Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 175

"Santa Cows" bridges time and space

Just before bed on on Christmas Eve, I told Charlie to get a book for us to read.

A minute later, he returned with “Santa Cows” by Cooper Edens, a ridiculous reimagining of “The Night Before Christmas” in which six cows of varying breeds visit a family in need of some Christmas spirit. The cows float down the chimney, bestowing a Christmas tree and a sack of gifts upon a bedraggled, spiritless family who had planned to spend the evening eating Domino’s pizza and playing video games.

The sack of gifts contains baseball equipment. The story ends with the family playing an all-night game of baseball with the cows until sunrise.

It’s an odd book. Reviews refers to it as a “whimsical” and “off-bear parody,” and the tone is hard to pin down. At moments, the story seems utterly sincere, but one page later, the cow’s eyes and lips are compared to the eyes and lips of Liz Taylor.

No joke.

Then there are lines like:

“So we ran to the windows and opened the shutters. We threw up the blinds to a sky full of udders."

Needless to say the kids love this book. I enjoy it too. It’s silly and irreverent and filled with 1980’s nostalgia. But I also enjoy it for the inscription on the first page:

To Plato and Sharon:
Merry Xmas 1991
Love,
Rob and Lola

Plato is my former principal and good friend. I worked with him for 14 years before he retired. Sharon is his wife and our dear friend.

Plato officiated our wedding.

Rob is the former vocal music teacher at my school. I worked with him for 16 years until his retirement. Lola is his wife and our dear friend.

Rob played the music during our wedding ceremony. All Beatles songs.

But back in 1991, when this inscription was written, when I was living in Attleboro, MA with my best friend, Bengi. We were eating elbow macaroni, hosting keg parties, and trying to make ends meet. I was managing a McDonald’s restaurant in Norwood, MA and on the cusp of homelessness.

Bengi and I had a small, fake Christmas tree in the corner of the living room that year, adorned with a scattering of ornaments. I would spend Christmas day with my mother and sister, who were living in Rhode Island, even more impoverished and desperate than me.

About 100 miles west, Rob and Lola were giving Plato and Sharon this book as a Christmas gift. Plato and Sharon did not have children yet, so this was just friends giving friends a silly book. Plato had been principal of Wolcott School for about three years at the time, and Rob had just transferred to the school at Plato’s invitation, beginning a 22 year partnership.

Elysha Dicks was a sophomore in high school at the time, but she had already met Plato and Rob. In 1991, she was working as the stage manager for Steel Magnolias, a play that Plato was directing that summer.

Rob had auditioned Elysha for a spot in West Hartford’s Inter-El choir when she was in middle school and had rejected her.

She would graduate from high school in 1993 and head off to Smith College.

All of this was happening a world away from me. At the time, I was dreaming of finding a way to college and someday becoming a teacher, but I never imagined that it would actually happen. In less than a year, I would be arrested for a crime I did not commit, permanently derailing my plans to attend Bridgewater State University. Soon after that, I would become homeless and fall victim to a violent crime before finally landing in the home of a family of Jehovah Witnesses, sharing a room off their kitchen with their indoor pet goat.

Eight years after receiving this book from Rob and Lola, Plato would hire me to teach at Wolcott School. I met Rob during my interview. Three years later, Plato would hire Elysha. I would meet her during our first faculty meeting together.

Years later, when Elysha and I had our first child, Plato would pass this book onto us.

When I read “Santa Cows” to my kids, which I have done hundreds of time, I always start with the inscription, and I always pause to think about all that has happened since these words were scribbled into the cover of this book. All of the time and distance that was ultimately conquered in order to bring these people into my life, and how these people made it possible for me to realize my dreams and meet my wife.

The book is good. It makes us laugh. It makes us wonder what the hell Eden Cooper was thinking when he wrote it. But my favorite part of the book is this front cover and this scribbled inscription.

It’s something Rob and Lola probably have no recollection of even writing, but they are words that have come to symbolize so much to me.

The story of our engagement

Today is Elysha and my engagement anniversary!

Fifteen years ago today, I proposed marriage to the woman I love, and she accepted.

Kind of.

Yesterday we were back in New York City, standing in Rockefeller Center beneath the famous Christmas tree, which had been a part of our engagement fifteen years ago. This time we were holding the hands of our two children, which was lovely but also a little odd.

Fifteen years ago, I asked a woman to marry me, and now two new human beings exist as a result.

Happily, the day of our engagement remains clear in my memory, partly because it was such a perfect day, and partly because when we arrived home that night, I immediately wrote down everything I could remember from that day so I would never forget.

Here is what I wrote:

On December 28, 2004, I asked my wife to marry me.  My goal was to give her a proposal that she would never forget.  Here is the story:

Elysha’s favorite room in the world is the main room in Grand Central Station (actually named Grand Central Terminal), so I chose that as the location for the proposal.  

I also wanted the proposal to be a complete surprise, so I chose December 28, right in between Christmas and New Years and less than two weeks before her birthday. I figured that if Elysha was suspecting a proposal, she might expect it to happen on Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or her birthday, so deliberately avoiding those three days would increase the chance of surprise.  

Elysha had also told me months prior that no one had ever thrown her a surprise party, and she hinted that she would like me to throw one for her someday. I had told her at the time that I would plan a surprise party for her next birthday and would still manage to surprise her despite the forewarning.

She foolishly doubted me.

My plan was simple:

After she agreed to marry me, I’d tell Elysha that the marriage proposal counted as her surprise party. Ten days after the proposal, I'd surprise her again with a birthday party that I was already planning at the home of friends.  So in the midst of planning a marriage proposal, I was also planning her surprise birthday party as well.

It was a busy time for me.

It worked, by the way. We arrived at the home of our friends, Justine and Charles, on her birthday for what Elysha thought would be a simple dinner for four. She managed to walk halfway into a room filled with people before even noticing them. When we shouted, “Surprise!” she was most definitely surprised.

But before all of that, I needed to execute the perfect engagement.

First, I needed a reason to be in New York on the day of the proposal, so I enlisted the support of Elysha’s sister, Emily, who helped me tremendously. Two weeks before the proposal, Emily called and asked us to come into the city that day. She also arranged for a luncheon at Ruby Foos following the engagement.

My plan was to propose to Elysha on the top steps of Grand Central, overlooking the famous clock and the throng of holiday shoppers and tourists that were sure to be jamming the place that day. Embedded within that mass of travelers and holiday shoppers would be our friends and family, remaining hidden amongst the crowd in order to watch the proposal and then surprise Elysha immediately thereafter.

This required a lot of coordination. Emily and our friend, Cindy, were instrumental in this task. First I had to get word to everyone who I wanted to invite, making sure that they maintained absolute secrecy from anyone not invited until after the proposal. We had to arrange for these people (22 in all) to be on a train from New Haven prior to the train that Elysha and I would be traveling on, and we also had to ensure that they would be out of the New Haven terminal before Elysha and I arrived.

We also had people living in New York City who were coming in for the proposal, as well as one family who were on their way home from Washington, DC who would be stopping at Grand Central to join us.  Coordinating the timing and placement of these people in the terminal was quite a challenge.

In order to purchase the engagement ring, I assembled a committee of four of Elysha’s friends. While she was in an after-school meeting at work, the committee convened in the classroom of one of these friends. While I kept a watchful eye on the hallway, these women went online to choose the perfect ring based upon the specifications I had gleaned from Elysha over the previous year and their own knowledge of her.

Once they were all in agreement, they purchased the ring and had a shipped to the home of another colleague for safe keeping.

Delegation, people. Never underestimate it.

All was in place when Elysha and I left the house on the morning of December 28, 2004. Plans were finalized, reservations for lunch were set, and the diamond was stuffed deep into my coat pocket.

Of course, nothing ever goes perfectly.

About 15 minutes from the station, Cindy called. Texting was still in its infancy in 2004, so phones were still primarily being used as phones. I pretended that she was my mother, so while I pretended to speak to Mom, Cindy informed me that my friend, Jeff, was running late (almost certainly because of his wife) and might still be in the New Haven terminal when Elysha and I arrived. I purposely took a wrong turn off the exit to add time to our trip and was immediately berated by Elysha for doing so.

Upon arriving in the New Haven terminal, I discovered that MetroNorth had unexpectedly added another train to their schedule: an express that would put us into New York just minutes behind the train that our friends were already riding. Elysha saw the earlier train on the schedule and suggested that we take it.

This was not good.

I knew that Cindy and Emily would need time to position everyone in the terminal, and a few minutes might not be enough. Thinking fast, I explained to Elysha that Emily was expecting us on the later train, and since we had time to kill, we could get some breakfast and relax for once in our lives, since we are usually sprinting to make every train we had ever taken. She agreed, and the potential disaster was averted.

Trouble raised its ugly head again about halfway to New York, when a train in front of us broke down, forcing our train back to Bridgeport in order to switch tracks. In all our trip was extended by 45 minutes, which was fine for me but began driving Elysha batty. The last thing I wanted prior to my proposal was a frustrated future fiancée staring me in the face. Thankfully a New York magazine crossword kept her busy enough to remain sane or else things might have been ugly. As she attempted to decipher the clues to the crossword, I went to the bathroom in order to call Cindy and warn her of the delay.

The last bit of trouble occurred upon arriving at the station. Because we had been switched to an alternate track, our train arrived somewhere in the bowels of Grand Central, on a track that Elysha and I had never seen before. Our friends and family had been positioned with the expectation that we would be arriving at a specific track number, and now I had no idea where we might emerge into the station. And because we were deep underground when we arrived, I had no cell phone service with which to warn Cindy.

All she knew was that Elysha was wearing an orange coat.

Thankfully that turned out to be enough.

As we emerged into the station, I grabbed Elysha’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs, aware that our friends could be anywhere at this point. I told her that I wanted to show her something. She rolled her eyes and followed. Someone in our group of friends spotted the orange coat climbing the stairs and everyone was watching as we reached the precipice. At the top of the stairs, amongst a throng of people, I stopped Elysha and turned her toward me.

The dialogue that took place was as follows:

Me: I chose this place because I know it’s your favorite room in the world.

Elysha: Yeah…

Me: And I wanted a place that would always be here, so that someday we could show our kids, so…could you hold my book?

I had a book in my hand and wasn’t smooth enough to drop it to the floor. Elysha took the book and I removed the ring box from my pocket. Just then a police officer stepped between us.

Police officer: Please keep moving. You can’t block the stairway.

A second later she saw the ring box and smiled.

Police officer: Oh… (stepping back)

Me: (Dropping to one knee)

Elysha: (Starting to cry)

Me: (On one knee) Elysha Green, I love you with all my heart and want to spend the rest of my life with you. (Opening the ring box) Will you marry me?

Elysha: (Starting crying and reaching out to hug me, never answering the question)

Friends: (Screaming in the distance, by our friends, who were immediately surrounded by National Guard soldiers)

Me: That’s all of our friends screaming honey…

Elysha: (Continuing to cry)

The country was on threat level ultra-bad red that day, so the military was on hight alert. When 22 people erupted into cheers, the soldiers sprung into action, immediately surrounding the source of the disturbance. After assuring the National Guard that they weren’t preparing to commit an act of terrorism, our friends began racing up the stairs, with the principal of our school, Plato Karafelis, who would officiate our wedding two years later, in the lead, shouting and pumping his fist.

Elysha: Is that Plato?

Then a moment later…

Elysha: Oh my God. Where did you all come from?

The rest of the day was perfect. After the proposal, we all enjoyed lunch at Ruby Foos and then made our way down to Rockefeller Center to check out the tree and have our photo taken beneath it.  Snow was lightly falling, the streets were abuzz with holiday shoppers, and things could not have been more beautiful. 

It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. 

Elysha, however, has yet to answer my question.

Speak Up Storytelling #78: Storytelling Forensics - "Searching for the Holy Grail"

On episode #78 of the Speak Up Storytelling podcast, Matthew Dicks analyzes his own story "Searching for the Holy Grail" in an episode we call Storytelling Forensics. 

LINKS

Purchase Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling

Purchase Twenty-one Truths About Love 

Homework for Life: https://bit.ly/2f9ZPne

Matthew Dicks's website: http://www.matthewdicks.com

Matthew Dicks's YouTube channel:
https://www.youtube.com/matthewjohndicks 

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Christmas Day 2019 round up

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.

Mostly because we don’t have rodents living in our home. If we did, I would hire an exterminator immediately.

Then children were nestled, all snug in their beds, with visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads.

Just kidding. What the hell is a sugar plum anyway?

This was the moment when I decided that it would be the perfect time to clean out the pantry. Organize things a bit. The perfect Christmas Eve activity. As I sorted through bottles and cans and inspected expiration dates, I found some bottles of lemonade and iced tea that had expired during the first Obama administration. I tossed them into a garbage bag with a bunch of other less-than-fresh items and brought them outside to the trash.

As I crossed the driveway, the bag broke open. The bottles hit the pavement, One broke. A shard of glass pierced my slipper and lodged itself into the bottom of my foot. It hurt like hell.

Elysha managed to extract the glass from my foot with tweezers. A little Christmas Eve surgery.

It still hurts a little.

Not a great start to Christmas.
_______________________________

As expected, my favorite moment of Christmas was the early morning hours before the children came down the stairs and rain across the living room floor to open their presents. For me, anticipation, excitement, and expectation are far better than all that ever follows, so these moments before the festivities begin are always my favorite.

Seeing the kids peak from between the rails of the bannister at their gifts was also pretty great.

Our children are exceptionally appreciative about the gifts they receive. I always feel blessed by the gratitude they express. Watching them open their presents and shout out in excitement is pretty great, too.

This day was no different.

Charlie received a book on chemistry from Santa. As he showed it to Clara, she said, “Maybe it has a periodic table of elements inside.”

“I hope so!” Charlie said.

My kids are wicked smart.
_______________________________

My brother was the first person to arrive on Christmas day. We chatted for about three hours about many things. I learned that:

My grandfather on my mother’s side was an Army Ranger in World War II and a recipient of the Bronze Star. I knew he fought in Europe during the war, but in Jeremy’s words, “Pépère was a bad ass.”

My grandfather on my father’s side also fought in World War II, eventually becoming a machinist in the European theater. I also knew that he had fought in the war, but didn’t know where or what he did.

My great grandfather on my father’s side - who I knew well as a boy - fought in World War I as a sailor in the US Navy. I did not know this at all.

Considering that my father was drafted and fought in Vietnam, this means that my brother and I are the first generation in our family who did not go to war.

Lucky us.

Especially lucky for my brother. He enlisted in the Army in 1990 right out of high school and was preparing for deployment to Operation Desert Storm when the National Guard unit to which his unit was attached and was training went AWOL, making national news and delaying, and ultimately preventing, my brother’s unit from deploying.

Crazy. Without those guys going AWOL, Jeremy would’ve fought in Kuwait or Iraq.

Jeremy first learned of the National Guard unit going AWOL on the front cover of USA Today one early morning. Up until then, he had assumed that the National Guard unit was still present on the training site.

President Clinton later pardoned the two men in command of the unit.
_______________________________

Elysha put our friend Kaia, and then others, to work frosting her cookies. It turned out to be lots of fun for all involved, and I think it’s something she should do every year.

Delegation is a beautiful thing.

We purchased four new chairs for the kids’ art table last week. I thought that with a couple hours to kill on Christmas morning, I would assemble them. I spent 90 minutes putting one of the chairs together. Later, Elysha spent less than 45 minutes putting together the other three and fixing the one I put together because I suck.

This is why Elysha assembles most things in our family.
_______________________________

I looked it up. A sugar plum is “a comfit—that is, a seed, nut, or scrap of spice coated with a layer of hard sugar.”

Yeah, no one has dreamed of a sugar plum in at least a hundred years. If ever.

I hope your Christmas day was as delightful as mine.

My 2019 Christmas haul

Every Christmas, I take inventory of the holiday gifts that my wife gives me.

Some people wish for cashmere sweaters, the latest gadget, stylish watches, and jewelry. My hope is often for the least pretentious, most unexpected, quirkiest little gift possible, and she never fails to deliver. 

When it comes to gift giving, Elysha is brilliant.

For the past ten years, I’ve been documenting the gifts that sh has given me on Christmas because they are so damn good. Every year has been just as good as the last, if not better.

The  2009 Christmas haul included a signed edition of a Kurt Vonnegut novel.
The 2010 Christmas haul included a key that I still use today.
The 2011 Christmas haul included my often-used Mr. T in a Pocket.
The 2012 Christmas haul included my fabulous No button.
The 2013 Christmas haul included a remote controlled helicopter.
The 2014 Christmas haul included an "I Told You So" pad.
The 2015 Christmas haul included schadenfreude mints: "As delicious as other people's misery."
The 2016 haul featured a commissioned painting of the map of my childhood Boy Scout camp.
The 2017 haul featured a commissioned painting of my grandparent’s farmhouse.
My 2019 haul featured a Viewmaster Viewer with slides containing photos of our family.

This year was no different. Elysha was just as good.

My gifts this year included:

An incredible, perfect, highly recommended children’s picture book entitled “Ralph Tells a Story” by Abby Hanlon which reflects my personal philosophy of storytelling with almost absolute exactitude

A specially designed travel case for the 9,000 cables and cords that I carry with me at all times

A duffel bag that zippers into a tiny pouch for travel

BB-8 mints

Megaphone voice changer

Lightsaber key change (that lights up!)

Personalized stationary

Paper tantrum post-its

Star Wars Han Solo/Princess Leia pins (“I love you” and “I know”)

Kurt Vonnegut magnet

Titanium wireless bone conduction headphones

An Earraser (an eraser shaped like a human ear)

Shakespearean insult calendar

Aggressive “Deal with this” post-its

Fantastic as always.

The three gift you should want to want

Tomorrow is Christmas Day. Elysha is famous (at least in my mind) for her amazing gift giving. Over the years, she has given me some of the most incredible gifts of my life.

So amazing that I’ve been cataloging them for the past ten years. They include:

Artists renditions of my childhood home and my grandparents’ home.

A signed copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel.

An artist’s recreation of the map from my Boy Scout camp

Dozens of small, clever, ridiculous little gifts that I play with all the time

Happily Elysha never asks me for possible gift ideas, because I can be a difficult person when it comes to presents. Though I love her gifts tremendously and would'n’t give them up for the world, I am much more interested in eliminating things from my life than adding to it. The accumulation of stuff does not interest me. In fact, if someone would just agree to clean out the the extra furniture from my basement and remove the large, unwanted items from the garage or shed, that might be the best birthday gift of all.

But if cleaning out my basement doesn't strike you as a reasonable gift, there are three things that I want more than anything else, and I humbly suggest that you consider them as gift ideas for yourself as well. 

I promise you that they are far superior to any cashmere sweater, shiny trinket, or electronic gadget that you think you may want. 

Time

Truthfully, the best gift of all is the gift of time, and it's not a terribly difficult or expensive gift to give. In the past, my wife has hired people to cut the grass, rake the leaves, and shovel the driveway, thus returning this precious time to me.

Other options for the giving of time include babysitting my children, digitizing my photo albums, bringing my car to the shop to get that light on the dashboard checked out, determining the contents of the boxes in my attic, correcting all my spelling tests for a month, or offering to complete any task or chore that I would otherwise have to do myself. 

Your list would be different, of course Hopefully it doesn't include a warning light on your dashboard or mystery boxes in your attic. But I'm sure you can think of things that you would rather not do that a friend or family member is more than capable of accomplishing on your behalf.

I know what you're thinking:

"Matt, I'd rather mow my own grass and receive that cashmere sweater instead."

"I'd rather correct my own spelling tests and open a brand new iPad on my birthday."

"I'm more than happy to shovel my driveway. Give me that new Fitbit/star finder/water purification device that I have wanted for months."

No. I'm sorry, but you're wrong. I know it may seem presumptuous to tell you what you want, but trust me. I know. I know the difference between what you want and what you think you want, and the two could not be more different.

Studies repeatedly show that money spent on experiences generates far greater happiness than money spent on things. The gift of time is the gift of an experience otherwise lost to a mindless or meddlesome chore. It's the opportunity to play with your kids or enjoy dinner with a friend or read a book or watch a movie. 

I promise you that when you are lying on your death bed, surrounded by all of your material possessions - your stuff - your greatest regret will be the time you could've spent with friends and family. At that moment, the gift of time will mean more to you than anything else. 

It should mean that much today. Don't wait until it's too late to appreciate it.

Honestly, you don't need any more clothing or jewelry or electronics. 

You could do without the device that clips to your belt or fastens to your handlebars or makes imaginary things explode when you click the right combination of buttons. 

The thing you should crave - more than anything else - is time.  

Knowledge

Coming in a close second to time (and in many ways its first cousin) is the gift of knowledge. Find a way to teach me to do something that I’ve always wanted to do but never could or haven’t had time yet to learn. 

Either teach me yourself or find someone who can do it for you.

We all go through life wishing that we could do more. Accomplish more. Achieve more. This is a gift that would allow a person to take one small step closer to those dreams. 

For me, it's meant sending my wife to a cooking or an art class. It’s meant giving her a ukulele and a dozen lessons.

For Elysha, it's meant buying me an hour with a professional poker player or an afternoon with a golf instructor.

In these instances, we walk away with nothing material but something far more valuable: The gift of knowledge. The acquisition of a skill. A slight improvement in an area that means a great deal to us. 

Far more valuable than a pretty scarf or a new sweater. 

And I assure you: There are skills and knowledge that you would like to acquire if you think hard. Here is a small list of the many things I want to currently learn:

Hit my driver longer and more consistently

Pitch a comedy special to Netflix

Determine if I should commit to one airline in order to accumulate frequent flyer miles or simply continue to look for the best price and most convenient routes regardless of airline

Use Instagram more productively

Improve the SEO and visibility of our podcast

Cook a simple, delicious meal that my entire family would enjoy

Experience

This one is simple and spoken about often. Want to make me happy? Send me to a Broadway show. Get me tickets to a Yankees game. Bring me to see a comedian who I love.

Last year, one of colleagues arranged for me to have lunch with a newly retired colleague and friend. Seeing my friend step into my classroom with a bag of food and an hour to spend was one of the best gifts that I’ve ever received.

It doesn’t take much to create a memorable and unique experience for a person. You won’t have anything to show for the experience once its done except the memories of the moment, but that is always better than the stuff that clutters our homes.

Those three things - time, knowledge, and experience - are better than almost any gift you could ever give me, and I encourage you to think similarly.

That said, I can’t wait to see what Elysha will give me tomorrow. While I’m not a fan of accumulating things, the gifts that Elysha gives me are so filled with thought and consideration that I can’t help but adore them. They are always hilarious or clever or so deeply nostalgic that they bring tears to my eyes.

Books in hotel rooms

In a hotel in Indianapolis. I found these two books - The Bible and The Book of Mormon - sitting on the corner of the desk, one atop the other. It was odd, seeing them stacked like this, as if one is a sequel of the other.

Actually, if you’re Mormon, I guess that’s exactly how you think of them.

In terms of the books being supplied by hotels, I think we could probably do better. Admittedly, I’m a reluctant atheist who wishes he believed in something akin to God, so perhaps I would feel differently if I was lucky enough to possess faith. But I’ve read The Bible cover to cover three times, and though I’m a big fan of Jesus and enjoy the book of Psalms quite a lot, it’s hard to embrace a book that justifies bigotry against my LGBTQ friends and students.

Not to mention the violence and terror contained within its pages. Just turn to 2nd Kings 2:23-34, where God sends two bears to kill 42 children for making fun of Elisha’s baldness.

It’s a real thing.

Try reading that alone, in a hotel room, in a strange city, late at night.

The Bible is filled with moments like this. Moments that aren’t part of the readings at Sunday service but are just as real as the testaments of Jesus.

How about in place of The Bible and The Book of Mormon, we consider something like The Art of Happiness by Dalai Lama and The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger? Maybe Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig or Springsteen’s memoir Born to Run?

Books slightly and consistently more inspiring. And decidedly less terrifying and absent of the constant demands that we kill homosexuals, adulterers, fortunetellers, women who are not virgins on their wedding night,. children who curse their parents, and many, many more.

I sent this photo to my friend, Shep, while still in Indiana. He thought that The Book of Mormon might have been placed in the room without the knowledge of the hotel, so I had to check.

The woman behind the front desk said, “Yes, The Bible and The Book of Mormon are supplied to us, so we place both in the rooms as a courtesy for our guests.”

“Really?” I replied. “What if I were to supply you with copies of the Qur'an? Would you place them in the room as a courtesy for your guests?”

“I can’t comment on that,” the woman said, clearly unsettled. “Anything else?”

What I really wanted to propose was The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but I suspect that she (and most people) are not familiar with this particular religious tome. But I have a copy if you’d like to borrow it. It admittedly contains nothing as inspiring or enlightened as Jesus, but it also doesn’t demand that we kill people who work on Sundays, either (Exodus 31:12-15).

The unopened gift is always the best gift

On Friday one of my students presented me with this gift.

I told the kids that the only thing I wanted from any of them was to work hard and be kind, but some still came to school this week offering me small, unnecessary expressions their gratitude for my efforts.

This was one of my favorites.

Admittedly, I have no idea what is in the box, and I may never know. I liked the homemade wrapping paper so much that I couldn’t bring myself to open the gift.

In truth, my favorite gift in the unopened gift. I’m always most excited about any present given to me just before I open it. I adore the mystery, excitement, anticipation, and promise that an unopened gift offers. Once a gift is opened, it becomes a thing. A sweater. A small bit of electronics. A book. Tickets to a show.

All delightful and greatly appreciated, but somehow not quite as exciting as the unknown.

Similarly, my favorite moment on Christmas Day are the seconds just before the kids come tumbling down to the stairs to see what Santa have left for them. Those precious moments before the first gift is opened and the secrets hidden beneath the wrapping paper become just another part of our life.

More things in the midst of too many things.

This box is currently sitting on a shelf in my classroom, and if my student agrees, I’ll be leaving it there forever. The beautiful, homemade wrapping paper and the joy of the unopened present are both far too precious and far too beloved by me to be disturbed.

I’m sure there is something lovely and thoughtful beneath that wrapping paper, but honestly, there is no way that it will measure up to the delightfulness of the wrapping paper and the mystery that it contains.

Makeup at the gym

Maybe it’s just me, but the weirdest thing about wearing makeup to the gym - which I see more often than you would think - is that the gym is a place where the expectation is that you need not look your best self.

Yes, I understand that some people want to put their best foot forward at all times, and especially when you’re meeting new people, but your best foot forward is different depending upon the situation.

You’re at the gym. Lifting weights. Running. Jumping. If you’re doing it right, you’re supposed to be sweating and red-faced. You’re supposed to be wearing your old college tee shirt and a pair of sweat pants. You’re not supposed to be looking fresh-faced. Your lashes need not be extended to their full length. Your blush should be natural. Not artificially applied.

Makeup in this situation seems weird to me. Also, if I notice your makeup, you must be wearing a lot of it, because I don’t notice anything.

Admittedly, I also think that most makeup is a terrible waste of time and not terribly attractive, so perhaps my predispositions are playing a role here, but I don’t think so. If everyone around you isn’t concerned about their eye line or the color of their lips, why paint your face?

More importantly, why so obviously paint your face?

Perhaps my real predisposition is this:

I think that one of the most attractive qualities in a person is confidence. It’s one of the things that I first noticed about Elysha and continue to love to this day. She routinely places herself well outside her comfort zone and is constantly expands her boundaries. She went from never wanting to stand on a stage to becoming a host and emcee so talented that other emcees have asked her for advice. She went from never playing the ukulele or singing in public two years ago to someone who has done so a handful of times, on both the east and west coast. She enters every social situation with confidence and grace. Turns strangers into friends at the drop of a dime.

She’s also a person who will roll out of bed, brush her teeth, don a baseball cap, and head off to brunch.

That, in my mind, is beautiful. Confident and beautiful.

Applying makeup for your Saturday morning spin class does not strike me as terribly confident.

Of course, I don’t know if any of this is true. These makeup-clad exercisers might be incredibly confident people. Perhaps more confident than me. They might be wearing makeup - and a lot of it for me to notice - for reasons I can’t begin to imagine. I’m looking out across the gym from high atop my elliptical machine, passing judgement and making enormous assumptions about people I don’t know at all.

Maybe that pink eye shadow and peach lipstick have nothing to do with the person’s self confidence. Maybe that person who appears camera-ready for the role of backup dancer in a Taylor Swift video has an excellent reason to look this way.

Hey, maybe it takes an enormous amount of confident to wear that much makeup in a place where almost everyone around you is not. Right?

I’m also not being very nice. I’m most definitely violating my policy to never speak about another person’s physical appearance.

So perhaps I should just return my gaze to the screen affixed to my elliptical machine and watch the rebroadcast of last night’s Bruins game.

Stay out the kind of trouble that something like this will probably get me into.

Happily, I'm hard to hurt.

On Saturday I wrote a defense of that famous Peloton ad and braced myself for a scathing assault from the masses over my opinion.

Given the outrage at the commercial, I assumed that everyone hated the ad in equal measure.

Surprisingly (and happily), I was wrong. Other than a couple of readers pushing back a little on parts of my argument, the vast majority responded positively to what I wrote.

Exceedingly positive, in fact. Not only was the online response positive, but I had a multitude of people in real life thank me for the post, too. Apparently the average American had no problem with the commercial, and the stir was caused primarily by exceedingly woke Americans who feed on outrage culture like it’s their sole source of nutrition.

Not so surprising after all.

On Sunday I met someone during a bookstore appearance who had read the post and also approved. I thanked her and explained how I had expected to be eviscerated for my opinion.

“Then why do you do it?” she asked. She reads my blog daily and said that she worries about me. “I read you stuff and sometimes wonder if you don’t realize how annoyed or angry you’re making your readers. Sometimes even I get mad at you. Why post something if you think people will be mad about it?”

I told her not to worry. I explained that I’ve always been someone who almost can’t help but speak his mind, but thankfully, I’m also blessed with the ability to listen to and consider criticism without it bothering me very much. I can honestly count on two hands the number of times that someone’s criticism has stung.

That doesn’t mean that I simply disregard all criticism. I always read it, and in some cases, it has caused me to alter or entire flip my position. But when that criticism comes in the form of a scathing attack, a angry rant, a disappointed finger wag, vicious name calling, or anything else of the kind, I really don’t care.

Oftentimes I find the unhinged response or angry troll amusing.

This is why I often write something with the expectation that the digital mob will come after me with their torches and pitchforks. I hit the “publish” button with the expectation that people will not be happy. Their position may be challenged, and they may be confronted with an opinion that shocks or surprises or offends them, but I also fully expect that some of the responses will be rude, inappropriate, and possibly insane.

Sometimes, like past Saturday when I wrote my defense of the Peloton ad, I’m pleasantly surprised.

But as I said:

I can’t help but say what’s on my mind, and I really don’t care if anyone responds poorly to it.

I explained all of this to this woman at my book store appearance. She stared at me for a long, hard moment, and then she said, “It must be so hard to love you.”

It sounded harsh, but I understand what she meant. It’s probably not always easy for Elysha to watch the digital mob come after me. About a dozen years ago, a hateful, stupid, analog mob came after me, trying to destroy my career and my life, and I know that wasn’t easy on Elysha or myself.

But maybe the woman was just being mean. After describing myself and my position, maybe she determined that I was utterly unloveable. A wretched human being. A rotten, no good, very bad man.

If that was the case, I’m fine with that, too.

As I said, I really don’t care.