Can you tell? Damn it.

*After a day spent talking mostly about Shakespeare, I will stay on campus for our Open House later this evening. While getting ready this morning, I decided against packing an extra shirt and tie or whatever. I figured that I would likely pass on lunch, and therefore there only existed a slim chance that something terrible would happen. Well, guess what? The best laid plans…

I stopped by Starbucks this morning for breakfast and a VMCwW. Also, I popped the third disc of season three of Lost into the DVD player. Well, I guess I am not as coordinated as I think I am. That, or yogurt with chunks of granola is less stable than I thought. Because while my eyes were glued to the tv screen, my hand raised a scoop of the stuff towards my mouth. And then all hell broke loose. A sizable portion of the yogurt dive-bombed off the spoon, impacting my tie in a line. Some of it fell onto the crotch of my pants. The rest onto the seat of the chair beneath me.

As soon as it happened, I stared down and froze. Then I started laughing. This was the exact situation I was confident wouldn’t happen. It never happens. God or whatever higher being you believe in certainly has a sense of humor. It’s a good thing I do, too. Ugh.

Parts 1 and 2 of "How I'm Going to Make it Through the Day."

I assume that I will simply grade exams and term papers in the space between the end of the day and the start of the Open House. Well, that’s the plan, anyway. That’s the ideal. But as we all know, and as has been illustrated by my breakfast disaster, the ideal rarely plays itself out as such. The more likely scenario is that I will end up on the computer trying to elevate by best score this week by feverishly blowing up jewels. Perhaps I will run through a baseball mock draft. In addition to these wonderful time-wasters, I will have an extremely difficult time preventing myself from turning on the DVD player and watching more Lost.

Watching Lost on my down time is great. Not so great is having to explain the show to every single person who walks into my classroom.

I let one of my co-workers borrow seasons 3-5 of Lost, and she recently returned it to me. That’s three seasons. That’s roughly eighteen discs. That’s roughly 72 episodes of Lost. Of course my production slips while trying to do work with Lost on in the background, but it makes me feel better. Psychologically, I guess the best way to put it is that if I sit in my classroom and grade papers, then I’m just sitting in my room grading papers. That’s depressing. But if Lost is on, then I’m watching Lost, but also grading papers. I can trick myself into thinking that Lost is the primary focus, and that t papers are of only a secondary importance. This is nowhere near as depressing. When I walk to my car as darkness falls between 6:30 and 7 in the evening, I don’t feel like I’ve spent 4 hours of my life grading. No, I feel like I just got through four awesome episodes of Lost (extra awesome if I catch an episode that features Evangeline Lilly in her underwear).

Now, of course, that last paragraph means that I’m aware of what Jedi Mind Tricks I’m trying to run on myself. “That’s so stupid,” perhaps you say. I wholeheartedly agree. But still – and pardon me for being melodramatic – but grading papers and exams in my classroom is exactly like living on the island in Lost: you do whatever you have to do to survive it.

Lynnette has steady hands; someone can't sit stil.

*I got home from a softball game last night and heard shouting in the bedroom. This is not unusual. Most times, Madison demands something. Generally, if Lynnette or I raise our voices, it’s because Madison is doing something she’s not supposed to do. Last night, I walked slowly up the stairs because my body was already beginning to tighten up. I made it to the top of the staircase and heard Lynnette say “Madison, sit- no!” I was curious.

When I walked into the bedroom, I saw both of my girls sitting on the bed. Lynnette was in the middle of painting Madison’s toenails, and Madison was trying her best to sit still. Obviously, her best wasn’t good enough. It must be hard for Lynnette to do something like this. She’s a perfectionist when it comes to things of this nature and Madison is the biggest x-factor I’ve ever had to deal with in my entire life. Lynnette had one of Madison’s fat little feet in her left hand and held the polish brush in her right. Just like a real salon, Madison’s eyes were glued to the tv set. When something on her “Timmy Time” show made her laugh, she’d giggle and squirm, frustrating Lynnette. As I watched this whole thing go down, I didn’t laugh because that would only have served to irritate Lynnette further, and I still had plans of sleeping in my own bed.

Literally watching paint dry.

I hopped in the shower and when I came out, Lynnette was putting the finishing touches on Madison’s toes. We purchased these little cherry sticker deals over the weekend. Madison’s eyes widened as Lynnette pulled out tweezers (perfectionist, I told you) to apply the stickers on Madison’s big toes. I guess the excitement was a little too much for the Goob – her tiny fat feet moved a little. This brought out drill sergeant Lynnette again. I slowly lowered myself onto the bed and slithered across the top half of it. There was no way I was going to have anything to do with those cherries being even a quarter of a millimeter of an inch off.

“Done!” Lynnette said. Madison’s first instinct was to scoot up towards her usual spot. “No!” Lynnette shouted. Madison froze. “Don’t move!” Madison sat at near the edge of the bed, alternating between watching her tv show and watching her toenails dry. Minutes passed. “Mommy, are my toes done?” “Why, where you going?” “But are my toes done?” “Why where you going?” “Are my toes done, mommy?” “Why, where you going?” “STOP SAYING THAT TO ME, MOMMY!” “Are my toes done?” “Yeah, sure.” And with that, Madison popped up and moved her way up to the head of the bed.

I suppose I don’t really care about toenail polish and fruit-shaped adhesives. I made jokes about needing a gun and questioning the morality of the inventors of such products. Part of me doesn’t know how to react to Madison getting superficial cosmetic upgrades. It bothers me, I guess, because some part of me feels like this is a baby step towards other, more dramatic things that I don’t understand like foundation, eye shadow, and bras. But, I suppose there lies the chance I am simply ignorant. I never had sisters, so I don’t know. Maybe getting one’s toenail’s painted and having cherry stickers applied on top of it are simply rites of passage for girls. Lynnette seems fine with it, so I suppose I’ll go with her judgment. Who knows. Maybe what Lynnette did yesterday was the equivalent of me giving my hypothetical son a Mets temporary tattoo. I suspect it isn’t, but what can I do?

Tiny Wings get pretty competitive in our house.

*Lynnette stared playing Tiny Wings on her iPhone. The point of the game is to guide and slide a tiny bird up and down cliffs and between islands. Yeah, it’s not for me, either. Anyway, Madison loves to watch Lynnette play this game. In truth, Madison doesn’t simply watch Lynnette play, she whoops it up and makes noise while Lynnette plays. Last night, Lynnette was locked in intense concentration while Madison shouted “Ha!” every time the little guy shot out into the air. This prompted Lynnette to shout “You’re jinxing me!” Yes, to a three-year old. I laughed out loud.

“My turn, mom!” Lynnette handed over the phone to Madison. Madison pulled her thumb out of her mouth and goo’d up the phone. “Look, dad, she’s making my phone all wet!” Lynnette said. There was a good amount of spittle on the screen. “Wipe your thumb!” Lynnette said. Madison held her thumb out and looked around for something to wipe it on. “Wipe it on your shirt!” Lynnette said. “No!” Madison replied. She wiped it on Lynnette’s shirt. Hahahahahhahahahahahaha.

Lynnette and Madison passed the phone between each other and alternated turns on Tiny Wings. “This a good game, mom, I like it!” “I like it too, and I’d like it more if you played it less,” Lynnette said. I popped my earphone out (I was watching Raw in my phone) and looked at Lynnette. I thought she was mad (she wasn’t). I looked at Mad, she was looking at Lynnette, probably wondering about the same thing. Our eyes met. I winked at Goob and she smiled. We left mom alone for a little bit. She can get competitive.

Oops.

*It’s difficult to be a fan of the Mets and Cowboys. The Monday after the Giants beat the Cowboys on the last day of the regular season, I caught cracks from most of my students -  even the ones whose favorite times play their home games in such locales as Carolina, Tennessee, and Oakland. That’s just the nature of pouring your heart and soul and time and energy into the support of a sports team: you can bask in the glory of success, but you have to eat the failure, too.

That’s why it’s been so rewarding that many of those students are fans of teams who have already been eliminated from the playoffs (Steelers, Broncos, etc.). I’ve been able to ask such questions as “Hey, wait, isn’t Tim Tebow going to watch the Super Bowl from the same place as Tony Romo?” (The answer is: Yes, the couch) Today, though, I got to unleash the best one on a student/49er fan who has been quietly assailing the Cowboys all season.

I walked up to him and said, “Hey, there’s a box for you in the main office.” “A box?” he asked. “Yeah, I think it’s your Kyle Williams jersey.” He took one step, then his head dropped. If you’re asking me if that made me feel good, then the answer is yes. He looked up – with obvious pain in his eyes – and nodded his head. “That was a good one, mister.” Something, something, something about enjoying the suffering of others. Okay, I’m guilty.

Generally, it isn't a good thing if the other team is celebrating your field goal attempt.

*Both of yesterday’s NFL Conference Championship games were punctuated by misses and mistakes. That’s how close both games were. As sports fan with no real rooting interest, that’s about all you can ask for. I’ve already come across a few dejected students who have taken up the rite of inserting the f-word as new middle names for Kyle Williams (#10, above) and Billy Cundiff (#7, above) and while I have enjoyed increasing their overall torment with a few choice words, I am able to do so in part because I know that’s just how sports are.

I’ve said it before. In my own opinion, you never truly become a fan of a sports team until they unequivocally break your heart. Aaron Boone did it to my brother in 2003. The Mets did it to me in 2006, 2007, and 2008. I’ve also seen it mentioned by a sports writer (whose name I can’t remember) that it feels like part of loving a sports team is hating half of everything they do, both on the field and off of it. It’s true. My hatred of the Mets is intense, but my love of them holds majority ownership at something like 56%. That number is slipping by the day.

This makes me want to maul and eat a zebra with my bare hands and no utensils.

*But I can handle any kind of ribbing thrown my way in regards to the Mets and Cowboys because that’s what being a true fan means. I jumped on the Cowboys bandwagon in the early-mid 90s and have been aboard ever since. It’s been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that both TJ Yates and Tim Tebow have the same amount of playoff wins as Tony Romo (1). If guys want to take a dump on me because my team took a dump on me, fine. I can only hold onto the hope that one day my teams will rise from wallowing in their own excrement and win a championship.

I can’t handle those guys who talk trash but jump from team-to-team like barhopping on their 21st birthday. How can you have two favorite teams? If someone changes their allegiance like a mercenary, I can’t respect that. One of my friends posted a comment on Twitter that ran along the lines of “It’s hilarious to hear Heat fans hate on Lakers fans, because c’mon, you weren’t Heat fans three years ago.” (Sorry, Floyd, if I screwed that up).

It’s true. The Mets have made me more miserable than anything someone’s supposed to enjoy should. But damn it, they’re my team. This season, the Cowboys have been even more frustrating because A) do occasionally mix in some brilliance, and B) they actually had a shot at the playoffs before deciding to spend that shot on their own collective feet. I’ve been looking for a Cowboys sticker to place on my car next to my Mets sticker. All I want is the white/navy star, no text. Sometimes when I imagine what my car would look like with my Mets license plate holder, Mets sticker, and Cowboys sticker, I think an other sports fan might drive near me on the road and think “This guy only likes losers!” or the more direct “Loser!” But that’s okay. The hope is always that in time, someone will see those same logos on my car and say “Front runner!”

Probably his best performance on SNL that night.

*Since I am 31 and consequently hopelessly un-hip, I had to go to my students for a little clarification. Over the past few weeks, I had seen references to “YOLO” or “You only live once” all over the internet. I mean, I knew what it meant, only not where it came from. My students told me that it has gained its recent notoriety from its use by the rapper Drake. The  song “The Motto,” is a charming ode to his self-professed gargantuan sexual prowess and numerous sexual escapades. If I am understanding the song correctly, he is able to have these abundant trysts because he is certain that he will only live once (probably true) and this fact should therefore inform all of his decisions, particularly those dealing with the (repeated) use of his manhood. The lyrics are pretty graphic, even for a guy whose job it is to espouse the virtues of imagery. But I digress.

“You only live once” is of course yet another presentation of the carpe diem mindset that would have one eschew rational thought and the likelihood of consequences for a more appealing set of circumstances and a possible immediate return on investment. Since I am 31 and consequently hopelessly un-hip, this makes no sense to me at all.

Considering the aesthetic he's built for his company, I think Ralph would frown upon his brand serving as the moniker for a group of amorous teenagers.

When I was in high school, there was a group of guys who hung out together and dubbed their group POLO.

Aside: I wasn’t in this group, I was (and still am) in IMOP. Looking back, I can’t tell you why it seemed like members of my class felt the need to give their groups of friends names, but shit yeah, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. PS: If you’re ever getting food at the Fatboy’s in Waipio and see “IMOP” scribbled on that pad thing where you’re supposed to sign your bill, that’s me.

Anyway, as I remember, the guys in this group said that POLO stood for “Players Only Live Once.” Supposedly – like Drake’s mantra – it was some kind of justification for juggling multiple sexual relationships simultaneously. I’ll be honest. I was un-hip even at 17 and so I found this concept to be patently ridiculous. After all, I was struggling to find one girl to find me attractive – balancing several romantic or physical relationships at once wasn’t going to be a problem for me.

For reasons that were never clear to me, in time, the name of the group changed. It was still POLO, but in its newest form those letters stood for Possessing One Love Only, which of course was the direct and polar opposite of the original spirit of the name. I don’t know what happened. I suspect one or more of those guys got into serious relationships that precluded them from carrying on in their erstwhile philandering ways. Love changes you, man. Totally.

"Hey Richard... fat guy in a little coat..."

Don’t get me wrong. The last thing I want is for people to think I am some tightly-wound stickler who takes breaks from writing his blog to make sure the stick up his ass is secured firmly. I’m all for spontaneity. I want to dance as if no one is watching, too, even if there is no disparity between my dancing depending on viewership because I can’t dance period (I would look kind of like the late Chris Farley here).

I know responsibility is a dirty word in some circles (youth culture, anarchists, high school English teachers), but responsibility is a vital part of being a human in any kind of society. This is an unavoidable fact of life, inherent to social relationships, and yet it’s the first thing to get lit on fire and then tossed out the window once carpe diem enters the discussion. If you’re standing next to your car and your buddy says “Come to the bar with me,” then you say “Sure, you only live once,” it’s not a big deal. That likely is the kind of decision that won’t dramatically affect anything except for the level of discomfort you experience while sleeping on the couch instead of your bed. But if you’re making a decision that might have serious consequences – for you and others – the “you only live once” attitude isn’t just irrational, it’s irresponsible. If you’re on the fence about a serious dilemma and on the one hand you’ve got an entire list of reasons why you shouldn’t do something, and in the other column all you have written is “YOLO,” you should probably go with the numbers.

You ever notice how “Why the hell not?” is always a rhetorical question? It’s a question that doesn’t need to be answered because the person doing the asking already knows the answer(s). “Why the hell not?” isn’t really a question; it’s a statement. It says “I know there are several logical reasons why I should not be selecting this option, but in truth none of them matter to me as much as the instant gratification I am likely to receive by ignoring them.” It says “YOLO.”

Unlike Drake, I am not 25 sitting on 25 mil. Sadly, that’s the only way YOLO can really make any sense: you have to be young enough not to care and rich enough to be able to pay for the consequences of not caring.

I really don't know anything about the NBA. I went with this picture because of the obvious appeal to my color bias.

*I don’t watch Sports Center because it isn’t baseball season. Even then, I try to get most of my information from Baseball Tonight. Allegedly, there is an NBA season going on right now and this morning I realized I have no idea about any of it. The last thing I heard was about CP3 going to the Clippers. The most time I’ve spent thinking about basketball was the few minutes during which I watched Charles Barkley pretend to be Shaq on Saturday Night Live a couple of weeks ago.

I don’t understand why (though I have a theory) I have such a disconnect from basketball. I can’t say that it’s because I never played basketball, I never played football either, but I can still follow that. I purchased Bill Simmons book about basketball because I like Simmons as a writer. I had hoped that his style would somehow make the all of the information within tolerable. I was wrong. I don’t know enough about basketball to make sense of most of it.

The last time I sincerely cared about the NBA was when Shawn Kemp and Gary Payton were creating havoc in the Pacific Northwest. Obviously, it’s been a while.

My theory is that my apathy during towards the NBA season is the result of timing. I only care about the NBA – in passing – during the drama of the playoffs. For the better part of the regular season, I am interested in the NFL. By the time the Super Bowl is over, I’ve already begun my hardcore fantasy baseball research, and catchers and pitchers are about to report. I go straight from the NFL to the MLB. By the time the NBA playoffs drag themselves out over the course of four months, the MLB season is already a couple of months old and I am therefore completely obsessed with despising the Mets and figuring out ways to improve my 10-12 fantasy baseball teams. No thanks, basketball, no time.

Tom Brady doesn't have a "complacent" face.

*I got into a conversation with a couple of my students yesterday about who I’d like to see win the Super Bowl since A) the Conference Championships have been set and B) the Cowboys never made the playoffs. I want the Patriots to win.  I went on to sing the praises of Tom Brady before being cut off by my students. They accused me of a very graphic, physical version of a man-crush. I tried to explain it to them as simply as possible.

In truth, I was too young to appreciate the primes of Joe Montana and Michael Jordan. I was aware of it, but I didn’t have enough perspective to understand why their play was transcendent. Albert Pujols and to a greater extent Tom Brady, are current examples of domination that I can understand.

Tom Brady’s iconography has been well-documented, so I won’t go over it. But there’s something in the way he goes about his business that makes his business compelling. He refuses to enjoy his success. A 33-yard pass does not make him happy, he’s already thinking about the remaining 27 yards between him and the end zone. He’s maniacal in that way.

Also, after he obliterated the second coming of Christ in football pads last week, he likely went home to his lingerie model wife and at the very least got a shoulder massage. That’s a pretty nice set up.

Surely I can understand my students’ hatred (or more likely, envy) of Tom Brady. It’s the same way I hated Joe Montana and the 49ers back in the day. It’s the same way I felt when Maddux, Glavine, and Smoltz were racking up Cy Young Awards with Atlanta: I was too emotionally involved in the situation to see their brilliance clearly. But I see Tom Brady clearly, and that’s why I fantasize about him wearing a helmet with a star on it, shouting at Miles Austin and Dez Bryant to get their shit together.

The anchor of my fantasy staff.

*I already received my copy of this year’s Ron Shandler’s Baseball Forecaster. Lynnette saw me pull it out of the box from Amazon.com and she started making dramatic and sarcastic comments like “Oh, God, is it that time already?” and “Uh-oh, looks like you’re going to start with all your mock drafts.” The way she says the second line in particular makes me want to crawl under a rock with a flashlight and read my book in silence away from mockery.

But then, I spent an entire drive out to Kapolei explaining why I love that book. In short, it’s helped to shape the way I think about baseball, particularly from a fantasy perspective.

I’ve already marked up the book with highlighter and made mental notes for the upcoming season. “The season doesn’t start until April, you asshole,” you say? Wrong. The season never ends.

SO… if Ryan Braun can somehow successfully appeal his drug suspension, and Steven Strasburg can come all the way back from Tommy John surgery, and Joey Votto can take a step forward, and if Adrian Gonzalez just does what Adrian Gonzalez always does, and and and if Jose Bautista doesn’t mysteriously disappear and his numbers don’t fall off a cliff, I should be okay. Notice I haven’t mentioned the Mets? I don’t want to spiral into depression before my day even starts.

All this for under $20. Win.

Friday: As soon as Madison got home on Friday afternoon, she was shouting a whole bunch of stuff. In order to calm her, I asked what she wanted to do. “I wanna go to… Target!” she shouted. This seemed like a peculiar request. Rarely is she ever so specific. “Why Target?” I asked. “Because I wanna look at the toys.” How am I supposed to argue with solid reasoning like that?”

I posed the next question to Lynnette, “Salt Lake or Kapolei?” I already knew the answer. “Kapolei,” she said. “It’s not as comfortable at the Salt Lake one.” I already knew that, too. The interesting thing is going to be how Lynnette’s ambivalence manifests itself once the Longs in Mililani Mauka opens. To date, her favorite Longs is her hometown store, the one in the Town Center. What’s going to happen when she gets a new store? My prediction is that it will be difficult for her to adjust at first, but we will spend so much time in the Mauka Longs that eventually, it will become her store of choice. It’s just too convenient.

I will admit, though, that her choice of the Kapolei Target was a success because of the $2, $4, $6, $8 menu at Denny’s. Actually, we stayed on the lower end of that spectrum, ordering exclusively off of the $2, $4 menu. All told, we spent less than $20 on dinner and all three of us were stuffed. Lynnette particularly enjoyed the biscuits drenched in sausage gravy, it was a throwback to her college days at Creighton. Madison demolished her cheese quesadilla – which is quickly becoming one of her major food groups along with any cereal with marshmallows, fruits, and candy.

I went with a fried cheese stick sandwich. For those who are interested, it’s two slices of buttered and toasted sourdough bread, two slices of American cheese, and four fried mozzarella sticks. The only way to describe this baby is “legit.” Well, that’s until we paid the bill and the cashier casually mentioned that the sandwich weighed in at a staggering 1700 calories. It took a little of the shine off of my dinner. “But you said you didn’t eat all day, right?” Lynnette said. “Yeah, so?” I said, dejected. “You’re good then. 2000 calories a day. You just got them all in one meal.” That’s a great wife. Not only did she make me feel better about behaving like a glutton, she basically gave me the pass to eat dessert later. I love you, teammate.

What does it mean that she'll climb on and dance atop anything that looks like a stage. Wait - don't answer that.

Saturday: Lynnette and I spent Saturday morning proctoring the Damien Entrance Exam to make a little quick cash. When we got home, we cleaned up the house a little.

Mini-Aside: I hate, hate, hate the process, but I do love a clean house.

After taking a nap, we got up and headed out to Ala Moana for the three-day weekend sales. This is the only time we are allowing ourselves to make personal purchases. We ended up spending less than the both of us made earlier that morning. Fiscal restraint: it’s an on-going process. More concerning to me is the developing trend in which Madison finds a “stage” and then start dancing to the music blasting over the speakers in the store. When we were at Gap Pearlridge last week, Madison climbed on a drawer and did it. On Saturday, she got on the raised area at the storefront and started doing her moves. Oddly enough, her dancing style looks like a cross between any kid’s show on Nick, Jr. and everything Kristen Wiig does on SNL, and even in Bridesmaids. Part of me says that this will pass. Then the other part of me says “That’s exactly what you said about the whole puppy-in-the-third-person thing, too.”

That's the face of a calculating assassin, not a window dancer. I swear.

Sunday: Lunch at my parents’ house, as per the usual. I’d like to take this time to thank the weather gods not only for sunshine (kind of) on Sunday as well as for holding up the rain yesterday so I could play softball. My right foot hurts. My neck is tight, but I suspect that has more to do with the way I slept.

Anyway, Madison was thrilled to get into the pool in my parent’ backyard. My parents’ purchased a new insta-pool because the last one cracked. This one is bigger and deeper. Madison still won’t put her face under the water. Among the highlights of our time in the pool were re-enacting the Geico commercial with Madison and I as those little critters that rowed the boat. Lynnette was the little hammy crooning “Row. Row. Row.”

Madison is also become quite adept at using the Max Liquidator. Not only can she actually pronounce it, but she’s actually getting the stream of water out to 15 feet now. Matty underestimated her skill and ended up with a wet crotch. Good for him.

Aside: By now it should be pretty obvious that I am not including pictures of myself in the pool on purpose. I wish I could blame holiday weight for this one – or at least that 1,700 calorie sandwich – but it’s all me. I don’t work out. In my head, losing weight for my brother’s wedding seems like such a good idea. But when I get home from sitting in traffic and I drop my backpack on the carpet, all I want to do is take off my shirt and tie and lie on the couch and watch Jack McCoy try to put criminals away for their crimes. I’m so lazy.

I am still glad to be living in the era in which Madison does not assume we will purchase something for her in every store we go into.

Monday: It rained pretty hard overnight in Mililani. It rained again Monday morning. That essentially destroyed our plans of doing something outdoorsy. I don’t mind a little rain, but Madison is still at the point in her life where she refuses to do anything which will require her to get muddy.

We didn’t want to get stuck in the house all day, so we ate a nice french toast breakfast and headed out early. Our first stop was Petco, as Abby was running low on food. Funny thing about Abby, she doesn’t eat if we aren’t around. When we leave food for he before we head out, she won’t touch it until we get home. That’s probably how she stays so trim. Madison loves Petco. She loves to look at all of the animals. She talks to them the way we talk to her, or the way we used to talk to and about her when she was a baby. Her voice gets really loud and the pitch rises. She starts all of her sentences with “Awwww,” or “Look!”

Her favorite part of the whole trip is still going to the saltwater fish section to look for Nemo and Daddy fish. So strict is her adherence to the film that when we saw three clown fish in a single tank, Madison said, “Look! Nemo and Daddy Fish, Dad!” Then she paused and pointed at the third wheel and asked “Who’s that?” “That’s their friend, I answered.” “Das not Dori!” she shouted. She was right.

Aside: Madison received one of those toy puppies that bark and kind of walk as a gift. You know, the bark sounds robotic and unrealistic, and it moves like a quarter-inch whenever it tries to move. Madison loves this thing. Lynnette thinks that Madison loves it so because it’s like those toys at the entrance of Jungle Fun at Ala Moana that she likes to look at. Well, soon after Madison opened it and turned it on, Abby went ape. Madison scooped up her new favorite (fake) puppy and went on to chide her real puppy for being mean, or as Madison is fond of saying for “boddering” her. Lynnette asked Madison what her new puppy’s name was. Madison thought for a second and replied, “Delection.” Yeah, as in “selection,” but with a D instead of an S. It’s official. Should Lynnette and I have another child, Madison will have no input on the naming process.

Madison is now the fish helper at home. She feeds the fish every day. At her school, each student is given a new job each week. Madison has been the line helper, the food helper, and a bunch of other helpers. Yesterday, for no reason, she said she was the hamburger helper. You know that killed me. She’d take on this shrill, loud voice and say “Ham-burger Helper!” Then I’d laugh. This led to the following exchange between Lynnette and I:

Lynnette: You see? She says nonsense because she knows you’ll laugh. She’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. Just like you.

Me: What do you expect? She’s a toddler! All she wants is our attention.

L: What does that say about you?

P:…

Whatever.

An old favorite.

*After Pearl Highlands, we swung back around to Waikele. I think I’ve had enough of Pearlridge for a little while. Anyway, Madison has taken to saying “I like soft food,” which is a subtle and completely transparent way of saying, “Dear father, I am uninterested in any food that you or my mother would consider appropriate for a meal. My own tastes revolve around snacks, candy, and other foods of that ilk, though I am loathe to mention those specific words for fear that you will say “no.”

I put a pack of fruit snacks in the side pocket of my cargo shorts yesterday. Madison tapped at my thigh three times before we left the house to make sure the pack was still in there. I blame Lynnette. She, too, is a snacker. As Madison continues to grow, she looks and behave more and more like Lynnette to the point where it’s not implausible that Lynnette might have reproduced asexually. A group of scientists are a large grant away from beginning research on this right now.

As she sits atop rides like this, she eyes both Lynnette and I carefully to make sure neither of us goes into our pockets for change.

Slow weekends like this make me imagine a world where Lynnette has the summers off, too. I love hanging out with Madison, don’t get me wrong, but it always feels incomplete without Lynnette. She’s the voice of reason, the organizer, and also her purse is rather large and therefore can carry most of the stuff we need. Perhaps this is how Timon felt when Nala rolled into the picture in The Lion King: he knew that it the end was near. The three would become two. Spending time with Madison is awesome, but the three of us together is always better.

The past two weekends have been somewhat difficult for my blog writing I think in part because it’s beginning to feel like we do the same things over and over. I don’t mind, but it is difficult to write about the same places and things – even though I am absolutely enjoying them as they happen. For example, it isn’t particularly rewarding to take pictures of and write about Madison trying on all of the jewelry at the Banana Republic Factory Store, but it is incredibly endearing every time she does it.

I assume that some day soon Madison, my beloved creature of habit, will push Lynnette and I to look for new adventures and new places to explore. I can’t wait.

*You know that old cliche, when someone attempts to describe something that is obviously less than stellar, when somebody says of it what it lacks in ___________ (whatever is obviously lacking – usually aesthetic or material), it makes up for with _________(whatever positive it does possess – usually intangible)? Well, I’ve tried at various times to fill in those blanks while thinking about my high school alma mater and my current place of employment, Damien Memorial School. After all this time, I have completed only the first half of the statement.

It’s easy to fill in that first blank. You could drop words in there like “facilities,” or  “legendary athletic tradition,” or – if you are a pessimist/minimalist – “everything.” I don’t think I could deny any of those answers. “Everything,” of course, is fatalistic and over-simplified, but I get the point.

I am 31 years old and in a few years, I will be able (though not necessarily thrilled – I am old) to say that I’ve been at Damien for over half my life. I was only supposed to be here for four years. That’s what my parents told me. And then I was only supposed to be here for a couple more after I graduated college. That’s what I told myself. Well, all three of us were wrong. What makes completing that statement difficult for me is that I have not been able to honestly identify what it is that Damien has an abundance of, or how this abundance compensates for its shortcomings.

Earlier this morning, the school held a small, quick ceremony to bless and unveil the new statue of Saint Damien which was generously donated by Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Perreira. It is a fine work of marble. I believe its austere appearance befits a man who dedicated his life to the selfless aid of others. There was some fanfare for the ceremony. The members of the senior class as well as faculty members who were available to attend gathered near the chapel amidst news crews and special guests. It was a while before the last group of media members got all their shots and left campus. I had to wait to get my pictures. This statue excited me.

Something like this, a monument to our patron and namesake, generally would not be possible without outside financial assistance. Among the things that could easily fit into the first blank of my opening statement is “money.” The line between the haves and the have-nots appears to be growing wider and darker quickly these days. I think it’s fair to say which side of that line Damien is located. But that’s why something like this matters. Well, it matters to me, anyway. It’s not a swimming pool, or better yet, a baseball field, but it’s something. It’s a nice touch. And when you have little, you appreciate the little you have. Or you bemoan it.

I hear it all the time. “We don’t have this.” “We don’t have that.” “I wish we had this.” “It would be awesome if we had that.” All of those statements are 99% accurate, and I am likely to agree with the facts presented in those statements. But I don’t agree with the tone.

Perhaps you will say that what I will write next will sound impractical and/or romantic and/or idealistic. Perhaps you are right. But after ten years as a teacher here, I have come to see Damien for what it is: a test of character, a test of will.

Damien’s student body is comprised of students with a wide range of academic abilities. I teach students I would describe as “inherently bright.” I also teach students whom I would classify as “indifferent.” I also teach students who fall some place in between those two markers. It isn’t easy. The lack of _______________ (fill in as you wish) increases the degree of difficulty. I hope that things will improve, but I work under the assumption that if they do, it will be a long, drawn-out process rather than a quick panacea. So my job can be challenging at times. Sometimes the internet does not work. Sometimes I cannot find a way to motivate my less than scholarly students. Sometimes I write with chalk and the dust gets in my eyes. Sometimes a combination of these things and others like them will collude against me and I will curse myself, then them, and then myself again. I know we don’t have a lot. I think about it all the time.

But I also know that if students here work, they can make Damien work for them. I have taught a student who will graduate from Harvard this semester. I have instructed a young man who is in his second semester at Stanford. I have taught an MIT alum. I have witnessed many students enter Damien from _____________________ (any school located on this rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean) and exit headed for greater things, destinations, experiences. Yes, there is the other side of this equation, I know. That’s inherent to the nature of our student body. They aren’t all academic rock stars, but they are all given opportunity.

The school’s motto is Viriliter Age. It translates into Act Manfully. What that has come to mean to me is first and foremost having the self-awareness and honesty to hold myself accountable for my own actions (and inaction). I am where I am in my life precisely because of things I have done and those I have failed to do. All of it is on me.

Damien is what it is, but it’s also what you make of it. Just like everything else.