"What are you waiting for?" - "I don't know...something incredible, I guess."

2007-12-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

Hope for Average People Everywhere:
I just convinced the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world to marry me!

June 7!

2007-10-17T19:53:00.000-07:00

"Hey you! In the green shirt! Wanna have a dance-off!?"
So this happened about 3 months ago, but it's worth re-telling.

Every summer, numerous camps come through Covenant College. They watch things happen in the chapel (I've always wondered what), wear different colors and compete in events, and, generally speaking, just take up alot of air and space on campus. This is the first summer that I've had the opportunity to interact with the campers, and I was quite excited. Even though I was nearly beside myself with excitement about this opportunity, I tried to play it cool while there were campers around. You know, just act normal. Mostly this meant pretending like the campers weren't there and simply going about my normal business. In spite of these concerted efforts, an unfortunate exchange occurred one day while I was walking back up to my apartment via the stairs outside by the pool. The following account is mostly true, and a great story...

"Hey!"
I keep walking, pretending to be interested in the two pieces of mail (which actually aren't mine) which I'm holding. But the 13-year-old girl is persistent in the way that only 13-year-old girls can be, and is undeterred by my indifference to her epithets.

"Hey you! In the green shirt!"
I panic, surprised by her brashness. She knows who I am. Caught, I turn and give her a glowering look, a look so cold that Al Gore later told me he might have to return his Nobel Prize.

"What?"

"Wanna have a dance-off?!"
And leaving me (literally) no time to reply, she hits a button on her cell phone, techno-crap music begins to play, and she begins to do a sort of shimmy. Or a shig. Wait, that's not a word. I mean a jig. A jig that would mortify Justin Timberlake but was no doubt inspired by the same taste-deficient muse which "inspired" his "music."

It was like seeing this happen, but right in front of you and not on TV or with an English guy but with a 13-year-old middle school girl and I am the guy there in the back left standing there awkwardly with no idea about how to react.

Momentarily stunned, I desperately sought my reply. Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance and with a genuine sigh, I delivered the perfect line: "You win. You always do."
Word.

2007-09-09T06:11:00.000-07:00

Bookending Today:

In "celebration" of my "return to blogging," I offer the following commemorative photograph about the last 4-6 months of my life as well as a photograph projecting what the next 4-6 months of my life will look like. Consider them to be two, six-month bookends on today.

The last six months:

The next six months:

Welp, see ya later!

2006-10-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

Finally: Registration
In spite of the efforts of the Georgia State Department of Motor Vehicles, the Georgia Department of Revenue (twice), Georgia Department of Driver Services, Dade County Tax Commissioner's Office, and the entire state of Georgia itself, I can now legally drive my car, Liesel The Volvo, in the state of Georgia. The car registration saga spanned 5 months and included, but was not limited to: several steps backward in my sanctification, 2 trips to Trenton in a single day, getting lost in Trenton thanks to poor GoogleMap directions, false instructions to send everything to the Georgia DMV, $0.67 in postage, a free donut, seven 30-day drive-off tags from the guy who sold me the car, $301 in sales tax, a $100 "structural integrity" inspection, $3 ATM withdrawal fee, $48.50 to register the car and buy a license plate, a third trip to Trenton, and three phone conversations with a semi-helpful lady named Zell.

But now, Jane I. Moreland, Dade County Tax Commissioner, affirms that my car is in fact legally streetworthy. My only solace in all of this comes from the fact that I cleverly avoided having to pay a $10 fine for failing to register my car in a timely manner by simply refusing to open a bank account until the registration process was nearly complete. Count TheMan as having had it stuck to him.

2006-09-23T22:28:00.000-07:00

Emergency Rooming it on a Saturday Afternoon
So I take people to the hospital alot as part of my responsibilities for work, and today was one of those instances. Two guys collided during an intramural flag football game, knocking heads and leaving one with a definite concussion and bloody lip, and the other feeling woozy. I took the latter to the emergency room, where we spent the next four hours before getting the all-clear. It was not a waste of time by any means, and I was happy to be there with him. Several milestones occurred:

1 - I have now visited the emergency rooms of all of the major hospitals in the Chattanooga area, either as a chaffeur or patient.

2 - I literally came down with a cold after spending four hours in the freezing waiting room.

3 - I struck up a successful conversation with a fellow person in the waiting room. Well, kind of. I'm not actually really sure of anything that he said, but I think it had to do with getting "bit by a #%*$*^! pit bull" who "wanted some dark meat, if you know what I'm saying." He said something about someone (or something) getting shook up, but I'm not sure if he meant the dog shook his hand about or he shook the dog up in response. I'm also not sure if he really understood that I wasn't the guy who had the headache, but that it was my friend: as we left, he told me that he hoped I felt better soon.

I waved goodbye and told him that I hoped he didn't have rabies. He laughed and said that "the $*%&@!& dog is the one who should be concerned, you know what I'm saying?" I didn't, but I said I did.

2006-09-14T14:04:00.000-07:00

A Day in the Life of a Visitor to a Girls Prep School
One of my very best friends in the whole world is a high school history teacher at a nearby girls prep academy. We hadn't seen each other in awhile, so I arranged to bring her lunch today. Basically, what ended up happening was one of the more surreal experiences I've had in awhile. And I'm not even kidding. I'm not even sure how to blog about this. A live-blog would probably have been best, but impossible. So instead, a summary:

True statement: I called Paige twice and texted her twice to let her know that I was at GPS, with lunch, and just needed to find her.

True statement: Paige misplaced her phone today.

True statement: I cruised the GPS parking lot for 15 minutes, hoping against hope that Paige would either call me, text me, or magically appear next to me.

False statement: It is possible for a 22-year-old male in a green Volvo with no tags to cruise the parking lot of a girls-only prep school for 15 minutes without that male becoming concerned that he might, just might, look like a creep.

True statement: The security guard began to drive toward me, so I left GPS and spent the next 20 minutes in the parking lot at Coolidge Park trying to decide what to do.

True statement: I finally returned to GPS, entered the main building, approached the receptionist, explained my Mission (bring Ms. Paige Weichbrodt lunch), and received directions to her classroom.

True statement: I forgot the directions.

False statement: Walking across the campus of a girls prep school at lunchtime is an entirely normal experience, and no one needs to feel awkward.

True statement: I got lost, and a nice lady stopped to help me. By nice I mean that she glared over her glasses at me like I was a creep, but had a smile on her face while she did it. If that makes any sense.

True statement: I received directions to Paige's classroom, but she was not there. A fellow teacher directed me to the cafeteria downstairs, where Paige was just seen having lunch.

True statement: I got checked out by a group of 14-year-olds.

True statement: The cafeteria doors were made of glass, and my presence outside of them was more conspicuous than a homeschooler at prom. A visible epidemic of giggles rippled through the cafeteria.

True statement: Another distinguished woman somehow managed to pick me out of the gaggle of teenage girls also outside the cafeteria. She also asked me if I need any help, with a smiling, friendly, you're-really-not-supposed-to-be-here-so-why-don't-you-cut-the-crap-and-tell-me-what-exactly-you're-doing-here look on her face. I explained the Mission again, and she headed into the cafeteria to find Paige.

True statement: I pretended to be engrossed by a nearby painting.

True statement: After two tries, this lady found Paige and brought her out to me. Through the glass, the giggles in the cafeteria seemed to reach epic proportions.

True statement: Paige and I headed back to her classroom where we had a 10 minute lunch before classes started again. She suggested that I stay, and we can finish chatting after the class is over. Figuring that a surreal day needed a crowning point, I agreed.

True statement: 15 freshmen girls asked, loudly, who Ms. Weichbrodt's "man friend" is. She replied, "my brother in law." 15 disappointed freshmen girls moan "Awww..." in unison as it's revealed that I am not, in fact, Ms. Weichbrodt's boyfriend.

True statement: Class discussion was on Renaissance artwork, including a sculpture of a naked boy squatting on a stool that looks suspiciously like a toilet. Ms. Weichbrodt asked if there were any Renaissance-era characteristics of the sculpture. One girl yelled out that he was, like, naked. The room erupted in giggles.

Few things have happened to me that were more funny that today. And that is not a lie.

2006-07-10T03:58:00.000-07:00

Now Showing: Our Flat World...in HDTV
After a politely threatening email to my friends and family, 12 hours of avoiding the Internet, and a glib comment about the outcome from the last person I would have expected at church to even care about the World Cup final, I sat down with my brothers to watch the match on tape-delay. As further evidence of what Thomas Friedman writes about in his book, The World is Flat, more than a billion people around the world were able to watch the match. I suppose it was due to globalization, then, that just when we thought we'd seen it all (a World Cup final decided by a yo' mamma joke, Italy win a penalty shootout, etc.) the single most incredible moment in World Cup history occurred as those billion people around the world saw Gennaro Gattusso celebrating on the pitch in his underpants...in HDTV.

2006-07-08T15:55:00.000-07:00

The Very Best of World Cup

2006-06-28T19:10:00.000-07:00

I Stopped Holding My Breathe a Long Time Ago
From an undisclosed Christian college in the great northeastern state of Pennsylvania:

Dear Mr. Mather:
Thanks you very much for speaking with us regarding the position of Resident Director at __________ College. Those who spoke with you were impressed with your experience and interest in ____________ College. You presented yourself effectively.

I wanted you to know as soon as possible that the College has decided that we will not be offering a position to you at this time. Although this may be a disappointment, we wanted you to have this information now so that you will feel free to pursue other opportunities.

Sincerely,
[Director of Human Resources]

2006-06-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

Maybe He Smoked Some of A-Ville's Finest

For my Asheville friends:

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2006/baseball/more/06/26/manager.ejection.ap/index.html?cnn=yes

2006-06-21T14:44:00.000-07:00

Sudoku and Hair Cuts Go Together

When I'm home, I get my hair cut by my Mom's barber. Actually, she's not so much a barber as she is a stylist. This stylist's name is Jean and her salon is called Ilima's. (When I was younger, I accidentally called Jean "Ilima" because when Mom said "I'm going to Ilima's for a haircut" I used to think that that was what the stylist's name was). I have been going to Ilima's for the last 4 years for at least two reasons: (1) My Mom decided after 14 years of giving me haircuts that she was no good at it. (2) I failed miserably in my only endeavor to cut my own hair. Also, Jean is really, really nice. She always has something nice to say about our family. In fact, every time I go to Ilima's I am sure to hear these two favorable statements:

(1) "Oh your sister she is so amazing. I still cannot believe that she would clean people's houses during the summer. I mean, what a gal, yeah?"
(2) "Do you have a girl up there yet? ... Oh that's too bad. But how can that be? You have such pretty eyes. I mean, ________ look at his eyes! Gorgeous, yeah?"

This is an Old Hawai'i experience for you.

Anyway, I went to said Ilima's last Friday to get my hair cut by the aforementioned Jean. There are two things which are important to understand here. First, Jean has been cutting hair for over 100 years. Second, Jean has regular customers, most of them older Japanese women, who come in on "their" day during the week for "the usual." By this I mean that certain women come every Monday, certain ones come every Tuesday, etc. etc. and on that day they get the usual - a perm, coloring, a trim, a washing, or whatever. It's kind of a like a city diner, but for hair.

Sometimes the regulars come in on their "off" days to help Jean sweep the shop or to talk story. More often than not, this leads to interesting experiences. For example, during past haircuts at Ilima's I have heard discussions about vertigo, pre-marital sex, and... President Bush being a spy for Texas. This last time led to another gem:

The woman sitting next to me has just had her hair done and is not sitting next to me in one of those chairs where the hair dryer thing or whatever comes from over your head. She is asleep. I am reading the comics. All of a sudden:

"Eh! Hey! Hey you! Hey you boy! Yoohoo! Hey!

"Eh?"

"Hey you! You know dat da kine, da Japanese puzzle they have in da newspaper? You know what I talkin' about?"

"Yeah. Da, um, sudoku puzzles yeah?"

"Yeah dat one. You good at dat or what?"

"Hyeh. No, I'm not. I not smart enough."

"Oh yeah? Yeah... Yeah I can see that yeah. I tried 'em one time too but too hard for me. You know why? They just too hard yeah?"

"Yeah. I have a roommate who likes those kine, but I not smart enough for those."

"Oh yeah? Ho."

She falls back asleep.

2006-06-13T01:31:00.000-07:00

Lost in Translation
Living in Hawai'i is often equated with living in paradise. And, as advertised, we have beautiful islands, beautiful people, and beautiful weather. Unfortunately, at least two things stick out as decidedly non-paradise-ish about living in Hawai'i. The first is the cost of living. If you are looking to purchase a 3bedroom/2bath home in Hawai'i, and also happen to be the ruler of a small nation, you should probably be aware that your entire national budget would be used up in the purchase. It makes sense, since we live on just a handful of tiny islands, but land is incredibly expensive here. Also, gas prices in Hawai'i are so high above the national average that even Jan Koller felt small when he filled up his rental car at the local gas station (Shout out! World Cup!) I kid you not: it costs a heck of a lot to live in Hawai'i.

So that's the first thing. The second ugly blot on Hawai''si paradise resumè has to do with the fact that we are bad drivers. We are don't-turn-on-the-blinker bad, get-in-stupid-accidents bad, and don't-obey-basic-rules-of-the-road bad. But the biggest reason why I hate driving in Hawai'i stems from the fact that, in stark contrast to our reputation as a very laid back and hospitable state, drivers in Hawai'i tend to take everything that happens on the road very, very personally. If you cut someone off, whether bruddah, sistah, aunty, or uncle, there is a reasonable chance that you will get more than just stink-eye. At no time was this more clearly demonstrated than, well, yesterday.

Yesterday evening I was driving myself and my two younger brothers to church in our mommy van. To make a highly detailed explanation of the scenario extremely vague and not at all helpful, I turned on to the highway by our house and incurred the wrath of the occupants of a Little Gray Honda. Basically, Little Gray Honda wanted to move over a lane in order to turn into the shopping center by our house. I entered the highway and began to accelerate in this lane, however, because the lane is not your typical acceleration lane which ends after 50 yards or so. Rather, it is its very own lane set aside for people (like me) who are seeking to enter the highway from this particular street (like we were). Confused? Don't be. Basically I am just trying to establish that I was in no way at fault for what happened next.

What happened next was that Little Gray Honda sped up and matched speeds with us so that we were even with one another. The following took place in the span of two seconds:

5:20.34PM - I glance over. I see an extremely angry-looking man in the driver's seat.
5:20.34.4PM - Also, I see a woman. She has chosen to extend the central finger of her right hand toward the heavens in a salute to what she perceives as my deficiency of automobile-driving skill and etiquette. I do not know this woman, but if I could give her a name I would not name her "Joy" or "Harmony." In short, she is not a Proverbs 31 woman.
5:20.34.8PM - Troubled that this woman has, sadly, misinterpreted my decision to even exist in bodily form as a direct insult against the very fabric of her soul, I give her a sheepish grin.
5:20.35PM - My gesture is lost in translation. In retrospect, I can only speculate that she may have misinterpreted my polite smile as a categorically inappropriate, sexually-charged comment about her mother. (This is false).
5:20.35.8PM - As I accelerate ahead and Angry Man begins to slow down, the Maiden of the Little Gray Honda appears to suggest, though I may have mis-read her lips, that I go "Chuck a ewe!"

She must have forgotten that land out here is too expensive for sheep-herding.