If I Ruled the World

I don’t want to rule the world. Not remotely. But if I did, some things would be different. I toss this idea out at various points during the semester, usually after I’ve introduced my students to a particularly controversial (or, in my view, stupid) accounting treatment. For example, if I ruled the world, debt issuance costs would be expensed immediately instead of being recorded as assets and amortized over time, large stock dividends and stock splits would be accounted for identically, and convertible debt values would be bifurcated into debt and equity portions at issuance. But I don’t (rule the world). So they aren’t (accounted for like that). And no, there’s nothing I can do to make Accounting any sexier.

Earlier this week, Hadley told me that she and her friends had been talking about Black Friday. Her friends asked her if she was going shopping on The Day. When she laughed, they asked her why. Her response was that her parents don’t like crowds, which her friends found rather amusing. Actually, Hadley is the only person in our family who DOES like crowds. And even at that, she doesn’t really LIKE them. She only likes them in one situation -- when water is involved. She hates going to the country club swimming pool because nobody is ever there. And when I was considering doing a beach vacation (insert sound of gagging) this year because Hollis has never seen the ocean, she said she didn’t think there would be much point. Why? She reasoned (quite correctly), that I would drive 10 miles up the beach so that there wouldn’t be any people around us ... and she would think that was boring. Beach vacation avoided. Win.

If you have followed our travels over the years, you’ll realize that all of our extended family trips tend to be as far away from people as we can reasonably get. We don’t take the kids to Disneyland, Washington D.C., or The Big Apple. We take them to Arizona, Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, and Canada. Thankfully, the kids -- even Hadley -- are very much like us and eagerly anticipate these vacations. But yes, I am guilty as charged. I’m not particularly fond of people in general and I do hate crowds ... which brings us back to the whole shopping thing.

I truly cannot fathom what would induce someone to choose to go shopping on high-traffic days. Here in Texas, we have a tax-free weekend every August. Stores are absolutely swimming with people who will battle to the death to buy items at 8% off. Me? I go shopping for my kids’ school clothes a couple of days BEFORE tax-free weekend starts. There is inventory out the wazoo in preparation for the soon-to-be insanity and there’s not a shopper in sight. It is glorious. I realize that we are pretty well off and, as such, don’t really need discounts to survive. But come on, even if you drop $1000 on school clothes you’re only “saving” $80 ... and that’s assuming (falsely) that they don’t mark stuff up to compensate for it. And if you’re dropping $1,000 on school clothes then you’re not remotely living close enough to the edge for $80 to make a difference. It’s mental. And it’s doubly (triply?) mental on Black Friday. Like I’m going to get out of bed before daylight so that I can buy a flash drive for $5 instead of $15? Seriously?

So if I ruled the world, here’s how things would go.

Not wanting to stand in the way of commerce, I would permit stores to open as early on Black Friday (or Black Friday Eve) as they wanted. However, as King, I would place a steward at each retailing establishment. The stewards would be charged with maintaining order, passing out Black Friday Numbers (BFNs), and supervising the calculation of Black Friday Ratios (BFRs). What is the BFR? The BFR is calculated as the cube root of the shopper’s place in line (i.e., his or her BFN) multiplied by his or her total percentage discount on purchased items. Specifics? As each shopper enters the establishment, he or she will be given a BFN. The BFNs will be given in ascending order. At checkout, the cashier will scan each shopper’s purchases and his or her BFN. These values will be transmitted automatically to the steward’s handheld device, which will automatically calculate the resulting BFRs. I’ll illustrate with four hypothetical shoppers:

Shopper A -- Total Purchases: $250; Original Price: $500; BFN: 1; BFR = 0.500

Shopper B -- Total Purchases: $250; Original Price: $500; BFN: 499; BFR = 3.966

Shopper C -- Total Purchases: $490; Original Price: $500; BFN: 500; BFR = 0.159

Shopper D -- Total Purchases: $490; Original Price: $500; BFN: 2; BFR = 0.025

The most important thing to remember here is that BFRs are inversely related to native intelligence. In other words, low BFR scores are “bad.” In the limit, a BFR of zero would suggest the lack of any brain function whatsoever, as it would indicate that the person in question stood in line on the most insane shopping day of the year and paid the full price for everything he or she bought. So keep that in mind ... the worst-case-scenario is a BFR of zero. It is also important to note that the cube root prevents the BFN from having too large of a weight in the calculation, thereby allowing for at least SOME premium to exist among early-going shoppers who manage to secure a good deal.

Whatever the case, the above examples show that Shopper A is an idiot because he was first in line at this particular establishment on Black Friday. However, because he received a whopping 50% discount his BFR is 0.500. Contrast that with Shopper D, who was second in line. For her time, trouble, and other non-monetary costs (assuming any such things exist for this person), she received a 2% discount. As a result, her BFR of 0.025 [cube root of 2 x (500-490)/500)] is not significantly different from the no-brain-function level of zero. Meanwhile, Shopper C received the same 2% discount but wasn’t as much of a moron as Shopper D (in that he didn’t waste as much time standing in line). As a result, his BFR is substantially higher, at 0.159 (but lower than Shopper A’s BFR because Shopper C still received basically no price discount). The highest BFR -- 3.966 -- goes to Shopper B, who was #499 in line (right in front of Shopper C) but still managed to get a 50% discount. Clearly we have hierarchical ordering happening here, with Shopper D needing to be subjected to laboratory experiments and Shopper B perhaps deserving partial (but not full) forgiveness for having ventured out on Black Friday instead of staying home and reading a good book.

Moving forward, on Black Friday +1 (do we have a name for Saturday yet?), all BFR scores will be tabulated and directed to Central Processing. Couriers will be dispatched to all households containing residents with BFRs < 1. Individuals with BFRs < 0.10 will be sterilized and will have to pay for it. They’ll be happy about this, though, because the couriers will be instructed to emphasize that they’re getting it for 8% off the regular price. Individuals with BFRs between 0.10 and 0.49 will be offered the option of free sterilization or five years of staying home on Black Friday. Given the trauma associated with option B, it is assumed that most of these people will choose option A. Individuals with BFRs between 0.50 and 1.00 will be sentenced to 500 hours of community service and two years of staying home on Black Friday. Individuals with BFRs above 1 will be sent messages of stern warning and those with no BFRs at all (i.e., those who Did the Right Thing and stayed home) will be sent holiday gift baskets and many words of good cheer. The hope, of course, is that within a generation or two, much of the rabble in my kingdom will be no more. And with Prince Reagan (aka The Hermit) ready to assume the throne after my demise, I have every confidence that the future of WilkinsLand is very bright indeed.

That’s all I have for today. I hope you have the Happiest of All Possible Thanksgivings. And if you do venture out on Friday, watch your BFRs.

Peace

Mike

Favorite Day of the Year

Most of my chats with Chelsea (my TA) either begin with family business or somehow end up there. This week was no exception. I have no idea where this particular conversation started but ultimately it worked its way back to talking about what kid stuff was going on that afternoon and evening, who was going to have to go pick up which kid and take them where, what random food (aka fried salt) events were likely to ensue, what the various lobbying positions for all of these activities might involve ... y’know, the usual daily parenting stuff that successful, thoughtful, motivated, extremely mature, world-beating college students can’t imagine in their wildest dreams.

After highlighting in technicolor what a pain in the butt the rest of the day was going to be, I leaned back in my chair, assumed my best pontificating pose, and said “So ... you know what my favorite day of the year is?” Chelsea sat there for a minute, gave the matter careful consideration, and said “the last day of school?” Although that was a very good guess (and she did at least get partial credit for taking the bait), I informed her that the last day of school -- while extremely good in certain respects -- also has at least one big downside. Not having to deal with homework and school activities most definitely is fabulous, but there’s also the bit about all four kids being at the house and around each other 24/7 for 12 weeks. As a result, while the last day of school is terrific, the baggage (however slight) that is associated with it renders it imperfect. And for a day to be classified as “favorite day of the year”, it has to be perfect. 

At this point, Chelsea sighed, leaned over to throw away her third (or maybe twelfth, I don’t remember) Almond Joy wrapper, and we resumed the conversation:

Chelsea -- Fine ... What IS your favorite day, then?

Me -- (pausing for effect) November 5

Chelsea -- (pausing because she thinks I’m mental) November 5??

Me -- Yep

Chelsea -- Why??

Me -- Because this year, it’s the first Saturday in November.

Chelsea -- And??

Me -- That’s the day when we get to set the clocks back an hour.

Chelsea -- That seriously is the most anti-climactic thing I have ever heard.

So ... WHY is the First Saturday in November (FSN) my favorite day of the year? Here’s why:

1. Signaling -- FSN is the very first CONSISTENT indicator that Autumn might, in fact, finally have arrived. When you love Autumn as much as I do and when you live in a place that is as thoroughly awful (not to mention devoid of Autumn) as Texas is, you need reliable signals. An occasional morning temperature of 50 in mid-October most emphatically is NOT a reliable signal of Autumn, because in two days you know the high is going to be 90 again. So ... I view FSN as the first consistent, unwavering, year-in-and-year-out signal that a reprieve (however brief) from the sheer misery that is Texas weather is, in fact, forthcoming.
   
   
2. Accounting -- No, I don’t really view it this way but I thought it was sort of clever and the logic does work reasonably well. In accounting, you basically record stuff once you’re sure it’s going to happen. For example, if you have a contract to deliver something to somebody and all of the i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed and you’ve handled your part and you ship it to the customer and they are going to pay you within 30 days or whatever, you don’t wait until you actually get the money to book the sale. You book the sale now. That is what accrual basis accounting is all about. And FSN works the same way. Once FSN arrives, I know that in addition to the weather-related goodness from point #1, a lot of other fun stuff will be going down in the very near future as well ... so my mood picks up. What fun stuff? Exhibits A, B, C, and D would be Thanksgiving, my wedding anniversary, Christmas, and Christmas vacation. Christmas vacation is particularly good because it does NOT have the afore-mentioned baggage that goes along with summer vacation. Yes, the kids are still around each other all the time but it’s only for a couple of weeks and Christmas is their favorite time of year ... so that mini-vacation typically is relatively conflict-free. My wedding anniversary is a 10-day party (deserving of its own blog entry) so that is another huge upside, and obviously Thanksgiving and Christmas are fantastic. Bottom line -- FSN is a harbinger of lots of Very Fun Stuff, which my accrual-basis training permits me to book up front. (Note: That probably is the first accounting-as-real-life reference that I have ever made, and it probably will be the last as well.)
   
   
3. Sleep -- I hate waking up. My response to hearing the alarm go off every single day is “You have GOT to be kidding me.” I am 44 years old and our oldest kid is 18. Therefore, I have been waking up at an ungodly hour (that is, before 10) for 9 months out of the year for the past 13 years. Yet despite the conditioning that one would THINK should result from all of those years of misery, every morning is still an absolute battle. Every single morning (without fail) I wake up with poison running through my veins AND we have to get kids up and fed and ready and all that as well. It is not a good time in general, and it’s even worse when I’m having to get up 90 minutes before sunrise. Plus, Paige isn’t exactly an eager early riser either. Who are these people who invented the “work day” anyway? I mean, really ... who was the first person who thought that it would be a good idea to start waking up an hour to an hour-and-a-half before there is ANY INDICATION WHATSOEVER that it’s not the middle of the night? This person probably was the ancestor of today’s oh-so-superior man/woman who starts the day with a little wheat germ, sheep’s milk yogurt and five kinds of fruit juice (none of them orange, of course) and then gets in a quick, invigorating 10-mile run (without sweating) before coming back to gently wake the perfect children who calmly file downstairs and quietly eat their freshly prepared breakfast of  home-made granola, passionfruit, and stone-ground whole wheat pancakes. At Casa Wilkins, meanwhile, it’s a comatose middle-aged wonder growling “one Pop-Tart or two?” at similarly comatose kids. So I will take that extra hour of sleep on Saturday night, thank you very much. But more importantly, I will also revel in the fact that come Monday, I won’t have to turn on a light when I drag my sorry carcass out of bed.
   
   
4. Dark -- Those who know me well might find at least part of my tirade in point #3 to be strange. Why? Because those who know me well know that I absolutely love the dark. In fact, I’ve told many people over the years that “early dark” is my favorite time of the year. And “early dark” begins with FSN. The key, of course, is that I like the dark on my own terms. Clearly, I don’t want it to be dark when I wake up. Ever. But once that hurdle is out of the way, I’m good with it being dark anytime ... the earlier the better, and the longer the better. Don’t believe me? Take a look at the picture at the top of the page. That’s the most well-lit (only lit) corner of my study slash cave. This room is painted an extremely heavy brownish maroon color. I repainted it last week and made it even heavier. My color choice was not driven by any particular fondness for Texas A&M University nor its colors. Rather, the room is a complete pain in the butt to paint and it was already that color ... and making it darker is both (a) easier and (b) darker (i.e., better). Furthermore, my study is lit by a single 20-watt fluorescent bulb ... shaded ... on the interior corner of my desk ... partially hidden underneath a shelf. So I am more than a little bit vampiric. And FSN is a friend to vampires.

For all of these reasons (and probably others that escape me at the moment), FSN is my favorite day of the year. And to finish the previous story, upon hearing my “anti-climactic” FSN revelation, Chelsea immediately asked me if the “spring forward” date (the second Sunday in March, for those who are curious) is my least favorite day of the year. At the time, I told her “yes,” because it’s logically consistent and because I hadn’t really thought about it. Upon further reflection, however, I realize that is NOT the correct answer. Details next year ...

Peace,

Mike

Why I Love Main Campus

Back in July, it occurred to me that despite the fact that I have been on the faculty of a major university since 1994, I have never once taken advantage of the situation where “additional learning” is concerned. Stunned by this realization, I decided that I would sit in on a Literature class during the fall semester. The course I chose is ENGL 231, which basically surveys British literature from the Middle Ages through the beginning of the Renaissance. Y’know, Beowulf ... Sir Gawain ... Chaucer ... very solid stuff.

An unexpected benefit of taking this class is that I’m forced to leave West Campus three days a week and walk over to Main Campus around lunchtime. It breaks up my day nicely and lets me see lots of things that you just don’t see in Wehner High. Don’t get me wrong ... I absolutely love my PPA students. But would five of them wear shirts spelling out “HOWDY”? Doubtful. Would they come to class with green hair? Um, no.  If they were packed into a room where the professor was constantly tossing out questions related to what, for example, the closing passage of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight really says about chivalric code and knights’ quest for perfection, would over half of them be clamoring for air time? No. My PPA students would be absolutely comatose. And again, I’m not complaining. Not remotely. My own classes are  very interactive and a lot of fun, and my students are, by far, the best thing about my job. I wouldn’t change a thing about them. My point is just that Main Campus is verrrrrrrrrry different from West Campus.

Take the guy who sits behind me -- super-gregarious, bald with a beard, hilarious, didn’t go to college for a few years after high school ... drove golf carts for people and worked as a security guard for an art museum ... then went to a community college for a year or so, then spent a semester at North Texas ... now he’s at A&M and has more-or-less figured out what he wants to do with his life. OK, sort of. No clue how old he is. Maybe 25?? These people simply do not exist in Wehner High. Or if they do, they’re not PPA students. I think PPA students (the girls, anyway) are born with a financial calculator in one hand and a day-planner in the other.

Or take the girl who sits beside me. Actually I have no clue what her deal is, but she’s the source of a good story anyway. She apparently is in the same sorority that Chelsea (my TA) is in. So we’re trying to figure out who she is. I think she may be mute. OK, not really ... she’s probably just bummed that she drew the short straw on seating chart day and got stuck by the random old guy. I told Chelsea I’m going to start wearing Think Theta t-shirts to class every single day to totally max out the creeper factor. Paige says I should augment that outfit with tight, 1980s tennis shorts. White ones, of course.

A lot of other things are different on Main Campus as well. It’s not just how the students look -- it’s more the entire feel of the place. The classroom buildings are old and actually FEEL like classroom buildings (not Executive Centers like they do in Wehner High). There aren’t any college student evangelists on West Campus, but I’ve never been to Main Campus without hearing at least one guy making himself known in a very loud fashion. I’ve also never been almost killed by somebody on a bicycle on West Campus, but that happens two or three times every single time I venture to the Other Side. I also randomly see counselors from my Fish Camp just about every day I’m over there, despite the fact that there are less than 30 of them among close to 50,000 students on campus. 

As if all of the above-mentioned differences weren’t reason enough to go to Main Campus, at least once a week I see something that is truly amusing. This past week, for example, I was headed back to Wehner on a sidewalk that was totally empty. I entered the sidewalk from the right about 5 seconds behind a couple of girls who had entered from the left. One of them (let’s call her Rachel, because that was her name) saw me, and the other one (Kris) didn’t. Rachel was wearing jean shorts that most definitely would not pass Dress Code at Hadley’s middle school. People at Wehner High can be adventurous in their attire as well, but Rachel was taking things to an entirely different level. Rachel and Kris were talking with each other and were walking slowly, so I passed Rachel on the right. Kris still hadn’t seen me at that point, which is when the following interchange occurred ...

Kris -- Diggin’ that ass, Rachel

Rachel -- (laughing) ... Umm, pretty sure we’re not alone, Kris

Me -- (laughing)

Kris -- Oh wow

Me -- That was pretty solid, Kris

.... much laughing ...

Rachel -- Kris 1, Social Propriety 0

Me -- Indeed

Kris -- You have a good day, sir

And to answer your next question, “no” -- having long since reached middle-age, it no longer bothers me when people call me “sir”.  Funny, though, how my age stands out even when I’m Thinking Theta and wearing white 1980s tennis shorts.

OK, not really.

Peace,
Mike

Death by Cell Phone

Don’t get your hopes up. The fact that I’ve not written anything in four months and have now decided to do so does not necessarily mean that I have anything super-important to say. Nor does it mean that I will say it particularly well. But this is a topic that has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time and, having gotten a bit of inspiration during the past few days, I figured I would go ahead and roll it out.

My first observation comes from last Thursday morning, when I was walking from my office in the PPA Suite to the main departmental office. The purpose of my journey was to fill my coffee pot with water, which is the first step in being able to bypass the poison that is brewed in the mail room. When I rounded the corner I noticed a pile of students lounging outside the computer lab. There were 17 of them to be exact. I know this because their presence (and activities) inspired me to stop and take a headcount on my way back. Seventeen students ... all sitting outside the door, waiting for the current class to empty so that they could take their positions and do their time  with Excel or SAP or whatever the topic might be. Seventeen people, aged 20-21 ... some guys, some girls ... enrolled in the same class ... common interests, common concerns ... yet the hallway was dead quiet. Seriously, NO ONE was talking. But 15 of the 17 were punching buttons or scrolling through screens on their cell phones. So I guess maybe I should qualify things. They weren’t PHYSICALLY talking. There is every likelihood that at least 12 or 13 of the 15 were announcing to the known universe that they were “waiting for class to start...uggghhhh!!!” or “OMG left my assignment at home!!!” or “I hate macros!!!” or “just had an amazing latte YUM!!!” or some other bit of equally indispensable information. But absolutely no one was actually speaking. I had a very strong urge to head down that hallway and bust off a dance move right in the middle of them, but since Hadley wasn’t with me (that is, there wasn’t anyone for me to embarrass) I decided it wouldn’t be worth it.

Observation #2 comes from this past weekend, when about 10 counselors from my Fish Camp group came over to have dinner and watch a movie. These kids are terrific and I really like them a lot and we have a very good time together. But I couldn’t help but notice (and be somewhat amused) that for a large chunk of the movie, half of them were jacking around on their phones. I don’t know if they were announcing that they were “watching a movie with Camp Wilkins!!!” or “Gumby’s pepperoni rolls = AMAZING!!!!” or if they were planning the remainder of the evening’s festivities or what. But have we really gotten to the point where we can’t just eat, hang out, and enjoy an 83-minute movie with actual living and breathing people? Go back and read that sentence again. The key word is “just”. Are our activities so important and/or our attention spans so short that we can’t put the phone away and see if we might be able to survive for a couple of hours without an update (either given or received)? And again, I’m not ragging on anybody in particular here. These kids are terrific and I’m not pointing any fingers specifically at them. I see this all the time, wherever I go. Classrooms, hallways, airports ... everywhere. It puzzles me.

Now ... before you start accusing me of being old and stodgy and completely out of touch with the times, let me note the following. First, yes I do want to be the old man with a threadbare, plain white t-shirt tucked into polyester pants pulled up to his chest who stands on his front porch, raising his fist and yelling (in a tired, shaky voice) at the young whippersnappers who just walked across the corner of his lawn. But that’s beside the point. I am many things -- some good, some bad -- but I most emphatically AM NOT a Luddite. My family lives via text message and Paige and I communicate via computer IM a lot of the time because our studies are on opposite ends of the house and typing is less obnoxious than yelling. Further, while a sizable part of me would rather listen to Ella Fitzgerald through an old gramophone, a sizably larger part prefers the convenience of digital media (despite the sonic warmth of vinyl that it can’t replicate). As a result, I have an Apple TV unit that is linked to the iTunes library on the Mac in my study, such that we can enjoy the entirety of my rather vast music library through our home theater sound system which is located in the living room ... all the while, pictures from selected albums in my iPhoto library on the same computer are being displayed on the television for the general enjoyment of all who might be interested. My house also features seven or eight iPods, three iPads, two XBOX 360 systems (one with Kinect), two Wii systems, and a complete, fully digital recording studio that doubles as our guest room.

Does this sound like the lair of someone who is anti-technology?

I didn’t think so.

So I do get the appeal of technology. And I do think it has its place. I just think we lose something as a society when we would rather pull out our cell phones and tell our 125,379 pretend-a-friends that we just checked in at Cinemark (like anyone cares ... seriously?) than have a conversation with the guy standing next to us.

What’s rather ironic about all of this, of course, is that if you know me at all, you realize that I am not exactly gregarious. I had a lot of friends when I was growing up, but if you get right down to it I only spent significant out-of-school time with one guy down the street and 4-5 people who were on the tennis team. In college, I spent virtually all of my time (aside from infrequent forays into Girlfriend-Land) with just three or four people. And while the PPA crowd probably will find this almost impossible to believe given how close-knit things tend to be at TAMU, there is absolutely no way that I could name more than five people who graduated from the Business School at UK at the same time that I did. Moving forward from there, we’ve worked at Texas A&M for 17 years and while I count some of my colleagues as “friends”, apart from two dinners that I remember in the mid-1990s, we’ve not done a single thing socially with any of them. Literally never. I’m not complaining about any of this. Not remotely. I had a blast in college and wouldn’t change a single thing about that experience. And where grown-up life is concerned, we have four kids and we’re very busy and happy with that model ... and I have neither the time nor the inclination to live my life any differently. I just find it beyond ironic that a guy who is as much of a total recluse as I am would be far more inclined to enjoy an actual conversation with a couple of locals in a backcountry English pub (as one example of which I have fond memories) than to crank out my cell phone and tell people that “I heart Keswick brew!!!”

All of this is doubly ironic when you realize that I will be posting a link to this entry on Twitter (Editor’s Note: if you want to be privy to my periodic bouts of non-blog cleverness you’ll have to follow me over there, as I deleted my FB account last week). Wanna try for triple irony? OK ... I am also well aware that numerous people will, in fact, read this post on their cell phones. I have no problem with that at all, nor do I have a problem with the fact that many of the same people also listen to my music and watch my videos on their phones. In fact, I even changed the layout of my Tunes site a few months ago such that visitors now have specific links to mp3 files rather than being forced to stream things through a Flash player. I made this adjustment to the site purely because Flash is not supported on some mobile devices. So while parts of me are being dragged -- kicking and screaming -- into the 21st century, at least they are still getting there.

In closing, I’ll point you to a wonderful (and very short, for those of you with pressing updates to attend to) piece by the editor of the New York Times. The article HERE is the very best I’ve seen on this topic to date. Do yourself (and your friends) a favor, and read it. While this guy uses social networking sites and appreciates their value, he also suggests that social networking “... is not just an ambient presence. It demands attention and response. It is the enemy of contemplation.” 

The enemy of contemplation ... that is beautifully said. 

Most of my post here was just a rant, obviously, and I realize that by and large you don’t particularly care what I think about cell phones and social networking. And ultimately, my point isn’t that any of these things are “bad” in and of themselves. I just find the sense of urgency that goes along with them to be completely bizarre. So if anything I’ve written or linked on this page causes you to at least think twice before you pull out your phone in a movie theater or while you’re having dinner with real-live friends, then at least some good (by my definition) will have come of it. 

Peace,

Mike

Track > Soccer

I have a love-hate relationship with soccer. Fortunately, just about all of the other dads that are affiliated with Hadley’s soccer team do as well. Every weekend I sit there with Jason and Clark and Randy and Shawn, all of us hoping and praying that the right version of Hadley’s team shows up so that we can watch quality soccer. If they do, it’s terrific. But as often as not, five minutes into the game we realize that the right version is, indeed, back at home, eating ice cream and watching The Suite Life on Deck or iCarly or whatever, and we’re stuck with the version that is sponsored by pharmaceutical companies that sell high blood pressure meds. Jekyll and Hyde, indeed. Fact of the Day: When this team first transitioned from recreational soccer to competitive (travel) soccer a few years ago, the girls themselves picked the team name ... CHAOS. True Story.

When the Mr. Hyde version of CHAOS shows up, sometimes we just sit there calmly and wait for the credits to roll (after all, we have seen this movie before). Sometimes we pace. And sometimes we just try to forget about what’s happening in the game that is going on in front of us and focus on broader meaning-of-life soccer questions. Y’know, questions like, “How many years do you think it’ll take for these girls to be able to anticipate instead of always reacting?” Or “Wouldn’t it be nice if just half of the girls in any one game decided that they always wanted to be first to the ball?” Or “Don’t you think ‘offsides’ is the most ridiculous rule in all of organized sports?” (Editor’s Note: The answer is a resounding ‘yes’.) And then there is the old standby, “Where are we in points, now?” ... at which time things immediately are deferred to Clark who is the only one of us who has even the slightest grasp of the CSS (Communist Scoring System) that goes along with tournament soccer. 

Then there are days when we simply try to ignore where we are altogether. Truly disastrous soccer has spawned lengthy conversations about school district funding, the pros and cons of selling body parts to facilitate the purchase of World Series tickets, college plans for our other children, our own experiences in high school and college athletics, the mix of teaching versus research among faculty at Texas A&M ... I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

From all of this discussion you would think that I truly hate soccer and that the other dads are right there with me. And I guess on some days you would be more or less right. But on most days it’s a lot of fun. The weekly Houston routine can get a little old after a while, but the bottom line is that when the girls play hard it is wonderful. Plus, we’re all completely crazy about our daughters and love hanging out with them; the parents are all great (Hallelujah); the coaches are terrific; and driving 75 minutes each direction and sitting in the open air for a couple of hours beats the heck out of about 93% of the tasks I’d be faced with if I were actually home on a Saturday. So all in all it’s a very positive experience, despite our sideline grumbling.

But track ... oh, track ... track is HEAVEN.

As some of you know, Hadley is one of the sprinters on her CRRRAZY good 7th grade track team. She runs the 100m hurdles, the 100m sprint, and the 200m sprint. Why do the specific events matter? First and foremost, Hadley absolutely loves running them. She wants no part of distance, but other than going to see Justin Bieber in concert, I don’t think there is anything in the world she would rather do than try to outrun people. This is terrific for me as a  more-than-casually-interested dad, of course, because I can’t envision her ever doing anything but totally busting her butt in these events. And unfortunately, I can’t say that about soccer. She doesn’t dog it in soccer or anything and she enjoys playing, but unless she scores early and smells blood she doesn’t always play with the intensity that she should. And I just don’t see that as an issue in track. I guess the bottom line is that while Hadley has always been hyper-competitive, it seems like it’s a lot easier for her to channel that drive over 100m / 200m than across an entire 70-minute soccer game.

The second reason that the specific events matter is that they are over really, really fast. As a 12-year old, Hadley runs the 100m sprint in about 13.7 seconds or so and the 200m sprint in about 29 seconds. So as a spectator, I can look at the listing of events, show up at the track juuuuuuust in time to see the 100m hurdles (18 seconds and change maybe?? ... I dunno) ... sit back down and wait 25 minutes or so for the 100m sprint ... chat with other parents or go get dinner somewhere and come back in time for the 200m sprint ... and go home. Now granted, there is a fair amount of waiting around here and there because the meets involve 7th and 8th grade boys and girls and the transitions between events aren’t always perfectly smooth. But still, the reality is that (1) I have to focus my attention for a total of about one minute across the entire evening and (2) I don’t have to worry one bit about whether the good Hadley or the maddening Hadley is going to show up. So yes, I have come to the conclusion that TRACK > SOCCER.

Another upside to Hadley being a sprinter instead of a distance runner is that I can capture an entire track meet in about two minutes of video. I’ve actually gotten several requests for video from family members and former babysitters (some of whom are Aggie former athletes), but really ... do you think they would be asking for that if she ran the 3200m? Me neither. I mean seriously, who wants to watch anyone run eight laps around the track? I guess if Hadley were really into that gig I could pretend to be interested, but I don’t know how believable I would be.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

Peace,

Mike

On Marrying the Right Woman

Paige and I don’t get out enough anymore. Oh, by married people’s standards I guess the number is still high, but as a lot of you know (because you have been directly involved, babysitting-wise), we used to go on dates all the time ... like once a week ... which, when you are old and have been blessed with a lot of kids, is, in fact, “all the time”. For years I have been insistent about this because -- unlike what I perceive to be virtually all men -- I actually really like my wife and would waaaaaaaay rather spend time with her than (a) knocking back a few cold ones while I watch SportsCenter with the guys (whoever they might be); (b) going on a road trip to see random sporting event X in town Y with the guys; (c) spending all day Saturday and/or Sunday “playing golf” with the guys; (d) reliving the (largely imagined) glory days through miscellaneous softball or flag football or tiddlywinks leagues with the guys; or (e) doing anything else that falls under the general umbrella of “male bonding” but that would more accurately be classified as “responsibility shirking” with the guys.

Recently, however, despite our very best efforts, DateNight has gotten the shaft. Actually that is not entirely true, because when we were presented with the Wonder and Glory that is Christmas Break, we went out two or three nights per week. During the school year, however, such activities have gotten to be well-nigh impossible. Every single week is a dead sprint to Friday and the concomitant kid homework reprieve, and by the time the weekend actually arrives we’re usually so blitzed that we don’t do much of anything ... y’know, the classic case of life getting in the way of Life.

This past weekend, however, we did manage to carve out a couple of hours for ourselves. We stuck Reagan with the other three kids (every one of our sitters pretended NOT to have gotten their email summons), went to our (OK, my) favorite Thai place in town, sat there for over an hour doing things that you absolutely ALWAYS do (and take for granted) when you’re dating or at least childless, but that you NEVER do after you have kids ... things like actually chewing your food and taking the time to see what it tastes like instead of (a) bypassing your teeth and taste buds entirely so that you can minimize the arguments at the table; (b) pre-emptively giving the credit card to the waitress BEFORE she brings the ticket (thereby saving at least 3-4 precious minutes); and (c) rushing everybody back into the van so that you aren’t late for whatever is next on the list. No, on this particular night we did things right. We sat. We chewed. We tasted. We sat some more. We talked about things that were NOT related to homework or other kid activities. It was glorious.

And then we went to the grocery.

If you are 20-something, you can’t fully understand the appeal of “going to the grocery”. You THINK you can, because you think you’re all grown up and everything when you’re 20-something. But you aren’t. So you don’t. And I will allow that “going to the grocery” in the manner in which I usually do it (on an almost daily basis) is far from noteworthy. But when you are married with kids and are at the tail end of your date, going to the grocery is, indeed, special. For one thing, you’re much less likely to buy ordinary stuff like bread and bananas and nutty bars. When you are flying solo (or duo, as it were), you might take a trip down the bulk candy aisle and buy something new and dangerous. Or maybe you might stroll over and see just what all of those hundreds of varieties of cheese really have to offer. But the primary draw of the DateNight grocery trip, of course, is the fact that it provides a perfectly defensible excuse for staying away from the house for another 20 minutes. In our case, the can’t-possibly-do-without-them items were a couple gallons of milk (dull, admittedly) and an assortment of champagne and chocolates. Items secured, we finished our business and headed home.

What, pray tell, does this have to do with the title of today’s blog entry? Well, there are times when it would be obvious to most anyone that you’ve married the right woman. When the pastor says something completely innocuous, yet by that strange, stream-of-consciousness ChurchMind process you end up barely stifling a laugh and simultaneously realize that your wife is red-faced and shaking the entire pew ... when this happens, you probably have married the right woman. When you’re sitting around with friends or family, laughing and talking about stuff, and you think of something that you know your wife will find hysterical, and you intentionally choose to deliver the goods only when your ninja powers have detected that critical juncture where the beverage has left her glass but most definitely HAS NOT been swallowed -- the result, of course, being 10 seconds of sheer bliss while you wait to see whether she can actually manage to (a) rally the troops and get it down or (b) spew it (via either mouth or nose) across the table ... when this happens and your wife thinks you are funny (this being the critical part, obviously), you have married the right woman. And finally, when you are walking into the grocery with each other, basking in the afterglow of a non-rushed, real-live adult meal, and your wife looks up at you with her eyes twinkling and says with a chuckle, “Y’know honey, recycling is just not sexy” ... when this happens and you are GLAD that she both (a) genuinely feels that way and (b) is totally cool with calling you out on the cloth bags that you took from the trunk of the car and are now carrying into the store, you have married the right woman.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have a number of female friends who are hippie / Earth-First / granola types and who still manage to be Completely Awesome. One of them is in New Zealand right now, working for some wacko all-organic farm co-op something-or-other program. Another lives in a very cool, highly respectable Nashville neighborhood, yet has a compost pile in her backyard that blocks out the sun. And there are others. You know who you are, and you know that I think you are all fabulous. But when it comes right down to it, I’ve gotta say that I’m glad I managed to hook up with someone whose attitude basically is, “You know those ridiculous bins in the garage for plastic, glass, aluminum, and newspaper? The ones that those whiny, milquetoast, Birkenstock-wearing pretend-a-men use? Well, I pretty much think you’re nuts for taking the time to do that but I’m so crazy about you that I’m not going to count off for it.” To me, there is something undeniably hot about that, in a north Dallas (or something ... can’t quite put my finger on it) sort of way. 

So yes, I married the right woman. And I have confirmation that she believes she married the right man. And if we can just manage to survive this week, Friday evening is likely to find us doing the usual -- and bringing home the post-dinner, post-movie, grocery store spoils in decidely non-sexy bags.

Peace,

Mike