The things I apparently hold dear...

My fraternity's founders day is coming up in a few weeks. I'm still not sure if I'm going to attend, even though this year's celebration should be a big one. It is, after all, our 30th anniversary. In preparation for possibly attending such an auspicious event, I started looking around the house for my badge.

Background: each initiated member of Alpha Tau Omega receives a small badge with his unique initiation number on the back, along with a couple of other things that I can't tell you about because they're secret and stuff. I will tell you that I was the 182701st person to be initiated into the Alpha Tau Omega fraternity since its inception on September 11 (yes, really), 1865. Needless to say, the pin is a very special symbol of a man's membership in something much bigger than himself. One of my fraternity brothers (who shall remain nameless) was an RA with me in the dorms, but left midway through the year to study abroad. In the rush to depart Kirksville that December (and who can blame him?), he inadvertently left his pin in his dorm room. Thankfully, his roommate found it and gave it to me. Because this brother was flying back home for the summer on TWA -- yes, I'm dating myself here -- he had a layover in St. Louis. And because this was pre-9/11/01, I was able to meet him at the airport for a couple of beers. When I went, I brought his badge with me. Much to my surprise, he was actually very glad to see it.

So yeah, the badge is an important thing. Granted, you can order a replacement. But it's just not the same as your very first one. And, if I'm going to go to Founders Day this year, I want to have my badge with me.

I vaguely remembered putting my badge and another important piece of jewelry -- my high school ring -- in a safe place, stored in a small pouch. I looked in about three different "safe" places, and couldn't find the pouch. I was really worried. I thought I had lost them in the move. I mean, I could have my badge replaced for less than $20, but my high school ring is not so easy to replace.

When I got my ring, my mother persuaded me to get the more expensive 14k gold ring. I grumbled and groaned, but then she offered to pay the $50 or so price difference. So I went ahead and did it. I recall mentioning this to one of my teachers (who also happened to be my friend Charlie's dad), and he said that I had made a good decision, as the ring made of the higher quality materials would leave a bigger mark in a bar fight and would be worth more if I had to pawn it. Fortunately, I have never had the opportunity to find out if either of those things is true.

I looked a few more places, and still, no small pouch containing the ring and the badge. I resigned myself to the fact that I had lost them and began cleaning up the mess I had made in the search. I opened up an already-cluttered drawer and began to return the things I had removed during my semi-frantic search.

And then I heard it. A clunk, followed by a chink.

No, that's not some sort of racist punchline. It's onomatopoeia. Learn the fucking difference.

I went to the source of the sound and found the pouch. They were safe and sound.

It occurred to me at that moment how much those stupid little material things mean to me, even though I rarely use them. Hell, I haven't worn my class ring in probably a decade, and I don't know when the last time was I wore my badge, but their meaning isn't diminished through lack of use. If anything, their meaning has grown because I rarely use them. They are special because they are reminders of the people and places responsible for making me the man I am today.

Extremist Parenting

I've been to the mall twice in the last four days.

I know, I know, you're thinking, "what is this, 1993?" Valid point.

No, you see, I went to the mall on Saturday night because I got this coupon in the mail from a jewelry store -- well, really, my dad got this coupon in the mail from a jewelry store that is unaware that A) he is dead, and B) he doesn't live at my house -- and it was for a free pair of pearl earrings. I mentioned the coupon to my mom, and naturally, being the pack rat she is, she wanted me to go get the earrings for her. Since I'm a good son, I did just that. And I brought backup with me in the form of Becker.

But really, Becker and I had just eaten a big dinner at Chimichangas and had some time to kill before he went off and partied with his girlfriend and her roommates, and before I turned into a pumpkin for the night.

So we got the earrings.

Then Monday night, I decided I wanted to go to the Borders at this mall. So I went. The Norton Anthology of American Literature was on sale for $3.99 per volume. So I bought the three volumes that covered 1865 to the present. Because, let's face it, American literature before 1865 was really, really boring. And I can say that with some authority, since I took about four different American literature classes in college. But awesome book sales aside, the Monday night trip to the mall was kind of interesting...

As I arrived, a lady was exiting the mall with two small children in tow. One was about seven or eight. He was doing his own thing, but generally following his mom. The other one was about three and was screaming as if his life depended on it. The mother was, apparently, the kind of parent who exerted control over her children through implied terror. As they approached the crosswalk to cross the empty street to their car on the nearly deserted parking lot, the mother said, "hold my hand -- a car might come along and hit you and kill you."

"Really?" I thought. "That's kind of like going all in on your first hand, lady. You should save some of that sauce for later." But I was mistaken, as there was plenty of the aforementioned sauce to go around.

"There are spiders in the parking lot, and they're going to eat you!" the lady yelled at her shrieking son. "You have to stay close to me!"

Okay, now, just wait a damn minute. If I was that kid, I'd be questioning my mother's fitness for parenting at this point. I mean, what sort of parent parks their car in an area this unsafe? Crazy murderous drivers? Hungry child-eating spiders? What the hell? Wasn't there any other place to park?

This whole time, the older kid is doing just fine, following behind his mom and brother at a safe distance of ten feet or so. He clearly wasn't interested in being associated with those two and their foolishness.

Then, when they were in the crosswalk and I was about 30 feet away in the middle of the street (again, I remind you that there is practically nobody here, so jaywalking is very excusable at this point), the lady ups the ante with the little kid one more time, just to make sure her child is too scared to run away.

"There are monsters out here, and they're going to get you!" she yelled.

And as she yelled it, both she and the screaming child at her knee looked directly at me. And, in one of those strange circumstances where you lock gazes with another person, I looked directly at her. And then her kid.

And while I had thought the earlier screaming was something for the record books, this kid drove it right on home.

I frightened a small child from ten yards away while doing nothing out of the ordinary.

One more item checked off my bucket list.

The Simpsons' New Intro!

Happy VD?

How does one go about complaining about a bad haircut? I mean, when you're sitting in a chair at the barbershop or salon or whatever and someone is standing behind and above you with scissors, it doesn't seem like you're in a position to complain about anything.

I got my hair cut at Great Clips the other night. It was about 8 PM and the place was empty, so I knew I could get it done quickly. They did a fine job -- my hair isn't hard to cut. However, what brought this issue to the forefront of my cranium is the guarantee that came on the receipt. How does one guarantee a haircut? It seems like a rather abstract thing to guarantee. I mean, really, the only thing a company can do is promise not to charge you for totally botching something, but who makes that call?

Clearly the world needs some sort of hairdressing ombudsman.

In other news, I have to work this week. A lot. It will probably be a 60 hour week by the time it's all said and done. I'm also going to start advising students. That should be interesting for all parties involved.

Because I'm going to be working so much this week, my mother is watching Doc until next Friday or Saturday when things slow down a bit. Mom is a bit of a canine hypochondriac. She has taken Sasha to the vet a lot more than the average pet owner. Mom called me tonight to tell me that Doc sometimes is a bit stiff when he gets up. I reminded her that he's at least ten years old and as such, tends to have stiffness in his joints.

"Well," she said, "don't you have him on medicine for that?"

"No," I said. "No I do not. He's not sick. He's old and he's stiff. Just let him stretch out a bit and he'll be fine. He always is."

She wasn't too happy with my response. But really, he's fine. He's just old. When you get older, your body fails. This is true whether you're a dog or a person.

Well, just got a video chat request. Gotta run. Happy VD. Or something.

It's not you, it's me.

Yeah, um, so I know I haven't written anything in a while. It's not that I've forgotten about you or anything. I mean, you've been on my mind. Really. You have. I swear. I mean, it hasn't been that long...

What's that you say? Nearly eight weeks? Oh man -- I had no idea. Really. I swear. It's just that I've been so busy, what with my DVR and all.

No, you haven't been replaced by a glorified VCR! I could never do that to you, blog! I swear! It's just that -- I don't know -- I just sort of... Don't have much to say.

I mean, I have things to say. I just never get around to publishing them on you anymore.

I got you a new layout!

No, I didn't mean it like that! Baby, don't get mad! I just thought you might like a new look!

What's that? No, I didn't change the layout because of how you looked before! I liked the way you looked before -- it's just that now, you -- we -- can maybe make a little money off of this whole internet thing. I mean, if people click on those ads, maybe we'll get some cash. And then I can pay for your domain name for another year or two. I mean, I know the new layout doesn't make up for my absence. I just thought a change would be nice.

Look, blog, I like you just fine the way you are. We've been through a lot together -- my graduation from college, my search for gainful employment, my dad's death, another search for gainful employment, and a few weekend trips... You've been there the whole time, telling the world what I've been up to. I could never forget all that you've done for me. I just haven't had the time -- no, scratch that -- I haven't made the time for you.

I'll try harder. I promise.