My Wife is Hot! (or Conjugal Relations, Part II)

     Deanne is sexy, gorgeous, beautiful, fun, alive, and loving. At least I think so.

     Not that I always think that way. Other times I think she acts lazy, sloppy, argumentative, irritating, and demanding. I try not to dwell on such thoughts.

     We've been married eighteen years and the passion I feel for her is still there alive and intense, so for a fifty-four year old, I'm better than okay, I think.

     (Through the years, I've talked to so many people who've confessed, complained about, or let be known their ongoing celibacies, so that I get the impression huge swaths of marriages go without or with very little or with much less than at least one of the pair would prefer. Although such celibacy may not be the main cause of the steep fifty percent divorce rate, it is certainly symptomatic of widespread marital discontent, for doubtless happy couples will tend to seek to express their loves through occasional to frequent acts of sexual intimacy up to and including “all the way”, age-, health-, and emotional-related and other such limitations notwithstanding.)

     Deanne, ever since she got a full-time office job late last year, has been more attentive to her appearances—the clothes she wears, make up (always tastefully minimalist; she's a natural beauty), meal portion control, and occasional exercise. She's blessed because when she makes even minor efforts, the positive results show huge: her curves become oh-so-righter in all the right places, her complexion improves, and she looks ten years younger than her already youthful-looking forty-five.

     Speaking of which, forty-five used to be (and still may be?) the cut-off age of a woman for me at which I will refuse to gaze at her with eager, searching eyes no matter how much she flirts, bends over, or whatever (Deanne excepted). This mental block (or whatever it is) dates back over a decade, though the cut-off age has risen over time. (When I was an early teen, anyone in their twenties was ancient—bleah! How times change...)

     We've mellowed some with age, so some of our fiery tempest drag-out fights have cooled and shortened some, which has helped with our marital felicity. Even more positive, due to our years together:

     We now trust each other better.

     Know each other better.

     Are less prone to beat up on each other.

     Do more kind-hearted things for each other because we want to.

     Not that we're perfect. We do petty, selfish, and hurtful things far too often. But these are largely offset by the small things that count most. We know what we are really like and the things that make us go “click” when we share them in good will. These include:

     Watching a sunset on a beach.

     Sharing a simple meal of home made comfort food.

     Going for a walk with pleasant conversation.

     Asking nicely by saying, “Please.”

     Being appreciative and saying, “Thank you.”

     Lavishing compliments freely.

     Holding hands, hugging, kissing, or whatever it is the other likes with a giving, generous heart.

     Saying, “I love you.”

     Praying aloud for each other for hurts that need mending; joy restored at work or church; family ties that need healing; God's peace, joy, and rest.

     Helping out around the house.

     Disciplining the kids.

     Playing with the kids.

     Discussing how the day went.

     Valuing the other more than anyone else.

     Are these things really so difficult? If yes, no wonder so many struggle with undesired celibacy, which really is a cry for greater intimacy. I suppose our marriage would be that way, too, if we didn't enjoy doing these few “minimums.”

     Really, we're not trying to build a Great Wall of China, discover Einstein's grand unification theory, or establish world peace—those would be difficult. All we're trying to do is live decent, respectful lives. And it's not like we're even that successful. When things are hitting one hundred percent—that's rare! It's more like we try. Sometimes we do better than others. Meanwhile, tiny victories add up to big rewards. Wash dishes? Bing! Hang laundry? Bing! Say, “Good Morning”? Bing! Before we know it, we're both starting to feel pretty good (and maybe even a little frisky. Not that this even happens that often. But ample enough at our ages. After all, it's the quality, not the quantity, that counts.)

Initiative

     Wow.

     Allow me to rephrase that: Wow! Braden, now sixteen, for the first time ever did something that needed to be done without being told.

     Granted, he did do things for himself on his own initiative before this but a few days ago while hanging out in the kitchen bored (a favorite visiting place for such times), he grabbed a box of Cheerios and refilled our plastic cereal dispenser! And it wasn't even empty with nothing but a half-inch layer of cereal dust left—it was still a quarter-full!

     I didn't say a word—not because I didn't want to jinx him but because often when I compliment him he acts up. (One child care “expert”—Dr. Spock or John Rosemund—said to compliment sparingly because it takes the bluster out of their sails or makes them uncomfortable so that they have to act up to feel comfortable again. When I was a kid I didn't like my parents taking credit for my positive deed—as if I did it for them—by complimenting me. I did it for myself because I wanted to, same as Braden, I suppose.)

     I wondered if his thoughtful act was a fluke or an unintentional oversight or perhaps something Deanne told him to do a day or two ago?, but then two days later it happened again.

     We have a hamper and laundry basket that we keep in a common area inside. These fill up fast and only empty fully on laundry weekends. The emptied hamper sits inside the emptied basket and only after the hamper fills does the basket sit atop the stuffed hamper. The thing is, the hamper keeps overflowing onto the floor until Deanne or I tells someone to “Fix the hamper.” This assignment goes to whomever is nearest when it happens to be noticed, or Jaren, who has the least chores.

     Well, Braden after bathing this red-letter night, dumped his clothes on the already overflowing hamper; picked up all the clothes, towels, and dish cloths on the floor nearby; stuffed them on top; shoved the contents down tight; then lifted the hamper out of the basket and placed the basket on top. It ended up all just the way we like it, nice and neat, with the hamper and basket backed against the wall. It was remarkable that he did the chore on his own initiative but even more so that he did a fine job of it—no laggard clothes left on the floor, no slanting basket on top, and no sleeves, plant legs, or towels dangling out from between the basket and hamper.

     And I didn't dare breathe a word or even smile or show that I noticed. (If it ain't broke, then don't fix it!—so said one bright dude who wasn't even a child care expert.)

     This was very assuring for me that Braden may be finally “getting it”—that life's not all about him. That living for others is important. That helping out voluntarily feels good. That looking for ways to help and doing them without first seeking approval or recognition is a very big deal. I believe it's why God says to tithe blindly and give without show—because he sees it all and that's enough.

     Praise God!

Perspective

     When I was a youth, my dad was a deliberate decision maker, especially when it came to investing or spending hard earned dollars. He'd stew and mull things over, plan, tentatively decide, change his mind, research, and plan some more until something triggered a decision which would then be final.

     For awhile, it was whether to buy a new VW Rabbit (this in the late 1970's), which would be his first brand new car, or a used low-mileage early 1970's VW, Toyota, or Datsun (i.e. Nissan)—which would be comparable to all his prior automobile purchases: reasonably priced, reliable, and an overall good value. The Rabbit would be over twice the price of a used car, but would it afford twice the value? Probably not. Twice the fun or joy from owning brand new for once? Perhaps. (He didn't say these things but his stressed looks and excitement as he read brochures and Consumer Reports Magazine said it all. He wanted the VW but with Joan in college and Grant and me headed there, could he justify its cost? Probably not.)

     We were watching the excellent Cosmos PBS TV series when astronomer Carl Saga narrated a video showing a child at play on the front lawn of a suburban home when the camera pulled away into the sky, revealing the child's house, then the neighborhood, the city, clouds, lakes, rivers, oceans, continents, the entire globe, the Moon, Mars, asteroids, Venus, all the planets, the Sun, interstellar space, galaxy clusters, more interstellar space, and on and on until the entire universe with its billions and billions of stars were revealed from billions of light years away. At the end of the show we all felt puny and insignificant, as well we might compared to the Universe's unimaginable vastness.

     Dad said with a jocular smile, “You know what? Let's get the Rabbit—can afford!”

     Mom said, “Good, that's the way to say it! You only live once!”

     I, a lifetime penny-pinching saver felt bemused that it took a wonder-inducing science show rather than careful pro/con financial analyses to tilt Dad's decision to what he truly wanted. It was after all an emotional decision.

     For me, I find over an over again that when stressors build, accumulating to almost unbearable levels, that it's usually because I'm too zeroed-in on the itty-bitty details without considering the big picture. Sure Braden may act rude and disrespectful at times, but overall he's a good, responsible, and reliable kid. Sure I may not agree with my boss's priorities and his bossy management style, but overall, I haven't found a better alternative workplace that I'd want to go to at this moment. Sure Deanne and the kids aren't perfect, but neither am I. Yet, we're overall still a loving, respectful, and supportive family. And God has been with us and kind to us with blessings countless and profound.

     The main thing, however, was something I got from writer Pearl Buck's memoir of her pastor father. Though she herself was not a Christian, she did see her father—especially as he approached death—as becoming more and more angelic, even more spirit than human-this as his body faded, ever weaker and more slight. At the end, she said, he was with God, something even she, a nonbeliever, could see.

     Must we wait for death to be with God? I don't think so. He's here always, it's only us who aren't with him. But once I remember, realize, and sense he is with me, and I can and do surrender even my life to him, then the itty-bitty things are less than dust by comparison to the entirety that he is (the “biggest picture”—eternity, existence, love, everything that matters—there is.)

     And he always finds solutions to all our itty-bitty problems—even if it means giving us a healthy dose of repentance, forgiveness, or humility. And that's the best perspective of all!

Aloha 'Aina

     The title of this essay means (loosely translated) to love and care for the environment.

     My friend Norm decades ago listed the three worst things a person can do to the environment: have kids, eat beef, and drive a car—this from a man who has two kids, eats gobs of meat (including beef), and has owned and driven only pick-up trucks and SUVs for decades. He wasn't being hypocritical or ironic, his point was that it's difficult living an environmentally friendly lifestyle. He tries to do his part (compensate?) by eating organic, recycling, reusing (especially cloth bags for purchased groceries as far back as the 1990s), donating stuff he no longer wants, growing some of his own produce, and even using cloth diapers for all his (now adult) kids.

     I liked his list and thought it credible. To clarify, having kids per se isn't so much a problem as living modern lifestyles is (which kids are wont to do). An animated cartoon on TV I saw decades ago illustrated this by showing a lifetime's worth of junk a typical American accumulates and discards: multiple cars, appliances, furniture, and equipment; oodles of clothes, bags, and hobby items; tons of paper and plastic, etc., etc., etc. and it created a mountainous heap, a veritable dump site in and of itself—an alarming eye opener to think I'd leave so much junk behind!

     What makes beef so bad is its huge demand on resources whereby one pound of it can require up to 2,000 gallons of water (mostly to water crops that are eventually fed to the steer over its lifetime). Cows also poop and pass gas prodigiously. One can add upwards of 36 tons of e-coli laden feces to streams and rivers and 360 pounds of methane to the atmosphere-comparable to daily use of a car for three years.

     The environmental costs of driving a petroleum-based car (the only ones available at the time of our discussion) are pretty well known so I won't elaborate further.

     I felt good for awhile about owning only one car, driving it only ~3,500 miles per year, and limiting my meat consumption (which has increased since marrying; Deanne's a “carnivore” as she puts it in jest and does all the cooking because she's so good at it), but we did end up having three kids and yes, we did use disposable diapers all the way (tsk! tsk!)

     Norm decades later changed his mind and said the number one personal environmental disaster is people living outsized lives in enormous mansions, owning multiple humongous SUVs, trading them in for new ones every other year, buying second homes to vacation in for a few weeks, and so forth—this from a single guy that for years lived in a sizable house (> 1000 square feet) and owned a grand piano (his deceased mom's, granted) that no one played (but that he felt compelled to keep). I felt good that we've always lived in modest-sized dwellings—enough to get by in and not filled with unused wasted space that attracts the accumulation of extra junk.

     Now that merchants in Hawaii no longer issue disposable plastic bags for purchases, we no longer bag our household trash in such bags—which helps in a minor way. And we're mostly conscientious about bringing our own reusable bags shopping so we won't feel tempted to accept the paper or heavy reusable plastic ones offered (which we already have too many of).

     Which makes me wonder, how many shoppers immediately discard those heavy reusable plastic bags after one use? One of them has got to be far worse for the environment than one of the old flimsy disposable ones from before. Has the law banning distribution of disposable plastic bags by businesses thereby worsened the environment?

     I told Norm unless we as a society revert to agrarianism, get off the power grid, and live off the land, we're bound to leave the environment far worse than before. (My mom always taught me to leave a place better off than when I arrived, but I confess I'm doing a horrible job of that in respect to the environment). “How much land does it take to be able to live that way?” I asked. He didn't know. Obviously it depends on where the land is and the viable crops/livestock it'll support. I give subsistence farmers/hunters/gatherers a world of credit where ever they are. I doubt I'd survive much more than a year (or two, if I were extra lucky or blessed.)

Sensitive Jaren

     Jaren's friend Ian at school recently got hurt playing soccer during recess and an ambulance was sent for. Jaren wasn't there when it happened but ran across the yard to see if Ian was okay, then ran back to report to the yard monitor the situation.

     The next day at school, Ian wasn't there. Jaren said he was in the hospital.

     I said, That's unusual. He probably needs surgery.

     Jaren made wild guesses as to what it might be (he had a broken elbow once that healed nicely with just a cast) but I said it's impossible to say.

     The next day, Jaren said Ian is still in the hospital.

     I said that it must be he had or is going to have surgery. It must be serious. (Jaren looked concerned.) He'll be fine, I said, kids heal fast. They might need to put in screws until it heals—I don't know how they do it these days.

     The next day Jaren said, Ian is still in the hospital. He has pins in his leg.

     I said, “Yeah, sometimes they use those. They hold them in place like screws. I don't know if they're permanent or they take them out after awhile.” Later that night before bedtime, Jaren was still talking about Ian and his injuries so I asked, “Would you like me to pray for him?” He nodded, so I hugged him close and prayed aloud, “In the name of Jesus, Ian be healed, all well and better with no more injuries or pain. All broken bones, damaged ligaments, nerves, tendons, or anything else be fully healed and recovered. Please comfort Ian and his family, his classmates and teachers and everyone else in school. May he come back to school real soon and be his usual happy, joyful self. In Jesus' name I pray all things. Amen.”

     Even before I concluded, I could tell that Jaren was touched, weeping silently in catching breaths. And as I recited my usual bedtime prayers for him immediately after, he tried to stifle his emotions, but it was obvious (not that I minded—it's how God made him.)

     (Note: I was taught about this “direct” style of healing prayer about a decade ago. Most such prayers are supplications, “Lord, please help heal...” Nothing's wrong with those, they can work just as well, but they're never used in the Bible. All (or virtually all?) healing prayers in the bible are direct—in essence commanding the healing to take place in Jesus' name. I pray healing prayers both ways. I like the direct style because it seems to initiate greater faith on my part—always a good thing, I think.)

     A weekend and a school day later, Ian was finally back in school with two casts on his right leg, walking on crutches. He'll have the casts for four and five weeks each, Jaren said.

     “Did you run over the first thing you saw him?” I asked.

     “No. There was already a crowd of people around him. I talked to him later when I ran into him. The first thing I saw him, though, I was so happy, I almost cried.”

     “That's sweet. Did you tell him you missed him?”

     “No. I told him, 'Welcome back. I hope you're as happy to see us as we're happy to see you.'”

     “That was great and awful nice of you.” Sometimes he says the most grown-up things—things I'd wish I'd thought of myself. “What did he say”

     “He said that he wasn't crying when he got hurt, he was just fussing.”

     “But you saw him crying when you ran over?”
     “Yeah.”

     “Nothing's wrong with crying when you have serious injuries like that. It hurts like anything. Maybe you can invite him over for a sleep-over to cheer him up when he gets better. Would you like that?”

     He nodded.

     Now what did I get myself into?

Would You Rather...

     Dinner time conversation comes around to Pene the other night and she says she and her friends sometimes play “Would You Rather...”

     I ask, “For example: Would you rather be buried alive in an anthill or caged with a hundred mice?”

     She smiles and says, “Yeah, but it's not usually so unpleasant. Vera asked, 'Would you rather have the power of invisibility, but you have to be naked, or the power to run super fast, but you're blind while running?' Mine was: 'Would you rather have devil horns or a forked tongue like a snake?'”

     “Would I have to stick out my tongue to smell the air like a snake, too, or could I keep it in all the time” I ask.

     “You'd have to stick it out once in awhile.”

     I think about it and say, “I feel very uncomfortable. This is stressful for me.” (She's laughing—she like to see me squirm.) “I guess the forked tongue—I could at least hide it sometimes, though either would be cool for Halloween. And I'd get rich doing the talk-show circuit.”

     I later come up with my own. It's just before bedtime and we're talking: “Would you rather be President of the United States, but you can't wear a pants or dress in public—you can wear panties, though. Or, be the Pope, but you always have to wear that tall pointy hat—even to bed?”

     She chooses the latter and says, “I also asked my friends: If everyone in the world were sick of a horrible disease and were going to die, but you could cure them but it would cost you your life, would you?

     “Sure,” I said.

     “Candace said, 'No. They're doomed anyway.' So then asked, 'Well what about this: Your wishes always come true, but each time you wish something, someone you know dies. Would you still want that power?' Trudy said, 'Yeah.' Vera asked, 'But what if that person were me?' And Trudy said, 'Too bad. I want my wishes.'”
     “Man, these are kind-of sick and disturbing,” I say. “Getting back to that running real fast thing, maybe memorizing what's ahead and going for it isn't such a great idea after all. When I was about Jaren's age, I tried riding bike with my eyes closed from the top of our driveway all the way down to the Harano's house. The first time I tried, I panicked, opened my eyes, and saw that I was half-way down the driveway, fine, and could have gone more. Next time I panicked again, opened my eyes, and realized I was half-way there and perfect—no need to have stopped. Next time I kept telling myself, 'keep going, don't panic, keep going, don't look...' Then whoa! I'm falling and see the shrubs and brush below in the gulch by the Lo's! Phoom! I get up and drag the bike back out.”

     Pene's in hysterics throughout all this. “Did you get hurt?” she asks.

     “No. But I was super-ashamed. Mom later asked, 'What happened?' 'I lost control of my bike,' I said. 'Mrs. Harano called and said she saw you riding straight and slow and it looked like you went over the edge on purpose. Did you?' 'No. It was the bike. Something happened. I'm fine.' 'Do you want Dad to check it?' 'I'll do it,' I said.”

     Pene's laughing hard, just as hard as when we wathced some dumb DVD together weeks ago (which is unusual for her as she's usually so serious.) I guess it's because it's odd for her to imagine me doing something so stupid as I'm usually so sensible. Or maybe she just likes to see me suffer.

     (The most sure-fire laugh for her (and Deanne) is my getting hit, knocked, or somehow pounded in the groin. Something about me doubling over and groaning sets her off. “Oh it's so funny to see Dad in pain, huh?” I ask. Though she apologizes, she laughs even harder. I guess it's like the time Deanne got livid over getting pooped on by a pigeon and the kids and I couldn't stop laughing as she tried to dab the whitish-green cream from the shoulder of her navy blue jacket. Now that was funny seeing her so upset and hearing her say, “Stop laughing! It's not funny!” I tried to sort-of help by saying, “Yeah you guys, stop laughing! It's not funny!” but that just set them off further.

     Ah, humor in the twenty-first century: high-brow indeed.

Closure

     Contrary to countless books, shows, and movies these days that wrap things up so that everything makes sense (I picture a present neatly wrapped with ribbon and bow on top), life can be messy with all-too-many loose ends. So that when something comes to a neat and tidy close, it often feels like a pleasant surprise.

     The months leading up to present have had added tension due to a number of open items. With the resolution of some of them, that tension has eased some. Specifically:

     I, with the kids' sometimes help (I did 90+% of it) completed a wickedly difficult 3000 piece jigsaw puzzle that had way too many teeny tiny, almost indistinguishably shaped pieces of dull green and black. Braden chose it years ago from Goodwill at a cost of three dollars. It took about a year-and-a-half to finish. The box it came in had already been opened and thus at the end we discovered it had one missing piece, which we found two weeks later under the dining table rug during a thorough cleaning. It's now mounted on Pene's old science fair tri-fold display board beside that table. (I mounted it using white glue. A cookie sheet and spatula lifted sections in turn, starting from the center, while glue was spread over the waiting cardboard surface.)

     I finished reading The Lord of the Rings to Pene and was amazed by how moving it was at times for when I'd read it to Braden three years earlier, he and I were both bemused and much more detached. Perhaps it's because Pene is emotional like me. The tension kept mounting and mounting—especially in the second of the three books.

     Our office had been in transition—very unpleasant and stressful—almost half a year now and the situation is now nearly resolved to a mostly satisfactory conclusion. Some things are better than before, some are worse, but mostly things have restored to “normal.” No complaints for now.

     The mouse issue (see my prior “One Smart (or Lucky?) Mouse” essay) is settled. Deanne bought glue traps which were sold as a pair. I set them both out with peanut butter and cheese bait in a neat cranny in our carport two weeks ago. A week passed. Nothing happened. Then one of the traps disappeared. I searched for evidence of the rat escaping with the 3” x 5” cardboard trap stuck to its fur (think flypaper), but found nothing. I told Deanne, “If it can't free itself, I doubt it has long to live.” But I kept the remaining trap out just in case.

     Four days later, I came home from work and there it was, stuck by what turned out to be its tail (at first I thought it was its foot). It squeaked when it saw me and struggled to drag itself (and the trap) away under the shelves where I store scrap lumber, but didn't get far. I changed and got our landlord's old metal rake and dust bin (made from an old tin gallon shoyu (soy sauce) can cut at an angle in two, one half of which had a wood stave attached for a handle) and since the rat was hidden beneath a board by then, I hauled the trap into the dust bin with the mouse trailing behind by its tail. I then mercy-killed it (quickly) and disposed it.

     A wood nightstand that I found months ago roadside that I sanded and refinished just finishing off-gassing, so I brought it in from our carport. (The chemical odor from the polyurethane finish took months to fully dissipate.)

     I'm four-fifths through the Septuagint (the seven additional books incl. Tobit, Judith, etc. included in the Catholic bible, but excluded from the Protestant's)—my first time. I'd been curious about it and am only reading it because it was included in the bible given to Braden on his baptism (which is curious because ours is a Protestant church).

     It's been a relief, then, to have each of these items, in turn, taken care of. But guess what? I've started a new puzzle—also included in the newly finished one's box—described as “Very difficult—irregular borders.” But it's only got 550 pieces, so how difficult can it be?

Busted Computer

     This one hurts. Sort-of.
     What happened was Braden, in a fit of pique, busted his laptop computer that we gave him a couple years ago over his knee while Deanne, Pene, and Jaren looked on.
     Deanne said, You broke it.
     He said, No I didn't.
     I heard something crack, she said.
     Braden opened it—it looked fine—and turned it on. The usual whir followed, but when the screen lit up, there was a shattered spider web design in an opaque white sheet that obscured all the computer desktop except for a few partially obscured words deep in the periphery (I later checked).
     Jaren and Pene said, Ahhhh...
     It had been building to this ever since I decided a few months ago that his lazing around and doing nothing productive (other than idle reading, listening to radio, and over-napping) will not suffice during weekends. He must do something more, something productive. After all, he's sixteen and should be out with friends or exercising or doing some hobby—in essence preparing for life after home.
     But nearly every time I'd confronted him to go do something, he threw a temper tantrum (resentful stares, stamped feet, hissing, growling, etc.) and even outside in the carport, continued his do-nothing defiance until I disciplined him by sending him up and down the street, which at least counted as exercise.
     This was painful for me because of course he tried to make me feel like an unreasonable jerk, whereas I saw him as giving me no choice: either leave him alone or tell him what to do and get hated on. I wasn't going to let him rot away all weekends and do nothing worthwhile since he has so much growing up to do before he turns eighteen, so I'd confronted him and tolerated his stormy antics time after time as best I could (not very well).
     I told Deanne even before the incident that this is natural and healthy for a sixteen-year-old. Christian counselors advice that even in the best adjusted families, these years are push and pull between teen and parents and there's no getting around it. It's normal and temporary and just do your best and keep the end result (healthy young adult) in sight, though it may seem impossibly far or unreachable at times.
     My friend Norm told me his son Darren (a recent college graduate now job hunting) had a mental block against (high school) employment. Every time Norm would get on him about it, he'd act up. He told me it's not worth stressing too much about it.
     So I'm supposed to just let him get away with his slovenly ways all weekends long? I asked.
     I didn't say that, he said. I said, It's not worth getting overly worked up about as it's not beneficial to either him or you or the family. Sometimes a kid just isn't ready for the next big step. It takes awhile for some. And if they're not ready, it's impossible for them to do.
     I don't get it. When I was a kid (and even to this day), I had no trouble keeping active with friends, sports, or hobbies. I gave Braden almost carte blanche—whatever he wanted as long as it's active. I gave him suggestions: wood work with scrap lumber and my tools outside. Give a classmate a call to go hang out. Exercise. Do any merit badge (we have over twenty hand-me-down merit badge pamphlets). Build models. Play my guitar. Whatever. He'd just growled resentment and to show me up, did more of the same idle reading or lying or sitting about doing nothing productive on the sly until I'd catch him and send him again up and down the street.
     Deanne said he calmed after breaking the computer.
     I doubted it, but said there is no way we are buying him a replacement.
     I later told Braden that when we gave it to him (it was a gift from my sister to me, which I didn't want), we could have kept it for ourselves and given him the old junky one in his room (that is now kaput). And don't ever forget it. And that I expect him to do all his homework with pencil and paper—the way I did—no excuses.
     If he doesn't yet feel remorse, I expect he very soon will as he did virtually all his home work on his computer (and he hates to write manually).
     He has mellowed some since, but God help us through the upcoming storms...

One Smart (or Lucky?) Mouse

     A month ago, I'm doing dishes in the laundry room outside when it's still dark (I'm sick and don't want to spread germs in our main kitchen sink area, much less use the common sponge for washing) and I feel something brush against my sweatpants near the ankle, which makes my skin crawl as if with centipedes up and down all over. I turn, hear scuttling, scampering noises, and look and think I see a small light-brown blur scamper beneath the sink. But when I check there and behind the washer and dryer, I see nothing remiss. A part of me doesn't want to see, because if I do, it's sure to mean trouble. Maybe I imagined it? I somewhat try to convince myself.
     Two weeks later, I'm putting on my shoes for work outside in the carport when it's still dark and I heard scuttling noises that give me the heebie-jeebies. They seem to come from inside an unused nightstand with door and drawers propped open to air out (I bought it awhile ago at a garage sale with the intention to air out, test for lead since it's “antique”, plane down the door that won't close, and refinish), so I walk over to look inside, and see a light-brown ugly-as-heck mouse crawl out and under our lean-to tower of shelves under which I store scrap wood and tools. It's about four to five inches long excluding tail and walks with the slow, arrogant confidence of ownership. (What type of mouse is this that seeks a lighted room and a human to brush up against? The washroom opens from the carport so why did it come in when I was there? Aren't they supposed to be afraid of people?)
     That lunch break I buy a pack of two traditional mouse traps. (I had contemplated buying a glue trap, but they didn't have any and I didn't look forward to having to mercy-kill the thing with a shovel. They sold a catch-and-release trap, but I doubted it would work and didn't want to have to release it where it became someone else's problem as I wasn't about to put the flea-ridden thing in our car to drive to an uninhabited area, and within walking distance, there aren't any such places.)
     Back home I set up one of the traps baited with peanut butter and cheese on a paper bag (to guard against blood splatters) in the cabinet with the bait side against a wall as per the instructions. Cringing the following morning to look inside using a flashlight, I see the bag, but no trap or mouse. I look for signs that the trap's been dragged out (perhaps it snagged only a tail or leg?) but see none. I look in a second time for blood, but see none. On the third look, there's the trap clear on the opposite side of the cabinet, snapped shut upside down with plenty of peanut butter still in. I place it on the garage floor and leave, wondering if the mouse will take the bait in the now unset trap. 
     At work I puzzle, How did it do it? and conclude the mouse must have crawled over the trigger, which when set off, must have thrown the thing clear of the trap before the snapping mechanism came down—just a fluke. When I get home, I see the bait licked clean, meaning the mouse has been active during the day. (Aren't they nocturnal?)
     I reset the trap with identical bait outside the cabinet in a narrow gap against a wall where the trap fits nicely and invitingly, with an inch clearance on either side. 
     A day passes. Nothing happens.
     The next day, no mouse but the trap is now upside down, snapped shut, with bait still in. I set it out like before unset, hoping the mouse will take the bait and begin to feel over-confident about the trap. (Free food!) The bait disappears by evening.
    I bait and reset the trap and place it at a strategic angle to the wall, thinking this will make the trigger unlikely to throw the mouse clear. Nothing happens for a day. Next morning, no mouse—nothing happened. But then I notice that the bait is gone, licked clean and that the trap has not fired! The trigger failed!
    That afternoon as I think the mouse is laughing at me, I get smart and set up both traps (they came in a set) and construct a paper tunnel to prevent odd approaches to the traps and place one trap above the other on a small cardboard box, thinking if the first trap doesn't fire, when the mouse goes for the second one, it might step on the first trap's trigger, or when it reaches up for the second (with bait side nearby and away from the wall), it will set it off when it tries to climb up. I also mash down the peanut butter and cheese combo into the bait receptacles so that they can't be gently licked clean, they have to be dug at to be consumed. I'll get him this time! I think.
    Two days pass. Nothing happens.
    The following morning, the first trap is snapped shut with remnants of bait unconsumed, the second is unchanged. I long for a video to see how it's setting off the trigger and avoiding the snap shut? Another unsolvable life mystery? I conclude it must be getting just the tail, and that's why the traps are always in different positions after firing. I doubt the mouse is prying its entire body loose after being clamped down upon by the wire jaw, as while I was setting it once, it snapped the tip of my finger (numb for a bit) and the spring has plenty strength to cause lots of damage and won't pry loose by the strength of a puny rodent. (This isn't cartoons.)
    I reset again and place the front trap at a right angle to the back one—impossible for the trigger to interfere.
    Two days pass and the same thing happens!—first trap fired, second untriggered, both licked clean!
    I do research wondering about my initial conclusion that it's a mouse and sure enough, mice only grow to 3.5 inches. It's a rat!
    Next up, glue trap... (I'm even more creeped out knowing it's a rat.)

Travel Travails

     There was a time when air travel was fun. Even booking hotel and air travel was fun—part of the anticipation. And affordable. I miss those days.
     All it used to take were few phone calls to the airlines, hotel, or travel agent, perhaps a trip to an agent or local airlines ticket counter to pick up tickets and all was set. Lots of human contact afforded easy assurances and clarifications—never had a problem with botched dates, times, amounts, flights, overbookings, or anything, really, just be careful, reconfirm, get everything in writing and all was fine.
     Now, as I've been attempting a trip to Asia these past several years, booking air tickets is all on-line (or get reamed exorbitant extra fees to do it over the phone) and expensive, expensive, expensive, which is mainly why we haven't gone in over eight years. A year ago we might have gone to visit Deanne's mom and brother, but it fell through when Mom nixed the idea for various reasons. Recently, ticket prices have dropped enough for reconsideration again but this time obtaining affordable hotels in Japan for a family of five has been the big hurdle to jump through, and we had to cancel a trip to Osaka when airfares rose before we could even find a room (one hostel only allowed reservations a month prior to arrival).
     Then fares dropped to Narita (Tokyo), but again, finding a room for five was a huge problem. One potential hotel required everything to be done on-line in a three step process: enter all your information to request a room. Wait for an e-mail reply that might take a day or two. Let the hotel know if you're still interested. Wait another day or two for an e-mail offering the room, which must be then reserved using a credit card. Wait a day or two for a confirmation that the room is reserved. By the time I reached step two, air fares had already risen too high, and I had to cancel our request. A month later airfares dropped and I requested the identical room, but then before I received a reply, airfares rose again for those dates, but remain low enough for slightly different dates, so I had to request those different dates with the hotel instead. Since then we got those dates, I reserved it via my credit card, got the confirmation of the reservation, and then when I was about to book the airfares, they'd gone up by a bunch, so we had to cancel those plans again—so complicated!
     Airlines and travel agents (who uses them anymore? I can't even find a telephone listing for the major airlines in the yellow pages...) used give courtesy holds of tickets for three business days—very reasonable. I only later realized on one airlines' website that ticket prices could be held for three days at fifty dollars or seven days at sixty-five dollars. Airlines are turning record profits due to rock bottom fuel prices and they want to gouge us more?
     And what's with these casino/stock-market type airfares postings? It's like gambling when's the best time to buy, on a day-to-day or even hour-to-hour basis. (Reminds me of futures investments in commodities—betting on the future price of oil, gold, or pork-bellies, etc.—very high risk.)
     Oh well, we can always choose not to go, which is what we've done for quite a long while. But then again, if we wait too long, we might not get to go at all.
     I felt it desirable to go now as Braden is sixteen and still willing to hang out with us. By next year, I'm not so sure, and by the time he's eighteen, he'll be too busy, if not away at school, military training, or working, so I don't expect that. The Japan trip may or may not happen. If not, an around-the-island tour with stays at the gold coast and Turtle Bay or Ihilani may be relaxing and fun—it's been over a decade since we made the north shore circuit. It's not worth fighting the ticketing/hotel reservation system or getting exasperated about, it's just tons of money we could better spend on more productive things anyway...

Noisy Gutter and Refrigerator

     When we first moved into our current rental unit, the one complaint we had of a neighbor was that he had a loose or improperly installed rain gutter that vibrated with a loud rattling groan every time high winds blew. This neighbor has been very considerate in every other way—friendly, generous—so we never said anything, assuming he just never got around to it or perhaps didn't realize it was buzzing because he lived in a back house whereas the front house with the noisy gutter was a rental unit, often unoccupied.
     But after six years, Deanne and I had had enough. It wasn't that he couldn't afford to have it fixed as he was constantly making additions and improvements to his property, including paint jobs, new awning and window frames, and roof repairs. So one morning when I awoke after an especially noisy night (this had been going on for several days straight due to high winds), I called 9-1-1, explained that it wasn't an emergency, and after describing the problem, asked to tell the officer to see the owner in the back house because the front house had only tenants, and also, no, I didn't want to talk to the officer. The dispatcher said she'd send someone over—no name or phone number at my request.
     About a half-hour later as I was preparing for work and it was still dark, I heard the sound of footsteps, police radio-band chat, and an authoritative-sounding female talking just outside our unit to a tenant next door. The rain gutter was still buzzing away, so I was glad that the officer must be able to empathize with what we lived through for so long.  Heavy footsteps then retreated toward the street along with the police radio-band chat. I was concerned that the officer hadn't talked to the landlord and if and when the tenant told the landlord of the officer's message, he might disregard it.
     Two days later, Deanne said she heard banging on the roof of the front house next door that afternoon and asked Pene to take a look and she said workers were doing something to the rain gutter.
     Two days later the winds picked up and silence—no rain gutter rattle! It's easy to take such blessed silence for granted, but whenever the winds pick up now and the only sounds I hear are natural whooshing, it is a relief, and I'm glad I did what I finally did.
     Speaking of which, our landlord replaced our refrigerator when the last one we had since moving in broke for the second time due to a power surge that also knocked out our stereo receiver, TV, and washing machine. We replaced the former two on our own because they were so old, and the landlord replaced the latter with an upgrade. The refrigerator replacement was equivalent, but we soon discovered every time we opened or closed its door, it squeaked and creaked—very annoying after a time—and could be heard clear across the house from our bedroom. I tried lubricating the hinges but that didn't work. Then I realized the squeaks came not from the hinges but from the right front wheel—one of four upon which the appliance stood or rode when pulled out of or pushed into its slot between the kitchen cabinets and wall. In essence, the weight shifts from opening and closing the door caused the wheel to squeak, as I was able to replicate the sound by shaking the refrigerator with the door closed. So I lubricated that wheel, trying to spray the oil up by where the axle is, but that didn't work well either.
     Weeks later (okay, I'm slow), I realized if I could just jack up the frame with a wood block near the offending wheel, then it would no longer rest on the floor and that should solve the problem. I got a shim-like wood wedge out of Jaren's toy box and shoved and pounded it in right beside the offending wheel. That helped a lot, but not quite. I got another wood shim and pounded that behind the same wheel. Perfect silence from that wheel ever after! Now, no more noisy refrigerator or rain gutter. Hallelujah!

Light Pollution

     We have considerate neighbors—as a rule. They're quiet with no blaring TVs or stereos, or noisy cars, etc. and they generally keep their conversations at moderate levels. But one area where they're deficient is in their use of outdoor lights at night.
     Ample studies suggest that a good night's rest depends in part on quality of darkness, in general the darker the better. Our neighborhood was dark when we first moved in about six years ago. We had to stumble around when we awoke in the middle of nights to use the restroom. Then one house after another added or turned on outdoor lights, whether in the garage, porch, or driveway—I take it for security reasons because rumors spread of nearby break-ins and a book I read long ago said that if you don't mind the cost of electricity, keep outdoor floodlights on all night because that deters potential prowlers who don't want to be seen.
     I understand the concern of owners not wanting their cars or unsecured outdoor belongings stolen or even possible break-ins at night. But they should be considerate about it. They shouldn't use omnidirectional lights that shine in all directions or unidirectional floodlamps directed outward from their premises and leave it to neighbors to somehow block light from their bedrooms at night the best they can because realistically, it's impossible to do a thorough job of it without also blocking out ventilation. For whatever allows fresh air in also allows light to seep in, through, or around curtains, blinds, or even black-out drapes (like those found in hotels). And no one should be forced to suffer stuffy rooms (in essence rooms with boarded up windows) to create a nice lightless bedroom environment. (For the simplest demonstration of how difficult it is to seal out light, turn on the overhead light in a room. Step outside the house at night and if the room is not utterly dark, then light from the outside can just as easily seep in.)
     For security-conscious owners, the solution's simple: use motion detectors that turn on lights only when someone approaches and turns off automatically in a couple minutes or so. My landlord has one of these floodlamps right outside our bedroom. It has worked perfectly and the light has never been a problem for us, only triggering inappropriately on rare occasion due to a lizard or large insect on or by the sensor or high winds that cause it to vibrate.
     Or, shield all omnidirectional lights from casting direct light toward neighbors' premises. A simple sheet of cardboard, tin, or sturdy aluminum would do. I saw this done at a parking garage attached to our old apartment. The garage's pay-booth was located next to a bright hanging light bulb and a 6 inch square piece of cardboard was taped onto the hanging fixture a few inches from the bulb to shield the bulb's light from casting directly into the booth—it must have been bothering at least one of the attendants, its glare was so harsh.
     Or, point all unidirectional lights such as floodlamps directly toward the owner's house/property. This could be done by mounting on poles or a wall at the owner's property line and pointing inward. Many commercial businesses in industrial areas utilize this or similar types of strategic lighting techniques.
     In short, neighbors (or on-premises tenants) shouldn't have to suffer for the apprehensions of owners. It's like the old car alarm syndrome when those things used to go off all-too-often due to sensors set too sensitively that you'd hear them blaring whenever the wind picked up or a truck rumbled by. (Thank God we don't have that problem in our neighborhood.)
     I feel for my kids in particular since their bedrooms are far from dark as there's now a street light on all night on that side of the house. On the plus side, their side gets the best ventilation.  On the minus side, the drapes we put up (just bedsheets and beach towels) just don't seal out the light very well. The drapes they had did a slightly better job, but they got old, torn, and ratty, so we took them down. Since we rent, I don't feel like redoing the drapes on our own, or complain to the landlord who might raise rent even higher next contract year. Of course the kids don't seem to mind, but having grown up in Hilo, I know the beauty of pure darkness and still enjoy it and feel so well rested whenever we go back for visits. Shouldn't anyone who desires such darkness be allowed the option by considerate neighbors?

Realistic Expectations

     Braden, for the first time ever, is considering the possibility of entering the military straight after high school, not just as a last ditch option—praise God! Prior to this, whenever I'd asked him what his hopes or plans were, he always said “Probably college”—meaning a four year university, at which point I'd remind him of the expense and extreme difficulty of graduating unless he studies really, really hard as it is very competitive and demanding and if he thinks high school is hard, think again, college is way, way harder and slacker attitudes don't cut it, and if he thinks we're going to pay all that money for him to fool around and not put his best effort in and not graduate, then he's got to think again. Or something to that effect.
     I wasn't trying to discourage him, really, I was trying to motivate him—to prove that's he's worthy now, by making straight A's, and by putting in hours of study effort every night, meeting with teachers, or whatever it takes to do it, effort that would show he's worthy of attending college despite less than stellar grades and struggles time and again in his chief academic subjects of math, English, science, and history. But it's never, ever sank in sufficiently and he's always put in minimal effort to get by (in my eyes) because whenever I'd ask him what he'd learned or what he'd studied, or asked him follow-up questions, he'd all-too-often struggle to explain himself as if he weren't quite sure. Or when I'd ask him to look up a word he'd mispronounced, he'd fume and vent as if he hated having to do it. And he'd get mediocre grades and not follow-up on them by redoing the work to make sure he'd finally “gotten it.” And on and on and on. 
     I think I have a fairly realistic view of academics and for Braden to thrive in the university environment would take a love of learning and studying and knowing stuff and excelling that he just doesn't possess at this time and with time running out (he's a sophomore), I've made clear time and again that he's got to start now if he's serious about college. But he never has shown such change.
     So it was a blessed relief when I recently asked him and he said, “Maybe the military.” Our family has a history with the military: though my parents and grandparents were excused for medical reasons, uncles and granduncles have served honorably and a few are already interred at Punchbowl National Cemetery. I've told him about the G.I. bill-type benefits that would pay for his college if he served for an agreed number of years.
     But I mentioned his medical condition (a mild genetic disorder) that might (though not very likely) prevent him from passing the physical. What's your backup option, then? I asked.
     He said maybe a trade school such as construction or electrical.
     I said that's viable—you could go to a two-year community college for that, though construction is very hard, physical work (and dangerous—a wall could fall on you, you could fall off a ladder or ledge, you could step on a nail) and guys who get into it love working out and tend to be competitive and don't like slacker coworkers or those unable to keep up and I don't see those traits in you (as he hates to exercise, never does workouts on his own, and when forced to, only does the minimum at that.) But I did say, You could be an honest handyman or other skilled worker and make a good living that way as those are always in demand.
     What about cooking? I later asked. 
     “I haven't ruled it out,” he said.
     I said that if you're interested in it, the route is not directly to KCC's (Kapiolani Community College's) prestigious culinary school that is super-competitive, but going straight to work in a kitchen. Learn there for two, three, or four years everything about the job—it's hard, stressful work, hot, uncomfortable, and demanding. Some people, after they get a degree, work in a commercial kitchen and discover they hate it, then switch careers to something else. Find out first if you like that pressure-cooker environment and if you do, after a few years, then enter culinary school. By then you should have ideas of how to make things better—that's what a chef does, creates new things.
     Later it occurred to me that perhaps more practical and likely is his doing what my mom did all her working life and what so many of my coworkers in the state do: administrative clerical work. I explained to him that a two year degree at a community college would prepare him and he'd work with mostly women and just do what he's told. The pay isn't great but he could work his way up as certain did in my state department and are now division heads. 
     So he's no longer just thinking about entering a four-year college straight out of high school. I told him this wouldn't preclude such a degree. Even if you don't go the military route, you could save and finance college on your own after you start working. People who pay their own ways through college take studying very, very seriously, knowing how expensive it is and how long it takes to save enough money. They don't take their educations for granted.
     I don't mind investing in his future. I just can't stand the thought of flushing money down the drain on slacker play-around attitudes. Especially not at the out-of-this world college tuition and room and boards rates these days. (They were cheap during my college days by comparison!)

Breaking Strongholds

     Braden doesn't have many friends. I'm not sure if he has any because he never talks of any, never gets together with any, never receives calls from or makes calls to any, and says he eats lunch alone at school. And he's lived this way since about middle school. It's been a long-running concern for us, so we've provided opportunities for him—grand opportunities—to make friends through church, scouting, and of course public school classes and activities. It's sort of a lead-the-horse-to-water thing: we can provide him opportunities but it's up to him what he does with them.
     Deanne and I aren't social butterflies, as our social lives are already full with work, family, and church activities. So our kids don't have the best examples of adult-to-adult friendship socializing, though we do have friends over on rare occasion.
     Regardless of how much I stress the importance of having friends is, I suspect that Braden somewhere along the line decided that friends aren't worth it and has contented himself to limiting his social life to just us. He even fell away from scouting for awhile. Meanwhile church activities are limited to adult-led and organized activities: no real friend or friends to just hang out with and talk to about whatever.
     This is a huge change from when I grew up and neighborhood friends were almost always around and available to hang out and play with (mostly sports, but also to do kid activities like catch crayfish, shoot bb gun, explore the woods, climb trees, bike ride, etc.) from after school (I'd rush through my homework) until sundown and dinner time, making for some happy childhood memories.
     It's not as if Braden's unfriendable due to “lack of social skills”—I always hated that description because it's applied so inaptly all too often, in that skillfulness (whatever that means) does not lead to friendships, mutual caring, concern, time, and companionship do, skills be damned. And some of the least socially skilled persons around (those overly shy or who struggle with speech impediments, say, or those who miss social cues) sometimes develop the closest bonds imaginable. And Braden has none of those challenges, he speaks in turn, exercises manners within the normal range, and acts pretty much like others his age. He strikes me, then, as one who has been burned once too often, and thus doesn't think it's worthwhile to pursue friendships, because he's happy enough without, perhaps counting family as his closest and only friends (which isn't so awful when you think about it).
      But he's been spending way too much time in his room reading and listening to radio and resenting going out for exercise (doing not much real exercise when he goes out anyway), which builds up resentments against us when he doesn't get his way because he doesn't have a friend to vent and share his frustrations with.
     So I insisted that he check out Christian Club at school. It took a few tries but he finally did, and dropped in during lunch recesses at group gatherings. Unfortunately, it's been lecture-based, so he hasn't formed any friends yet, but at least that beats being alone all the time.
     Then I insisted he do something else like check out the scout troop that meets at our church (versus the one that he was at that met at his former elementary school). He went to a couple of get-togethers and liked them well enough to want to join. Here's where the stronghold comes in. He still hasn't earned a single merit badge, this after over four years as a scout. By comparison, after four years I had earned over a dozen merit badges—they're fun, educational, and challenging—a big part of character and leadership development, health, fitness, and skillfulness. I've been encouraging him for years to pursue them but he's always showed indifference. I've let him go. No longer. I insisted that if he wants to switch to this new troop, that he now take scouting serious and earn his first badge.
     We have over twenty merit badge pamphlets out in the garage from which to choose (a hand-me-down gift from my cousin's son). Braden made lame excuses one after another why he couldn't. I knew something was wrong at that point—a spiritual stronghold or mental block not of God.
     I offered to pray for him to get past this, insisting that he could do it, or if he feared initiating social contact (with the Scout Master to earn the merit badge), that he could overcome it, that I knew he could do anything, that God knew he could do anything, and that it was only he that didn't believe he could.
     I said are we in agreement?
     He said I don't have a choice.
     I said that's right. Just like the $60 model boat you begged us to buy using Grandma's gift money that you didn't built for over a year that I had to force you to build. You built it. And you are going to earn a merit badge. Any one. Your choice.
     It took way more push than I would have preferred, but he finally did it—got going on reading the pamphlet and doing the research, performing a phone interview, and is ready to attend a public meeting and volunteer for community service and meet with his new Scout Master.
     A Christian counselor once said that the teen years are ones of striving between child fighting for independence and parent struggling to maintain control over the child's development and safety and that this push/pull conflict cannot be avoided, which makes those years so challenging. Praise God Braden finally came to—it's for his own good, like it or not. He's better for having built and finished the boat. He'll be better off for having earned his first merit badge, too. God willing.

Canceled Trip—Praise God!

      Last month I was pleased to find low airfares to Japan and planned a possible family vacation in Osaka—if I could find reasonable accommodations. All the hotels and hostels I called or tried to reserve on-line, though, were either fully booked or allowed reservations at most three months (or even one month) prior to check-in.

     In the interim, I planned a tentative itinerary that included the Osaka Aquarium, Kids Plaza Osaka, Aizen (Cultural) Festival Hoe Palanquin Parade, Nara Deer Park, Minoo Park, Floating Garden (sunset view from top of building), Kuromon Ichiban (food bazaar), plus perhaps visits to a castle and a temple. It was going to be a full trip on a reasonable budget with lots of walking around, some catching of rail and limousine bus, food and grocery shopping for in-room cooking, and perhaps meeting up with distant relatives (my dad's cousin's kids and their children). It would certainly have been a memorable trip, if a bit stressful and expensive.

     But with the delays in securing accommodations, airfares rose as I had anticipated and feared they might. But there was no way I would have booked flights earlier at the low fares without a reserved room and risk a nightmare scenario where we'd later have to book any room (or rooms) we could get at any price (which could easily rise to $500+/night—youch!)  Available airfares had risen from a reasonable $640/person round-trip to over a $1000/person—too much for our limited budget and not worth it for a short one-week stay (and we still don't have accommodations).

     Funny thing though, I'm not very disappointed, I'm more so relieved. No more stress of planning train rides, walking tours, meals, itineraries, and figuring out how to keep everyone happy. No more fear of the unknown: getting lost, getting ill, losing things, having bad experiences (it happens on all trips, it seems), having flight or hotel difficulties, jet lag, trouble sleeping, or digestion problems, etc. Are such complicated trips really worth all the expense and stress, I sometimes wonder? (They have been worth it in the past, but that's no guarantee of future success.)

     Over a decade ago, I had a preliminary notion of taking our family of four on a mission trip to Africa. I imagined our kids (ages five and two at the time) wrapping some of their simple toys (large Lego pieces, a stuffed animal, etc.—whatever they wanted) to share with orphans they'd meet. It turned out our kids were too young for the “working trip” so it got canceled. Nonetheless, I shared with my friend Norm that it was as if I really had taken the trip (the visions I had had of the kids giving away their presents wrapped in their home-made wrapping paper were so vivid!) He mocked me for it. My relief for having been spared the half-way-'round-the-world plane rides with multiple stop-overs and connections, twelve hours of jet lag, sparse accommodations, and risks of malaria and who knew what else? made me feel even more content—the sense that I had experienced much of the benefits of the trip without the costs.

     An article I recently read vindicated my feelings. It said that those who planned vacation trips and didn't end up taking them were happier than those that took theirs and those that didn't plan a trip at all.

     I shared with Pene a couple weeks back about this research finding and wondered would it work to plan a trip knowing you weren't going to go? Would you still be happier for it than those in the other two groups? (I doubted it, because the relief wouldn't be real.)

     But I did say that other studies showed that imagined vacations throughout one's workday, say, can help reduce stress as if you really did go. Imagine sipping sodas before a sunset on a beach in the Bahamas. Ahhh. Such daydreams in times of stress can be good and healthy.

     Although I'm relieved in a way that the trip didn't work out, that doesn't mean I've given up hope of a summer trip somewhere. Last I checked, airfares to Narita (just north of Tokyo) were quite reasonable. Perhaps a chance for us to revisit Japan Disneyland with our relatives? It all depends on the accommodations. Back to square one...

Candy Store Keys

     Without our realizing it, Jaren has likely been for years abusing his keys to the candy store of the D.O.E's creation.
     The state Department of Education (D.O.E.) in response to federal mandates, I guess, has for years required all parents to deposit monies into a child's lunch money on-line account, which parents do not have access to to monitor proper deposits or expenditures by their child or to insure no thefts have occurred. Parents must therefore request receipts for deposits and calculate the account's depletion rate over time by multiplying school days between replenishments of funds by cost per lunch.
     According to Deanne's and Braden's calculations, the balances have been proper for Braden and Pene who have to deposit cash—no checks allowed. Since Jared's school accepts checks, we never bothered to recalculate for accuracy.
     Big mistake. Last Friday, Pene approached Deanne and said, “When I picked up Jaren at school, a lady I never saw before approached me and said, 'Hi, I'm the school lunch monitor; I know your mom. Does she know Jaren's been eating second breakfasts and that's why his lunch monies keep running out so fast?'”
     We asked Jaren about it and he admitted he “took a few breakfasts and once or twice took second breakfasts and that was all.”
     Deanne attempted to compute the approximate misuse of funds and came up with several dollars worth missing, but without remembering actual balances reported to her (via a note in Jaren's binder when his account runs low), I knew it was largely guesswork. Nonetheless, I made Jaren pay us sixteen dollars plus gave him time-out all weekend and told Deanne to request the school to print-out all expenditures from Jaren's account by day and amount over the past year.
     On Monday, she got the list I requested that showed over fifty dollars of expenditures on breakfasts dated from when Deanne started working full-time late last year and second breakfasts, juice, and milk (most certainly chocolate—he has a sweet tooth) dated back to the beginning of the year, all of which he knew he was not supposed to purchase, which he kept secret, then lied about after we asked. I told Deanne this has probably been going on for years.
     So I had Jaren empty his wallet, which came out to approximately fifty dollars, plus gave him time-out the remainder of the month, plus took away some toys when he immediately disobeyed my order not to play.
     I then told Deanne to request the school to allow Jaren to purchase only lunches and nothing else.
     The school in response said that the system won't allow blanket blocks (comparable to parental computer controls over PC's) but they'll notify the lunch monitor to restrict Jaren's purchases according to our wishes. She also said we weren't the first to request this.
     What's disturbing about the D.O.E.'s role in this was that it was all avoidable and it took a nice, caring, conscientious lunch monitor to notify our daughter of Jaren's ongoing thievery. We should also have been notified immediately when it occurred years ago and initially been given the option to restrict purchases to lunches only, I believe.
     Not to get alarmist, but white-collar criminals start exactly this way. Steal a little once. See what happens. Nothing? Try again, this time a little more. Still okay? Get greedier and greedier and greedier. I'll never get caught, the perpetrator thinks.
     It's like tempting kids then teaching them the wrong ethical lesson when they succumb to temptation: steal from then lie to your parents.
     This anything-goes lunch-money account use by kids also can't be helping our nation's explosive obesity epidemic. If you're bored, eat! Why play outdoors, eat instead! it seems to suggest. And it's sad to think how many kids never get caught and carry out such thievery beyond elementary, middle, and high schools to clubs, workplace, or anywhere else they have easy, unaccountable access to money.