Tagged: life
The Idiot At Kohl’s
After passing through the doors at 9am, he walks up to the nearest manned register.
Perturbed that she didn’t immediately speak up upon his approach, he clears his throat and asks, “Excuse me. I was wondering if there is perhaps a sales associate who can take my measurements for a suit? I have to order a tux online for my brother’s wedding, but I don’t know my measurements for the shirt and coat.”
She looks mildly confused but after a moment’s consideration replies, “You’ll have to go back to customer service for that.”
“Thank you.”
The line at customer service is short. The problems are not. Finally, it is his turn.
“Um, yes. I just need some help with finding my measurements for a suit. My brother is getting married and I have to reserve it online, but I don’t know my measurements. Do you have someone, maybe in the men’s department, who can help me with that?”
The bewildered woman silently stares at him when she suddenly remembers something. Pressing her radio button, she says, “Jewelry: I have a customer here who needs you to take his measurements.” Then she turns to the man and says, “Just head on back to the front to the-”
“Yes, I heard. Jewelry department,” he concludes for her, seriously considering skipping the wedding.
Before he is able to leave the area, an associate more experienced in customer service stops him.
“Excuse me, sir. What did you need help with?”
Annoyed at this extra and unwanted attention, he only slows his walk as he explains, “Oh, I just need some measurements for-”
“Well what size shirt do you wear?” she interrupts.
He freezes mid-stride and wishes he would’ve said, “Perhaps you couldn’t tell, but I don’t know my size. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know my size because I’m an idiot. What’s worse is you should have recognized me for what I am and ignored me. But you didn’t. It seems I may be contagious–all the more reason to let me by unmolested. But, again, you didn’t, so now you get to listen. The clue you missed was that you were talking to a man standing in a Kohl’s because he believed that someone employed here would have the dexterity to use a tape measure to help a brother out. In any case, please stop talking to me now. Mind you, I don’t point the finger your way for causing this situation. I accept the blame readily. You see, just like you, I should have recognized I’m an idiot because only idiots would shop at a store where everything is always 70% off. By definition that’s not possible. And now I have a question for you. What’s it like to work for a company whose destruction would improve the world?”
****
All below units are U.S. Customary
Neck – 16 1/2″
Chest – 42″
Sleeve – 36″
Brain – Pea-sized with little room for growth
To Touch or Not To Touch
“And how old are you, Daddy?” H- asked for the third time.
“I thought I told you earlier today, H-, I’m thirty-three,” he said.
“Well, I’m four and a half,” she responded. “When I’m thirty-three, how old will you be?”
Taking longer than he’d like to admit, he finally concluded, “I’ll be fifty-two. No, wait, sixty-two.”
“And when I’m sixty-two, how old will you be?”
“Hmm, I’ll be,” he paused to do the math again. “I’ll be ninety-one.”
“And when I’m ninety-one, how old will you be?”
“Well, I probably won’t be around,” he said, figuring she mentioned death enough while playing with her stuffed animals that she’d get the point.
“Where will you be?” she asked with a look of simple confusion.
“Never mind. You’ll have your own kids and they’ll have kids and they’ll have kids when you’re ninety-one.”
“I’ll have kids?”
“Probably.”
“Like one?”
“As many as you want.”
“Two hundred and,” she paused, “nineteen.”
He laughed.
“Sure, H-, you can have two hundred nineteen kids.”
“But then my belly will explode!” she said with a giggle.
“Well, not all two hundred nineteen will be in there at once.”
“I think I’ll have two kids,” she said, revising her desire drastically.
Playing along, he said, “Okay. And sometimes two kids can fit together.”
“And they will not touch the stove,” she said, wagging her finger.
Looking at her and smiling, he thought, “And there it is. Seems I probably was too dramatic on that lesson last week after all. I’ve been wondering about that. Noted.”
Then he said aloud, “Yes, H-, they probably shouldn’t get in the habit of touching the stove.”
Review of My Church
Well, that’s a lie. It’s not my church. I’ve only been there once. But it was wonderful. And I will be returning every chance I get. The search is over. Finally.
For the record, I am a human. This is worth articulating because, especially when it comes to churches, I want to be treated like a human and not a farm animal. I don’t need to be herded, nor do I want to follow the herd. That said, as I walked into the building I was greeted and I watched as a woman took my name down on some sort of ledger with a pencil. Remember pencils? While there were no children-specific activities that day, I’m certain H- won’t have to be processed and tagged to take part in them next time.
Quickly finding George, I suggested we move closer to the front than where he had chosen and we did. Next thing you know, he and I are standing wide-eyed amidst the seated congregation at the behest of a young women who read off the names of all the guests. Little H- remained seated until our kind neighbors in the pew in front of us urged her to stand when the young woman asked for any guests whom she may have missed to also stand. H- stood proud.
This next part is probably a little too personal, but this is my blog so I’m writing it. It’s been a while since I’ve had much physical contact with anyone but H-. And she’s in that tight spot where I think she does it because she recognizes this. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking this probably needs to change. Touch is important, they say. Well, during an amazing baby dedication that lasted about ten minutes and crowded seemingly an entire extended family at the front, like thirty people, we were asked to stand and next thing I knew my hand was being touched by the lady next to me. I looked down before moving my hand out of her way and noticed that she was simply reaching out to hold my hand during the dedication thing. It was then that I looked around and quickly noticed that everyone was holding their neighbor’s hand. I joined suit and grabbed H-‘s little hand. Next thing I noticed (George too), H- was placing her limp hand in George’s. At the end, my kind neighbor gave my hand a squeeze before she released it.
Did I mention that the three of us were the most under-dressed folks in the entire building. I measured by layers. I had two. All the other men were at least at two, most at three. Probably half the women had hats on. These people dressed with a purpose. And yet they were naked. Can you understand that?
I thought the roof was going to come off at one point during the worship. Talk about Holy Ghost power. A real piano, an un-amplified small drum set, and an organ accompanied a real, though small and old, choir. Though I’m sure no one could hear us, George and I both sang.
Finally, we came to the Word. And here’s where I discovered what I have been looking for all along in a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be smug. A sermon shouldn’t cause my mind to distractedly go academic on it. A sermon shouldn’t teach beyond its speaker’s–nor audience’s–intelligence, nor should it dumb down that which cannot be in order to meet the audience. We’re talking about a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be chocked full of witticisms, nor jokes. The preacher needn’t prove “even though I’m a preacher, I can be funny, see?”, nor should he tell some inside joke that requires his giving a politician’s knowing nod to some poor soul who will undoubtedly feel a little too special for the rest of the afternoon and at the same time causes me to wish it had been me. Most important, I realized that I want a sermon which is a sermon. Not a presentation. Not death by powerpoint. Not a motivational speech. And the sermon that day was none of those things. It was more than those things.
Afterward, we lingered. People lingered. We met the pastor. Oh. And did I mention the service’s total duration was over two and half hours? 10:30 start, when it was over I pulled my phone out and it displayed 1:15. And it did this without filler like Broncos mentions, professional videos with floating words, or hollywood movie clips.
Walking to our cars, George said it best, “Pete. This was by far and away the best church yet.”
She Has Become Self-Aware
Even if there was an accredited parenting class, it seems unlikely it would cover bathroom protocol for opposite gender single parents.
“Are you shutting the door, daddy?” H- asked while standing outside the bathroom, as he, in fact, shut the bathroom door most of the way no different than he had done many many times before.
“Yes I am, H-. You’re getting old enough that you shouldn’t be able to see me nor me see you when we go potty,” he answered. “I know it’s confusing because on the car trips you have to come with me. But that’s just because I can’t leave you alone.”
“Oh. Okay,” she responded.
Like an apparition floating passed the cracked door, her locked-forward head led the rest of her body to her room for who knows what reason. Then he saw her pass by once more, heading back to the living room.
“Ughh! I forgot to turn off the light,” she said, exasperated.
Passing by again, she reached up the wall to flip down the light switch.
With a fourth pass she completed her second round trip.
Then, with a giggle, little H- noticed the pattern and blurted out, “It’s like I’m guarding the door!”
He had his very own little volunteer sentry. And that would have been fine until she announced, “I have to go potty now. Will you guard the door for me?”
It’s Time To Give Thanks
Damyanti, Stephswint, iGamemom, Stuart M. Perkins, Frausto, E.I. Wong, Man of Many Thoughts, theryanlanz, RobertOkaji, Elan Mudrow, Dennis Cardiff, KidazzleInk, Dieter Rogiers, Christine Fichtner, Betsy, Karen, Daedalus, Ron, Drew, David, Joan, Vince, Alex, Joe, Eileen, Elliani, Susan, Greeny, Schoen, Tripp, Andy, Garrett, Shannon, Preston, Janet, Larry, Kate, Sam, (Mike?), Grandma, Grandpa, Noa, and K-: Thank you for reading. Some of you have read every single post, and it seems that the rest of you have read nearly every post. Thank you. You give me your time and that means the world to me. Thank you.
We’re all busy today, but in exchange for two minutes more, I’ll give you guys tomorrow off. Please keep reading.
I have quit every job I have had since leaving the Air Force. The other day I finally figured out why. The reason has to do with time and energy. I gave all my time and all my energy to my singular goal of becoming a hero pilot for the United States of America for over a decade. And now when I unintentionally find myself in front of a news source, I see stuff about ISIS. To be clear, I can’t shake the feeling that I wasted my time and energy. If I believe serving in the Air Force of a country whose way of life is worth defending to the death is a waste, you needn’t read my anti-carwash/anti-customer posts to empathize with how I might feel about working at a carwash. Simply put, I realized I’m once bitten, twice shy as they say.
But through it all it’s been seeing your gravatars at the bottom of the posts that keeps me writing. I don’t think it’s a waste of my time to improve my writing, because I think I have something to say. Whether I do have anything of value to contribute on a large-scale is yet to be seen. What I know is that you make me feel like I might. While this blog is primarily a sounding board, I spend hours making sure I don’t think I’m wasting your time. And I think my writing has improved. I’m especially proud of Piano Practice and there is no way I could’ve written that without two years of your encouragement. Again, thank you.
Next to H- and the Mark Twain Listening Club, this blog is the only other thing I give my full attention to. If your name is in the list above, whether you care or not, know that you are one of my top three reasons to try–to fight–in this life. But there is one name missing.
George.
I met George two years ago. He is a constant source of inspiration. He is as principled a man as I have met, moreover he reads and responds sincerely to every post. I have moved away from nearly every friend I’ve ever had for one reason or another and will not hesitate to admit that I’m scared to ever lose George. Honestly, regarding my writing, his encouragement falls under the “dangerous” category.
To know that someone believes in you is probably the most empowering/powerful feeling we can experience as humans. Only I know how I’ve handled this life, and despite the tone that I’m sure comes through in my words, the great “I Am” knows that the truth is not pretty. But that’s the thing about believing in someone. It’s contagious. I know George believes in me. And that makes me believe in me. That makes me believe that no matter what mistakes–sometimes terrible mistakes–I’ve made, the fight is winnable and worth winning.
Thank you George.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
The only way to get there is together.
Review of There Will Be Blood, by Paul Thomas Anderson’s Agenda
The only reason anyone works to pump oil out of the earth is greed. Greed only spawns more greed which eventually creates (or perhaps is a catalyst for) a downward spiral of human vice that passes through selfishness, hate, betrayal, and ultimately murder. Or at least that’s what Paul Thomas Anderson’s award-winning There Will Be Blood wants us to believe. As much as false-prophets–con-men–deserve to be hated, it is impossible not to hate Daniel Day-Lewis’s remarkable portrayal of oil tycoon Daniel Plainview more. And in hating Plainview, it’s difficult not to hate oil.
People hate oil.
Funny to read, isn’t it? It rings true, but it really isn’t. It’s no more true than if we said people hate dirt or people hate wood. It is foolish to make these inanimate, naturally occurring objects the object of our hate, just as it would be to make them the object of our love. They merely are. But we can certainly hate people. We can certainly hate ideas.
Maybe people hate oil men. Maybe people hate their own ignorance of geology. Maybe people hate what they don’t understand. Surely people hate greed.
It seems wherever oil is under the earth American troops are over it, and service members who deploy to the middle-east are bombarded by activist’s propaganda filled with facts and figures which encourage hating Texas Oil Men George W. and Dick Cheney. And Halliburton and KBR and Lockheed Martin and every other group of people that could be lumped into the war-for-profit-is-clearly-a-bad-idea category. Tightening the frame dramatically, I needed no encouragement to hate my aircraft commander on my last deployment. I astonished even myself with how little prompting it took for me to heap some hate on my sister and her small group.
Finding myself in the oilfield here in Colorado, I occasionally hated living in the man-camps. I hated being away from my daughter. I hated her mom for wanting to see her for more than her half during my days-off.
Similar to all men, hate and I have had a long and storied history. Luckily, I have a friend named Kirk. One day, years ago, I told my friend that I was floored to discover that a Kelly Clarkson pop song included the sage lyric, “For hating you I blame myself.” Being the good-natured midwesterner that he is Kirk didn’t miss a beat and replied, “That’s right Pete. Hate comes from within.” Doesn’t it though?
And that begs the question, “Will there be blood?”
Anderson made an excellent film. It is an excellent portrayal of greed from both ends of the spectrum. But in making the film relevant for the masses, in using oil as the backdrop, he, perhaps unintentionally, allowed the oil to obscure a greater truth. Hate, greed, everything comes from within.
The Last Bookkeeper
They didn’t quite break the mold after her. It’s more like they just put it away way, way up on the top shelf where it was easily forgotten.
She woke up in the morning because that is what you do in the morning. You wake up. These days she didn’t have to work, but she kind of liked it. What else was she going to do all day?
When asked how she would spend a fantastical lottery win, she replied with events that cost nothing–reading, gardening, sitting outside with coffee.
Gossip flew into her neat and clean office but never out of it. Despite working with money all day she never talked of it. Not even to her husband. The most she would do is close her eyes and shake her head to confirm that other’s interrogations were on the right track.
It would be a mistake to say she saw the world in black and white. But life was certainly divided by conspicuously sharp lines. The boldest of these lines brought to the front what you and I might call life’s “have to’s” but she might call her duty. From raising her brothers, to raising her family, to offering a dissenting opinion just when consensus was near, to making her bed every morning, to being on-time, to not leaving dishes in the sink, to putting the cap back on, to cleaning the house on the same day every week, to keeping the washing machine off for at least one day a week, she did these things not because she wanted to, but because if she didn’t they wouldn’t get done. It could be a very tiring existence.
And yet despite the wear and tear that always seems ready to take its toll, our bookkeeper frequently experienced a feeling which most of us do not–satisfaction.
I Killed Church
Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.
I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.
Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.
I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.
So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.
I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.
He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.
I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.
My Online Dating Profile
Sometimes I like to dare myself. Recently my hopes of actually finding a like-minded soul online were dashed again. Shortly thereafter it seemed fun and yet inconceivable to share something as intimate as how I sold myself. I could preamble this for forever but will stop here. You will never know how much pleasure writing this and imagining womens’ reactions to it brought me.
ABOUT PETE
Can you handle truth? Here goes. I am a divorced father who works a goofy two-weeks on/off schedule on an oil rig. Before that, I was an Air Force pilot. I usually have my daughter when I’m home, but her mom gets her for a few nights. I’m looking for a pump and dump. Well, at least the pump part. The dump part is up to you.
What are you looking for? Are you looking for spontaneous? Are you looking to laugh? Are you hoping to find a guy who isn’t interested in breaking your heart? Perhaps you’d like to finally meet a guy who makes you feel special? That’s me. Promise!
Ladies: No matter how nice you think I am or if I ask you the most interesting question you’ve ever been asked on here, please don’t message me if you’re not interested in meeting in person. A pen pal has no appeal to me. A woman, though, a real woman? Now that is the most appealing thing I can imagine. If you read at all, to give you a flavor of what she looks like read this post I wrote: A Jaw Dropping Woman.
Also, you should know that people probably don’t use the word “kind” to describe me. That’s good, because I’ve never even wanted to be kind. Instead, I’ve always aimed for things like a huge heart, a great sense of humor, edgyness–sometimes crossing the line–and pretty sharp. Other things that I wouldn’t think to say out loud (but am learning I need to) include great father, hard worker, and uncommon integrity. Though it seems most people can’t even discern those qualities’ value until it’s too late.
As a final note, if you have “finally ready to settle down” on your profile…well, I think Danny Kaye in White Christmas says it best, “My dear partner, when what’s left of you gets around to what’s left to be gotten, what’s left to be gotten won’t be worth getting whatever it is you’ve got left.” The point is “finally ready” sounds depressing as shyat to me. A “thanks for giving everyone else in your life the good stuff. I guess I just get leftovers.” No thank you.
Lastly, I’m not fat; I went to college after high-school and graduated in four years, and I am not all tatted up. Couples look like each other. Have you ever noticed that? Then again, I don’t put stock in checking boxes, so maybe you think you have what it takes and have sleeves. I doubt it, but would love to be wrong here.
FIRST DATE
I pick up the tabs, you put out.
(I’m laughing so hard. If you’re not, allow me to welcome you to earth.)
The end.
Sacred Harp (Shape Note) Singing’s Gift
If you’ve seen Cold Mountain, then you’ve been introduced to Sacred Harp singing. It’s also called Shape Note singing. Essentially, it’s this ol’ timey acapella singing where the notes are shaped like squares, circles, diamonds, and triangles and named fa, so, la, and mi. The singers sit in a square (tenor, bass, soprano, alto) facing each other. You can view a video of it here. In any case, one day I was reminded how much I liked the sound of it and used the interwebs to see if anyone in Denver actually still does it. Sho’ ’nuff, they do. So I took H- last night.
First, it was a beautiful church. But the attendance was much lower than I expected. There were eleven of us. Well, including H- there were twelve. Eleven adults, one child. But what a child. If you haven’t watched the video linked above, now is your second reminder and link.
The way the session worked was we just went around the square and chose songs. Usually a person stood up in the middle and “led” the singing. This isn’t absolutely necessary, but it is common and helps everyone stay on time.
Being sharp and displaying perfect innocence, H- was sure to spell out her first name for the group between the first and second songs and her last name between the second and third songs. And this without even being asked. Endearing is a little weak when it comes to attempting to describe the scene with words.
Next, H- noticed that a participant stood in the middle of the group and asked if she could do it. A kind old woman offered H-, “You can stand with me when I do it.” And H- did–foot tapping and all. (If you’re not in tears at this point, please dial 911). A few songs later there was a delay in anyone standing up to approach the middle of the square. H-‘s response was to fill void. She is so smart. Can you picture it? Use everything I’ve shared with you about this little girl and just imagine her responding to the group’s inquisition, “What are you doing?” with,”Someone needs to stand in the middle.” This child has no fear. Do you remember what that was like? Can you remember? I can’t remember it, but I can report that witnessing it is a gift from God.
Shape note singing. Who would’ve thought it would beget a miracle?
Captain’s Log 