Texan in Training

“Yeah, but you’re gonna hate the humidity,” they’d say.

“You’re not really serious about Texas, are you?” some would ask.

“You know you’re gonna be back, right? It’s just gonna be another Wyoming!” one especially delightful individual predicted.

And my favorite reaction was from an older coworker, who stopped me mid-sentence by simply screaming, “TEXAS?!”

Maybe they have some of the same misconceptions about Texas that I had. I’ll admit; I was expecting to find dusty little towns riddled with tumbleweeds, rattlers, stains from spitting tobacco, and skittering armadillos. I expected the nightlife to be non-existent unless you were willing to scoot and/or boogie your boots – and owned said pair of boots.

I knew that Texans were proud of their state. I knew that pride extended into most aspects of Texas, including the state’s unique shape. I assumed I’d see some Texas-shaped refrigerator magnets, clocks, maybe even a chicken-fried steak cut out to look like the state.

To my surprise, the first display of this shape-oriented pride was found in a tattoo on the back of some guy’s neck. He was covered in tattoos, and looked like someone you’d mosh with at the Warped Tour – not your “average” Texan. But, there he was in the DFW airport, full sleeves on both arms and the outline of Texas centered on the back of his neck.

We got outside and I immediately felt the humidity. It was hot, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t unbearable. In fact, we were all astonished when the thermometer in the car registered 103.

“I doesn’t feel that hot!!” we all kept saying. We continued to marvel at how much “softer” the heat in Texas is.

I tried to describe it several times, but couldn’t. I continued to reach by saying things like, “It’s sort of like the heat is wrapping you up instead of beating down on you.”

The truth is, I loved having some extra moisture with my heat. The doctor who did my laser eye surgery told me I had clogged tear ducts. I go though artificial tears like crazy and ALWAYS have red eyes. They seem to burn constantly. But by day two in Texas, I still hadn’t used any drops. I don’t know if it was the moisture, the air quality, or both, but I immediately noticed a huge improvement. By day four you could actually see the whites of my eyes! I was so excited. Imagine my disappointment when arriving back in Utah and feeling them burn on the way back from the airport.

On a side note, while we were driving my sister in law (who had come to pick us up) asked, “So, did you have any tornados down there?”

Without missing a beat, Jenny let her too-rarely-used smartass flag fly and said, “No. Did you have any earthquakes up here?” It was fantastic. I friggin’ love that woman.

Anyway, back to the trip itself, we’d gone down with several objectives. We wanted to feel the heat. We wanted to walk around in the city and drive the phallic interstates (look at a map of the roads between Dallas and Fort Worth and you’ll get that one). We wanted to eat the food. And, more than anything, we wanted to meet the people.

You always hear about how friendly they are in Texas. I was curious. Growing up in Utah, I’d spent my entire life around plenty of people acting the way a nice person would. We’d gotten a real taste of some genuine, down-to-earth people in Florida, Indiana and especially Wyoming. Texas had its work cut out for it.

On the first night, the girl at the checkout counter smiled and said, “Have a real great night, Y’all.” It was wonderful. She really meant it! It wasn’t like the way I normally say it – generic and bland. She actually wanted us to have a great night! Side note: this was not a redneck, “hick” girl. She had a cool little grunge, hippy look going. Nevertheless, the “Y’all” still sounded as natural as could be.

In the restaurants, they smiled at us and asked us to take our time. We never felt rushed. They were genuinely grateful for their tips and nearly all of them treated us like we’d been invited to eat in their home. Amazingly hospitable people.

While walking in the Stockyards (an actual “western” touristy section just outside of Fort Worth) we really put the “friendly” claim to test.

I was pushing Emma in her stroller. We were walking past a biker bar and three guys were standing outside on the sidewalk, sipping beer and shootin’ the shit. I have no stereotype against “bikers” but I think they pride themselves on being a somewhat rowdy bunch. They have never stricken me as “mean” or “violent” by nature. Then again, these guys were big (like three, three-fitty kinda BIG) and I wasn’t about to try to push my way through. The curb was steep so going around was going to be a chore.

One of the guys leaning against the building noticed us and smiled at Emma. His hand shot out, grasping a fistful of the other guy’s shirt. He yanked him off of the sidewalk and bellowed, “Get out the way and let this beautiful little princess pass!”

They smiled at us and waved at her. The one who’d been in the way looked at her and said, “Yup! I spect she’d run me right over!”

Here are three rough-n-tumble bikers talking to my daughter like southern women on their way home from church. I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of it.

We made friends everywhere we went. We chatted with people in the stores, at the burger joints, on the way to the Titans-Cowboys game, during the game, and on the way home from the game. We were hooked in no time.

Utah has some great things to offer. More than anything it’s home to most of our favorite people. We really do wish we could take you all with us. If you decide to stay in the beehive state – as they say in Texas – “Yawn yoan!” But, hey, who knows, maybe with enough time we’ll be able to talk you into visiting. If you do, you might also fall in love and want to just turn your vacation into a staycation.

Giving Birth to a Criminal Mastermind

It’s a dark day when your toddler first outsmarts you. Emma has always been extremely bright for her age. She was speaking in full, concise sentences by 14 months. She knew all of her shapes, colors, and even letters by a year and a half. She could point out and recite the entire alphabet by age two. At the age of three she wrote her own name.

Where did we go wrong?

I didn’t expect to be asking myself that as a parent until her teenage years. I mean, sure, I figured I’d ruin the first kid somewhere down the line but I thought I’d at least wait until she got to school. That way I’d be able to shuffle blame toward “that slutty little friend of hers” or even a “broken education system.”

How wrong I was.

At the age of four, Emma already seems to be directing her efforts to evil. Beneath that heavenly sweet and adorable façade lurks the churning think-tank of a criminal mastermind. She appears to already have an aptitude for manipulation and deceit. She’s working the system. She’s finding the loopholes without effort. She’s messing with my head. She’s a loose cannon.

She must be stopped.

The other night, Jenny and I were enjoying a few minutes to ourselves after putting the girls to bed. Jenny was nibbling on the Symphony bar I’d bagged for her with my incredible hunter/gatherer skills. We were nestled together on the couch, watching Californication on the laptop.

“Thump, thump, thump,” echoes the small, quick, methodical footfalls from upstairs.

Jenny pauses the show. David Duchovny was frozen on screen, either in the middle of having sex, smoking a cigarette, making a witty remark, or all three – I don’t remember.

I crane my head toward the hallway just in time to see a flash of pink and purple at the top of the stairs.

“Emma?” we both shout.

Silence.

“Emma! We know you’re up there!”

As sweet as can be, she inches into view, smiling like she knows she’s not in trouble.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, kiddo. Why aren’t you?” I ask.

A sly smile creases the corners of her mouth and she begins to descend the stairs with confidence.

“I just wanted to give you both loves,” she says, running to give Jenny a hug.

“Ooooohhhhhhhhh! How sweet!!” Jenny says.

Hugging my wife, Emma turns to shoot me a look of pure maniacal glee. You’ve seen those movies, the ones where the guy pretending to be crippled uses his lie to get away with putting his hands all over the protagonist’s girl? You know that look he gives him while playing grab ass with the woman he loves?

That’s the look my four-year-old is giving me.

I still take her in for a hug before sitting her on my lap. The confrontation is eminent. She knows what she’s doing. I know what she’s doing. Time to shut it down.

“That was pretty sneaky, Emma!” I say, giving her props but also letting her know it’s not okay.

She smiles, nods, and chuckles.

“I’m on to you, you know!” I say. “You think you’re gonna have me wrapped around your finger by the time you’re 12, don’t you?”

That same sly smile begins pulling her face into a knowing grin. She pauses for dramatic effect before looking me directly in the eyes and saying…

“Or 10.”

Perspective

I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective lately. Working in the financial industry, I spend a lot of time listening to people bitch about their money. Today, for example, I had a chat session with a “Premium” client. He had over 6 million dollars in his account. He came into the chat guns-a-blazing over a miscalculation of his margin balance. In my world of “Electronic Response” blazing guns means typing in all caps!

So, here I am, running numbers for Scrooge McDuck to find out where his “missing” money was. Guess how much he complained he was missing… 3 bucks.

How many times have we fantasized about having money?

“Oh, babe, if we just had a million dollars! We could practically live off of the interest!”

Do you know what I’m beginning to realize? Rich people are some of the most miserable people on earth! I’m serious. They always have something to be “furious” about. They talk to me about how they can’t “handle” the stress of their late order of free checks. The throw tantrums and have meltdowns. They send emails from some cottage in Italy, ranting about the execution they got on their trade.

I’m always tempted to say, “You’re in Italy! On vacation!!! Stop counting your fuggin’ money and enjoy it!!”

But they can’t. The wealth consumes them. Everything else – joy, family, relaxation… even common human decency – seems to fly out the window.

Do I like the idea of having that kind of money? Sure. Do I need it? Not in the slightest.

I sit on my ass in a climate controlled building and get paid $20 an hour for very little work. Do you know that I have gotten paid to watch hundreds, if not thousands of hours of television and movies? Let’s see… True Blood, Dexter, Smallville, Weeds, Californication, are the series I can think of off the top of my head that I’ve watched in FULL while on the clock! Did you know that I wrote the majority of my first book while getting paid? Oh yeah, and they just gave me a raise for my performance.

The bulk of the world lives in poverty on less than $2 a day. That’s less than $800 a year.

“Oh, darling, can you imagine living in America? We could make $10,000 a year and live like kings!”

So there’s the finances. Moving on.

I hate jogging. I feel like I’m always too tired to go for a run. Sometimes I wake up with a sore back. From time to time I’ll stand in front of the mirror before getting into the shower, looking like a naked, shaved gorilla, and wish I had my abs back. I’ll wish the veins in my arms stood out a little more. I’ll wish my hair was a little darker and thicker. I’ll wish I could sprint a little faster, jump a little higher, maybe even look like the ripped black dude on True Blood or do all the cool maneuvers those mercenary guys on Die Hard 4 could do. I’ll wish I could skate or BMX like the guys on the X-Games can.

I can run. I am totally capable of running. If I wasn’t lazy about it, I have the potential to be anything I physically want.

“I’m too lazy to run,” is a statement most of us would make if we were being honest. If we’re really willing to say something like that, shouldn’t we be willing to say it in front of someone in a wheelchair? Shouldn’t we be willing to gripe about our lack of arm definition in front of someone who suffers from cerebral palsy? Shouldn’t we bitch and moan about how hard it is to exercise in front of the population of individuals whose bodies have failed them in some form or another?

“Sure, I’m perfectly whole physically, but running is hard.”

I think the wheelchair guy would be perfectly justified (not to mention aligned) to give me a good, solid punch in the crotch.

“I hate this mole!” you say to the Elephant Man.

“This music is too loud!” you say to the deaf woman.

“The sun is too bright!” you whine to the blind man.

“My eight-hour shift was exhausting! I really need to lie down!” you complain to the bed-ridden child battling leukemia.

So there’s the physical. Moving on.

“These kids are driving me crazy!!” you say to the couple that can’t have children.

“My husband (of 12 years who you desperately love and who returns your affection) never puts the toilet seat down!!” you shout to the lonely coworker who is still searching for love.

“My best friend is being such a jerk!” you vent to the socially awkward autistic individual.

“School is so much work. I have to read all these books!” you tell the Down Syndrome kid from up the street.

“This meatloaf is kinda dry!” you say to the 12-year-old Ethiopian who has never experienced the sensation of a full stomach.

“I’m not even getting my bonus this year!” you tell the factory worker who just got laid off.

“Our tap water tastes funny!” you whine to the Australian family whose house just burned down.

“Obama’s gonna raise my taxes by 3%!” you yell at the orphan in Rwanda who lost her entire family and village to genocide.

“Life is really hard!” you complain to the teenager who just got struck and killed by a bus.

“You’re a big, fat, spoiled, brat,” you confess to yourself in the mirror.

I had $1,000 stolen from me today. That sucked. I wrote this mostly for myself, to remind me that I live like a king. I really hope you take it as the reminder we could ALL use from time to time.

I’m not sure if you’ve seen it or not, but this brings to mind the airplane bit by comedian Louis C.K. Here it is if you haven’t seen it yet. It’s fantastic…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LkusicUL2s

Think about it. With the right perspective, wouldn’t another sunrise bring tears of joy to our eyes? Can you imagine being filled with wonder and gratitude by the mere act of getting out of bed and standing on your own feet? Wouldn’t you dance all the way to the breakfast table? Gawk at the walls and ceiling that keep you dry and safe! Blubber like child at the sight of your own? Kiss your loved ones like it was both the first and last time?

We get comfortable. We get callused. We get greedy. We get forgetful.

Perspective is everything. It doesn’t matter how shitty you think things are. Somebody would love your life.