Hit and Run

As I reached to change the channel on my car radio, I suddenly heard a noise of another sort.

BOOOOOMMMM!

I thought it was an earthquake.  I screamed. My car swerved into both adjacent lanes.

But soon I realized my car was the only one shaking, swerving.  The closeness of a car in my rearview mirror revealed I’d somehow been rear-ended on the freeway, while driving the speed limit.

I steadied my car, thankful to be safe, while my fight-or-flight response pondered the appropriate move.  I said a quick prayer of there we no cars immediately beside me, and began to pull over to the shoulder to assess the damage.  The car that had hit me initially slowed down as well, and I began to think of what I was going to say to the jerk when we exchanged insurance information.

“Excuse me, dear sir. That pedal beside the accelerator is known as a ‘break.’  You see, it has a use in addition to keeping the accelerator company.  You can push on it if you would like your car to slow down, or even stop altogether. For instance, you can employ it to avoid running into the moving vehicle in front of you.

“Please be a dear and put this knowledge to use in your future endeavors.”

That’s basically what I was going to say. Some version of that, at least.

But I never got the chance.

As I slowed down, the car whipped in front of me and took off.

I sped up to catch it, but it whipped in and out of traffic with a recklessness I feared to match.  I got a quick view of the license plate and tried to set it to memory.

As I gave up on catching up to the car, I began to consider what had happened:

What kind of person leaves the scene of accident like this? How can anyone think this is ok? How can they live with themselves after doing something like this? I’m going to pull over, report this to the police and make sure they get …. Oh, crap. 

What was that plate number again? It started with 5nxa…

 I can’t believe I just forgot the number.  Some completely horrible person just did untold damage to the back of my car, and neck, and whoever it was is about to get away with it completely unscathed.  This can’t be happening.

Wait, way up ahead, I see the car getting off the freeway, apparently in hopes of leaving the trail cold and ditching me for good. Maybe this gives me a chance…

I speed up and pull off as well. The freeway gods smile upon me. The car is stopped at a traffic light.

The driver, at long last, has figured out the vehicle’s braking feature.

There’s a line of cars, so I can’t see the driver clearly, but I’ve now got his license plate. I repeat it aloud continuously, learning from my prior mistake. The driver sees me and again starts weaving through traffic. I follow for a while, but I’m having trouble keeping up and I’m not sure what else I can accomplish anyway.

I pull over and call the police. After a long wait a highway patrol office arrives. He seems more concerned about examining my insurance card, registration and driver’s license than he does about the car that just battered me.  He quickly hands me a card and leaves. When I told him I didn’t need an ambulance, I got the sense that he thought I was wasting his time.  He said he would go to the address to which the car was registered, and he would follow up.

I never heard from him again. When I calmed down enough to look at the card he gave me, I noticed that it didn’t have his contact information, just instructions on how to order the police report. I hope the officer was this hard on the criminal too.

Three things struck me at that moment as indisputably true: (1) resolving this isn’t going to be as easy as it seems like it ought to be; (2) Between my reckless, selfish assailant, and the indifferent police officer, people kind of suck sometimes; and (3) when I tell my parents in Alabama about this incident, they’re going to blame it on illegal immigrants. 

I was right on all counts.

I’m making progress on the first point.  The police report should be arriving soon, and I’m hoping it will included the name and address of the vehicle that I can forward to my insurance company.  I’m assuming my uninsured motorist coverage will have to swoop in and save the day regardless, but it’s worth a shot. The car’s been fixed, and after two weeks of a sprained neck, physical therapy has me on the mend and trending upward. 

As for the other driver, I don’t know if he escaped whatever he was running from.  Maybe he was driving on a suspended license or was drunk and didn’t want to cops to find out. Maybe he knew there was already a warrant out for his arrest, or that there would soon be if he were questioned, or maybe he was already fleeing for some other criminal act, which was why he rammed me in the first place.  I hope he gets what’s coming to him, somehow.

While I don’t know what the ultimate fate of the other driver will be, it at least appears he will not get away completely unscathed. California has a law that all parties must promptly report any serious accident, and provide insurance information, driver’s license numbers and license plate information to the DMV.  If one party reports and accident and the other doesn’t, the non-reporting party can’t renew their license plates until they provide the information.

So unless Mr. California 5NXA833 decides to cooperate, his reign of terror on the road won’t last too much longer.

Growing Old: A Life Lesson from the Community Finale (Contains Spoilers)

This emotional climax of the series finale of my favorite show came last week, and went something like this:


Jeff: I don't want to be fine. I want to be 25 and heading out into the world. I want to be able to go sleep on the beach at night... I want to be able to stay up all night by accident. I want to be able to get out of bed in a white t-shirt and not look like I forgot to get dressed.

Annie: Well, I want to be able to live in the same home for more than a year. I want to order wine without feeling nervous, and have a resume full of crazy mistakes instead of crazy lies. I want stories, and wisdom--perspective. I want to have so much behind me, I'm not a slave to what's in front of me. ... There's pressures in front of me that you just don't have to live under--if you just accept that you're older and let the kid stuff go.



Here, as usual, Annie had a point.


Growing old, in some ways, isn't so bad.


Life is filled with so much pressure when you are young: Where to go college, and what to major in, and then, what about grad school? Who should you marry? What job should you have, and in what city should you start your life?


And once you do, it's a race to curry favor with the people who hold the power in your job or city, in hopes they give you a place at the table. Also, you might need to buy a table.


The most important decisions of life are often made in a span of just a few years, so every day feel magnified, marked with exaggerated importance, like the entire trajectory of your life might depend on what you choose to order for dinner Saturday night.


I don't miss that.


I don't miss feeling like everyone around me is constantly engaged in a never-ending measuring contest of life accomplishments.  I'm glad I don't have to drag myself out to a loud party or to a networking happy hour, for fear that my future wife might happen to be there or that otherwise the partners at my firm won't like me. I am thankful to know enough about what I like and don't like so that I can usually avoid uncomfortable situations these days.


The foundations of my life no longer shake with the consequences of my decisions, and it's a refreshing change. Last weekend, my biggest choice was whether to go to the new movie with the Rock, or stay home and watch baseball. (I watched baseball, which might not have been the right call, but the consequences aren't exactly dire.)


Getting older is good that way. But Jeff was on to something nonetheless.


Those moments when life suddenly, unexpectedly feels like pure joy don't happen as often once the routine of professional life begins, even for those of us enough lucky to like our jobs. If work were always filled with such things, they wouldn't have to pay us.


It's easy to feel good when surrounded by close friends and life obligations haven't piled up to prevent good times. Once your friends marry, have kids and scatter across the country, those times don't happen as often. You can constantly seek out a new generation of younger friends to keep living it up, but the streams of life invariably flow the same direction, forcing the process to repeat. And one of the hidden secrets of growing up is that making new friends gets harder as you age, at least until you hit the retirement home party and shuffleboard circuit.


So I can relate when Jeff wishes he had more choices about his life circumstances and the freedom to do more stupid things without looking foolish. Or at least less foolish. And I can relate to Annie wishing she knew more about the world and had already had the chance to make enough mistakes to figure out who she was, because I used to be there too.


But I also like how the story ends (at least until the movie), with 24-year old Annie moving away to grow up, while heartsick 41-year-old Jeff takes Annie's advice and stays to find substance in the life he apparently decides he is finally ready to settle into.


Community was a show about a group of strangers who enroll at a community college to begin redeeming their previously wasted lives. Both the group's efforts at personal growth and the episodes themselves are notoriously hit-or-miss, but the finale absolutely nailed the final message:


The worst parts about growing old are counterbalanced by the opportunity to have lived long enough to figure out your passions and priorities, and by knowing these things well enough to at least have an idea how you can use them to go after your dreams effectively.


Whether it's family, a career path, or changing the world, you get to go to bed each night knowing that your day's efforts brought that vision at least a little bit closer. Or if not, at least you know where to start again the next day, when things might go more smoothly.


Life's possibilities are fewer in one sense, but its meaning is greater in another.  In a roundabout way, that means life's possibilities are bigger after all, because the end goal, although harder to realize, is so much more impactful than the things we chase earlier in life.


Community ends with Jeff meeting his remaining friends, toasting the end of the school year, and celebrating having a safe place to blow off steam about their failures and petty annoyances and to recharge for whatever possibilities come next.


It's a nice ending, no matter what your age.

What It's Like to Have a Colonoscopy (again)

I can't believe it's been three years already.


It seems like just yesterday that awoke in confused fog from my last colonoscopy and, in my incoherent haze, vowed to get a dragon tattoo on my face. Now it's three years later, my face is a blank slate, and so is my colon.  In case you ever face a colonoscopy (or had one and have blocked out the details) here's what it looks like:




2 p.m. (the day before):


I'm not allowed to eat today, and am developing a hunger migraine and a heaping portion of dread and self-pity. As my concentration starts to fade and I count down the minutes until I can go home, I think about the people in olden times who fasted to get God's attention. I consider them all nuts.  Ooohhh, nuts would be good right now. 




I'm not among those who believe that God hands out extra favors for ceremonial self-sacrifice, but it hits me that I ought to say a few extra prayers today just in case.


3:30
I'm home from work early and run to the store for last minute essentials before the um, fun starts. I take my prescribed anti-nausea pill and buckle up, loosely, because I will need to unbuckle frequently. I call my mom, who advises me to buy adult diapers.  I refuse. I might be blogging about my colon cleanse, but I still have a little bit of pride. A few minutes later, I say good bye.


"Don't forget the diapers," she says.


4 p.m.
A gallon jug of chalky, vaguely lemon flavored yellow mix sits on the counter, which represents the worst part of the colonoscopy experience: You have to empty your bowels out in advance so the camera can take pictures of your insides. This is how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo this year. I pick a festive green plastic glass. The first glass of the stuff actually doesn't taste so bad.


4:35
The third glass isn't good, but it's not the taste itself that bothers me.  Sitting down and drinking an entire gallon of anything would be miserable.


5:00
The long night begins.


5:15
The worst part of the experience isn't going to the bathroom constantly. It's that you literally get 30 seconds warning, at most, for each trip. I change to sweatpants. It's still better than diapers.


6:00
I'm feeling drained. Literally. And this drink mix tastes like liquid limestone, and getting worse as I get  to the, err, bottom of the container.  "The mix is more palatable," the label says, "if consumed very cold." How comforting.


7:00
I feel empty inside. Which is a good thing.


8:00
Another awful part of a colonoscopy nobody adequately warns you about: even after your system is empty, the cleansing liquid takes its time to work its way through your system, in a million urgent but incremental doses. "It will all work its way out in the end," I think.


9:00
The good news is that I'm not remotely hungry anymore.


11:00
I'm ready for bed, but hang out for a few minutes to make sure it's safe to go to bed. The worst is over, but I don't want to go to bed too soon and prove my mom's advice to be correct.


6:00 a.m.
I slept through the night! But it's time for a bathroom break.


8:00
Liz drives to the doctor. I bring a change of clothes and a towel, just in case we hit traffic, but we get to the medical center just in time.


9:00
We arrive at the doctor's office:


"I'm here to check in," I say.
"Colonoscopy and endoscopy?"
"Colonoscopy? I thought I was getting a flu shot."
9:05
I'm more nervous about this than I had expected. Due to a family colon cancer history, I've done this once before, but in a new city with no support network, the stakes seem higher if something goes wrong.


9:10
As we wait in the waiting room, they call a fragile-looking elderly man to the back. He shuffles away, almost forgetting to hand his equally fragile-looking wife his glasses. If he can do this, so can I.


9:15
"You didn't shave," Liz says. "That's odd for you."
"I didn't feel like I needed to look good for this."
"Well, the good thing about this place is that they only care about what you look like on the inside,"


9:20
The elderly lady slowly hobbles out of the waiting room into the hall, shuffling forward only three-fourths upright.


"Where's she going?" Liz asks.
"Probably to the bathroom.  Unless there's a party going on somewhere."
"I was just hoping for a cafeteria."
"They don't really encourage eating around here."
9:25
I keep going to the bathroom. I think it's nerves as much as the laxative.


9:30
They call me to the back. I have to put on the gown, which is nearly impossible to tie in the back. On the bright side, that doesn't really matter...


9:50
The nurses are really nice, obsessing about things like whether I like the radio channel or need a different pillow. But when someone is about to stick cameras into both ends of me until they meet in the middle, these matters seem somewhat trivial.




10:05
It's alarming that I'm chatting with my doctor in the operating room and am still wide awake, following instructions to roll onto my left side. I try not to freak out about the reality of what's about to happen to me, but this is alarming. They are NOT sticking anything into an orifice while I can tell the difference. They put a hose into my mouth to keep it (my mouth) open for the tube with the camera, and I finally start to feel woozy.




"Is the anesthesia starting yet. I think maybe I'm starting to feel it..." Finally, me and my anxieties drift off to sleep.


11:10
"Time to wake up, Andrew," says a female voice I don't recognize.
"Any polyps?"
"No, just a few issues with your endoscopy that your doctor will explain."


The voice disappears.


11:15
"Wake up," Liz says. Your heartbeat is really low."
"Yeah, it's always that way.
"No, it's 47. The alarm is going off. Your heart needs to beat."
"Oh, Ok," I mumble. "I'll try to think of something stressful. But, did you hear? No polyps this time."


We slowly walked to car and drove home, where I had the best tasting toast of all time.


But I still didn't get a dragon tattoo.

Running Diary: I'm Getting Too Old For This

In 48 hours I'll be running a half marathon. A pessimist might say that it's a bad sign that I just pulled my hamstring. But I couldn't help it. You see, I was behind in my training from having hurt my back last month. My body is telling me that this might be my last race. Which also means it might be my last "running diary."




10:00 p.m. Friday Night
The race is in the morning, I'm registered, my race clothes, mp3 player, sun glasses, running watch and inspirational anti-cancer wristband are laid out. Now that I've idiot-proofed my race morning, I should probably get to bed and rest up for my 13.1 miles. If only there weren't a party going on across the hall of my apartment complex...


1:00 a.m. Saturday
That was a nice nap, rudely interrupted by the escalating party down the hall. As I try to sleep, the rudeness of the late-night endeavor claws at my brain: half of Livermore is there--how did I not get invited when I live two doors down?  The noise isn't the best thing for my race preparation either.


On the bright side, at least there's a guy peeing in the bushes out front. With the drought and all, that will help.



2:30 a.m.
Hmm. If I pulled out my baseball bat and approached the party across the way like WCW wrestler Sting, would my neighbors be intimidated or call the police? Hmm. I should try this some other time, when I don't have a race the next day. Unless I get invited to the party next time, that is.


3:00
Finally, sleep...


6:30
The alarm just went off and the race is in 90 minutes. Usually I'm a nervous wreck at this point. Today, I just want to go back to bed. I drink some coffee, put on my race clothes and sea of accessories and get ready to walk over to the start line a few blocks away. I try to get some adrenaline flowing by trying to remind myself why I'm doing this. I just can't seem to remember.


7:52:
It's a beautiful day, and not just because that song is on my mp3 player. The race will start and finish in downtown Livermore, and the organizers are already setting up for the party to follow.  I can walk to the start line from my place, which meant I got to avoid the hordes of motorists still fighting for parking spaces. On an even better note, it also meant that I had a built in bathroom nearby. And, unlike my neighbor, I don't mean the bushes.


7:55: I've found a quiet corner to stretch, say a prayer and pump myself up for what's to come. I try to remember why I'm voluntarily putting myself through this.  Two years ago I ran my first half marathon with my brothers shortly after one of them got cancer. That one was a symbolic triumph over hard times, and fittingly, we ran it through a monsoon. I wear the wristband we wore for that race, and the triathlon we did before it. "Hope. Faith. Courage" it says. Today, I'm going to need a healthy share of each.


I survived that race just ahead of my 2-hour goal (9-minute miles), which felt triumphant at the time, but I didn't know much about running or how to train. I've wanted to hit the 1:45 mark (8 minute-per-mile pace) ever since, to feel like a real runner. Instead, I keep slowly increasing my time while feeling increasingly old. I keep getting hurt while training every subsequent race.  I have a bad back; I'm getting old. I keep improving my race time through better techniques and training methods, but I'm just about the point where Father Time passes me on the home stretch.


I was actually on pace for my goal this time until I hurt my back and couldn't run for three weeks. My back has recovered, but my knees have been popping for weeks and I felt a tug in my hamstring when I pulled up at the end of my last training run. So, the moral of the story is that regardless of how fast I run this race, I'm almost 40 and it seems like my time is running out.


I ran my last race at an 8:28 pace, and my best training run for this one was 12 miles a 8:24, but I think I have a little bit more inside of me. And this might be my last shot at finishing a race 1:45. Or finishing at all.



7:58:
We're off! I coast to a 9-minute first mile, saving energy in accordance with my plan. But my ability to coast is hampered by the small kids running ahead of me and the slow-movers who for some reason needed to start at the front of the pack and are forcing me to jog around them. I try to stick to the plan and move slowly, but somehow the second mile was a minute faster than the first. I have the feeling I'm going to regret that...


8:15 (Mile 3):
This course is not well marked. The first mile marker came .92 miles into the race and it's gotten worse with each mile. The 3 mile-marker came 2.77 miles into the race. But on the bright side, if this keeps up, I might be done by in an hour.


8:23 (Mile 4):
The roadside spectators and their signs are always a highlight on these races. It's nice to feel supported. I wish I could hire these people to cheer me on at work, or when I need to clean the bathroom.
A little kid has a sign with a button painted on that says "Press here to run faster." I briefly wonder if it might work. My legs are already starting to hurt, and I need all the help I can get (I mean, in addition to the help from the person who mapped out the course. I pass the "4-mile" sign 3.8 miles into the course). But the kid is on the other side of the street, so I don't want to take the chance.




8:31 (Mile 5):
Sign: "Go Joseph. Don't poop your pants."
I wonder how Joseph feels about this sign: happy that a loved one came out to support him, or angry that someone is bringing public attention to an embarrassing personal problem?


8:39 (Mile 6):
Meanwhile, my time is great, but my energy is lagging and my hamstrings both are burning. On the bright side, the one I thought I pulled doesn't feel any worse than the other one. I pop my first energy gel packet.


8:50 (Mile 7.5):
I've past the halfway point (both by the course markings and actual mileage). That sounds nice but doesn't make my legs feel any better. I've run 8-minute miles since my purposefully slow mile 1, but I'm starting to fade. On a related note, I'm on a familiar street now, but have no idea how I got here. My mind has gone blank. Usually this doesn't happen until about mile 10.


9:13 (Mile 8.9):
Saving my strength for mile 9, the most uphill stretch of the course. A boy holds up a sign: "Run faster, my arms are getting tired." I reach for the energy gel. I'm going to need it.


9:21 (Mile 9.9):
The most beautiful stretch of the course is also the most painful. A 100-foot climb through the vineyards of Livermore wine country starts this segment through a running trail too narrow for spectators. I have enough energy for this mile, but the last three just might kill me. I take a look at my wristband. "Hope, Strength, Courage." I tell myself that if my brother can do 12 rounds of chemo, I can run three more miles. I just hope they don't tack that extra mileage the course has not accounted for on the back end of the race.




9:22 (Mile 10):
As we leave the wine trial and get back to the road, a spectator had an inspirational sign that boosted me fading energy and almost made me cry. I would tell you more, but I have no memory whatsoever of what the sign said, I just remember feeling the emotion of the moment. As the incoherence begins to take over, I find myself counting down every tenth of a mile. It's the only thought of which I'm capable.




9:35 (Mile 11.7):
Signs of my creeping running dementia: I'm back on a small trail and have no memory of ever turning off the main road. I spend two minutes listening to a painfully slow song on my mp3 before I realize I can skip it ahead at the touch of a button, something I hadn't thought to do the entire race. As I can barely hold my head upright, I see a sign related to the post-race festival: "Go Faster, some Kenyan is drinking your wine." I smile and nod, thankful for the five seconds of entertainment. Then, the pain returns.  "I only have to run for 10 more minutes," I remember.


9:39 (Mile 12.):
My miles are getting slower now, but taking more energy. This is the cruel irony of the end of a half marathon: it takes more energy to run slower.  I go as fast as I can, but I've once again failed to save a kick for the finish. I resign myself  to the idea of unknown Kenyans enjoying the spoils of the post-race festival in my absence, and stare down at my wristband. I don't care about my time at this point, I just want to finish before my legs fall off.  And I'm back on the main road again, somehow.


8:47 (Mile 13):
That looks like a finish line. It's only 13.05 miles in, but I'm certainly not complaining.




1:47:31.


I didn't meet my original goal, but it's a personal record by three minutes. I ran faster, for longer, than I thought I could have a few hours ago. I managed an 8:13 pace, tantalizingly close to my multi-year goal. As I stagger to a water booth, the attendant tells me that I look wobbly. I agree and almost fall down.


I collect my medal, stagger home to shower and amble back towards the festival. As my head begins to clear, it dawns on me that my back and legs--considering what I just put them through--feel fine. I have the expected soreness, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'm tired, but I don't need medical assistance. All things considered, I feel pretty good.


Most importantly, I finished soooooo close to my time goal, and I have at least one more race left in me to get there.


But first, it's on to the festival...

Why I'm Running for President

Hatch Act Note:
This column is a satire not intended to support any political party, nor as a statement in any official capacity. I'm not actually running for anything, unless perhaps I need to catch someone walking away with my ice cream.
----------------
I might as well end the suspense: I hereby officially announce that I'm running for President of the United States in 2016.


"Why am I running for President in 2016?", you might ask.  It's a viable question that I struggled with for several seconds before reaching an obvious answer: I'm running for President in 2016 because 2020 is too far away to make for a very interesting blog post.


It's also my civic duty, because I'm uniquely qualified.


Presumed 2016 front runner Hilary Clinton is in the midst of a scandal based on her never having the fortitude to set up a government email address. In light of this revelation, I am uniquely equipped to pick up her slack, for I, you see, have TWO government email addresses!


That's right, I have one for my agency, and one for the federal department in which my agency is a subpart. This is important, because having a government email address is an important qualification for federal office.


After all, our President will need email in order to do important governmental functions, like setting up a Facebook account or receiving this weeks' Top Travel Deals of the Week from Travelocity. Also, it's a faster method to order a pizza than using the phone.


We don't have time to wait around while the President sets up an email address after the election, because that in that case, the President may miss important national social media conversations necessary to keep a finger on the pulse of American daily life, such as the national debate over the color of a random dress viewed in a computer-generated image.


In that case, the terrorists win.


This is why we need a President who already has a federal email address.  And I have two federal email addresses!


This will be my campaign slogan.


If my qualifications are not already exceedingly clear, you may also recall that Stephen Colbert made fun of a quote of mine in the newspaper last year, which clearly indicates that I'm important, even though he didn't actually use my name.


This will be my other campaign slogan.


Of course, I have big goals as President. I would make it legal to walk over and smack the dudes at the coffee shop where I'm sitting, because they are talking really loudly and repetitively about how cool some bar down the street is. And if Congress wouldn't pass this law, I would at least press for a resolution recommending that these dudes leave the coffee shop and just GO TO THE BAR ALREADY!!!!


But this wonky legislative discussion might be of limited interest to those of you without political science degrees, so I'll just cut to the case with a list of other things I'd propose to ban:




Carrying miniature dogs around as fashion accessories;


Facebook posts about your kids' poop;


Guys in skinny jeans;
Facebook posts about someone else's kids' poop;


Grocery stores with 20 check out lanes, only two of which are open;
and Facebook posts where you "check in" at mundane or personal destinations like the dry cleaner or your proctologist.




I would also propose a few new laws such as:




Consolidating the Dakotas (the 50th state, every year, will be determined by a reality tv competition, the ad revenue for which will go toward reducing the national debt);

Creating a torture room where anyone making construction noise in a residential area must spend an equivalent number of hours listening to jackhammers while they go about their own daily lives, as punishment for their sins;


Decreeing that every 3-day weekend must begin on a Friday, so people have 2 days to recover from their holiday celebration; and


Creating a Facebook portal where you can be exempted from viewing political opinions, game invites, and demands to re-post a given platitude "if you're a real (fill in the blank)."




But that's enough policy talk for now.


You might wonder in which party I plan to seek the nomination. I have considered this question at length and decided that my above-stated platform transcends party affiliation, so I plan on entering my name on both major tickets. As an added benefit, this will also double my chances of getting elected.


Truth be told, it doesn't actually matter what issues I campaign on, or which party I represent, because I don't plan on actually doing anything I promise in any event.  So maybe I'll promise to close Guantanamo Bay, or that my insurance plan won't make anyone get health insurance who doesn't want it, like the guy who got re-elected despite inaccuracies on both those counts. Or maybe, like the guy before him, I'll promise a humble foreign policy and responsible fiscal management only to decide to colonize another sovereign nation with borrowed money, because, well, it's been a slow Tuesday.  He got re-elected too.


But unlike past these Presidents, I won't let anyone down by failing to keep my campaign promises. It's not that I plan on keeping them, I just plan on stating upfront that I'm full of it. Indeed, I don't promise that I'll actually keep any of my promises, and this position will allow me to have a fantastic campaign speech.  All I promise is that when I break my promises--and I will--you can at least send me an email.


At either of two government email addresses.


#Andrew2016

All Are Welcome Here

“All are welcome here,” read the sign on the church door. I pulled on it, and it was locked.

“So maybe all are welcome here, " I though, "but only through the door on the other side.” I tried that entrance and it was locked too. Then I walked around to the other side to see if there was some other way in. As I walked, I couldn’t help but think that it sure was difficult to get inside this place that claimed to be welcoming me.

I walked around the whole building to find that there weren't any other doors.

I double checked my watch, and verified that it was 10:30 a.m., the same time the church’s webpage said that services started. I just moved here and didn't know anyone yet, so I really wanted to try this place out. They just won't let me in.

Although it was nice to know I was welcome to stand outside the door.

I wandered around for a bit, wondering if maybe the Rapture had come, taking this congregation up to Heaven and leaving the rest of us behind.

This was a fear instilled in my childhood, growing up in strict Southern Baptist home.

My earliest memory of Christianity was hearing about the Rapture--how some day Jesus would suddenly and unexpectedly lift the True Believers into the clouds, leaving the rest of world to go on without the chosen.

I always waited until the last minute to finish my homework for this very reason. If Jesus might come at sundown, I wasn’t going to spend my last afternoon on earth learning vocabulary words and solving equations that would be of no use in Heaven. 

If some event were coming up that I dreaded—dinner at grandma’s, an exam I hadn’t studied for, or even being forced to go back to church for Sunday night services after already having spent four hours there in the morning—I would pray fervently that Jesus would return before I had to face it.

But he never did.

To this day, I still procrastinate. It’s a habit I learned in church.

But if the Rapture had occurred here, it was strange that the parishioners stopped to lock the front door on their way to the clouds. It had to be something else.

Thankful that I had survived the potential Apocalypse, I went about investigating the mysterious closure of this church.

I checked the sign in front of the door, but all I saw was the slightly inaccurate, "All Are Welcome Here" sign. I guess this was a church that didn't take a literal approach to its application of its text.

As I continued to poke around and started to feel slightly less welcome, I wondered, "Do people ever call the police because strange guys are trying to get into church on a Sunday morning?"

Before I gave up, I took one last look at the front entrance. When I looked at the wall by the front steps, a printed card was affixed to the entrance way. It once had said services started at 10:30, but someone had drawn a crude small line though the printed numbers with a marker. A few inches under the line, someone had handwritten “9:00.”

Apparently, no one had bothered to change the listed time on the church's website. Maybe they were too busy watching the sky for the return of our Lord. Regardless, if all were welcome at this church, they didn’t bother to tell anyone else in a way that would allow them to get inside. 

I pondered what to do, as I stood by the locked front door, having realized that this congregation had already met, exchanged greetings, gotten their weekly dose of religion and locked the door behind them.

"All may be welcome there," I thought "but only on this place's secret terms." I thought about driving across town to go to a different church, but I had a long list of errands to run, so I turned around and headed home, thinking that perhaps I'd been left behind after all.  

Moving Across the Country with Cats (and Montezuma's Revenge)

Tonight, January 6,  is a night not so different from any other night. I'm sitting on the couch watching Modern Family, with a cat on my lap. I don't feel like blogging, but it's Tuesday, so I promised myself that I would. In other words, tonight could have passed for any night at this time last year, except that it's 40 degrees warmer now. That's because, since the last time I wrote in this space, I moved from Nashville to California.


For some reason, I brought the cats with me.


They don't remember much about the move. The vet prescribed them drugs that left them in a suitable pleasant fog for the entire flight. They are the lucky ones. I had to be fully conscious while living through this:

3 Days Out:

We awake in our hotel room in Mexico. Our 10-year anniversary is next month, so we took a break from the move preparation for an advance celebration. We are set to return today, for a mad scramble to finish packing and run the errands necessary to leave our house of the last seven years for the last time. And it's still up for sale, so we must leave it in condition for showings. Our problems at that point, as we understood them, included the following:




*There was way too much too do at home to move across the country in three days, even under the best of circumstances;


*I sprained my back during the packing, which put us far behind.  And I still have limited ability to get anything done;


* I have Montezuma's Revenge, and am unsure I can make the flight home; and


* We've already shipped our car to California and are relying on the kindness of family for transportation.




Those were just the problems we knew about.




As we wait on our shuttle bus to the airport, I run to hotel bathroom countless times in misery. I won't get too graphic, but an encounter with Montezuma is worse than what I could have possibly imagined. I barely survive the endless, bumpy drive to the airport.


When we get there, a shady fellow working for the airport informs us that we can't check into our flight without some card, the details of which he can't explain. He isn't sure where we would have gotten this card, or what the name of it is, but he won't let us check into our flight without it. Eventually, it becomes clear that we should still have had some customs declaration, an identical copy of which we gave to Mexican customs when our flight landed. No one told us we needed to keep a copy of the form so we could once again turn it in to the exact same agency to which we had already turned it in six days earlier.


Apparently no one in Mexico, or the hospitality/airline/tourism industry finds this requirement strange enough to mention.  But if I had a vote, I would change the country's national motto to: "Mexico, where it's secretly illegal to throw stuff away."


Without the card, we couldn't leave the country unless we bought another one. I didn't think that would be such a big deal when both our check-in valet and the customs agent told us it would only cost $30.




My opinion began to change when I learned that the desk where they sell the customs cards doesn't take credit cards, since we were out of cash. But at least there was an ATM in the terminal, which would have been a lovely convenience if the ATM had worked. Or, for that matter, it hadn't charged me an $11 fee before informing me that my transaction could not be processed. The process repeats at the terminal's other ATM. On the bright side, I had by this point forgotten all about my digestive issues.


"This appears to be a scam," I concluded, as I explained my plight to the customs agent who directed me to a third ATM in another terminal.


There wasn't time for to get ripped off again anyway. Our plane left in an hour, and we couldn't yet even check in to our international flight.




We explain our circumstances and ask the previously mentioned shady airport guy--in our most groveling possible voices--what to do now.


"Become Mexican citizens," he said.




I'm not kidding.




Meanwhile, my 18-year old niece was about to leave from Georgia on her first college road trip to pick us up at the Nashville airport, hang out, and help us finish packing. But I had no way to contact her to tell her that I'm in danger of being stuck in Mexico (with Montezuma's revenge) when she arrives.




Another American couple hears us having a breakdown at the idea of being stuck in Mexico and feels compassion. They had a similar problem, and went into town to get cash from an ATM that worked. They agree to loan us $40.




But the customs desk is now claiming that we owe $60, $30 for each of us, in direct contrast to what they said 15 minutes ago. I note the contradiction, in the most lawyerly voice I can muster given my circumstances, but they are not persuaded.




So we have to approach the nice couple again for an extra $20, which they reluctantly agree to give. If you guys ever read this, THANK YOU!!!!!! (I later mailed them a check, with a little extra included for their generosity.)



We make it home, and my niece is there to pick us up at the airport. Which is vital, because we've already shipped our car to California. Between my losing battle with Montezuma and the country's unwillingness to let me leave, I vow to never set foot (or any other body part) in Mexico again. But if ever I do, I'm not throwing anything whatsoever away, even it its a Kleenex. Apparently I might need to present a copy of it in order to leave.

2 Days Out:

Packing. Errands. Bathroom. Repeat.


Help from my niece, and my wife's wonderful aunt and uncle have us in sight of the general range of being packed and ready, assuming one is looking through a telescope.



That night our thoughtful friends Grant and Carissa are throwing us a going away party. It's a final chance to see most all of our Nashville friends, which was lovely. Almost as importantly, I survived it without having to run to the bathroom. We say goodbye to everyone, and have one more day...

1 Day Out:

*The movers are supposed to come at 9:00 to load our stuff, and we are pretty much ready. The biggest remaining hitches:




*I'm 0-for-3 on my attempts to locate an airplane-compliant cat carrier. This must be done today.




*In order to keep the house pretty for showings, we need to clean each room behind the movers.




*Our box springs won't fit down our stairs, due to the low ceiling in the stairwell. I'm going to have to crush it with a sledge hammer to the point I can drag it down.




*Montezuma's Revenge.




Looking back, I don't know why I was optimistic it would all go smoothly when I woke up. Things started going wrong almost immediately.


The movers were late, and only two of them showed up to load what should have been a job for six of seven. It took them 10 hours, and they blocked my neighbor's driveway, leading to an explosive confrontation.


My realtor forgot to take her lockbox off our rocking chair, and we had to wait 45 minutes on someone to bring a key to get it off.  The pet store only had one suitable carrier at a reasonable price, so I had to pay a painful amount for the second.




I had forgotten about some old furniture in our backyard storage shed. I needed to bust it up with my sledge hammer so that it would fit in our trash, which was then out of room even though we had about 10 more bags of stuff to throw away.




As the sweat poured down on me while I beat upon my box springs to little effect, we decided to cancel our dinner plans. 




Our aunt and uncle stopped by to bring us gumbo and help get the place in presentable order. As wife and aunt cleaned the downstairs, our uncle sliced his arm open as he helped me carry the wires from the demolished box spring downstairs.


It was getting late, we were getting tired, the house was dirty, and we were not remotely prepared to leave  the house forever early the next morning. Somewhere along the way, I, fittingly, stepped in dog poop.




Late that night my wife and I stopped to have a final glass of wine with our favorite neighbor. I took about 25 bags of trash out, the stuff that didn't make the cut for the cross country move. Having run out of room in our own trash bin, I scavenger those of our neighbors for empty space, We set up the mattress on the floor and gathered everything we hadn't put in the moving truck to either be put in the suitcases in the morning or in trash.




The packing and cleaning needs seemed to multiply as the night went on, but at midnight, we were dead.

Moving Day:

4:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I've only had 4 hours of sleep, but in an hour and fifteen minutes, I have to be fully packed, with cats loaded, to leave my house for the last time. And we have to leave it spotless. I would be emotional about it, if I didn't have so much to do before I head to the airport.




We had decided to take the first morning flight to reduce the risk of getting delayed in an airport with cats. But all four of us could have used a bit more sleep.




4:05: Take quick shower, dry off and throw away my towel, since I can't move it. Take sheets off of mattress and throw them away as well.




4:22: Eat remaining items from fridge. Gather up trash. Scoop cat litter and throw litter pans into trash bag. From now until California, the cats will just have to hold it.




4:28: Under cover of darkness, find neighboring trash bins in which to throw trash and all remaining household items, since mine is already full. Spread trash over 3 neighboring bins, satisfied everything will fit.




4:40: Feed the cats, slipping drugs in their dish. We've dreaded the idea of moving with the cats for months. Our cats never shut up in their own house, so they seem likely to go nuts on a cross-country plane ride. At the halfway mark, someone on this plane might strangle us.




4:42: Stand over cats, hoping they will swallow their pills. If not, it's going to be a long cross-country flight with connection in Vegas. Trouble devoured everything in her bowl within seconds. Sebastian is eating around his pill but might have swallowed part of it.  Oh boy...


4:45: Vacuum.


4:50: Begin panicking. There's only 25 minutes until I leave my house forever. I'm not sure I'm totally packed, I don't know if the cats are drugged, or if they will fit in their carriers. Or if we can even catch them, for that matter.


4:58: Cats are rounded up. Trouble is woozy already, but Sebastian put up a huge fight to get in his carrier. And the poor guy is meowing like mad. He doesn't understand and isn't listening to my attempts to reason with him.


5:03: How is there still more stuff to throw away? And where will I put it?


5:06: Leave our spare key under our neighbor's mat, as I had promised.


5:10: Lug our mattress down to the basement until it can be picked up by a charity.


5:14: We're actually on time! I forgot to deliver our sump pump to my neighbor as I had promised, but she seemed fairly ambivalent about getting it anyway. There's no time now.


5:15: Say unemotional goodbye to the house we lived in for the last seven years. Throw away a grocery bag full of trash on the way out the door in the bin of my least favorite neighbor, my final act of retribution for her failure to ever clean her swimming pool.


5:22: Stop for gas. Debate whether to re-drug howling cat in backseat.


5:30: Arrive at airport, where our aunt meets up to pick up her car. Say goodbye, and emotion hits for the first time. But there isn't much time. There is, however, an unhappy cat. This is going to be a long day.


5:45: As we wait in the check-in line, Sebastian finally starts to feel the drugs.

6:15: Ever wondered  how one goes through airport security with felines? Apparently you have to take them out of their carriers for some reason, and carry them through the metal detectors. I suppose they want to make sure the cats aren't carrying any lasers.

6:20: Images of our cats bolting from our arms and sprinting through the airport race through our heads. My wife asks if there is any other way...


6:23: Security escorts my wife and two cats to a private room for a screening. The cats clear security, even though I have suspicions that one of them is actually a terrorist.


6:45: Morning coffee and two cats in hand, we board our plane. We sit on pins and needles for 8 hours, as we connect through Vegas on our way to San Jose, and catch a ride from the airport to our apartment. But our mostly drugged cats hardly said a word. If they only behave for one day in their 18 combined lifetimes (and so far, this has been it), they picked a good day to do it.

3:00 p.m. (Pacific time): We settle into the new apartment, release the cats, and take a look around.
It's a sunny day, and Montezuma decided not to follow me to California. Perhaps he had to go back to Mexico to get a new immigration form.


We made it. We'll be sleeping on the floor for the foreseeable future, and living out of our suitcases, as our furniture won't arrive for at least another week.  But we made it. Out of Mexico and out of Nashville, with two cats and the slim majority of our sanity intact. Sebastian has decided to live on top of the refrigerator at our new place, but he's had a rough day, so we decided to let it go.




We think of our friends Lindsay and Jason, who moved from San Diego to Nashville and back again. "How does anyone do this more than once?" my wife asks.
"I can't imagine," I say. "But I guess they didn't have two cats, a sprained back, Montezuma's revenge and an anniversary trip interfering with their move.


But secretly, I think: "Next time, you're going to have to drug me along with the cats. "