The Struggle to Find the Christmas Spirit

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I have a lot of outstanding Christmas memories as a kid, topped by Christmas Eves at my paternal grandparents' house. This year, however, I had a lot of trouble getting into the Christmas spirit. I can't really put my finger on a specific reason why, but it just wasn't happening for me this year.

We decorated the inside and the outside of the house, but that didn't help.

Through a local organization, we bought gifts for some local kids whose family needed a little assistance, but that didn't help.

The Mrs. took Olivia and June to the library one night, where they made a "gingerbread house" out of graham crackers, pink frosting, gumdrops, licorice, Sweet-Tarts, and M&M's, but that didn't help.

Another trip to the library for a celebration of the 60th anniversary of the release of the "Candyland" board game didn't help, either.

We drove through the Winter Wonderland Christmas lights display, we listened to Christmas music, we watched some favorite Christmas movies, we went to a community Christmas celebration, the girls met Santa a few times...and none of it helped.

All of that stuff was fun to do, and Olivia and June enjoyed all of it, but I just couldn't get into the spirit of Christmas. I couldn't even muster up the spirit to send out Christmas cards this year.

I think part of it was that 2009 just hasn't been a particularly good year for me. Nothing disastrous happened (knock on wood), but there seemed to be an endless supply of adversity to overcome this year. More so than in typical years. Now, 2009 wasn't anywhere near as bad as 1998, which was an unparallelled train wreck of a year for me, but 2009 won't go down in the history books as one of my favorite years. I have high hopes that 2010 will be better. But I came into the 2009 holiday season kind of flat to begin with.

As with every holiday season, I read lots of on-line articles this year that were chastising us all to focus on "the reason for the season." There were also a number of articles hotly debating the merits of telling others "Merry Christmas" vs. "Happy holidays." Personally, I have no preference as to how someone sends me holiday greetings, but apparently some people take great offense to "Merry Christmas" not being uttered by every God-fearing human being on the face of the planet. I'm not a church-going person, but I like to think that I'm spiritual, and I have never forgotten that Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. I resent other people's religious beliefs being forced upon me, especially in a fire-and-brimstone method. There are plenty of people who celebrate other spiritual holidays around this time of year, instead of or in addition to Christmas. For me, it's the sentiment behind the greeting, not the specific words themselves, that's important. Gentle reminders not to lose sight of the original reason for celebrating Christmas--especially in the midst of the bastardized, Americanized, commercialized version that Christmas has become over time--are fine for those who choose to celebrate Christmas, but the damning tone of the articles I read really pissed me off. I wanted to hunt those people down and tell them "Happy holidays" just out of spite. But that's not very Christmas spirit-y.

Ironically, all of the articles I read on the Internet that begged us to remember why we celebrate Christmas--beyond spending ourselves into mounds of debt--were surrounded by flashing, expanding, and talking advertisements to buy, buy, buy from an endless variety of merchants.

The commercialism of Christmas definitely spoils the holiday spirit for me a lot. Stores around here--and likely everywhere in the United States--had Christmas stuff on display BEFORE Halloween, cramming yuletide merchandising down my throat in the middle of October. This, at a time when my employer--like so many employers nationwide--is experiencing a significant budget problem that will trickle down to us employees in varying degrees, and countless people around me, ranging from close friends to people I supervise on probation, are losing hours, benefits, and/or their jobs. So when I'm looking for a bag of Snickers to hand out to kids in a couple of weeks while worrying about what the financial future holds for me and those I care about, I'm not real thrilled when it looks like Jolly Old Saint Nick already exploded all over the inside of Wal-Mart.

Beyond the financial aspect of buying Christmas gifts, there's a lot of pressure involved with it. The Mrs. and I have a fairly small circle of people that we buy presents for, and both of our families have adopted buy-for-only-one-adult traditions, but it's still stressful. Is our gift good enough for the recipient? How will it compare to the gift that they might give to us? Will our gift be embarrassingly puny compared to their gift? Or will our gift shame them into thinking that their gift was embarrassingly puny? That's an even worse feeling than feeling embarrassed myself. Have we forgotten anyone? What if someone unexpectedly gives us a gift, but we don't have a gift for them? Who are we expected to buy for? And what level of gift do they expect?

I understand that gifts for Olivia and June's teachers are expected, but is a plate of homemade fudge good enough? (It's really good fudge!) Or will that result in our girls being relegated to the dunce corner and cleaning the chalkboards every day for a year? We read on-line that teachers appreciate gift cards, but how much is an appropriate amount? We don't want to insult their teachers or imply that we don't appreciate what they do for our girls, but we also don't want to appear to be buying favoritism for our kids. And who else are we expected to buy for? Even our newspaper carrier left us a not-so-subtle hint that she'd like a gift. Who's next? The trash collectors? The mail carrier? The meter reader?

Then there's the matter of my probationers. Some of them obviously feel the same type of conflict about bringing me gifts. Our ethical canons prohibit us from accepting gifts of any sort, but when someone brings a plate of homemade cookies, do I insult them and refuse the gift? Or do I violate my professional ethics and accept the gift? And what exactly is the probationer trying to accomplish by bringing me a gift? Is it just benign Christmas spirit? Or is this some sort of manipulation? I also hesitate to consume homemade food prepared by probationers, since it would be an ideal way for someone to get me to ingest any variety of things that I would prefer not to ingest. Over the years, I've had a wide range of gifts offered to me by probationers, ranging anywhere from cookies to some discreet one-on-one holiday "cheer", if you catch my drift. While the gifts and offers range in their levels of awkwardness (the one-on-one activity takes the cake on the awkwardness scale), it's always uncomfortable for me to deal with what to do about a gift offered by someone I supervise on probation.

(If any of my probationers are reading this, please don't ever bring me gifts. If your intentions are good, I appreciate the thought, but I can't accept gifts.)

And don't even get me started on what level of hell I'm in, being out in the herds of people Christmas shopping.

So Christmas Eve rolled around, and I just wasn't feeling it. I worked half a day, and then we had a County-wide Christmas luncheon. It was nice to socialize with my coworkers a little bit, as well as see some other County employees that I hadn't seen in awhile. The genuinely-felt "Merry Christmas" (and "Happy holidays") exchanges I had with several people made me feel good.

That night, we went over to Chuck's house and spent the evening with his family and some other friends of ours. It was a really great evening. We had a potluck dinner, exchanged gifts for the kids (we mercifully stopped the adult gift exchange a few years ago), and had a very relaxed and fun evening surrounded by people that I love a great deal. I also played a joke on Chuck's son and nephew that made me laugh harder and longer than I've laughed in a long, long time. (Don't worry, they got their real gifts the next day.) At some point during the evening, I FINALLY started feeling the Christmas spirit.

As we put two wiped-out little girls to bed, Olivia spoke excitedly about where Santa was on the computer screen (thanks to a website tracking Santa's progress) and how close he was to our house. She went to bed with all the dolls she had gotten at Chuck's house earlier in the evening, and her unfiltered excitement was undeniable. Visions of sugarplums were dancing in her head. June's not quite old enough yet to grasp what was going to happen while she slept, but she was excited because her big sister was excited. Seeing my kids getting animated infused me with a little more Christmas spirit.

I was awakened at some ungodly hour in the morning on Christmas Day by Olivia running through the house like a banshee, shrieking, "SANTA CAME!! SANTA CAME!! SANTA CAME!!" She suffered the agony of having to wait for June to wake up before we started opening stockings and presents, but once the girls got the green light from us to tear into their bounty, it was magical. The looks on their faces, their excited shouting, their pure glee about Santa bringing them Barbie dolls, crayons, coloring books, lip gloss, and all the other treasures in their stockings and under the tree made Christmas totally worth it for me. My daughters filled my Christmas spirit tank.

Later in the day, we went to my sister's house and enjoyed a terrific day with my family. Olivia and June rough-housed with my dad, which resulted in one of the greatest photographs ever, perfectly capturing the joy in the hearts of all three of them. My daughters later enjoyed participating in a long-standing family tradition with my mom and sister: assembling puzzles. We all seemed to have a really good time, enjoying each other's company and conversation. It was a great visit. More Christmas spirit for me.

This weekend, we'll celebrate Christmas with the Mrs.'s side of the family, which I'm really looking forward to. The girls are already counting the days until they get to see the other side of their family. So am I.

Before we went to bed on Christmas night, the Mrs.--who also struggled to get in the Christmas spirit this year--and I sat down and made a list of things we want to do differently next year, in hopes of enjoying the holidays more in the future. We also listed the things we want to keep the same, so as to preserve what we already know brings us happiness.

As we made our lists, checking them twice, it finally occurred to me what I like so much about Christmas: I like being with the people I love.

And now, as a father, I like seeing my kids consumed by the mystique and joy of Christmas as they learn about societal and family holiday traditions. I remember what made Christmas so special for me as a kid, and I want my girls to have that same special feeling every year. As they get older, we'll make sure they learn about "the reason for the season," but for now, I'm content to see their souls light up because Santa filled their stockings. The real beauty of it is that, at this age anyway, they don't care what's in their stockings. What they care about is that they feel loved.

And now that I've thought about it, that's all I want for Christmas every year, too. The lights and decorations are pretty, but that's not what makes Christmas special for me. It's fun to give gifts, and I receive lots of great gifts, too, but that's not what makes Christmas special, either. What I love most about Christmas is spending time with close friends and family...and feeling loved.

By remembering to do more of that next year, I hope to experience the Christmas spirit all month long in 2010.

A Christmas to Remember

I did some home visits last week for the first time since I broke my ankle nearly three months ago. It was a pretty routine day. Several people have asked me lately, though, in some form or fashion, how my day went and/or what's involved in a day in the field. So I figured, why not write about it?

What's the point of a home visit? Well, it could be a number of things. We may just be verifying an address, making sure the probationer lives where s/he says s/he lives. It probably doesn't come as a shock to learn that probationers don't always give us correct addresses.

The most common reason we do home visits is to see probationers in their natural habitats. Anyone can come into our office once a month and put on a dog-and-pony show for 15-30 minutes and give us the impression that everything is hunky-dory in their world. But when we get out there and see their neighborhood, see their house, see their living conditions, meet the other occupants of the house, see how they're dressed, see if they're awake at 2:00pm, etc., we get a much more accurate picture of what obstacles this person has to overcome to succeed on probation.

We may also do a home visit for a specific purpose. Maybe someone called and said the probationer is drinking or using drugs, so we drop in and give urine screens and breath tests. Maybe the probationer missed an appointment at our office. Maybe it's Monday Night Football, and the Colts are playing. Maybe it's New Year's Eve....

The good home visits last only a few minutes. We make contact with the probationer, have a chat, take a quick look around the house for alcohol, drugs, firearms, dead bodies, and anything else that might be a probation violation, take care of any other business we have with the person, and we're on to the next one.

The ones that don't go so well...well, they take longer. And occasionally, we need the assistance of the police. And every now and then, medics. Those are more entertaining stories, aren't they?

I've had probationers answer the door with a beer in their hand. We don't permit anyone sentenced out of our Courts, regardless of the offense, to possess or consume alcohol. The look on their faces is priceless when they realize who's at the door.

We've arrived at homes to find probationers in the process of smoking marijuana. Often, there are several people partaking, and they're not very happy to see us there. They're even less happy when we confiscate their supply. I love it when, inevitably, someone says, "You can't do that!" I respond by suggesting that we call the police and have them decide what I can and can't do. I've never had anyone take me up on my offer.

On more than one occasion, we've arrived at a home to discover a probationer completely incapacitated by alcohol and/or drugs. So much so that we've had to call for medics.

Sometimes they're drunk and/or high and threatening suicide. Those encounters are often around this time of year.

Mental health issues are always an adventure to deal with. I had been to one particular residence a couple times without any problems when I decided to take one of our new officers with me for another visit. My probationer, wrought with mental health issues, greeted us on his front porch, yelling obscenities and threatening to kill my partner. He "could just tell" that my partner was "dirty" and "a backstabber." The tirade and threats continued until I finally got him settled down. I later discussed it with my probationer, who maintained that my partner was "cocky, underhanded, and shifty" (despite the fact that my partner had been out of the car for about five seconds and hadn't spoken a word when the threats began raining down on him), but agreed to behave himself if I only brought female partners with me on future home visits. He felt less threatened by female officers, he said. So a few weeks later, I brought a female officer with me. My probationer, however, did not hold up to his end of the bargain. Round Two was almost as ugly as Round One. The judge revoked his probation shortly after that.

I've been to residences where the smell of animal urine is so overwhelming that I couldn't stay inside. You know it's going to be bad inside when you can smell the cat piss as soon as you get out of the car. In the middle of winter. More times than I can count, I've walked through a minefield of animal feces inside a house.

On one home visit several years ago, we went to an apartment where we could hear kids inside, but no one would come to the door. We finally talked one of the kids into opening the door. Three kids inside, ranging from 2 to 4 years old. No adults. Feces smeared all over the walls, broken glass all over the carpet, the youngest child's diaper dragging on the ground, and the middle child eating hair gel. The oldest had opened the door for us. We called the police, who, in turn, called Child Protective Services. More than two hours from the time of our arrival, we were still there when the mother showed up, returning from a trip to the liquor store. She went to jail. The kids went into CPS custody.

I could go on and on, but you're probably getting bored by now. I do, however, want to share the story of the mother of all home visits (so far, anyway).

Two years ago, right about this time of year, one of my coworkers got a call that one of her probationers was drunk at home. This guy had a long history of out-of-control drinking, and I had previously supervised him on another case, so my coworker asked me to go with her to do a home visit. When we got there, he was extremely intoxicated. He blew a .340% BAC on a portable breath tester. That's more than four times the legal limit to drive. Once you get up around the .400% BAC range, it's usually fatal.

But this guy was standing, walking, and talking. He was a professional drinker.

He pretty quickly decided that he didn't like us being there, but we couldn't just leave him there in that level of intoxication, given the risk to his own health and safety, plus the fact that there were two cars in the driveway, and he had a penchant for driving drunk. At some point while my partner called for an ambulance, the guy decided he didn't want them there, either, and he stormed out of the house into 20-degree temperatures and an inch of snow, wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. No shirt, no shoes, no socks, no sense.

He repeatedly reeled off an expletive-laden tirade that was, to summarize, graphically expressing his deep desire for us to get off of his property. But now, on top of him being royally intoxicated, he was out in the cold and snow with minimal clothing. We weren't leaving him in that state of affairs.

I followed him outside as he got into his truck while my partner updated Dispatch on the situation and asked for the police to be sent our way, since it appeared he was going to try to take to the public roadways. The windshield of the truck was covered in snow, so I couldn't see what he was doing, or what he had inside the truck. I took cover behind a nearby vehicle and was yelling at him to get out of the truck. After a minute or so, he complied, but he wouldn't show his hands as he slowly rounded the front of the truck and headed in our direction. My repeated commands for him to show me his hands went unanswered, and I vividly remember calling him by his first name and telling him not to make me shoot him at Christmastime. He still didn't show me his hands. He could have had anything in them, retrieved from the truck behind the snow-covered windshield.

I was starting to run through the checklist in my mind. I knew where my partner was, because I could hear her frantically telling Dispatch to get the police here YESTERDAY, and she wasn't in the crossfire. There was a large yard behind my target, so if my round went through him, it would run out of momentum before it hit any houses or people. I had as much of my body as I could get behind the engine block of the car, and I was in a good, steady firing position, at a distance from which I am quite an accurate shot. I had given every possible verbal command that I could think of to get him to show me his hands. If he displayed a weapon and advanced toward me or my partner, I was prepared to do what I needed to do to get my partner and myself home in one piece.

After some thought, though, the probationer decided to hold out his hands. They were empty.

Seconds later, two police officers came screaming up to the house. Their sirens were sweet, sweet music to my ears. Having the arrest powers that we lack, the police made short work of the probationer and hauled him off to jail by way of the hospital, due to his level of intoxication.

It was a quiet drive back to the office as my partner and I each mulled over in our minds what had happened, as well as what could have happened.

The probationer got a month in jail and nine months of home detention for his probation violation. He lasted just over a month on home detention before he was drinking again. He spent the remaining eight months of his home detention sentence in prison. I recently heard from another county's probation department that they are supervising him for another drunk driving case that he picked up after his release from prison.

The vast majority of our home visits are quick and uneventful. But every now and then, we get a whopper that sticks with you for awhile.

Heroes Live Forever

I've been away from the keyboard for awhile. I've been busy with work, the holidays, getting ready for Olivia and June to start pre-school, getting our cursed van fixed again, and other mundane every-day sort of general life stuff.

Much like Sgt. Mark Renninger and Officers Ronald Owens, Tina Griswold, and Greg Richards of the Lakewood, Washington, Police Department were on the morning of November 29, 2009, when they gathered at a local coffee shop to catch up on paperwork before their shift began.

While they were working on their laptops, Maurice Clemmons walked in. Clemmons, who had talked the night before about killing police and then watching the news on TV, executed all four officers. No one else in the coffee shop was targeted. These officers had done nothing to Clemmons. He murdered them, it appears, simply because he knew that police officers frequented that coffee shop, and they were the unfortunate ones wearing badges on their chests when he showed up.

One of the mortally wounded officers managed to shoot Clemmons in the torso before dying, but Clemmons survived, and a two-day manhunt ensued, with Clemmons receiving help from friends and family with his wound and in fleeing from law enforcement.

The search ended this morning when a Seattle police officer shot Clemmons to death.

Clemmons has a violent and twisted criminal history in Washington and in Arkansas, and many questions are being raised as to why he was on the street to begin with, given his behavior and mental illness. Mike Huckabee is probably a little warm under the collar right now, having commuted a 108-year prison sentence for Clemmons while Huckabee was governor of Arkansas. Fingers are also being pointed at the Washington judicial system for allowing Clemmons to be released on bond earlier this year, pending charges of assaulting a police officer and raping a child.

I have been following this story closely since it broke on Sunday. I never like hearing about police officers being killed, especially given my staunch support of the police, so when I heard that four officers were killed in the state in which I grew up, I was alarmed. When I learned that they were executed in a coffee shop while doing paperwork, and not while responding to some sort of 911 call, I was appalled. Horrified. Outraged. Enraged. Grief-stricken.

Some will label me as dramatic, but the best way I can process this whole thing is to write.

Taking their professions out of the equation, four innocent human beings were murdered in cold blood. Right at the start of the holiday season. Combined, they are survived by NINE children and three spouses. Add to that the devastation felt by their family, friends, coworkers, and colleagues. It's incomprehensible. I can't find the words to express the sadness I feel for all of those people who were directly impacted by what happened.

I am a probation officer. I am not a police officer, nor do I do all the things that a police officer does. I cannot profess to fully understand what it's like to be a police officer. But our professions have a lot of similarities. We deal with a lot of the same people. We conduct home visits, thus subjecting ourselves to some of the same risks that police officers take with their own lives on a daily basis. We use a lot of the same equipment that police officers do. In our department, we work closely with local law enforcement, helping each other perform our duties. While we do not wear uniforms like police officers do, we definitely stand out in a crowd when we have all our gear on.

We also take breaks in places like coffee shops to do things like catch up on paperwork.

I am well aware of the risks involved in my career choice, and while I take every precaution I can--down to wearing a St. Michael pendant around my neck--the thought is always in the back of my head on every home visit that I might die. More probation officers than I care to count have been killed in the line of duty. What hadn't been a real prominent thought--until Sunday--was that I could be ambushed and murdered while sipping a cup of coffee with coworkers and catching up on my notes in a restaurant, simply for being a probation officer. That's a little unnerving.

I'll leave all the finger-pointing about how Clemmons' Arkansas and Washington criminal cases were handled to others. There are constructive reasons to re-evaluate how those situations were handled, but I suspect that not all of the armchair quarterbacking will be constructive over the next few weeks, months, or years. That's human nature, I suppose. Especially grieving human nature. I have learned in my somewhere-close-to 16 years of working in the judicial system that anything is possible. Just because a person is sentenced to x-number of years in prison doesn't mean that the person is going to be behind bars for x-number of years. So I'm not surprised at all by what happened in Arkansas or in Washington on Clemmons' previous cases.

It's easy to sit back and criticize decisions that were made in the past when something catastrophic like this happens, and to cry out that this guy shouldn't have been out of prison to begin with. But authorities in Arkansas and Washington were working within the boundaries of our established adversarial criminal justice system. They were making what they thought were the best decisions at the time. I haven't heard any fact-based accusations of incompetence or negligence in either state, relating to how Clemmons was handled. For several years, until Sunday, no one cared that Mike Huckabee commuted Maurice Clemmons' sentence in Arkansas. Re-evaluate how Clemmons was handled so that the system can be fine-tuned, but beyond that, I don't think anyone involved in the decision-making processes in Arkansas or Washington needs any help in feeling badly for what has happened now.

To Clemmons' family and friends who helped him elude capture for two days after his brutal crime: I hope you all go to prison knowing that you played a large role in Clemmons being shot to death on a Seattle street. If Chuck or my sister had come to me, suffering from a serious gunshot wound to the torso after murdering four police officers, I would have taken them to the hospital. What do you think the chances are of the police killing your loved one while he's lying in a hospital bed, post-surgery?

I'm also thinking of the Seattle officer who killed Clemmons. While he is undoubtedly a hero among the ranks--and I'm certainly not going to argue with that--he was still forced to take a human life. Clemmons was carrying the firearm of one of the deceased Lakewood officers and refusing to obey the Seattle officer's commands when the officer had to open fire. But still, I imagine that he's going to be dealing with that for awhile.

And anytime anything like this happens, I immediately think of my friends who are police officers, and I worry about their safety. I don't like that feeling, either.

The events in Washington happened far far away from me and involved people I've never met who were and are in a profession to which I do not belong. Nonetheless, the ripple effect from what happened in the Seattle area from Sunday through this morning has made it all the way out here to Indiana. And, likely, beyond.

My heart goes out to Sgt. Renninger and Officers Owens, Griswold, and Richards, and to all who knew and loved them.

The Toyota Gods Are Angry

We bought a new 2009 Toyota Sienna back in late April. It's a really cool vehicle (if you're into minivans, that is). I like it a lot.

I'm starting to wonder, however, if it was assembled on a sacred Native American burial ground or by an angry voodoo priestess in Louisiana. I'm pretty sure it is cursed.

It started on Father's Day weekend, when I was taking my dad to dinner and showing off our new van to him for the first time. I wrote about it in much more detail here, but in a nutshell, our brand new van--with all of 2200 miles on it--broke down on our way to the restaurant, and I had to have it towed to the dealership. Apparently at some point, we had run over something that crushed a coolant line, draining all of the antifreeze and overheating the engine. About $720 later (including the tow), we had the van back.

Two months later, in late August, I was driving down the road, minding my own business, when out of nowhere, a rock flew into the windshield. A $45 attempt to repair the windshield failed in less than two hours. The new windshield cost an additional $330.

The Mrs. took Olivia and June to her parents' house about a week ago, and while she was there, her dad noticed that we have damage to our rear bumper. It's puzzling damage, as neither the Mrs. or I have backed into anything, but the damage is rather low on the bumper. My best guess is that someone clipped it in a parking lot, but we have no idea when or where it happened, and whatever hit it had to have had a really low bumper. We still haven't quite figured out what could have done that sort of damage. The damage appeared to only be cosmetic, though, so with the holidays looming, I wasn't in any hurry to get it fixed. Besides, I figured, with the luck we've been having with this van, someone is bound to rear-end me during the first snowfall. Then someone else's insurance can pay for a new bumper.

But yesterday morning, the Mrs. reported that something was leaking from the back of the van, right by the rear tire on the side where the bumper was damaged. It was a reddish-brown liquid, and there was a considerable puddle of it. Why it took a week from the time that my father-in-law spotted the damage and who-knows-how-long from the time the van was hit to start leaking is another mystery. Chuck speculated that it was either brake fluid or transmission fluid. Having either of those leaking is not good, especially when the Sienna is the primary vehicle that we use to transport Olivia and June.

So rather than relying on someone to tag me on a slippery road this winter, I took it in to the dealership today. The fluid was from the heating system, and the total repairs for the line and the bumper repair will be $440.

For those of you scoring at home, that's a total of $1535 that we have put into this van in just over six months. I'm quite confident that we put nowhere NEAR that kind of money into our Dodge Grand Caravan that we had for seven years before buying the Sienna, and that includes the new set of tires we put on the Caravan.

The really, really frustrating part of all of this is that it's not Toyota's craftsmanship that is failing us. The wheels aren't falling off. The electronics aren't failing. There isn't a draft because the doors don't hang right. The stereo works.

We just can't seem to avoid road debris, flying rocks, and whatever the hell hit the back of our van.

It also seems to come in every-two-month spurts. We bought the van in April, had the first incident in June, had the broken windshield in August, and discovered the most current damage in early November.

If some SOB plows into the back of me in January and wipes out my $440 bumper, I'm going to be sooooooo pissed.

United Breaks Guitars

Having had a negative experience of my own with an airline (nowhere near as bad as this guy's, nor with United Airlines), I thought these two videos were absolutely hysterical. And I enjoyed the music, too! For the history of it, I'll quote directly off of the Sons of Maxwell's YouTube page:

In the spring of 2008, Sons of Maxwell were traveling to Nebraska for a one-week tour and my Taylor guitar was witnessed being thrown by United Airlines baggage handlers in Chicago. I discovered later that the $3500 guitar was severely damaged. They didnt deny the experience occurred but for nine months the various people I communicated with put the responsibility for dealing with the damage on everyone other than themselves and finally said they would do nothing to compensate me for my loss. So I promised the last person to finally say no to compensation (Ms. Irlweg) that I would write and produce three songs about my experience with United Airlines and make videos for each to be viewed online by anyone in the world. United: Song 1 is the first of those songs. United: Song 2 has been written and video production is underway. United: Song 3 is coming. I promise.

Thanks to my cousin in Arizona for bringing this to my attention! Enjoy the music.

Oh, and think twice before checking luggage on United Airlines. Especially if it's a guitar.

United Breaks Guitars

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5YGc4zOqozo

United Breaks Guitars Song 2

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-UoERHaSQg

Dave Carroll Music

http://www.davecarrollmusic.com/

,,Wut evar hapenned too speling and grammer,,

I am the son of a speech communication professor and an elementary school teacher, so I was well-versed in spelling, grammar, and punctuation growing up. I'm also something of a perfectionist. I tend to notice a lot of typos and misspellings that go unnoticed by many, although I'm not immune to making those kinds of mistakes myself. I can proofread a blog entry five or six times before I post it, and the tenth time I read it, I find a typo or a missing word or something. (Of course, this post will lead to open season being declared on every typo in here, I'm sure.) So while I often notice the little mistakes that are made in writing, they don't bother me all that much (except for my own typos, which drive me insane).

What bothers me--a lot--is the unbelievable inability by many people to even come close to grasping the written English language.

I am Facebook friends with a few local kids, most of them around middle school age. (No need to call the police. I know them and their parents through the neighborhood and local youth athletics, and the Mrs. is Facebook friends with them, too.) They're great kids, but most of them wouldn't know a punctuation mark if it slapped them in the face. It drives me absolutely NUTS to read some of their Facebook statuses. They string together three or four independent thoughts with absolutely no use of periods, commas, exclamation points, or question marks. Most of the time, I know what they're saying, but there are times I have to read a post out loud, slowly, and repeatedly, trying to figure out where one thought ends and another begins.

Then their friends get on there and respond to a status update, usually using equally horrible spelling and grammar with absolutely no use--or improper use--of punctuation. It's especially comical when one of them starts complaining about how school "suck's" and that they never learn anything there, and then several schoolmates add their own comments, all of them demonstrating how paying a bit more attention during Language Arts might be beneficial to them.

One Facebook status that had me in stitches was (and I'm not joking):

I just now finished my finall copy for language.

But they're just kids. Complaining about school is what you do when you're a kid, and Facebook is just informal communication (jeez, I HOPE these kids write better for school assignments!).

The failure to grasp the written language, however, extends well beyond kids. I was reading an article the other day about Syracuse wide receiver Mike Williams leaving the team--and possibly college--unexpectedly. Williams apparently initially posted this on his Facebook page:

I HATE COLLEGE I CANT SEE ME DOING THIS FOR LONG……..HINT HINT.-0 LMAO

Okay, he missed the period after "college" and didn't use an apostrophe in "cant," but overall, it's not bad.

Then he followed it up with:

Everyone Im staying in school to get my degree sorry for the faulse information every one getting.

I'm starting to think that maybe I don't want my kids going to Syracuse.

It's better than what UCLA "student-athletes" can cobble together, though. Here's the handiwork of a freshman wide receiver there named Randall Carroll, who posted this on his Twitter account:

oregon, stanford, and cal should have been easy wins ,, but shyt thys nigga norm chow dnt be trustin us ,, so it is what it is

Everything's going fine until the double commas. In between the double commas, however, is a bowl of alphabet soup that someone dropped on the floor. Maybe double commas are like those flashing orange lights you see in construction zones, warning that everything in between those lights is a disaster area. Same goes for everything in between double commas.

Then, in this article about Oklahoma State wide receiver Dez Bryant losing his last appeal to be reinstated after lying to the NCAA, there was this hilarious exchange of comments between readers "Mr Common Sense" and "Johnny":

89. Posted by Mr Common Sense Thu Oct 29 9:41am EDT
Now listen, you Oklahomo morons. Get off the NCAA and the BCS. The only real Big 12 team is Texas and Texas is also the only quality university in the BIg 12. While University Of Texas researchers work real science breakthroughs...etc, you morons from Oklohomo Universities can figure how to run your tractors on chicken pope.

Yes, I know that "Oklahomo" is spelled that way on purpose. I didn't realize that chickens had a Pope, though. A few more posts go by, and then Johnny comes up with this little slice of heaven:

93. Posted by Johnny Thu Oct 29 10:20am EDT
Mr como sense is really full of chicken s.hit "We will get University of Texas to..." Since when did you respresent UT to buy penny, again thinking small. And who is we.. You have no business brain, and don't know how business venture is setup, only people like you using brains between butt would think that. I'm glad that your comments show how stupid you are. Wow luckly in Oklahoma we don't have such a stupid people saying stupid things on behalf of their universities.

As a graduate of Texas A&M University, I found extra humor in supporters of rival Big 12 schools being incapable of forming coherent thoughts. I found the last two sentences of Johnny's post, in particular, to be especially side-splitting.

Okay, okay. Enough of picking on athletes and the people who comment on them. Surely members of Congress are better, right? Especially five-term senators, like Iowa Senator Chuck Grassley?

Maybe not.

Here's a beauty from his Twitter page back in June:

Pres Obama you got nerve while u sightseeing in Paris to tell us"time to deliver" on health care. We still on skedul/even workinWKEND.

Huh?

When did this happen? When did we, as a society, stop caring? When did sounding like a complete moron become acceptable?

More importantly, how do we fix this?

Halloween and Sex Offenders

For the past few years, the Marion County Probation Department in Indianapolis and the Indiana Department of Correction have been requiring all registered sex offenders who are on probation or parole in that county to attend a mandatory meeting during the evening hours of Halloween. The object is to contain these offenders while kids trick-or-treat, thus minimizing kids' exposure to sex offenders.

You can read a little about the program here.

I understand the reasoning behind this practice, but I offer a different point of view to ponder.

I don't know how much manpower is involved in orchestrating this event, but Halloween is on a Saturday this year, so I can only assume that many of the probation officers and parole officers will be earning overtime to work. And we're not cheap to begin with. At time-and-a-half, that's a lot of money just in salaries. Offenders are going to have to be notified in writing, likely with some sort of proof of receipt, of the requirement to attend this program, so there's additional cost in office supplies and postage. Plus there's the cost associated with using a building that is likely not normally used on weekends.

Keep in mind, too, that this program is only mandatory for those on probation or parole. Those who have already completed terms of probation, parole, and/or incarceration cannot be forced to attend. The article says that nearly 300 people attended last year, with only four people not attending. According to the Indiana Sex Offender Registry, there are close to 2000 registered sex offenders in Indianapolis. For those who don't have a calculator handy, this program is only containing 15% of the registered sex offenders in the city.

But these are sex offenders we're talking about, right? So it's worth the cost to taxpayers to corral 15% of the registered sex offender population on Halloween, right? After all, these monsters will be lurking in the bushes, ready to dine at-will from the smorgasbord of kids out that night, right?

Read this recent study and decide for yourself. Unless you're a mathematician, the statistical analysis part of the article is likely to be a little dry for you, so let me hit the high points. According to this study, there is no increase in sex offenses on or around Halloween. (However, our children are four times more likely to get hit and killed by a car on Halloween than they are on any other day of the year.) And the belief that sex offenders lurk in the bushes, ready to pounce on unsuspecting kids? This study shows that only 2 out of every 1000 sex offenses against kids are committed by non-family members. The study simply confirms what I have come to believe after being a probation officer--and working with sex offenders--for 13 years.

I don't mean to poo-poo what Marion County officials are doing. I truly believe that they are genuinely trying to do everything they can to protect the public. I also don't question that a threat exists that kids can be molested during Halloween. Nor do I mean to minimize the lasting psychological and physical damage that offenders inflict upon their victims, or in any way, shape, or form justify sex offenders' behavior when they offend.

What I question, as does the study, is the cost-benefit equation of programs like Operation Halloween, especially when there is such a cheap and easy alternative: active parenting. I also worry that programs like this lull the public into a false sense of security, thinking that all the sex offenders in the city are rounded up and contained on Halloween night when, in fact, 85% of registered sex offenders (not to mention all the offenders who haven't registered, who aren't required to register, or who haven't been caught yet) are still out there on Halloween. "The bad guys are all rounded up, Ma! Cut the kids loose for a few hours!"

As a parent, and reinforced by my experience as a probation officer, I don't believe that kids should just be let loose to roam neighborhoods unattended while trick-or-treating. Bad things can happen--in addition to sex offenses--when kids are left unattended. Several years ago on Halloween, in one of our affluent neighborhoods where kids from all over the county are dumped by their parents in order to get candy from the "rich people," a young man was severely beaten by a handful of other kids and nearly died. What was the attack over? Halloween candy. The attackers demanded it, the victim didn't fork it over, and the victim wound up in the hospital with significant head trauma.

My kids are very young, but still, they only trick-or-treat at the homes of people we know. And, of course, we walk with them. The chances of a sex offender jumping out the bushes and snatching my kids, a pack of teenagers putting my kid into a coma over Halloween candy, my kids getting hit by a car, or anything else bad happening to them are reduced exponentially by me and the Mrs. being there to watch and protect. As my girls get older and want more independence while they trick-or-treat, that's fine. But they can't stop me from trailing a half-block behind them in my car.

By simply spending some time with our kids on Halloween, we're going to have a much higher success rate--and at a much lower cost--of protecting our kids than government officials are going to have with programs such as Operation Halloween. And as a taxpayer, I'd like to see the resources that were set aside for Operation Halloween spent instead during the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. That period of time is the most dangerous time of year in terms of drunk drivers and the death and destruction they cause, and that money could be used to beef up funding for law enforcement, public information, alternate transportation, and other ways of keeping us safe on the roadways during the holiday season.

Or should we just round up all the convicted drunk drivers who are on probation and parole and keep them contained during the entire month of December?

Dinner with June

My dad tells a story about how, when he was growing up, he was slurping his soup loudly at the dinner table, much to his dad's disgust, and my grandfather smacked my dad hard enough in the back of his head to put his face into the soup.

Tonight, I TOTALLY understand where my grandfather was coming from.

We had soup for dinner. The Mrs. correctly predicted that Olivia and June would not be big fans of minestrone soup, so in addition to the little bowls of soup she provided them, she also warmed them up some chicken nuggets and cut up some fresh strawberries.

The girls immediately turned their noses up at the soup, but they enjoyed their nuggets and strawberries. June, watching her older sister drink from a "big girl" cup with no lid, wanted to try her own drink without a lid.

A two-year-old with a lid-less cup of juice is a disaster waiting to happen.

To her credit, it only took one spill of about eight ounces of juice down the front of her shirt to try a different approach to the cup. After refilling her cup, we figured we'd give her another shot at it. Heck, it's bath night tonight, and she's already soaked, anyway.

So June's next strategy was to keep the cup on the table and lean over until she could put her lips on the rim of the cup. Then, ever so carefully, she tipped the cup verrrrry slowly until she could sip some juice. No spills. Much rejoicing from me and the Mrs.

Having been positively reinforced for sipping, her next drink involved even louder sipping. Followed by even louder sipping. Followed by even LOUDER sipping. Until "sipping" was no longer the correct term for the noises coming from that cup. "Slurping" was more accurate. I'm not even sure "slurping" is the right word. What's louder than slurping? Anyway, the Mrs. and I couldn't even hold a conversation over the slurping.

Then June thought it would be funny to blow bubbles in her juice. She sounded like a mini-outboard motor, and juice was flying everywhere, as if said motor was going to town in the cup. So the lid went back on. Enough mess and disgusting noises at the dinner table.

A few seconds later, June set off the alarm. Oh no!! One of her chicken nuggets was gone!! Where might her nugget have gone? Why, in her cup, of course! The Mrs. removed the lid, and sure enough, there was a chicken nugget in the middle of a cup of apple juice. At some point while we weren't looking, June had apparently decided to see if nuggets float. (They do, sort of.)

No problem for June! She was more than happy to shove her hand into her cup, apple juice going halfway up to her elbow (and slopping all over the table), to retrieve the nugget. As she pulled it out, it was, naturally, dripping. And what do you do with a dripping chicken nugget soaked in apple juice?

Well, you wring it out, of course!

Into your soup.

And then you throw your nugget in your soup.

And then take a drink of juice with nugget parts floating in it.

And then eat the nugget.

As I put my head in my hands, trying to suppress my gag reflex, I thought of my grandfather planting my dad's head into a bowl of soup all those years ago. And I understood.

Indiana is a Racist State. A Lawyer Told Me That.

A man killed his wife in front of their children in late June in the county in which I work. It was a really awful crime, for a number of reasons beyond the fact that a woman lost her life. He was sentenced to 55 years in prison yesterday, as was reported in the news in, among others, this article:

http://www.theindychannel.com/news/21250084/detail.html

As I read the article, a few things bothered me. They are things that bother me in just about every article I read involving the judicial system.

First, the article reports that the man received a 55-year sentence in prison. That leads a normal person to believe that he won't be eligible to walk out of prison until October 9, 2064, right? And since the man is currently 41 years old, that's almost assuredly a "life-in-prison" sentence, right? He'll be in his late 90's before he gets out. Right?

Wrong.

What the article fails to mention is that in Indiana, for every day a person serves in jail, that person gets an additional day of credit time, commonly referred to as "good time credit." You can read about it in Indiana Code 35-50-6-3. So this man will actually only serve half of his time. That's 27.5 years, not 55 years. So now we're talking a release date of somewhere in April of 2037, right? He'll still be in his late 60's when he gets out of prison, right?

Wrong.

Read the next section in that chapter of the Indiana Code (35-50-6-3.3) and learn about all the ways he can reduce his sentence. He has the potential to knock another 4 years off his sentence while he's in prison through a variety of programs designed to better a person while they are incarcerated. I'm not commenting on these programs and their associated time cuts. I'm simply pointing out another way that the man can cut time off his sentence. Something that was not reported in the article.

Then, at the very beginning of that chapter of the Indiana Code (35-50-6-1), you can read about parole. Whether this man has the possibility of parole or not isn't mentioned in this article, but it's another way that he might be released from prison earlier than many people expect.

Finally, the article makes no mention that the man receives credit for all the time he has been in jail while his case has been pending. He was caught by the police several hours after the murder occurred, so he's been in jail since late June. He has a little over 3 months of credit time already, plus 3 months of good time credit.

Again, I'm not commenting on the way Indiana state law reads. My irritation is a result of the media reporting that the man got 55 years in prison, leaving the public to believe that he will exit the prison doors 55 years from yesterday, assuming he's still alive, when that isn't even close to the truth.

Another big gripe I have with this article and with most other on-line media is the ability given to the public to add its comments, usually in complete anonymity. I understand the First Amendment and the right to free speech and all of that, but what constructive purpose does comments from the public serve? Many of these comments are posted by people who lack any knowledge of the situation, who are hiding under the cloak of anonymity, and who are simply trying to post the most inflammatory comment that they can come up with for reasons known only to them.

Let's look at some of the comments on this article together, shall we?

Our first (anonymous, of course) commenter laments about "killings in indy getting such light punishments." Aside from the fact that the killing did not take place in Indianapolis, but in one of its suburbs instead, Indiana Code 35-50-2-3 outlines the possible punishment for Murder. Murderers can get 45-65 years in prison, with the advisory sentence being 55 years. Murderers can also get life in prison without parole or the death penalty if certain circumstances are in place in that particular case. Once again, I'm not commenting on the Hendricks County Prosecutor's choice to offer this particular man the advisory sentence in exchange for not requiring the time, anguish, and money of a trial, and for wrapping up a murder case in under four months. I'm simply saying "such light punishments" are right down the middle of the plate, as far as what Indiana law allows a Court to sentence someone to for Murder.

The very next comment comes from a person (anonymous, of course) who blames the "light punishments" on "old brizzie", referring to Marion County Prosecutor Carl Brizzi. This person, in addition to misspelling Brizzi's name, failed to notice that the crime occurred and was prosecuted in Hendricks County, not Marion County. Mr. Brizzi had no jurisdiction or involvement in this case. Thank you for that educated, well thought-out comment.

Fortunately, the next commenter (once again, anonymous) pointed that out, throwing in an inflammatory "idiot" reference. That's constructive.

Then we get to the next (anonymous, naturally) commenter who somehow feels the need to tie a local domestic violence-related murder to President Obama being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize earlier in the day. Huh?

Then we have a few more people (all anonymous) calling each other dumb, followed by later comments further down the page predictably throwing out the racial argument. * Yawn. *

Moving to page 2, we have some anonymous person spouting off that sentences are too short because prosecutors are overcoming budget constraints. (Once again, this man got the advisory sentence for Murder, according to Indiana law.) This person also suggests raising taxes in Marion County to help better fund the Prosecutor's Office. (The Marion County Prosecutor's Office was not involved in this case at all. It was a Hendricks County case.) Perhaps this is the same person who incorrectly blames "light punishments" on "old brizzie."

From there, it just degenerates into page after page after page of absolute hogwash, comprised of racism (one of the funniest comments: "Indiana is a racist state. A lawyer told me that." Not funny at all: "It is a noted fact that most murders are committed by blacks."), incorrect information about Indiana law ("in Indiana they use the 3 strikes law"), calls for public hangings and this man's murder in prison by other inmates and/or his suicide and/or the removal of his penis, and a return to Hammurabi's Code.

What is the point of this? Why does nearly every on-line news service allow uncensored, anonymous comments by the public? I cannot come up with a single constructive reason for allowing people to post such inflammatory things on the news service's website for everyone--regardless of age--to read, without any repercussions whatsoever. Pre-Internet, opinion letters could be sent to the editor of a newspaper, but the newspaper weeded out the letters from morons that contained racist comments, incorrect information, and other absurdity. And each letter contained the writer's name and town in which the writer lives. If someone wrote something asinine or inflammatory, everyone knew who wrote it.

Sure, sure. There's the option to not read said comments. But explain that to a child who is reading the news for a school project or for their own education. As my girls get older, I want them to be informed of current events. What I don't want them exposed to is page after page of the ramblings of the underbelly of society.

Do you want your kids perpetually exposed to that?

So my first suggestion to Internet news services, such as Channel 6's website, is to accurately report a person's sentence. Don't leave the public thinking a man is going to do 55 actual years in prison for killing his wife in front of his kids, when that's not even close to what he's going to serve. It's not hard to mention good time credit, educational credits, and parole.

Second, just eliminate the ability of the public to comment on stories.

The world will be a better place for it.

Those Are the Breaks

After a few weeks of being on the receiving end of world class ass-kickings and having several players on our softball team give up during games, our team entered the single-elimination playoffs last night as the #7 seed (out of 7 teams). As a result, we had to play the #2 seed (only because the #1 seed got a bye in the first round). The #2 seed beat us 18-3 in four innings earlier in the season. And that's when everyone was still trying.

So I spent most of the week trying to get the team fired up for what was most likely our last hurrah for the season. The message was simple: we play hard from start to finish, we make them TAKE the win from us instead of just giving it to them, and if we go down, we go down swinging. We leave everything on the field.

I did everything I could all week long to get everyone's hearts into the game. I sent e-mails, I sent inspirational speeches that I found on YouTube, I called people, I wrote our battle cry on the lineup, I talked to everyone before the game, I told Chuck's wife (who keeps book for us) not to reveal the score at any point during the game, and I kept my big mouth running the whole game through, getting fired up on good plays and keeping everyone focused on our goal: to try our best the whole way through.

And wouldn't you know it, it worked.

We were outscored 16-14, but it wasn't 18-3 this time, and we didn't have any quitters. Everyone gave it their all, and I couldn't have been more proud. We had people sliding into bases, beating out throws to first base, running full speed after fly balls, making outstanding catches in the outfield, making outstanding plays in the infield, and doing just what I asked of everyone: leaving it all out on the field. We even had one of our guys hit an out-of-the-park grand slam home run!! We did our absolute best, and we came darn close to pulling off a miracle.

Of course, since Chuck's wife followed my instructions to a T, I had no idea just HOW close we came until it was all over. In fact, we were the visiting team, and after we batted late in the game, I went back out on the field to play defense because I had no idea what the score was, or what inning we were in. Only after I got in position did I notice everyone else doing the line of congratulatory handshakes over by home plate, which meant the game was over.

I played second base and had a relatively quiet night there. They hit one grounder right to me, which I fielded easily and threw the runner out at first. Another grounder late in the game had some zip on it, but I still should have gotten it. Instead of stopping it with my glove, though, I stopped it with my throwing hand. That stung a little. The runner was safe, but he never came around to score, so no harm, no foul.

I had my best batting night of the season, going 3-for-4 with two doubles and two runs scored. I would have gone 4-for-4, but I couldn't run out my last hit.

Why?

Because on my second hit, which was my second double, I broke my ankle sliding into second base in the third inning.

I knew as soon as I hit the bag and felt and heard a pop that I had done something serious to my ankle. I have never broken a bone in my life before last night, so I had no point of reference, but I figured a broken bone would sound and feel like my ankle did.

Nevertheless, we didn't have an extra guy last night, and I wasn't about to come out of the game. What kind of sissified blowhard would I have looked like if I got my team believing in fighting to the bitter end, and then I quit halfway through the game? Nope. Wasn't going to happen. We were leaving it all out on the field, dammit, and that included me.

I actually came around from second base to score later in the inning. And I batted again later in the game and got a single. (I admit, though, that I asked to be replaced with a pinch runner after reaching first base. I know. I'm a wuss.) In my last at-bat, I'd have had another single if I had had two good wheels, but my body was starting to tell me that playing 3+ innings on a broken ankle was just about enough. Plus, I had fouled off a pitch earlier in the at-bat, and when my ankle rotated with my normal batting motion on that swing...well...let's just say that the sensation was unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Damn near drop-me-to-my-knees-and-cry-like-a-baby unpleasant. So when I hit it fair, it was all upper body, with my right foot off the ground. That I even got the ball past the pitcher with that ridiculous batting form is amazing.

So anyway, we all played our hearts out all the way through the game, and I'm damn proud to have played with that group of people last night. The loss is inconsequential. The other team is better than we are, and that's okay. Congratulations to them, and good luck the rest of the way. But we showed that if we try our best for all seven innings, we can hang in there with the best of 'em.

We didn't just give them a win. They had to take it. And that made last night--broken ankle and all--worth it.

Massacre #547

Another disaster on the softball diamond tonight. We lost, 21-1.

There is nothing good to report about tonight's game.

From the Mouths of Babes

The Mrs. and I are currently enduring the Terrible Twos and the Terrible Threes simultaneously, courtesy of June and Olivia, respectively. Between the girls' age-related behavior, the fatigue associated with both parents working full-time in somewhat stressful occupations, and typical life stressors in general, things can occasionally be on the tense side in our house. And the girls commonly do and say things that send one of us straight over the edge.

But occasionally, they do provide some comic relief, even if it is unintentional.

We'll start with June. June has a bit of a temper. I blame that on the Mrs., since I am just about the most even-keeled, level-headed person you'd ever meet. And since this is my blog, I can blame anything I want on the Mrs. If she punches me tonight when I get home, it just further proves my point.

So, being the calm, collected person that I am, I was serenely cleaning up the kitchen--in between meditations, of course--while the Mrs. was giving the girls their baths. June, in typical fashion, was making the Mrs.'s life a complete hell in the bathroom, pouring cups of water out of the tub and onto the floor, fighting with Olivia over bath toys, splashing the Mrs., and shrieking her favorite phrase while getting her hair washed: "I DON'T WANT!!!" The Mrs. hung in there much longer than I would have been able to--um, I mean, were I not the even-keeled, level-headed person that I am, of course--but she eventually reached her limit of June's bad behavior and pulled her out of the bathtub. World War III ensued, with June bawling and flailing and screaming "I DON'T WANT!!!" as the Mrs. toweled her off. Finally, June belted out her second-favorite phrase: "I'M MAD!!"

The Mrs. responded in kind, "Well, I'm mad, too!"

June (suddenly in her normal voice after 20 minutes of screaming, as if someone flipped a toggle switch): "Why are you mad, Mommy? Are you mad at Olivia?"

The Mrs.: "No, June, I'm mad at you!"

June: "Why are you crying, Mommy?"

The Mrs.: "I'm not crying! I'm YELLING!!"

I had to cover my mouth with the dish towel to avoid laughing out loud and, you know, setting off the Mrs., who has the aforementioned temper issues that she passed along to June.

(That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.)

Fast forward to yesterday. My sister had a twin-sized bed that she no longer needed, and the Mrs. and I had been discussing moving Olivia up to a twin-sized bed for awhile, so my sister graciously gave us her extra bed for Olivia to use. Transporting the bed from my sister's house to ours, though, required me taking out one of the bucket seats in our minivan, which I had never done before.

Toyota has a really nifty system for folding down the back bench in the Sienna, as well as removing the bucket seats from the second row. However, since I had never had to remove a seat before, I couldn't immediately get the anchor system to release to get the seat out. To make a long story short, Chuck and I spent thirty minutes trying to figure it out, complete with multiple failed attempts, plentiful cursing, profuse sweating, breaks to reassess strategy, busting of knuckles, and Chuck's wife laughing at us. Eventually, we were reduced to the ultimate humiliation of getting out the owner's manual and reading the directions.

About fifteen seconds later, we had the seat out.

Once I got the bed home and into Olivia's room, it was time to put the seat back in the van. I wasn't about to risk the remainder of my manhood by looking at the owner's manual AGAIN, so I was wrestling with the seat, without much success, when Olivia climbed into the van and squatted down next to me, closely examining the situation. After some pondering, and in a very soothing voice, she offered up this little gem.

Olivia: "Daddy? What's wrong with the f*&%ing seat? Is it a piece of s*%t?"

Me (barely able to keep a straight face): "Honey, don't use those words. They're not nice words."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "I know Daddy uses those words a lot, but they're not for little girls to use. Okay?"

Olivia: "Okay, Daddy." After a few seconds of pondering, she gave me a pat on the shoulder and, looking at the seat, said, "It'll be alright, Daddy. You'll get it."

Me: "Thanks, Olivia. Oh, and sweetie?"

Olivia: "Yes?"

Me: "Let's not tell Mommy about this."

Another Softball Beatdown

Another night on the softball diamond last night, and another brutal beatdown. This time, it was against the only team we've beaten this season, so we expected to play this team close, and possibly even notch our second win of the year.

Oh, how we were mistaken.

We were the home team, so we took the field first, and we had a rough first inning. You'd have thought our entire team had just finished oiling up a team of body builders just before the game, given our ability to field, handle, and throw the ball. I was no exception. I played second base (finally!), and with a runner on first base, the batter grounded right back to Chuck at the pitcher's mound. Chuck turned around and fired a perfect strike to me at second. One out. I had plenty of time to throw out the batter at first for a double play, but someone apparently sewed some velcro onto the ball and into my glove and then lathered up my throwing hand with Vaseline because I could NOT get that thing out of the webbing. So no double play for us.

We ended up coughing up three or four runs in the top of the first inning, but that's not a disaster in softball.

In fact, our very first batter in the bottom of the first inning launched one over the fence for a home run. Woo hoo! It was a beautiful, towering shot that easily cleared the wall. Just like that, we were on the scoreboard and all fired up again!

And that would be the last run we scored until the bottom of the seventh (last) inning. In the meantime, we gave up 14 more runs.

It was not pretty.

As the game progressed, our players gradually showed less and less interest in being on the field. That, of course, just made things worse. As the pounding worsened, many of our players ceased most or all effort, until most of the game just became a blur of the other team circling the bases while our players jogged or walked to retrieve the ball. It nearly sent me and Chuck over the edge.

In the bottom of the seventh inning, though, our bats came alive. Our shortstop complemented his first-inning home run with an inside-the-park home run to start the seventh. Then our next batter got on base. Then our next one. And then another. And before we knew it, we had 4 or 5 runs on the board. What a great inning!

Except that it was six innings too late and ten runs too few.

My night at second base was pretty uneventful. Aside from the botched double play (and we still got one out on the play, so it wasn't a disaster), I fielded everything cleanly, and my throws went where they were supposed to. My elbow held up just fine, but I only had to gas a throw once, cutting off a throw from right field and firing it to Chuck at home plate. Still, no pain in the elbow before the game, after the game, or today, so I think I'm past my elbow issues for now.

I had a subpar 1-for-3 night at the plate, though. In my first at-bat, I nearly drilled a hole in the pitcher's chest. I absolutely HATE it when I accidentally send a line drive screaming right back at the pitcher, and this one was in a hurry. Fortunately, he had time to take about a half-step to his right and avoid broken ribs or a punctured lung or something. I apologized profusely all the way to first base. He was very good-natured about it (whew!), and it even became a running joke for the rest of the game.

In my second at-bat, trying to launch one OVER the pitcher this time, I popped out. It was a weak hit, and I knew it the instant I made contact. Blech.

In my third at-bat, I didn't get all of the ball, but I got most of it. However, it wound up being a pop-out to the shortstop, which puzzled me. Despite hitting it pretty hard, it didn't feel or sound normal coming off my bat. Recall that I put a dent in my bat a couple weeks ago. When I was musing to Chuck that I felt like the ball should have traveled a lot farther than it did, he mentioned that when he used my bat last week when I was out of town, it felt "off" to him, too. With much sadness, we have concluded that the bat is dead. I really loved that bat. Rest in peace, buddy.

As Chuck pointed out, though, it went down swinging.

He's a comedian, folks.

I'll try it one more time next week to make sure I'm not just imagining things, but it looks like I'll be saving my pennies over the winter to get a new bat for next year.

After the game, as the other team (tastefully) celebrated their victory, one of their players exclaimed, "We're not in last place anymore!" It wasn't directed at us, but it was still a punch in the gut. We just got our asses handed to us by the last place team. And now WE are the last place team. Real nice.

Our last regular season game is next week against the team we lost to by one run about a month ago in the bottom of the last inning when I made a bone-headed (and errant) throw to first base, blowing out my elbow in the process, and allowing a runner on third base to score the winning run uncontested. Normally, I'd say that we should play them tough, but the last two times I've said that, we've gotten destroyed. So I'm pretty resigned to the fact that we'll enter the playoffs in two weeks as the lowest seed, likely getting the "pleasure" of being thoroughly dismantled by the highest seeded team. Good times ahead!

Even with all the frustration surrounding this season, though, I sure love being back out there on the softball field. I'm thrilled to be playing again, and I'll be back for more next season!

Fun in French Lick, Indiana

The Mrs. and I took some time off work before and after the Labor Day weekend to have a little family summer vacation. Several months ago, the Mrs. found a good deal on-line for a night at the Valley of the Springs Resort in French Lick, Indiana, that included admission to the attached Big Splash Adventure.

These are our stories (insert dramatic two-note "Law and Order" sound here).

French Lick is a little over two hours from the Indianapolis metropolitan area, so it was just long enough to feel like we "got away" and short enough that we didn't blow half of our trip on driving. The last part of the trip, in particular, from Bedford to French Lick on US 50 and US 150 is pretty: winding, hilly roads through wooded areas.

Valley of the Springs Resort

If you're relying on Google Maps to find the hotel, they have you looking on the wrong side of the road. The hotel is on your left as you travel south on State Road 56. You're barely out of West Baden Springs and into French Lick when you get to the entrance. The resort could invest a little money into signage, as they only have a small wooden sign at ground level. Thanks to Google Maps and the small sign, we missed it on our first pass and felt lucky to have seen it on our second pass through town. There is a Subway sandwich shop directly across the street from the entrance to the resort. If you reach the train museum, you've gone too far.

That minor irritation aside, we drove up the steep, winding driveway to find the resort and large water park at the top of the hill. There were hardly any cars in the parking lot, but we got there right at check-in time, so we figured it would fill up as the night progressed.

Inside, it's decorated in a nautical theme throughout the lobby. It still smells like new paint and new carpet, so I asked the very friendly desk attendant when the facility opened. She said they opened for business in March of 2009. It's also a non-smoking facility throughout, so that helped to keep it smelling fresh and new. (For those who smoke, you can smoke outside, and there are a number of places to safely dispose of butts without littering.)

At check-in, they fixed all four of us up with wristbands. Now, I'll admit that I don't travel much, but I thought these wristbands were really cool. The bands that the Mrs. and I wore had electronic chips in them, and when we held a band up to the electric eye on our room door, the door unlocked! (I have a cousin who is a hotel manager in California, and if he's reading this, he's probably howling with laughter right now, but this is the first time I've encountered this kind of thing in my limited travels.) Want to eat at the hotel restaurant and charge it to your room? They scan your wristband! Want to buy something in the sundry shop and charge it to your room? They scan your wristband! The wristband was also our pass into the water park, and they were, of course, waterproof. So we never had to carry a hotel key, our wallets, money, or credit cards around. It was very convenient!

In a nutshell, our room was very nice. It had two queen beds in it, and they were comfortable. We had a nice wooded view out of our window. Free wi-fi in the room. TV with about 30 channels. All the usual amenities. I wouldn't describe the rooms as "luxurious," but it was quite comfortable. The resort is very family-oriented, the staff was extremely friendly and helpful, and the whole place was new and clean. We ate dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, and we paid normal prices for a sit-down dinner. I had a huge Cobb salad with a grilled chicken breast on it for $10. The Mrs. had a big cheeseburger and fries, and it was around $8. The kids' meals--around $6 a piece--were enormous. They each got spaghetti, and they got a large bowl of it. Plus they got two sides and a drink with their meals. And while we waited for our food (which took a lot longer than it seemed like it should, since we were one of only two families in the whole place at the time), they provided Olivia and June with crayons and paper.

The sundry/souvenir shop is as expensive as you'd expect from a hotel. We got the girls each a t-shirt for $13 a piece, and you pay the normal $2 for a bottle of pop, but I've been gouged worse at other hotels.

Our package included a free breakfast, but we discovered that the resort seems to offer that free breakfast to all of its guests. It was certainly more than a continental breakfast. It was a buffet, so you helped yourself to whatever you wanted, which included fresh fruit, cold cereal, milk, sausage patties, bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, pancakes, cinnamon French toast sticks, Amish bread, juice, coffee, and probably more that I don't remember. And take as many trips up there as you want. I was absolutely stuffed after I was done.

Big Splash Adventure

On the second floor of the resort, you walk directly into Big Splash Adventure Water Park, a 40,000 square foot park with stuff to do for everyone of all ages. Our girls (ages 3 and 2) spent most of their time in the kiddie pool, which was 3 inches deep on one end and gradually increased to 9 inches deep in the "deep" end. There were swings in the middle of it that swung, bounced, and twirled around. There were in-pool fountains to play in, and there was a small bucket overhead that filled up with water and occasionally dumped over, soaking whoever was under it. At the 9-inch end was a small water slide that our girls absolutely LOVED!!

They had enormous water slides, some that you navigate with tubes (single or double, provided free) and some that were body chutes. I did both body chutes. One is blue, and the other is yellow. If you like being enclosed in a completely dark tube while rocketing downward and twisting and turning with absolutely no forewarning whatsoever, try the blue chute. If you prefer enough light to be able to see what bends are coming up, take the yellow chute. Both were fun rides, but I preferred the yellow chute. The Mrs. did one of the slides that require a tube, and she said it felt like she was free-falling in parts. She looked a little shell-shocked when she got back.

In another section, they have much more mellow slides for younger kids. Again, the blue chute is pitch dark, while the yellow chute allows plenty of light inside to see where you're headed. Olivia wanted nothing to do with those slides, but June was more than happy to go down the slides with me over and over and over again. That entire apparatus has a huge bucket at the top that fills with water and then spills over, and there are all devices all over the place that dump or spray water all over you.

Meandering through about half the park is a lazy river where you can float on a tube. I think I recall it being 3'6" deep (the Mrs. remembers it as 2'6", so it's somewhere in that neighborhood), and you periodically get showered with water by various devices as you float through.

There was another pool that we never got in, but it had basketball goals on the sides, a big floating dolphin that kids could climb on, a rope ladder to walk across the water (or fall off of into the water), and it seemed like there was something else in that pool to do that I now can't remember.

There was an adults-only area that was fenced off. It was basically a big sitting pool. We never got in it, so I don't know if the water was heated more than the rest of the park, but there's at least a safe-haven for adults who want to soak without having kids splashing all around them.

The entire facility has a retractable roof, which was open both days we were there, allowing plenty of natural sunlight in. But even if it's cold or rainy outside, they can close the roof and keep the water park going. The water is heated, so it was very comfortable to be in or out of the water.

They also had an outdoor pool. It started at zero depth and gradually increased in depth as you waded in. It had some fountains in it, and some more basketball goals, but the water was pretty cold, so Olivia preferred the indoor activities. June, however, kept the Mrs. occupied in the outdoor pool for quite some time.

There are several lifeguards on duty, and they actually pay attention. Every now and then, we'd hear a whistle chirp as someone's horseplay got to be too much, they'd slow running kids down to a walk, and one of them even (very politely) stopped me and Olivia in the lazy river because I wasn't properly in my tube. They carry flotation devices around their torsos, and while I don't think the water anywhere is more than 4 or 5 feet deep, it was nice to see attentive lifeguards on duty.

For $6, you can purchase a locker wristband that works the same way as your hotel room wristband, allowing you to use one of the many lockers to put your stuff in while you play. It was worth it to us, as we had clothes for four, plus our camera to secure. It's not like there was riff-raff lurking in every corner, and thanks to the hotel wristbands, we didn't have to bring our wallets to the pool, but once you get playing in the water with your kids, your attention is not on your stuff sitting poolside. So it was $6 well-spent, as far as we were concerned.

There were nice, big, clean bathrooms in the water park, and right inside, there were a handful of video games that spit out tickets that could be turned in for some cheap crap. Olivia got herself a plastic princess wand and two little plastic bracelets from her winnings. They also sell candy, pizza, pop, water, sandwiches, and assorted other food there, and they have several changing rooms. They also provide towels for the water park at no cost.

It was a great experience there. The entire time we were there, it never got even remotely crowded, which shocked us, since it was a holiday weekend. But I certainly wasn't complaining, given my loathing of people in herds. There were lots of other kids there, many of whom were our kids' age, so I wasn't overly horrified when our girls tried to single-handedly dismantle the restaurant at dinner, because two tables over, someone else's kids were doing the same thing.

The staff was terrific. We didn't meet a single staff member who was anything but friendly and helpful. The place was clean, the prices were decent, and everything you could want for a family stay was available.

On Saturday afternoon after check-out, we ventured over to the train museum in French Lick, since our girls are big fans of trains. They got to climb on some old trains, and there were options to take one- or two-hour train rides, some of which included a realistic train robbery along the way. While we didn't take the train rides, the girls enjoyed their time with the choo-choo's. They have a small gift shop there, too, that also sells popcorn, drinks, and some candy. If you can avoid it, though, don't park in the parking lot directly in front of the train station. There is angled parking on each side, but only one way in and out, so it's a breeze to get in, but a complete nightmare trying to get out. There is a parking lot across the train tracks from the museum that is a normal sized lot. I'm not sure how you get in there, but I wish we would have.

On our way home, we stopped at the French Lick Winery and got a couple bottles of cherry wine that my sister recommended. Since she was willing to dog-sit for us at a moment's notice, we left one of the bottles on her countertop when we picked up the dog. We've yet to try our own bottle, but we probably will tonight. We were just too exhausted last night when we got home. But the winery looked nice, and they have a restaurant inside. It's probably worth checking out if you're without children, or your kids are older than 3 and 2.

French Lick also has grand hotels and casinos there, but we didn't get to those. The Mrs. and I are interested in heading back down there, though, sometime when we have overnight childcare. I do enjoy video poker! And I'd like to check out that winery in more depth.

We got to French Lick and back on half a tank of gas. So if you're in central Indiana and looking for a fun but relatively inexpensive get-away, keep that area of the state in mind. I highly recommend Valley of the Springs Resort and Big Splash Adventure Water Park.

Mr. Magoo Hangs In There

The close game I was expecting last night on the softball diamond turned into a 17-7 blowout, and we were on the 7 end of it. Rotator Cuff Boy didn't bother to show up, despite calling one of our other players yesterday morning to ask what time the game started, and one of our women was about 15-20 minutes late to the game, with no warning. So we got off to a dismal start.

We had some bright spots throughout the game, but for the most part, about half the team acted like they were demoralized or tired or didn't want to be there or something. Our batting was mostly terrible, and our fielding was no better. Very frustrating, since we should have been able to play a close game with this team.

You're on the edge of your seat wondering how Mr. Magoo did out in right-centerfield, aren't you? I knew you were.

Well, I didn't do all that badly, which was kind of a surprise given how long it's been since I've played out there. I chuckled ruefully to myself in the first inning as the other team sent three consecutive left-handed batters to the plate. I put myself in right-centerfield in an effort to minimize the number of fly balls that I had to judge and the number of throws I'd have to make with a bum elbow, since most batters are right-handed, and most righties pull the ball into left field. But wouldn't you know it, the other team had a whole bunch of left-handed batters, in addition to a couple of righties who routinely hit it out my way. I wound up being about as active as our left fielder last night.

I'm happy to report that I did not have to make any Runs of Shame to the wall to retrieve a fly ball that I misjudged. I made several catches, and my coworker, the left-centerfielder, was good about calling out when I was out of position, so I could adjust before disaster struck.

I wrote yesterday that it was going to work to my advantage that the sun was still up. That absolutely held true. However, the sun worked against me on one play. They hit a routine fly ball to centerfield, which was no problem...until the last second. There are trees lining the road behind home plate, and as the game progressed, the sun started to set behind those trees, casting shade over about half the outfield. The fly ball was just barely on the sunny side of the field, so as I left the shadows and moved under the ball, I suddenly got a direct view of the sun. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, since I was completely blinded, but the ball hit my glove and came out.

Fortunately, my face was there to stop it.

Since I could see nothing but white light, I had no idea where the ball was for the last ten feet or so of its flight. I was relying on luck that the ball might come down where I thought it would, and counting on my sense of touch to know when to close my glove. I was lucky...but too slow. The next thing I knew, I was on my butt, my sunglasses were all cockeyed on my face, and the ball was on the ground a few feet away. I scrambled for the ball and threw to the blurry blob that I think was our shortstop. I sat there in frustration for a few seconds and then became aware that a lot of people were asking me if I was okay. Apparently, it looked a lot worse than it really was. Chuck said that from his vantage point on the pitcher's mound, he thought I took the shot directly to my face. But the ball actually hit my glove first, thus losing a lot of momentum, and then my sunglasses absorbed a lot of the impact (and amazingly, they didn't break!). I didn't even realize that the ball had hit my skin. My main concern was that I could see nothing but white out of my left eye after staring directly into the sun.

I got up and returned to my spot in the outfield, but I didn't have any time to think about how I was going to compensate for having vision in only one eye. The very next pitch that Chuck threw was launched right back at me. It was short, so I had to run up on it. I wound up sliding under it and catching it cleanly. I'm really not sure how.

I came back to the dugout at the end of the inning to find a lot of people interested in my face. I still didn't feel any pain, but the Mrs. said it was red and starting to swell just under my left eye. A couple teammates predicted a shiner in my future. I was more concerned about still seeing a big white blob out of my left eye, and I had to bat.

Even after the game, when the adrenaline subsided, I never felt pain in my face. By the time I got out of the shower at home, there was no swelling or redness, and absolutely no pain. This morning, same deal.

As far as batting went, I had my typical 2-for-3 night. I hit a line drive so hard that I put a dent in my bat. It'll go in the books as a triple, thanks to very loose scoring in rec league softball, but it was probably really only a double. Chuck was on first base when I hit it, and I could hear their fielders shouting instructions to each other while the ball was in play, and I knew they were more concerned about getting Chuck out than they were about me. So while they tried unsuccessfully to keep him from scoring, I made it to third base easily. I'm bummed about my bat, though. I love that bat, and so does about half of our team and several players on the Mrs.'s team. I undercut the ball in my second at-bat and popped up to the second baseman, but my third at-bat was another solid shot into the outfield for a single, despite the white blob in my left eye.

So altogether, not a bad night for me individually, but a rough night for the team. It was real darn close to being a REALLY bad night for Olivia, though. One of our batters hit a towering foul ball that went into the grassy area where Olivia was running around. Olivia has not yet learned what it means when everyone screams "HEADS!!!" As she was running, the ball dropped less than six inches in front of her. She was startled by its arrival for about a nanosecond, but then kept on running around. Whew!

Two-for-three at the plate, including an RBI "triple", a run scored, no major gaffes out in right-centerfield, some decent catches out there, no significant injuries, and my daughter didn't get her skull caved in by a foul ball. I can live with that. Oh, and the elbow held up pretty well. On a couple of my throws to the infield that had to travel some distance, I got a little shot of pain as I released the ball, but for the most part, it wasn't bad. And I was pleasantly surprised to awaken this morning with absolutely no soreness in my elbow.

I'll miss next week's game, so Chuck will wear the coach's hat, and I won't have any softball stories to share. The game will be against the team that massacred us in the first week, though, so there probably wouldn't have been any stories to share, anyway.