Start an Affirmation Day Tradition to Celebrate Those Closest To You.

"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." -Dumbledore (movie only).

My Patronus would be a Skunk.  

While it's unclear whether J.K. Rowling wrote this line or if it was added by one of the many writers/producers in pre-production, it clearly symbolizes how she wanted her books/movies received. Words have power. Even in her world where dragons, trolls, magic wands, and ghosts flitter through the rooms, at the essence of what the series is about is human relationships.

Unlike Harry, I am blessed with a fantastic family that never locked me under the stairs. We are a family full of talented, loud, opinionated, funny, fun-loving, individuals that would drop everything to be there for each other. Yet, even with this unconditional love and guaranteed approval, we all still act like Dementors at times, casting Crucio curses at each other for no reason other than having a bad day.

It's not just us, it's an American thing. Think of the words we say about our President, our government, our Governor, our city council, our sports teams (when they are losing), our bosses, our friends (when they aren't in the room), our spouses...even our kids. We are a nation full of loose-lipped blasphemers that rarely find the time (or need) to apologize.

Even Potter struggled with this:

Harry: "Been having a nice little chat with her {Lavender} about whether or not I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?"

Hermione: "No, I told her to keep her {Lavender} big fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down Ron and my throats, Harry, because if you haven't noticed, we're on your side."

So this year, after Foot-in-Mouth disease had infected many members of the family, and threatened to dismantle the Christmas season, we decided to combat the malady with a new holiday tradition: Ending the year with a session of positive words aimed at every member of the family--Affirmation Day.

Being affirmed, means strongly and publicly declaring one's support for, or defense of another's validity or existence. What greater gift can one give during the holiday break than to be 100% loved and validated by your closest kin, with only words meant in praise of your existence.

Some wrote a word or two, others a paragraph. I'm keeping mine.  

I'm not saying it was easy. We all had to write a word, a phrase, a sentence, or a paragraph of all the positive attributes of EVERY member of the family. We even did this for Eleanor (or Ellie as we call her), our 6 month old niece, who clearly will have no concept of the affirmation we just bestowed upon her. But it can, perhaps, be absorbed into her psyche. You don't have to be a believer in a Higher Power, like we are, or a Wiccan to understand that light or darkness can be imparted into other's lives by our choice. And we choose, as a family, to speak Life into each other.

So we bogged down, and spent a few hours writing and then sharing our words, sentences, and observations of others. Sometimes it was funny, as when my niece and nephew both choose "weird" and "crazy" to define me. I own those words. I am those words. I love that they chose those words to define me. Other times it was so emotionally overwhelming that it was hard to read out the words. Sometimes I heard words to describe my sisters or brothers-in-law that I wished I would've used myself; but by the end, after all 13 people had received their "anonymous" gifts of praise, nobody could possibly feel bad about themselves for at least a week.

My favorite line before and after the session, was when my 9-year-old niece said, "It's embarrassing, and hard to have people say nice things about you" (before we did the assignment), and afterwards saying, "It wasn't as hard as I thought, it actually felt quite nice to get compliments."

I don't know if it's sadder that we've conditioned ourselves to not receive compliments, or that we are so reluctant to give them out.

This world barely recognizes the light you bring to the world, and more often than not, tries to snuff it out. But this little Lumos light of ours? We're going to let it shine by praising those around me. We all could use a little Patronus on our side.

So this holiday and next, I encourage you to start your own Affirmation Day tradition. It might be awkward, and it might be difficult to think of nice things to say, but who else is going to do it?

What a better way to end the year, after all the drama, pain, frustration, and misplaced words, than to open a new chapter with the words that need to be shared? It's nice to know that somebody is on your side.

When you are comfortable with your family, it opens up opportunities for mockery. Like the flying LB bro-in-law.  

Say what you will, but this is all the evidence I need of God.  

To Tip or not to Tip, That is the Question.

I know the Noid isn't relevant, but...

I pushed open the door of the Domino's Pizza joint just nanoseconds behind a disheveled guy who failed to hold the door open for me--even as (though) he acknowledged my existence with a head nod seconds earlier in the parking lot. Thanks buddy.

Oh well, I was having a good day. Just two hours earlier, I arrived home from four days of camping--and not just your run-of-the mill campsite camping, but out of cell-phone, wi-fi and electronic device service camping with dirt, hiking, lakes, fishing, campfire cooking, and more dirt.  I love camping. I love the post-camping shower almost as much. I felt refreshed on so many levels.

It's good to get away. But now I was looking forward to a fresh hot pizza.  After camping, anything hot (other than a hot dog) sounds good; Domino's is fortunate that they are right down the road from me.

I was tired, and contemplated delivery, but then there's the delivery fee and tipping, and it isn't worth it when the pizzeria (Domino's doesn't qualify for that moniker, does it?) is right down the road.

So when I stepped up to the register, I was perplexed (as I always am) when the little "tip" line was on my receipt.  For pickup?  The employee literally turned around, grabbed my pizza, hit three buttons and swiped my card. Less than 30 seconds? It's almost worth carrying cash around for these type situations.

I stared at that blank line on my receipt before signing. The cashier, capitalizing on my moral quandary hesitation, added, "How's your day going?"

Usually I'd reply like it was my mother asking me about my day at school, "Good." But this time, for some reason, maybe it was the being refreshed and not yet anti-societal, I replied...

"You know, I'm good. Just got back from camping up in the mountains with no amenities; my wife already unpacked the whole car; and my shower was amazing."

I don't know why I was oversharing with a stranger, but, sensibly, I stopped myself short of telling him that I exfoliated with my wife's Dove body wash, and even used one of those girly bathroom Brillo pad/sponge things that administer soap in an endless supply.  (I thought about making this whole post on just that 20 minute shower, but I really don't want people associating me with nudity).

Never-nudes: There should be more.  Way more.  

Suddenly I realized that Mr. Domino's cashier and I just shared a human experience. Was his simple salutation worthy of a tip?  Damn you buddy for making this pizza transaction more complicated than it had to be!  I just wanted a $7.99 deep dish pizza, and you had to turn this into a relationship?  I don't have room for anymore twenty-something dudes on my friend's list.  I already have former students as Facebook friends and I don't even understand their Generation Y quirks.

My password is Creed-fan4life.  Oh crap, it doesn't work.  

A dollar. Is that good enough? What percentage is that? Like 13%? To earn this in an actual restaurant one would have to offer coordinating wines and pronounce the house specials with fancy French names like Velouté sauce in an uppity way.  Is Domino's even a restaurant? This one doesn't even have a table...I can't sit even if I wanted to...Isn't this the fast-food of pizza places?

Why is tipping so hard?  Why does this guy get a tip, and the gas attendant who washed my window(without asking), doesn't?  Why not the super-friendly cashier at Trader Joe's who actually knows my name, recommends what's good (and not good) and bags my groceries with care?  Why is it only people in the service industry (and not people who actually practice quality customer service) that get tips? Why are we forced to play by these unwritten laws that say giving 15% extra isn't even generous, but dare I say, cheap?

Years ago, my wife and I (we notoriously receive bad service--I blame the fact that I almost always wear a ballcap) thought about inventing a tip-o' meter. You place it right at the edge of the table so that the waiter always knows the score.  It starts at 15% and goes up or down dependent on how good or bad the service is. 10 minute wait before asking for drinks? Down to 12%.  Happily refilling my ginger ale, even after the fourth time? Up to 18%.  Being genuinely nice and personable without being annoying? 20%.

I guess they have an app now.  Stupid apps.  

But the tip-o' meter doesn't rectify the inequality for those who receive and those who can't receive the extra gratuity. Tipping should be a generous offering based on quality customer service, not an expected additional cost (especially in Oregon where minimum wage is $8.95).  Some of these waiters are making more than I am as a teacher. Some deserve every penny they get. Others, well...I'm sorry...if I can see you checking your text messages instead of bringing me my meal, I think the only tip you deserve is me giving you this advice: "get a different job."

Maybe I just don't understand the social ineptitude of the generation below me which makes up the majority of these type jobs now. They seems to get nervous when they go off-script. They seem to have trouble finding words and/or solutions when something goes wrong. Customer service, and earning a tip, should go to the person who is proactive in making my experience first-rate, not an expectation based on social norms.

And businesses: Please eliminate the tip line from receipts when no service is offered. I can be generous, but I shouldn't be put in a moral mess (crisis?) because an employee treated me like a human being. (I worked eight years in customer service, breaking my back for certain customers, and in all eight years, I received a total of three tips...all because my industries weren't considered "tippable" jobs).  I'm not bitter.  I enjoyed giving great customer service.  I like to help. I just want to understand why we tip who we do, and why it is expected even when the service given is second rate.

That's just my two cents on the subject (which coincidentally is a tipping insult). Maybe you can offer a tip on this theme (or how I can eliminate all the parenthesis from my writing)?

Disneyland: The Happiest, Capitalist, Place in the World.

Walt Disney's cryrogenically frozen head would thaw in its sleep chamber if he knew what his company was up to.  Charging over $130 dollars a day to attend his theme parks?  The man who once said "the backbone of his business {was to} cater to families," well, sorry, Mr. Disney, I think your vision has been utterly corrupted by Scrooge McDucks.

Don't get me wrong. The Disney company is still one of the most innovative, imaginative, and all-around fun companies in the world. Their recent cartoon movies have exemplified Mr. Disney's ideals of creativity, excellence and quality. I'm never disappointed after leaving the theatre. Likewise, his parks are clean, well presented, well-crafted, and transformative to whatever theme its creators intended.  The newest Cars ride, despite it's multi-hour wait, represents the genius of the Disney company.  When one buys a ticket to Disney, one is not buying a pass to a thrill park, one is paying for a theatrical experience with local fair quality rides.

My princesses, gotta love 'em.  I just wish our time at the park was this happy.  

But that's what one does most at Disneyland. Pays. And waits.

Disneyland sure can create some
ambiance and setting.  

I'm not trying to sound like a grumpy old man. I had some fun. The three minutes of each ride are locked into my visual cortex. Unlike Six Flags or Knott's Berry Farm, the idea of Disneyland is not to make your heart race and your stomach lurch into your esophagus, but to stimulate your eyes and capture your heart.

It works. The antiquated animatronics, and the newer (more believable) robotics have children and parents alike saying, "how'd they do that?"

Well, for starters, they have billions of dollars from those over-priced tickets. There are almost no discounts available for Disneyland. For years, my family on both sides has talked about making the trek to L.A. and enjoying its sunny disposition (with Disneyland being the ultimate goal). Somehow, I, the guy who "winged" his honeymoon, was challenged with the task of coordinating this vacation.  Probably because I'm the guy who always gets a good deal.

In a crummy economy, the only way for lower middle class families to make it is by getting deals. I haven't had a true vacation in five years.  My parents and my wife's parents are both retired and living on Social Security.  My dad gets a tiny sum from being permanently disabled.  We all lumped in our money and had enough for one of those "Costco Disneyland Packages."  Well, enough for one person. We had ten people going.  With no money for airfare or luxury themed hotels, I worked my magic.

The view looking up from the pool.

After 15 hours of internet searching (my wife, actually) found a guy who gave us a vacation home not quite ready for inhabitants. He was hesitant to rent the place because it was still a few months from being "resort" ready. He and his wife were still staging the house with cheap metal Ross decorations and cleaning up minor construction mess when we showed up at the front door.

We forgave the fact that the place smelled like new carpet; that the linoleum floors were both dirty and from the 1970s; that the hot water was scalding (then later shut off); that the old kitchen exhaust fan burned out and made the place smell like melted plastic; that ants infested the house on the third day and cockroaches ran around the pool and patio.  All this was forgivable because we are Oregonians, the pool was wonderful, and well, we were given ample discounts for accepting a home not quite ready for vacationing.

To people used to camping, this was luxury enough.

Disneyland, however, was a whole different experience.  With ten people, and three different families, I figured we could buy multi-day passes and go when we pleased.  It was much more economical to buy the multi-day passes, as a five-day pass is 300 dollars, (or $60 a day) as opposed to $137 for one day.

None of us was ready to go five days. My dad is disabled, my father-in-law has stage four cancer, my mother-in-law has had four knee surgeries, my children are 7 and 5, and I get peevish easily.  Only my wife and sister-in-law would even think they could do five days in the park, as they are self-proclaimed Disney-philes.

I bought six five-day passes, thinking we could share them when we wanted.  I knew they were non-transferable...but we had no intention of selling them.  Little did I know that Disneyland had merged with the NSA.  When the first group of six showed up, we were forced to give our names (which were written down on each pass).  Okay, no big deal, so we pretend to be somebody else on certain days. It's not like they can ask for identification. They did. And then they took photos of us and attached it to each pass, like identification badges. The security was tighter than at an Obama appearance in Omaha, Nebraska.

I spent the first hour inside the park looking at our options on my iPhone. If somebody else tried to use my ticket, and their appearance didn't match my image, they would confiscate the ticket and we would be out hundreds of dollars. Seriously, Disneyland?  I can't share my ticket?  I understand not allowing somebody else to use it the same day (hence the ultraviolet arm stamps), but they couldn't even use one of my other days?  Didn't I pay for five days?  What if I am exhausted after four days?  I can't give my last day to some underprivileged kid at the 7/11?

Nope. Not at Disneyland, where every step outside the park and into California Adventures is monitored by overzealous mall cops.

Grandpa Randy directing Lily towards the next
bumper car accident.  (Note Lily's road rage).  

To Disneyland's credit, they reluctantly exchanged my six five-day passes for ten two-day passes (after I told them my sob story). We lost ten days of park time, and I sucked it up and payed another $400 for these downgraded tickets.  $2100 for ten people to go to Disneyland twice.  I payed less for my first two cars.  I payed less for my wedding (seriously...and it was beautiful).  My father only went on six kiddy rides one day.  My father-in-law left by 5 pm exhausted both days.  Did they get their money's worth?  Absolutely not.  Not to mention that water and soda were both over three dollars, a crappy corn-dog cost seven, and nobody was ever close to being hydrated, full, or able to avoid the sun's oppression.

We did exhaust our little girls.  Gotta get your $100+
dollars worth.  

I did have fun. Well, some. Between blisters and sun burns, and dragging my lethargic little ones around to the next attraction or ride, I constantly wondered how my extended family was doing. The weight of inviting them on an expensive vacation that ended up costing more (for less) weighed heavy on my mind.

So newsflash Disney:  I saw less American families, and more foreigners speaking different languages than I've ever seen at your park.  While there were plenty of Californians there enjoying their discounted passes, there were hardly any other vacationers there from other states.  You've priced your park out of the range of the average family.  Your rides take too long to get on; your rides aren't that thrilling; your food is overpriced and under-portioned; your gift shop prices are extortionist; and there isn't enough places for families to just cool off and relax to get their second wind.

Overcrowding the Bug's Life Teacup ride.  

I knew it would be tiring, hot, and expensive. I knew my children were young, and would slow us down and force us to ride unexciting (and outdated) rides like Alice's Teacups. I didn't know you (Disney) had hired TSA agents to make me feel like a terrorist at each gate.  All because I tried to make a once in a lifetime memory by inviting both my children's grandparents to Disneyland before they are unable to do so; and do so without running up student loan type debt. Guess I was wrong.

In defense of Disneyland; their staff is incredibly
nice and cheery. One even offered us this photo op.  

Disneyland doesn't care about families. They care about gobs and gobs of profit. Instead of driving down the cost of living (like Walmart claims to do), you are concerned with lining the pockets of your executives and huge shareholders who probably never step foot into your crowded, hot parks.

So please unfreeze Walt Disney. We don't have a cure for lung cancer, yet, but we could probably keep you alive long enough to remake your parks "family friendly."  Because I don't think wishing upon stars is a good way to prepare financially for another Disney experience.

I had more fun swimming in the ocean at Huntington Beach and
watching the sunset with the family.  It only cost the price of gas
getting there.  (Although I'm wholly unqualified in the looks
department to remove my shirt there).  

A Vacation Away From Glowing Screens and Incessant Noises

No alarms and no surprises, no alarms and no surprises; silence--Radiohead.  

ESPN: Lebron, we're in
talks with the new pope
to get you canonized,
so will you now sign
our basketballs? 

As I write this entry, my itunes randomly played this classic 90s song.  ESPN is on in the background blathering on about another March Madness upset and the Miami Heat winning 25 games in a row (part of their godification of all things Lebron James).  My children are exhaustively begging for a snack before bedtime, and an overhead light is buzzing some kind of electronic white-noise dubstep tune.

SHUT UP!

Please, no more alarms, no beeps, no buzzes, no glowing screens begging to be viewed, no crying, no sonic wavelengths conflicting for my attention.  Silencio. I don't want to spend my spring break surrounded by devices making me more frazzled, more insular, more robotic.

Some have interpreted the meaning of Radiohead's song as longing for death; perhaps via suicide.  But I always understood it as a longing to get away from the bombardment of life's distractions.  A desire to go to the woods and live deliberately.  To escape the ADHD status updates and LED glow of a million pieces of electronica.

I don't know if this farming looks like fun, but it should
probably be required that every human experience it.  

I wouldn't mind an EMP bomb going off in my life.  A forced thrust into the ancient world of dependence on earth, instead of dependence on technology.  Technology always lets me down.  Give me my acoustic guitar over my electric. A good whiteboard and markers over a document camera.  Sure, technology makes life easier at times, but it also makes us dependent on it.  I don't even know if I own a dictionary anymore, instead relying on all these digital spellchecks. And frankly, that scares me.

I make my students write multi-page scenarios about survival after teaching Lord of the Flies.  We talk about what necessities we would need, what problems different environments would present, what problems our own psyches would cause...and yet, almost all the students incorporate some kind of "found" technology that saves them from nature's calamities.

Because our phone's reliability has replaced a trusted friend.  Who needs companionship or collaborative teamwork when you can find instant answers and gratification online?

How could anyone kill Piggy on an island
that looks anything close to this?  

At one point a student asked me, "Mr. Plumb what would you do if you were stranded on a tropical island by yourself for a month?"

Are you kidding me? No students? No kids? No wife? No cell phones, bosses, bills, distractions, responsibilities, duties, stresses, conveniences, cars?

"I'd have the most amazing vacation of all time. It would probably add ten years to my life, that is, if I survived the month. I think I would enjoy every minute of that scenario."

And they were dumbfounded. Because after a few days camping, they long for their X-boxes, phones, and digital updates.  We will never have a transcendental movement again in this nation.  We will never find ourselves in Walden Pond.  We have become slaves to technology.  Addicted to worthless and trivial updates and modifications to our existing items.

But isn't there already a backlash, you say?  What about the homeopathic, anti-GMO, organic, hipster movement that celebrates buying local and used, and lessening their carbon footprint?  Aren't they already rebelling against technology?  And I'd reply, "Have you been to Portland recently?  Those people "saving the earth" are mind-numbingly absorbed by their touch screen devices.  Donating a goat to a family in Africa online, buying their Toms shoes while using Starbucks' free wi-fi, and all the while oblivious to their child who is kicking my chair to the timing of The Cave by Mumford & Sons.

Wake up people!  (Unless you are reading this blog on a portable device). The Harlem Shake is already old. Whatever you discover on the internet will be old in five days. There is no reward for discovering something before someone else. Create something yourself. Or put the device down and people watch again.  You'd be surprised how socially inept we have become in ten years.  Eye contact, alertness, "normal behavior," all have been replaced with narrow collisions by people starring at their devices. This is American culture. Red-eyed, inattentive, bland, pacified, clumsy...stoned.  We are stoned on technology.  And it's a real depressant, a real downer.

Or maybe I'm just Debbie Downer, and need a quiet vacation.

Supposedly, this sound chamber in Wisconsin, which is 99% dead to sound will drive you insane in 45 minutes.