intervened. “We got the bread from the day old rack,” I said. “They’ve both got .50 price tags on them.”
The checker looked over the price tags, and her reaction surprised me.
“Who marked these?” she said, noting that the price tags were uncharacteristically written in pen – not pre-printed.
“I got them from the day old rack”, I stated for the second time.
She started to get testy. “This isn’t how we mark things.”
“Well that’s how it was marked,” I replied calmly. I was a little surprised, though, by the growing hostility I sensed in her voice.
She kept scanning the loaves of bread, almost as though she were looking for evidence of a crime. She then told me, half angrily and without looking me in the eye, “This brand doesn’t mark down its bread. I can’t give you this bread at this price.” [Contrary to what she says, this brand of bread is marked down all the time]. Without any word from me, she started rescanning the bread to take them off my receipt, all the while repeating in accusatory tones, “This isn’t how things are marked.”
So there it was. Maybe it was because I hadn’t showered yet this morning, and my hair was messed up just enough to make me look suspicious. Maybe I looked a little too eager to get those donuts home and start scarfing them with milk. Maybe Jared spent too much time looking at the lobsters in the seafood tank. Whatever her reason, this woman was sneering at me, and appeared to be accusing me [and Jared] of a crime!
No bread was worth this aggravation. Donuts, maybe, but not bread. So I muffled something akin to “Whatever” and was ready to pay and leave feeling ticked.
However, the manager happened to be at a desk 15 feet away and no doubt heard the checker accusing me of trying to mark down bread. The manager called the check over and asked her to bring the bread. I heard the manager tell her “That’s how it’s marked” followed by a muffled discussion wherein the checker expressed disbelief and aggravation all in the same tone.
As they talked, the woman behind me asked, “So she’s not letting you by the bread?”
“No,” I replied, “apparently not.”
“But that’s how it’s marked” the woman rejoined with her own sense of frustration and desperation. At this point, I noticed a few day old items among her groceries – including a loaf of bread.
The checker soon enough made her way back to the checkstand. Without looking at me she rescanned the loaves of bread at 50 cents but continued to grumble loud enough for everyone to hear “That’s not how they’re supposed to be marked.”
I waited for something akin to an apology, but nothing came – and when it didn’t my frustration grew. Instead, the woman continued grumbling about the apparent incompetence of the new baker, as though she were trying to reason her way out of an apology. We paid and made our way out the store, and I heard the woman behind me say to the checker sheepishly, “I guess I’ve got the same thing.”
The checker apparently couldn’t resist: “That’s not how the bread is supposed to be marked” she grumbled yet again.
Perhaps I should've gone back and bought more bread.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Oatmeal Cookie Chunk
Michelle and I enjoyed a rare treat tonight: Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk.
I haven’t mentioned it much before, but it easily ranks on the top three of my top three all-time favorite ice cream treats. On nights like tonight, it’s #1.
I recognize I haven’t really mentioned it before – and my allegiance still remains with Breyers for “conventional” ice creams* -- but on the rare occasion when you feel like spending inordinate amounts of money on a pint of ice cream, reach for Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. What was the occasion tonight, you ask? Michelle lost a bet, the prize for which was a pint of expensive ice cream out of the other’s personal money**. So when you’re spending someone else’s money guilt-free on yourself, remember this post.
*The pint sized ice creams are rarely even included my ice cream calculations – if only because they cost twice as much as the half-gallon sized ice creams and offer 1/3 of the volume.
**The bet? Michelle said Justin Timberlake was with the Backstreet Boys. I said he was with N’Sync. Efforts to resolve the dispute through mediation failed. It's probably best not to ask how this dispute arose in the first place.
I haven’t mentioned it much before, but it easily ranks on the top three of my top three all-time favorite ice cream treats. On nights like tonight, it’s #1.
I recognize I haven’t really mentioned it before – and my allegiance still remains with Breyers for “conventional” ice creams* -- but on the rare occasion when you feel like spending inordinate amounts of money on a pint of ice cream, reach for Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. What was the occasion tonight, you ask? Michelle lost a bet, the prize for which was a pint of expensive ice cream out of the other’s personal money**. So when you’re spending someone else’s money guilt-free on yourself, remember this post.
*The pint sized ice creams are rarely even included my ice cream calculations – if only because they cost twice as much as the half-gallon sized ice creams and offer 1/3 of the volume.
**The bet? Michelle said Justin Timberlake was with the Backstreet Boys. I said he was with N’Sync. Efforts to resolve the dispute through mediation failed. It's probably best not to ask how this dispute arose in the first place.
Desperate Times
Riding up the elevator to work today I noticed a .39 stamp lodged in one of the cracks on the floor of the elevator door. Our elevator stops on the 11th floor (which is the highest floor for the elevator) and several people got off before me. That gave me lots of opportunity to get a good, sharp look at the stamp. As we climbed to the 6th and 7th floor, an exciting thought entered my head: the stamp was folded in half, but appeared to be unused! No one else seemed to notice.
So as I reached the 11th floor, I bent over, picked up the stamp and examined it. There was no shame (and there was also no one watching). No markings on the stamp – how fortunate! I swiftly and proudly put the stamp in my pocket for safe keeping, and immediately began dreaming of what future letter I’d now be mailing for free. It’s the kind of good fortune one can only hope to find in sunny Southern California.
So as I reached the 11th floor, I bent over, picked up the stamp and examined it. There was no shame (and there was also no one watching). No markings on the stamp – how fortunate! I swiftly and proudly put the stamp in my pocket for safe keeping, and immediately began dreaming of what future letter I’d now be mailing for free. It’s the kind of good fortune one can only hope to find in sunny Southern California.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A BIG Announcement
On Wednesday I was offered (and I accepted) a new job. Since everyone at my firm is now aware, I can make the announcement here to.
I'm reluctant to be too specific in the details here, but I can say a few things: First, I'll be leaving private practice to work for the government. Second we'll be moving to San Diego. Third, I couldn't be happier (and maybe I should've said that first). It's a job that's highly coveted and that since my first year of law school I'd held out hopes of getting "some day". I'll likely start sometime in November.
My firm has reacted positively, especially after the initial shock wore off, which has made things infinitely easier to deal with. The part in the application process that I least looked forward to was having to tell everyone there, but those fears proved to be mostly unfounded.
So we'll be leaving sunny Irvine for sunny San Diego, under what seems to me to be a nearly idyllic scenario. If you'd told me a year ago this is the path my career would take only a year later, I probably would've smiled kindly but given a dismissive response like "Yeah, I wish". Three days later, I'm still having to pinch myself, and thank God profusely for being so undeservedly kind to me.
I'm reluctant to be too specific in the details here, but I can say a few things: First, I'll be leaving private practice to work for the government. Second we'll be moving to San Diego. Third, I couldn't be happier (and maybe I should've said that first). It's a job that's highly coveted and that since my first year of law school I'd held out hopes of getting "some day". I'll likely start sometime in November.
My firm has reacted positively, especially after the initial shock wore off, which has made things infinitely easier to deal with. The part in the application process that I least looked forward to was having to tell everyone there, but those fears proved to be mostly unfounded.
So we'll be leaving sunny Irvine for sunny San Diego, under what seems to me to be a nearly idyllic scenario. If you'd told me a year ago this is the path my career would take only a year later, I probably would've smiled kindly but given a dismissive response like "Yeah, I wish". Three days later, I'm still having to pinch myself, and thank God profusely for being so undeservedly kind to me.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
California Boy
My son was born in Boston, MA -- in the middle of Winter (Well, more like at the beginning of Winter -- Christmas 2003). You'd never know that from looking at him though.
We put sneakers on him tonight to take him out to dinner. The only time he's worn shoes this Summer (and possibly this Spring and Summer) have been: (1) tonight; and (2) for church. Lately, every time we put shoes on him for church he's complained that there's "something in my shoe" and wants us to take them off. The first few times we took his shoes off and couldn't find anything. It didn't take long for Michelle to catch on to what he was saying though.
So tonight again, Jared complained after I'd put his sneakers on that there was something in his shoe and he needed to take them off.
"Yes, Jared", Michelle said from across the room, "those are called socks."
We put sneakers on him tonight to take him out to dinner. The only time he's worn shoes this Summer (and possibly this Spring and Summer) have been: (1) tonight; and (2) for church. Lately, every time we put shoes on him for church he's complained that there's "something in my shoe" and wants us to take them off. The first few times we took his shoes off and couldn't find anything. It didn't take long for Michelle to catch on to what he was saying though.
So tonight again, Jared complained after I'd put his sneakers on that there was something in his shoe and he needed to take them off.
"Yes, Jared", Michelle said from across the room, "those are called socks."
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
"B" Evenings
Ralph Waldo Emerson once commented, “There never was a child so lovely but his mother wasn't glad to get him asleep.” That about sums things up at our home tonight.
Our most harrowing and suspenseful moment tonight was just after we put Emily down for bed a short while ago. We both paused, anxiously and instinctively held our breath (even though I was in the living room at the time), watching and listening for any signs of life. One of two things happens when we put her down: (A) she stirs little, perhaps even makes same faint effort to put her hand in her mouth, and then succumbs to the comfort of her bedding and drifts off; or (B) she kicks both legs straight up in the air as soon as her back touches the crib, furiously tries to fit both hands in her mouth, and, ere long, demands she be taken she be taken out. Everything hung in the balance as we waited those few moments: either we get to enjoy an evening with option A, or otherwise are forced to endure an evening of option B. Tonight our sanity was at stake (which is not uncommon in our house).
The fact that I'm writing this at all should be an indication she scored hight tonight: After a string of consecutive B evenings, Emily finally gave us an A- tonight, allowing us to set her down around 9:30 p.m. (and after one failed attempt an hour previous).*
Still, she needs to get her grades up.
*She actually got a B- last night -- feigning sleep for five minutes, and allowing her parents to relax and settle into our evening activities, before cruelly waking and demanding to be held and walked around the rest of our evening [Also note how, like the grading system at Harvard, we've made it very difficult for her to flunk out of the family -- or even get C's. The hardest part is getting into the family].
Friday, September 08, 2006
Reflections on the Ordinary
The last few days in our home have been ordinary, if not even slightly depressing. Michelle had been frustrated and tired most of the day yesterday -- doubly so today. Jared has tried her patience, Emily hasn’t napped, and even now she’s awake after a 10 minute stretch where we thought she’d be asleep for several hours. Those unmet expectations are often the most difficult to bear. Truly, the discontented Emily finds no easy chair (or swing!). .
I thought on these things last night and today, and my mind has drifted back to an evening of missionary splits in Corning, California with a man not quite a year off his mission. During our time together he spoke fondly of his mission and said he’d give just about anything to relive even the worst day of his mission – that’s how special the time was. Honestly, I couldn’t see it then, but I wanted to. Of course, now removed, it’s easier to see and feel what he meant.
I’ve wondered the last little while if the same could not be said of my time now – even these last two days. Obviously there are days and things about certain days that would make me want to hide underneath a rock to think of reliving. But there are other days, like the last two, where my most grievous errors seem to have been waking up too late in the morning and then eating too much in the evening. Maybe there will come a time when days like these will bring fond memories and when I’d give almost anything to relive even an hour of the worst parts of them. To see my wife as she is now, and Jared and Emily at their present ages: Jared full of rambunctiousness and a vocabulary that brings a wide smile to my face at least several times a day; Emily, who already loves to talk to us and smile, and looks at least as adorable as any little girl I’ve ever seen. Maybe there will come a time when I would give almost anything to have Michelle and my family to come home to from a basketball game – even knowing she was probably in no mood to do much welcoming when I got in. Maybe the time will come when I will ache just to have had the opportunity to have her in the same room with me, or to sleep beside her at night, or pray and read scriptures with her. Maybe even days like yesterday will seem invaluable and infinitely precious in the not to distant future. How I wish my eyes could be opened to that more often!
I’ve thought of the third Act of Our Town, and that seemed to be enough for the evening. Emily Gibbs, now dead, realizes she can go back and live any day she chooses. The others warn her not to do it. But she’s determined, so her mother in law (also dead) pleads with her to at least not pick an important day – the most ordinary of days will be enough. She picks her 12th birthday. Here are a few excerpts:
Emily: Softly, more in wonder than in grief.
I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful [speaking of her parents]. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all, everything.—I can’t look at everything hard enough.
[Later]
Emily: With mounting urgency
Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another.
[Later]
Emily: In a loud voice to the stage manager
I can’t. I can’t go one. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another.
She breaks down sobbing.
The lights dim on the left half of the statge. MRS. WEBB disappears.
I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back – up the hill – to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.
Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners…Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking…and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths…and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
I thought on these things last night and today, and my mind has drifted back to an evening of missionary splits in Corning, California with a man not quite a year off his mission. During our time together he spoke fondly of his mission and said he’d give just about anything to relive even the worst day of his mission – that’s how special the time was. Honestly, I couldn’t see it then, but I wanted to. Of course, now removed, it’s easier to see and feel what he meant.
I’ve wondered the last little while if the same could not be said of my time now – even these last two days. Obviously there are days and things about certain days that would make me want to hide underneath a rock to think of reliving. But there are other days, like the last two, where my most grievous errors seem to have been waking up too late in the morning and then eating too much in the evening. Maybe there will come a time when days like these will bring fond memories and when I’d give almost anything to relive even an hour of the worst parts of them. To see my wife as she is now, and Jared and Emily at their present ages: Jared full of rambunctiousness and a vocabulary that brings a wide smile to my face at least several times a day; Emily, who already loves to talk to us and smile, and looks at least as adorable as any little girl I’ve ever seen. Maybe there will come a time when I would give almost anything to have Michelle and my family to come home to from a basketball game – even knowing she was probably in no mood to do much welcoming when I got in. Maybe the time will come when I will ache just to have had the opportunity to have her in the same room with me, or to sleep beside her at night, or pray and read scriptures with her. Maybe even days like yesterday will seem invaluable and infinitely precious in the not to distant future. How I wish my eyes could be opened to that more often!
I’ve thought of the third Act of Our Town, and that seemed to be enough for the evening. Emily Gibbs, now dead, realizes she can go back and live any day she chooses. The others warn her not to do it. But she’s determined, so her mother in law (also dead) pleads with her to at least not pick an important day – the most ordinary of days will be enough. She picks her 12th birthday. Here are a few excerpts:
Emily: Softly, more in wonder than in grief.
I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful [speaking of her parents]. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all, everything.—I can’t look at everything hard enough.
[Later]
Emily: With mounting urgency
Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama. Wally’s dead, too. Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember? But, just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another.
[Later]
Emily: In a loud voice to the stage manager
I can’t. I can’t go one. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another.
She breaks down sobbing.
The lights dim on the left half of the statge. MRS. WEBB disappears.
I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back – up the hill – to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.
Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners…Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking…and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths…and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Lessons Learned From Labor Day
We enjoyed an eventful day yesterday that included a trip to Ralphs in the morning, some grilling at lunch time, and an afternoon and evening at Disneyland. Some take away points from the day:
- Never send me to pick out a watermelon unless you're ready for me to bring back the biggest watermelon I can find. Jared and I simply couldn't content ourselves with the 11 lb. watermelon we picked out when we saw that the 24 pounder we eventually brought home was up for sale.
- Root Beer floats don't require premium vanilla ice cream to taste good, but apparently this doesn't mean that the cheapest ice cream you can find will do either. My advice: try the next cheapest ice cream you can find -- and try not to mix diet rootbeer with lowfat ice cream, unless you've already decided you don't want your rootbeer float to have any taste. (And if you ever find anyone using Hagen Daz ice cream or something similar for a rootbeer float -- make sure you laugh them to scorn. What a terrible waste of premium ice cream!)
- No matter how much food you bring to Disneyland, or how full you are when you arrive, the smell of the churros and popcorn are hopelessly alluring. On hot days like yesterday, the frozen lemonade and ice cream sandwiches are equally appealing. Your only chance for survival is to make sure your wallet is empty when enter the park.
- Their parades are delightful, even if (and perhaps partly because of) the people writing and singing the theme song seem to be the same who are in charge of writing and singing all of the cheesy EFY songs I despise. (We caught three parades yesterday. The 3:15 p.m. parade at Disneyland. The 5:15 p.m. Block Party at California Adventure, and then the 7 p.m. parade back at Disneyland).
- While we felt for those wearing the Beast and Sully costumes yesterday in the heat, they sure knew how to dance!
- Michelle swears the person playing the Queen of Hearts was a man. "Either that or that woman has the manliest hands I've ever seen." Nice honey. Nice.
- Disney's "Star Tours" and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience!" are terribly outdated. I felt embarrassed for the park sitting through both attractions. How many even remember there was a "Honey, I Shrunk the ...!" line of movies in the early 90s?
- There's no way to come home from Disneyland and not be worn out. But even tasteless rootbeer floats make that easier to deal with.
*Oh, and Michelle swears she saw Michael Rosenbaum...twice. He's none other than Lex Luthor on Smallville.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Mourning the Crocodile Hunter
An otherwise delightful morning turned somber quickly when I made the rounds on the Internet and found that Steve Irwin unexpectedly died after a freakish accident with a stingray.
Our initial reaction was shock and disbelief, and as both have faded, sadness has taken their place.
The Crocodile Hunter had a delightful personality that mesmerized us whenever he was onscreen. His genuine interest and enthusiasm for animals made us interested – and sometimes even made them endearing (no small feat for such animals as crocodiles and snakes). Perhaps that, as well as the unexpectedness of his passing, is why his death has given us such pause.
We miss him already, and mourn with his family and the rest of the world. I’m not sure anyone will ever match his contribution to the world – and certainly not with the same flare.
Our initial reaction was shock and disbelief, and as both have faded, sadness has taken their place.
The Crocodile Hunter had a delightful personality that mesmerized us whenever he was onscreen. His genuine interest and enthusiasm for animals made us interested – and sometimes even made them endearing (no small feat for such animals as crocodiles and snakes). Perhaps that, as well as the unexpectedness of his passing, is why his death has given us such pause.
We miss him already, and mourn with his family and the rest of the world. I’m not sure anyone will ever match his contribution to the world – and certainly not with the same flare.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Cougar Blues
I stayed up* to watch the Cougars lose a heartbreaker to the Arizona as the Wildcats converted a 48 yard field goal at the end of the game to win 16-13. Now that BYU has no shot at a BCS bowl -- that just about kills the season for me.
Well, the college football season was fun while it lasted.
*I delight in the fact that "staying up" meant until 11 p.m. Thank you Pacific Standard Time! (My apologies to those of you in the EST time zone who stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. to watch them lose).
Well, the college football season was fun while it lasted.
*I delight in the fact that "staying up" meant until 11 p.m. Thank you Pacific Standard Time! (My apologies to those of you in the EST time zone who stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. to watch them lose).
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Don't be THAT Guy
The law firm I work for subsidizes a city league basketball team I play on. The new season started this week, which helps explain the lack of posts lately.* I've been mildly excited about playing, since it does wonders for my ego to muscle people up in the post, put the ball in the basket, and have the other team realize their only hope is to keep me from getting the ball.
What'd I'd forgotten, though, and what I was reminded of Thursday night, is that sometimes I end up playing with a certain type of person that I'll refer to affectionately as "that guy." Whenever I end up playing with "that guy," I come very close to hating the game of basketball. Let me describe "that guy" for you: he's usually a guard, on my team, goes through several stretches in a game where he simply refuses to pass, talks trash to the other team as though he's the best person on the team (he's not), and complains constantly to the referees every time down the court, during time outs, dead balls, and at half time. Even his own teammates start thinking he's a jerk, and spend most of their time scheming for ways to get the guy to shut his mouth (instead of playing basketball).
I absolutely hate it when someone on my team complains to the referees. I've known very few people who've ever had more legitimate gripes against referees on a consistent basis than I do. Put simply, I never get calls. I'm bigger, stronger, (and dare I say, smarter?) than 98% of the people I play against, which, at every level I've ever played at, has meant that the referees try to compensate by letting my opponents get away with murder.
Here's the thing: I never complain to the referees.** In part because I think I'm above it (I figure I don't need their help), but also because its a fruitless exercise in whining, normally done by those insecure enough to let someone else be in control.
Alas, someone who fits this description is on my team, and he has me wanting to retire from the game all over again. We lost Thursday's game at the buzzer, which wasn't a big deal to me. What was a big deal was that I did not enjoy the game, and contemplated leaving the team if I have to endure another game with that guy.
So, on the chance that guy is reading, please just keep your mouth closed. I can deal with you hogging the ball, perhaps even the ignorance that leads you to trash talk the guy guarding you. However I simply cannot and will not deal with your constant whining to the referees, and the fact that your need to constantly berate them while pleading your cause ruins any chance the rest of us on your team have of getting any calls.
Otherwise good luck to you. One of us will be finding another team.
*One also need look no further than the fact that EA's NCAA Football 2007 is out. My online handle is "clarkabc22" if you've got the game on the PS2 and an internet connection, I defy you to try to stop the Cougar offense or get back the tenacious 3-3-5 defense (On the video game, of course. I'm watching the 'real' Cougars play the AZ Wildcats right now to see if their offense is as good as mine. I can tell you right now they don't run the option as well).
**Once in high school I scored 25 points in the first half of a basketball game. At the start of the second half I started noticing the refs weren't blowing the whistle any more. So did the other team. The other team got progressively worse -- first slapping, then outright hanging on my arms and head. It was frustrating enough that I did eventually look to the referee as we ran back down the court and said to him calmly "Look, I know what you're trying to do. I just don't want to end up hurt." Amazingly, the whistle started blowing again. (I love telling that story).
What'd I'd forgotten, though, and what I was reminded of Thursday night, is that sometimes I end up playing with a certain type of person that I'll refer to affectionately as "that guy." Whenever I end up playing with "that guy," I come very close to hating the game of basketball. Let me describe "that guy" for you: he's usually a guard, on my team, goes through several stretches in a game where he simply refuses to pass, talks trash to the other team as though he's the best person on the team (he's not), and complains constantly to the referees every time down the court, during time outs, dead balls, and at half time. Even his own teammates start thinking he's a jerk, and spend most of their time scheming for ways to get the guy to shut his mouth (instead of playing basketball).
I absolutely hate it when someone on my team complains to the referees. I've known very few people who've ever had more legitimate gripes against referees on a consistent basis than I do. Put simply, I never get calls. I'm bigger, stronger, (and dare I say, smarter?) than 98% of the people I play against, which, at every level I've ever played at, has meant that the referees try to compensate by letting my opponents get away with murder.
Here's the thing: I never complain to the referees.** In part because I think I'm above it (I figure I don't need their help), but also because its a fruitless exercise in whining, normally done by those insecure enough to let someone else be in control.
Alas, someone who fits this description is on my team, and he has me wanting to retire from the game all over again. We lost Thursday's game at the buzzer, which wasn't a big deal to me. What was a big deal was that I did not enjoy the game, and contemplated leaving the team if I have to endure another game with that guy.
So, on the chance that guy is reading, please just keep your mouth closed. I can deal with you hogging the ball, perhaps even the ignorance that leads you to trash talk the guy guarding you. However I simply cannot and will not deal with your constant whining to the referees, and the fact that your need to constantly berate them while pleading your cause ruins any chance the rest of us on your team have of getting any calls.
Otherwise good luck to you. One of us will be finding another team.
*One also need look no further than the fact that EA's NCAA Football 2007 is out. My online handle is "clarkabc22" if you've got the game on the PS2 and an internet connection, I defy you to try to stop the Cougar offense or get back the tenacious 3-3-5 defense (On the video game, of course. I'm watching the 'real' Cougars play the AZ Wildcats right now to see if their offense is as good as mine. I can tell you right now they don't run the option as well).
**Once in high school I scored 25 points in the first half of a basketball game. At the start of the second half I started noticing the refs weren't blowing the whistle any more. So did the other team. The other team got progressively worse -- first slapping, then outright hanging on my arms and head. It was frustrating enough that I did eventually look to the referee as we ran back down the court and said to him calmly "Look, I know what you're trying to do. I just don't want to end up hurt." Amazingly, the whistle started blowing again. (I love telling that story).
Have it Your Way?
A few of my siblings recently visited after a grueling summer term at BYU. Near the top of their list of things to do while here was to visit our nearest In N Out and feast on a few burgers.
Now it's important to understand, only very rarely will one find finer hamburgers than what's offered at In N Out. It's possible, mind you, and they do exist, but usually at three times the price, and without the sleek simplicity of the In N Out packaging, or the tasty familiarity of those fresh tomatoes, toasted buns, and patties that are never frozen. The fries are a different story entirely.
My sisters understood this -- at least I thought they did. Then, before we made our way over there, they started asking questions about the sauce on the burgers. I didn't like their tone, and I told them as much. They didn't like the idea of "sauce" on burgers and winced at the idea that they might put too much on and that it might have mayonaisse in it.*
I rebuked them. One doesn't question the burgers at In N Out, which means one certainly doesn't question the sauce. One simply decides whether or not she wants the Double Double (or for my more gluttonous immediate family members -- the 4 x 4 or 6 x 6), and whether they want it "Animal Style." You leave the rest up to the highly trained professionals behind the counter. They'll take care of you.
But my sisters didn't listen. They order their burgers with sauce "on the side." I didn't catch the cashier's reaction at those words, but I'm pretty sure he shot back a few looks of disgust.
These same sisters still claimed they liked their burgers -- one even ridiculously claimed she was glad she didn't get the sauce (She's the kind who decided she wouldn't like the sauce no matter how it tasted...just to spite me. Even if she wasn't, that sauce isn't meant to be separted from the burger and tasted -- it's not meant to be a stand alone condiment!). I could only look on them regretfully as they ate -- thinking of the eating experience they might have had.
I'm not sure those girls will be invited back.
*Clarks hate mayonaisse. I do have a rogue sister, though, (and an occasionally rebellious wife) who like to put it in tuna fish and then put that concoction, with celery and onions, between two slices of bread and then call that a sandwich. Right now, I can't think of anything more disgusting. So a little advice: if you ever plan on visiting, leave the potato salad at home please.
Now it's important to understand, only very rarely will one find finer hamburgers than what's offered at In N Out. It's possible, mind you, and they do exist, but usually at three times the price, and without the sleek simplicity of the In N Out packaging, or the tasty familiarity of those fresh tomatoes, toasted buns, and patties that are never frozen. The fries are a different story entirely.
My sisters understood this -- at least I thought they did. Then, before we made our way over there, they started asking questions about the sauce on the burgers. I didn't like their tone, and I told them as much. They didn't like the idea of "sauce" on burgers and winced at the idea that they might put too much on and that it might have mayonaisse in it.*
I rebuked them. One doesn't question the burgers at In N Out, which means one certainly doesn't question the sauce. One simply decides whether or not she wants the Double Double (or for my more gluttonous immediate family members -- the 4 x 4 or 6 x 6), and whether they want it "Animal Style." You leave the rest up to the highly trained professionals behind the counter. They'll take care of you.
But my sisters didn't listen. They order their burgers with sauce "on the side." I didn't catch the cashier's reaction at those words, but I'm pretty sure he shot back a few looks of disgust.
These same sisters still claimed they liked their burgers -- one even ridiculously claimed she was glad she didn't get the sauce (She's the kind who decided she wouldn't like the sauce no matter how it tasted...just to spite me. Even if she wasn't, that sauce isn't meant to be separted from the burger and tasted -- it's not meant to be a stand alone condiment!). I could only look on them regretfully as they ate -- thinking of the eating experience they might have had.
I'm not sure those girls will be invited back.
*Clarks hate mayonaisse. I do have a rogue sister, though, (and an occasionally rebellious wife) who like to put it in tuna fish and then put that concoction, with celery and onions, between two slices of bread and then call that a sandwich. Right now, I can't think of anything more disgusting. So a little advice: if you ever plan on visiting, leave the potato salad at home please.
We're Not Here for the Weeds
This Saturday morning my little family made its way to our local meetinghouse -- it was our turn to help clean the church. We'd kind of debated since receiving the notice whether I should go alone, or whether we should bring everyone along. In the end, Michelle thought there was at least a chance she could be helpful, at least moreso than if she stayed home with the kids.
There were several families there to help. The coordinator assigned to us the cleaning of the windows and doors around the building -- the idea being that Jared could help with that. It didn't take much longer than two minutes, though, for things to fall apart. Emily instantly had a messy diaper. Jared kept putting his hands back on the windows and doors (leaving marks that had to be cleaned again), and then he started unraveling the paper towel roll with reckless abandon. My attempts to correct him only made him more defiant, and within moments there I was, in the church, trying to put my son in a full nelson* to get him to stop make a bigger mess than what we'd been sent to clean up.
My instant reaction was to wonder if we were doing anyone any good at all by showing up, since it wasn't clear whether we'd ever finish those windows.
But then I remembered this story, told by Elder Eyring about his father, and my success or failure in getting to those windows didn't seem quite so important:
"I want to tell you a story about waiting upon the Lord. My father once told it to me with the intention of chuckling at himself. It's a story about his tryin to do his duty, just the way you try to do your duty.
"Now, you have to know a little bit about my father. His name was Henry Eyring, like mine. His work in chemistry was substantial enough to bring him many honors, but he was still a member of a ward of the Church with his duty to do. To appreciate this story, you have to realize that it occurred when he was nearly eighty and had bone cancer. He had bone cancer so badly in his hips that he could hardly move. The pain was great.
"Dad was the senior high councilor in his stake, and he had the responsibility for the welfare farm. An assignment was given to weed a field of onions, so Dad assigned himself to go work on the farm. He never told me how hard it was, but I have met several people who were with him that day. I talked to one of them on the phone, and he said that he was weeding in the row next to Dad through much of the day. He told me the same thing that others who were there that day told me. He said that the pain was so great that Dad was pulling himself along on his stomach with his elbows. He couldn't kneel. The pain was too great for him to kneel. Everyone who talked to me about that day has remarked how Dad smiled and laughed and talked happily with them as they worked in that field of onions.
"Now, this is the joke Dad told me on himself afterward. He said he was there at the end of the day. After all the work was finished and the onions were all weeded, someone said to him, "Henry, good heavens! Youd didn't pull those weeds, did you? Thos weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway."
"Dad just roared. He thought that was the funniest thing. He thought it was a great joke on himself. He had worked through the day in the wrong weeds. They had been sprayed and would have died anyway."
"When Dad told me this story, I knew how tough it was. So I asked him, 'Dad, how could you make a joke out of that? How could you take it so pleasantly?' He said soemthign to me that I will never forget, and I hope you won't. He said, 'Hal, I wasn't there for the weeds.'"
Well, Elder Eyring, I didn't forget, and indeed it made the work more pleasant. And even if it hadn't, Jared and I got some donuts afterward that made it all worthwhile. Hopefully none of you with ever forget that.
*No, not really.
There were several families there to help. The coordinator assigned to us the cleaning of the windows and doors around the building -- the idea being that Jared could help with that. It didn't take much longer than two minutes, though, for things to fall apart. Emily instantly had a messy diaper. Jared kept putting his hands back on the windows and doors (leaving marks that had to be cleaned again), and then he started unraveling the paper towel roll with reckless abandon. My attempts to correct him only made him more defiant, and within moments there I was, in the church, trying to put my son in a full nelson* to get him to stop make a bigger mess than what we'd been sent to clean up.
My instant reaction was to wonder if we were doing anyone any good at all by showing up, since it wasn't clear whether we'd ever finish those windows.
But then I remembered this story, told by Elder Eyring about his father, and my success or failure in getting to those windows didn't seem quite so important:
"I want to tell you a story about waiting upon the Lord. My father once told it to me with the intention of chuckling at himself. It's a story about his tryin to do his duty, just the way you try to do your duty.
"Now, you have to know a little bit about my father. His name was Henry Eyring, like mine. His work in chemistry was substantial enough to bring him many honors, but he was still a member of a ward of the Church with his duty to do. To appreciate this story, you have to realize that it occurred when he was nearly eighty and had bone cancer. He had bone cancer so badly in his hips that he could hardly move. The pain was great.
"Dad was the senior high councilor in his stake, and he had the responsibility for the welfare farm. An assignment was given to weed a field of onions, so Dad assigned himself to go work on the farm. He never told me how hard it was, but I have met several people who were with him that day. I talked to one of them on the phone, and he said that he was weeding in the row next to Dad through much of the day. He told me the same thing that others who were there that day told me. He said that the pain was so great that Dad was pulling himself along on his stomach with his elbows. He couldn't kneel. The pain was too great for him to kneel. Everyone who talked to me about that day has remarked how Dad smiled and laughed and talked happily with them as they worked in that field of onions.
"Now, this is the joke Dad told me on himself afterward. He said he was there at the end of the day. After all the work was finished and the onions were all weeded, someone said to him, "Henry, good heavens! Youd didn't pull those weeds, did you? Thos weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway."
"Dad just roared. He thought that was the funniest thing. He thought it was a great joke on himself. He had worked through the day in the wrong weeds. They had been sprayed and would have died anyway."
"When Dad told me this story, I knew how tough it was. So I asked him, 'Dad, how could you make a joke out of that? How could you take it so pleasantly?' He said soemthign to me that I will never forget, and I hope you won't. He said, 'Hal, I wasn't there for the weeds.'"
Well, Elder Eyring, I didn't forget, and indeed it made the work more pleasant. And even if it hadn't, Jared and I got some donuts afterward that made it all worthwhile. Hopefully none of you with ever forget that.
*No, not really.
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