I am not good at naming things – and other observations by: Ryan Noel

Overcoming the elements

2010-04-04T17:09:00.005-04:00

I've been training for the Indianapolis Mini Marathon this winter and spring as I have for the last couple years. Most days I really enjoy running for distance (not as much as these guys, who ran the breadth of the flippin' Sahara Desert). My favorite takes me along a canal where spring feels especially, uh, spring-y.

Today, though. Whew. Everything seemed to go against me. My legs were heavy. Breath labored. The Canadian Geese hissed at me. Turtles taunted me. Ducks mooned me (MOONED ME!). The frickin' daffodils mocked me, with an excessively cheery voice, I might add.

I'm proud to say. I finished feeling like if I can overcome hissing geese, taunting turtles, exhibitionist ducks, and loud-mouthed daffodils, I can accomplish anything. Maybe I could even run the Sahara — about 11 miles of it.

The Bananaplan

2009-12-27T17:06:00.003-05:00

The day after Christmas, with distension of the belly due to broccoli casserole over-stuffing, my wife, Sarah and I decided to escape the holiday madness (and the chocolate covered pretzels on the kitchen counter) for the The Walmarts.

You, the reader, are probably saying, "The Walmarts!? The day after Christmas?! That's the very definition of holiday madness! And you're right. It's just a different kind of holiday madness.

We weren't headed to the The Walmarts just to people-watch, we had a tertiary mission of purchasing a game called Bananagrams, which we had a enjoyed playing the night before.

A short drive from Sarah's parent's home and we found ourselves in an overly-stuffed parking lot. In anticipation of the craziness inside the Big Box I said to Sarah, "Okay, here's our game plan. If you see someone going for the last Bananagrams game, you hit 'em high and I'll hit 'em low." To which Sarah replied, "Yeah, and then I'll hit the snack bar."

Boo

2009-12-15T13:25:00.000-05:00

Many Thurdays past, two days before Halloween, I was standing in Rod Smith's kitchen enjoying some of his sister Jenny's world famous* curry. Parenthetically, I understand the term "world famous" is tossed around willy-nilly by just about every restaurant trying to convince you their dish is more impressive than it really is, but people have been ooh-ing and aah-ing across the globe over Jenny's curry.

Where was I? Yes, standing in Rod's kitchen.

Rod, with his back to the kitchen wall with an accent consistent with his South African heritage asked, "Ryan, have you ever done any acting?" A strange question I thought. It's the kind of question I would prefer to dance around. And I tried my best verbal two-step. "Um, not really. Well, I, uh, did participate in writing and performing in a, uhh, variety-type show in college, but I certainly wouldn't call what I did acting." Run! Ryan run before he asks another one, I thought loudly, but not aloud. His follow-up was too quick, "Would you be interested in playing Boo Radley for a party with my students this Sunday?"

Rod's curriculum at St. Richard's School, where he teaches English, includes reading and study of To Kill a Mockingbird, which culminates in a party where the students dress as a character from the book and celebrate over dinner and a screening of the movie.

"Your only line is 'I'd like to go home now,'" he said sensing my continued apprehension. Rod went on to tell me how he would like me to stand in the darkness outside the house where his students would be gathered until I am noticed. I was intrigued, but still not sold.

I wanted to decline, but I felt like my back was against the wall. I offered the softest acceptance I could muster, "Sure."

Later that night, I was complaining to Sarah about having agreed to accept this assignment. She reminded me that I was trying to live under the following pretenses: 1) say 'yes' more than 'no'; 2) choose adventure over safety. I try to live into these rules, but it doesn't come naturally. I'm uneasy with the unknown, mystery. I prefer safety, and am quite happy in my comfort zone, thank you. But Sarah had my number. I knew I had to do Boo.

I found the rattiest clothes I could and rummaged through Sarah's make-up bag looking for something to make me look sickly, like I had been in a cellar for 20 years. I opened one of her compacts and found some green something-or-other and dipped my finger then spread it around my eyes. Yes, I was looking quite ill. Perfect. "You know I have brushes for that," Sarah sniped as I looked at my green finger. Normally, I might have responded but I just stared forward emptily. I was, um, getting into character — goodness shrouded by mystery.

I arrived to the party site, found some dirt to smear on my clothes and face completing my ensemble and walked to the back of the house where Rod had instructed me to go. I stood looking into the room where Rod's class focused on the wall-mounted silver screen. I tapped gently. No one noticed at first. I tapped again. I saw a little girl's eyes widen. She tapped the girl next to her. They both screamed. Then everyone screamed.

Boo.

Rod coaxed the chaos to quiet. He asked, "Would anyone like to invite this man inside?" Several volunteers threw their hands up. Then one by one students peeked outside and retreated. I couldn't blame them. Rod invited Boo inside. A little girl dressed as Scout Finch escorted me through the crowd to the front of the group. Some students asked questions, to which I offered short and nervous responses. Others simply thanked me for saving Scout and Jem's life.

I stood, back against the wall, enjoying every minute. I said my one real line and another girl dressed as Scout grabbed my arm and we floated through the crowd and she released me back outside. As soon as I disappeared from sight I was no longer in character. I was smiling ear to ear. On my walk back to car, it occurred to me, this experience was very much my Boo — goodness shrouded by mystery. I'm so thankful to Sarah and Rod for providing the encouragement and opportunity to find the goodness.

The following day I came home from work to find a 9 x 12 envelope from St. Richard's School with "Boo Radley" scrawled on the front. Inside was a thank you letter from every 7th grader in Rod's English class. It was page after page of goodness. I'd like to share some of the goodness with you:

Dear Arthur Radley,
It was nice of you to come all this way to Indiana. I never expected you to be there at the party. You were very brave to come here to the party. I know that you aren't used to having people around you, especially when coming to a party full of children. You are a very nice man Boo Radley. I thank you for coming to the party.

Dear Mr. Radley,
Thank you for coming in for us and acting out what happened in the book. I truly believed that the way you acted it out is the way it would have happened in real life. At first I didn't know who you were outside, and you kind of scared me, but that is good because in the book he didn't try to be scary but he was a scary person. I know you meant no harm as well. Thank you again for coming in to show us what happened.

Dear Mr. Arthur Radley,
Thank you for coming last night. I know being around a lot of kids can seem intimidating, but you did a great job. I enjoyed your company very much.

Dear Boo,
Thank you for taking your time and coming out to our party. It was something when you were just standing out the window. You really need to get out more. Thank you for coming.

Dear Mr. Arthur Radley,
Thank you for coming to the party last night. You definitely know how to make an entrance! At first, we were a little scared of you, but then, we realized what was going on. You made the night exciting! I wish you had stayed for dinner!

Dear Mr. Radley,
Thank you for coming and saving Jem and Scout. I know you are shy so thanks for coming out.

Dear Arthur Radley,
I would like to thank you for coming to our party yesterday. I know that it was hard for you because you hadn't seen kids in a very long time. I think that you handled it very well being yourself with a bunch of frantic kids screaming at you. I just wanted to say that it's okay. You did a fantastic job coming to talk to us. It must have been scary for you but I think you did well. You handled the situation nicely. I hope to see you again in the future. Again, I want to thank you for coming.

Dear Mr. Arthur Radley,
You did a great job of acting as Boo Radley. At first, I thought you were a criminal but then my teacher said it's just Boo Radley. You did a great job of acting.
--

Dear English Class,

Thank you for your kind words. It was my absolute pleasure to spend the evening with you. I learned a lot.

Sincerely,

Boo Radley (or whoever I really am)

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-24T09:59:00.003-05:00

I'm sure there will be a steady stream of what-I'm-thankful-for blog posts in the coming days. I find them all very uplifting. I find Thanksgiving very uplifting, actually. And when you add a Weber® charcoal-grilled turkey and an embarrassment of caloric riches, well, you've got a pretty fantastic holiday, in my estimation.

All that said, I'm not going to compile a list (not for this web log, anyway). Instead, I'm posting this video that pretty much sums up why my Thanksgiving will most assuredly be Happy.

I sincerely hope yours is too.

Anatomy Lesson

2009-08-11T16:42:00.003-04:00

Bath time is Daddy/Simeon time. Bath Time (BT) is preceded by Naked Baby Time (NBT) and is kicked off with a little BT dance. I don't have any footage of the dance, but I do have a little glimpse of Bath Time itself. Hope you enjoy.

His Father's Listening Skills

2009-08-07T12:06:00.005-04:00

I was showering last night, my back to the shower head when I heard behind me, plah-dunk. In the time it took me to think, "hey, that's a women's shoe in the bathtub with me" — plah-dunk — a matching shoe sat beside the first collecting the water the drain didn't.

"Sarah!," I called, "You might want to get in here..." Not in the shower, in the bathroom. Although I wouldn't put up a fight if she misunderstood me.*

Incredulously, Sarah said, "Simeon, I told you to put them in the closet." Counterproductive, I thought, to remind her that he's one year old. I think I did the right thing.

Sarah retrieved the soaked shoes and left the bathroom to put them in the closet, I presume. Ten seconds later pha-lopsh – a brassiere.

*Too Much Information, but too late. I can't take it back now.

Holding on | Letting go

2009-08-03T20:22:00.003-04:00

This entry was supposed to be different. Producing web log entries has become more labored in recent months, and I had resisted all urges to blog about writer's blogkage. It would only sound like whining, I thought. Besides, I had my annual trip to Lewis Lake with my best friends and that would surely provide the impetus for new observations and stories. My time in Kentucky did not disappoint; I spent much of the car ride home mapping my next entry.

What I was going to write about was when I came home from the woods my son, Simeon, hugged me like he had no intention of letting go — and he didn't. I was going to write about how that gesture placed a fog over all the fun I had at Lewis Lake, and how I only cared about that moment. That's what I was going to write about.

Then MuShu, our family dog, died.

Shortly after we arrived home, MuShu slipped out the back door and through the open gate amidst the flurry of unpacking and related activities without us noticing. It wasn't the first time she had escaped. She would always take the same route we had walked her many times before -- leashed. I suppose she thought, I've done this a million times before, I don't need to bother my family with it, I'll just go by myself. But, she didn't have the benefit of us holding her leash taut in the face of traffic at the busy intersection of Talbott and 29th street, one block from our house. She didn't have us to look after her.

Some nice ladies found MuShu in the street and called the number on her little heart-shaped collar tag. I didn't drive fast; I was afraid of what I would find. When I arrived, I saw that these two women had moved MuShu to the sidewalk and laid her on a royal blue blanket. My heart plummeted. The strangers offered me their blanket, but I thought it important to hold her one last time. I thanked them for their kindness and made the difficult phone call to my wife, Sarah.

When I got home, Sarah and Simeon were visibly upset. Sarah wept over MuShu, and Simeon wept for us. I scooped Simeon into my arms and, well, he held me. Then he held Sarah — with no intention of letting go.

We'll miss you, MuShu. We'll make sure Simeon knows how much he loved you.

The Big One

2009-07-23T10:57:00.004-04:00

On this day one year ago my son was born. Today I find myself nearly as speechless about the moment as I was then, which is why I think I'll just re-post the events as I documented them last year. I do think it's worth mentioning that the indescribable, uncontainable love I felt for Simeon the moment he was born has grown 365 fold.

Words Fail

Do not ask me questions.
Do not tell jokes – I guess laughing makes contractions hurt extra bad
I'm still waiting for the third rule.

--

Hospital arrival – 6:30

I dropped Sarah off at the door with the bags, and a nice lady asks, "Are you okay, miss?"

"Oh, I'm just having a baby," Sarah replied calmly.

I swear, she's Wonder Woman.

--

We're in our room now.

It's so strange to me that you ask a woman in labor to do a bunch of admission and insurance paperwork. I suppose it has to be done.

We're playing some music from the birthing playlist. Among those on the list, "Between My Legs" by Rufus Wainwright and "Here Comes The Sun" by George Harrison.

--

A friend of mine texts me, "Go Horny (The Noel Boy's in utero name), it's your birthday." I show complete lack of judgement by reciting this to Sarah mid-contraction. Dammit, I already forgot rule number 2.

--

Sarah quickly squashed the music with lyrics. There goes my dream of the head coming out to the sounds of "Here Comes The Sun (Son)".

--

Sarah is a superstar! She's endured most of her contractions while sitting on a birthing ball and digging finger nail marks into a wooden chair arm.

--

She's moved to the bed, laying on her side and focused intently on a photo of Charley Young Beach in Maui, where we were married. I've never seen her so focused.

By the way, our doula, Brielle has been a total Godsend. I'm good at the motivational speeches, not so good with the breathing part. I lack focus!

--

11:15 a.m.
Doctor Hurry is in the house. Sarah's getting ready to push!

--

I've never seen Sarah like this. I'm turning white and tearing up, not because of witnessing birth, but seeing Sarah in so much pain (no epidural).

--

Dr. Hurry is doing an amazing job. She said to Sarah, "You were made to birth babies, it just took us a while to get you pregnant." I think Sarah tried to laugh, but this is serious business.

--

Dr. Hurry apologizes to Sarah for blocking her view of the mirror that shows the birth site, Sarah amidst furious pushing says sweetly, "oh, that's okay."

--
11:52 a.m.
40 minutes of pushing, and less than seven hours after Sarah's water broke, baby Simeon David Noel arrived. He wailed as soon as he came out, as did Sarah and I.

--
Words fail.

Catching up with the Joneses

2009-07-03T10:54:00.009-04:00

Sarah, Simeon, and I spent the Thursday evening prior to July 4th driving south east to Sarah's hometown, Morehead, Kentucky. I like our visits; the weekend moves along at a pace a little slower than what we're accustomed to at home. I'm pretty sure I've turned more book pages, fit more puzzle pieces, and taken more accidental naps in the Lewis living room than just about anywhere else I've been. One of my other favorite time-passers in Morehead is listening to stories.

Sarah's family members are prolific storytellers. Dinner and after-dinner times are chock-full with stories. Almost as amusing as the stories themselves is the pre-story ritual of establishing who the primary character is and to whom they may or may not be related. The pre-story ritual goes something like this:

"You know the Jones boy?"

"Billy?"

"No, not Billy, his younger brother?"

"The one with the mole?"

"No, that's Johnny, the oldest..."

"Isn't he in jail?"

"He was in jail, but I thought I saw him mowing the Smith's lawn..."

It goes on and on like this. Sometimes we never actually get to the story, it's more of an exploration of someone else's family tree. I almost never know who Billy, Johnny or any of the Jones boys are, but that doesn't stop anyone from telling their story, and that's just fine by me.

Thursday night we were sitting on the back porch, sheltered overhead by the arbor and protected from mosquitoes by an army of tiki torches posted at every corner and nearly every point in between; Sarah's Dad finished telling some stories about a fellow named Alec (which is inexplicably pronounced "EE-lik"), when Sarah's mom, Jan, stepped up with my favorite story of the weekend.

Her story was about Doc Gray, a tractor mechanic and family friend, "who lives up Christy Creek." (He lives up a creek? I wonder if he's got a paddle.)

Jan was working at C. Roger Lewis Agency — the real estate office Sarah's Granddad established — when she heard Doc's voice in the reception area and decided to go greet him. Doc was standing there with a little boy and Jan queried, "Who's this, Doc — your grandson?"

"Yep."

"Well, what's your grandson's name?"

Doc cocked his head and stared blankly at Jan, "Well, I don't know. I reckon I always just call'em "Boy."

Simmetry

2009-06-17T21:29:00.003-04:00

A month and about fifteen days ago, we took Simeon to the Indianapolis Museum of Art to have his picture made. Cliff Ritchey was the guy to make them, as far as we were concerned. Simple geometric shapes pepper the grounds of the IMA and it proved to be a nice little backdrop for our little Wonder. Hope you like them.

Yes. Yes I do.

2009-06-09T12:03:00.002-04:00

I wouldn't have put this shirt on him if it wasn't true — and 100 percent organic cotton. H&M had a "Mommy Loves Me" shirt in the rack too, but there's only so much commercialism of the parent/child relationship I'm willing to force upon the little man. Ha.

That's all I have to share at the moment. I hope to post some more photos in the near future for all you pining family members, interested-enough onlookers, and accidental mouse-clickers.

these words are the bestest

2009-05-29T14:57:00.006-04:00

Generally speaking, I'm a big fan of words. I like the way different letters relate to one another visually. I like word games. I like tinkering with words. I like the sound of words like "tinkering." I like just about everything about them. But, since my right hand was casted, I'm especially fond of a certain group of words — those that can be found on the left side of home row.

I decided to create a running list of these words. It's been fun. My friends Colin and Joe even chimed in that the longest word possible on the south side of the keyboard is: stewardesses. I had no idea. I also noticed that if you're going compose sentences on the left side, they'll all have to be exclamatory because the only punctuation on my new favorite side is an exclamation point. You can, however, vary the number of exclamation points for extra EMPHASIS (YOU ALSO HAVE THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON)!!!!

Anyway, here's my running list. Feel free to add some of your own in the comments section. You can even put an exclamatory sentence together, if you feel like it.

tread creed raze axe

cave swerve trade trader

grave best bestest were

wad weeds crease grease

wart fart free as

test testes texas verve

swagger craze greatest raw

wax trade sax vexes

dread gas crass west

vest zest Qatar stewardesses

rear exact dates rates

rat drat err tweed

dazed desert sexes fever

era dessert

Yeah. Let's end with dessert!!!!!!

Attention (photo)shoppers

2009-05-29T11:07:00.005-04:00

A week ago, Wednesday, I took a tumble on my bicycle, and I have been left-handed ever since. The transition from right-handedness to lefty hasn't been a smooth one. It seems that my left is connected to someone else's brain. I know, it surprised me too.

My friend, Colin rightly pointed out that I would likely feel sorry for myself and then feel sorry for feeling sorry for myself. It's difficult to stay down long when a broken hand is exceedingly minor compared with disabilities and circumstances that many in our global population deal with daily. When on this topic with my friend Josh, he added, "Yeah, you know you see those people on teevee that come home from Iraq missing an arm and a leg that are saying, 'oh I'm just so blessed...!'" (that's a lot of punctuation right there!!!). :)

It was time for me to suck my over-sized bottom lip (it's not swollen, I was born that way) back into place and follow Monty Python's counsel and "always look at the bright side of life." (Song bomb alert!)

I thought back to grade (hey, you can type "grade" with only your left hand home row style) school when I was actually envious of kids who had casts. I admit, it doesn't make sense. But, it was because they got to have everyone write, draw, scrawl and scribble all over it. It's like a Tattoo 2.0 — everyone gets to contribute to the body art. Cast signing is also great for those of us that just find thousands of needle pokes too high a price to pay for self-expression.

So, I have an idea I'd like to float by you:

Save the image above (me and my cast) to your hard drive
Open the image in a photo-editing software (Photoshop or whatever. Heck, I bet MS Paint would work)
Write, draw, scrawl and scribble on the cast
Save the image and email it to me: rydanoel@gmail.com
I'll post it back to the blog (unless you'd just rather I didn't.)

I think this could be a fun little little exercise that could have us all feeling better.

Cycles and Seasons

2009-05-19T11:00:00.005-04:00

Life's been cycling all over the place. Sarah's granddad, Arnold (Arnie, for short. One character short, in fact) died about a week and a half ago; my own grandmother (grandma for short), Marian died early yesterday morning; Simeon is nearly 10 months old and is developing faster than a polaroid picture; and I could, and maybe I will, fill and entry or 10 about each of those precious marks on my timeline. But, the occasion I really want to mark in this entry is my 8th wedding anniversary to Sarah.

If marriage is seasonal as most things are, I think this anniversary marks the end of the first season and the beginning of the next. That's worth celebrating if you ask me. If you've read any of my blog entries over the past year and a half, you know that I'm not perfect. And in spite of what I might have you believe, Sarah's not perfect either. But, when you combine me and my imperfections and Sarah and her imperfections, well, you have a perfect fit. And that's worth celebrating too.

I love you deeply, Sarah. Thank you for loving me back.

Low Five

2009-05-02T13:50:00.003-04:00

For the second time in as many years, I ran the Indianapolis Mini Marathon. It was much more fun than running 13.1 miles should be. The high points far outnumbered the low ones. Come to think of it, there really was just one low point.

One of the coolest aspects of the race is the number of spectators who line the course with cowbells and full voice to encourage you to keep running, and running, and running. Often times they'll even personalize the encouragement by reading the name on your bib. They might say, "Go Ryan," "You can do it, Ryan," or "Don't die, Ryan."

I was cruising along, feeling good at about mile 6. There was a stretch of spectators up ahead on the right side of the course who were particularly boisterous. I worked my way from the center of the course over to the right to be a recipient of their well-wishes and to thank them. As I approached, I saw an older man (60s or early 70s I'm guessing) passing out high-fives. I thought, "Hey, I'd like one of those." The man slapped hands with the runners in front of me one by one. I raised my hand in anticipation.

Whiff.

The man put his hand down just as I ran by. He left me hanging in front of 30,000 people, 3 or 4 of which chuckled behind me. It was as if he looked at me and thought, "don't high five this guy, he has Swine Flu, I'm sure of it." Definitely the low point.

Fortunately for me, a square dancing troupe would be just around the corner to cheer me up.

Surprising combinations

2009-04-10T12:09:00.010-04:00

Several years ago, my wife Sarah and I went to New York City to celebrate our 2nd anniversary. The trip was enchanted. We got to see a Matthew Barney exhibition at the Guggenheim, went to the Met, did Central Park, and got to see the Yankees and Red Sox play in Yankee Stadium. I also got to see Sarah's supreme navigational skills in action for the first time. But, the experience that left the most lasting impression was our dinner at John's Pizzeria.

John's on 44th Street occupies an old church (complete with stained glass windows) and has two brick wood-fired ovens in opposing corners of the dining room. The pizza was amazing, the atmosphere was wonderful, but the most memorable part of the experience is what happened while we waited for our pizza.

A group of young adults quietly gathered on the arced balcony overhead. Their director came half-way down the staircase and put his arms up. It's been said that music is the universal language, and I agree. I couldn't understand the words they were singing, but their collective voices spoke to me. I distinctly recall thinking, "This is what makes New York amazing. This is the kind of impromptu goodness you'd never get in..."

Last Saturday, Sarah and I took little Simeon out to the Oldfields Gardens on the grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art (IMA) to be kissed by the sun and let him explore the forest of grass. As we played and baited Simeon to crawl from here to there, I noticed a man walking off into a clearing north of the rose garden with what I thought to be a tripod. It wasn't a tripod at all. No, not a tripod at all.

Bagpipes!

This bagpiper found a spot with only trees within stone's throw, warmed up for a few measures, and then started playing — beautifully. I thought back to the musical experience in New York, and was equally surprised and delighted that similar impromptu goodness was happening right here in my fair city.

Then I started thinking about how I never would have paired the serenity of the IMA gardens and bagpipes as a winning combination. When I shared my thought with Sarah, she said quite Sarah-ly, "Well, it's not exactly the kind of instrument you can practice in the house."

One proud art director

2009-04-02T11:41:00.004-04:00

I rarely, if ever, mention my profession or talk shop on this forum. But, I'm particularly proud of this project I worked on for Indianapolis Power & Light Company (IPL) in collaboration with my Creative Director, Jenn Berry, copywriter, Colin Dullaghan and illustrator, Penelope Dullaghan.

IPL sponsors tons of worthy causes over the course of the year, and those sponsorships often come with ad space in programs and the like. As you might imagine, the ads are placed in a wide range of publications. We did ads that focused on causes in the following areas: The Arts, Diversity, Environment, Social Outreach, Sports and Education. While IPL is an energy provider, we wanted to focus on the worth-while causes that people use their energy on to make our community a better place. It's a bold thing for a company to focus on someone other than themselves.

I am really proud of our client for having the vision and willingness to do something completely different from the rest of the sponsorship ad landscape, and totally different from what you'd expect to see from an electric utility. I'm really proud of the writing that begged to be brought to life with some expressive typography. And I'm really proud of the illustrations themselves. Do yourself a favor and flip through the book below. Don't forget to zoom in and check out some of the subtle and beautiful details and textures. I think you'll like them.

As a project winds down, I'm typically eager to move on to the next thing. I'm more of a starter than finisher. But, I would have been happy to just keep producing these babies.

I'm not good at naming things — and other observations by: Avan Ngel

2009-03-30T16:26:00.008-04:00

Are computers taking over the world? I'm not the first to ask the question (see Linda Hamilton and Stanley Kubrick). Well, pictured above is evidence to the affirmative.

I went to a client's downtown building recently tried signing in on the little tablet at the security desk as I have countless times. I can't remember the security guy's name — we'll call him Bob — well, Bob said, "may I see your drivers license?"

What? They've never asked for ID before?

Bob explained that the company had just gotten a new automated name badge maker. Trusting as I am, I handed my ID right over. I watched as Bob put my ID into this little machine, pushed some buttons, and a couple of mouse-clicks later, he hands me my badge.

That computer changed my name — the name my parents no-doubt racked their brains over — my Christian name — from Ryan Noel to Avan Ngel. (At first, I thought the computer had used a terrorist filter on my photo to make me look more, uh, terrorist-y. But, alas, that's how I really look on my drivers license.)

Avan Ngel?

I googled "Avan Ngel" with no results. Not so much as a wikipedia entry. Not a trace. The only logical explanation is that The Computers have something to hide.

Swimeon

2009-03-27T16:04:00.002-04:00

Simeon has been taking swimming lessons. You're probably wondering what swimming lessons look like for an 8-month old, as I was. Well, we finally got some pictures of the event. Here is Swimeon with his Nana.

Crawling Card Addendum

2009-03-26T08:17:00.002-04:00

This morning, I was alone with Simeon and I had him upstairs in our bedroom while I got ready for work. I took Simeon into the bathroom with me, where he as a stockpile of toys, and closed the door behind me. I hopped in the shower (Yes, I hopped. Visualize it.). I'm lathering up with my Dove body wash and see the shower curtain move out of the corner of my eye; I look down and there he is; Simeon is looking at me and his eyes are saying, "Is it bath time and nobody told me?" I pulled the curtain back into place, and he kept pulling it back. Nearing the end of my shower, his head was soaked, and couldn't have been happier about it. I'm happy when he's happy, so I just kept splashing him.

I moved Simeon into the bedroom and he thought my closet looked interesting enough, so he decided to go in for a closer look. I could tell he was entertained by my shoes, hats and dress socks and assumed it was safe for me to brush my teeth.

While brushing I heard "cluh-dunk." While a cry didn't follow the "cluh-dunk" as it often does, it was alarming enough for me to stop mid-brush and see what the little guy was up to. Boy, am I glad I did.

Simeon was seated at the top step with his head cocked back, loaded with a grin that said, "hey Dad, watch this." He turned back toward the steps and lunged forward, just as I scooped him up.

Simeon's new nickname is Charles Bronson — the dude has a death wish.

Crawling Card

2009-03-23T20:12:00.005-04:00

Last Thursday was a work-at-home day, and my desk (see also dining room table) was missing something. I couldn't think what it was. Creative Juice. That's it. I gave Simeon a glance — he was seated and playing happily on the dining room floor by the built-in corner cabinet — and went to retrieve my precious pot of coffee.

According to my wife, I am a living definition of a dilly-dally-er (I have likely mentioned this before). Sarah won't believe this, but I didn't dilly-dally — not so much as a pussyfoot, lollygag, shilly-shally, or even a dawdle. I grabbed my Creative Juice and walked back to the dining room.

The corner cabinet was still there, as was Simeon's toy drum. Simeon, however, was not there. He teleported. I was sure of it. Actually, that's not true. I made that last part up.

Simeon made his first act as a card carrying member of the Crawler's Club count. He didn't dilly-dally. He saw an opening when I went on my Creative Juice run and bolted — straight for the light socket on the other side of the room. I mean, really.

I half-expect the next friendly stranger at the grocery store to creep in and say, "hey, isn't he the poster child for child proofing your house?" Why yes. Yes, he is.

I got the message loud and clear, little mister poster child. Not only is our house not child-proof, I'm convinced that there is nothing in our house that is out of his reach. Since getting his Crawling Card, little-s has lunged for more electrical outlets, pulled countless books off of shelves, attempted to scale every vertical structure, attempted to put numerous electrical cords in his mouth, overturned MuShu's water bowl more than once, and — brace yourself — dumped the bucket we keep his dirty cloth diapers all over the bathroom floor.

So, this weekend, I'm calling upon my long-dormant crawling skills once again. On my hands and my knees, I'll be navigating every square foot of our bungalow looking for unplugged outlets, sharp objects and poo-filled buckets.

I wonder what those toads are up to these days?

2009-03-11T15:20:00.004-04:00

By miracle of facebook, a long-lost friend of the family posted this photo on my Dad's page. There's lots for me to smile about here:

My highly fashionable cut-off shirt
Turquoise shutters — compliments the red get-up well, I think
Polaroid – doesn't it add charm to any photo? I'm sad to know it is going the way of the Vegas Valley Leapard Frog (extinct)
Hand-dating — I'm strangely comforted by knowing what I did on 8-26-85
It's kinda fun to think that this is roughly the time period that the story from my previous entry took place.
I can't wait for Simeon to bring critters into the house for the first time.

Saving Ryan's …

2009-03-09T11:23:00.012-04:00

Like most men, I think denim is best worn when it's darned-near worn out. Well, I had a pair I wasn't ready to say "good-bye" to, that had taken a step or two beyond the "darned-near" stage. With head bowed, I humbly asked my mom to see if there was anything we (she) could do. Not only did she patch the holes, but she fortified all the weak spots to slow the progress of more holes.

I recently Tweeted (that's a micro-blog for all you non-Twitterers), "I'm sending thankful vibes my Mom's way for saving my busted-out britches," and I meant it. She replied to me via e-mail quoting my dad: "... and that's not the first time you saved his britches."

Ain't that the truth.

I was in third grade and our teacher, Ms. Joffey (she was my first non-Mrs. teacher, I remember distinctly), thought taking her class for a nature walk to a nearby creek would be a good idea. And, it should have been a good idea — but it wasn't. We made our way to the creek, and it was nice. We looked for tadpoles, and Ms. Joffey pointed out the varieties of algae and moss, and even let us throw some rocks into the water. She said it was time to go, but I didn't think so — my arm was just getting warmed up.

Suddenly, all the gravel on the side of the road that had gone unnoticed on the way to the creek, looked like a street paved with baseballs on the way back from the creek. I wasn't sure what work was in store for us once we got back to our wooden desks, but as far as I was concerned, my only assignment was to show my classmates how far I could throw, well, anything. But, my classmates weren't impressed with distance alone, they demanded accuracy.

"See if you can hit that window over there."

That window wasn't just any window, it was the kind that was still on a house, a trailer, to be more specific — the kind actual people lived in. I couldn't have weighed the pros and cons before letting that rock fly because I let that rock fly. Accurate, indeed.

I immediately knew I had done something wrong because I was looking for a place to run. But I couldn't. That's the kind of kid I was, I think: ornery enough to throw a rock through a window, but too good of a kid to not own up to what I had done. While Mrs. Joffey probably appreciated that I took responsibility for the offense, she made it clear that I would be getting The Paddle (you know the one).

A. Drill holes — these are meant to limit resistance from it's drawn-back position to the perp's bottom. Teachers and Principals often created unique hole patterns in order to brand their kid's bottoms. Us kids also believe that the holes make the paddle hurt worse, but we can't back that up with science.

B. Paddle name — any paddle worth its timber has a name, usually a scary one like The Devastator or The Enforcer. This name was usually written on the paddle with an indelible marker, or sometimes burned in with a soldering iron.

C. A leather strap — the strap was used to hang The Paddle prominently for all to see and fear. It also ensured a secure grip. My fellow students and I also believed it was used for strangulation in special cases.

I sat outside Mr. Wright's Office (more ominously known as The Principal's Office) in a puddle of tears awaiting the inevitable. Then my Mom, who worked at the school at the time, showed up and made sure I was okay and fearlessly headed into the Principal's Office. I'm not sure what she said in there. As far as I was concerned, it didn't matter because I didn't see The Paddle on that day, and I'm not sure why.

Maybe she convinced Mr. Wright that I felt guilty enough already and wouldn't throw anymore rocks; or perhaps she assured him that she would handle my punishment when I got home; or it could be that she was in disbelief that her son could have done such a thing, and convinced the principal that the rock actually came from the grassy knoll; or maybe she saw The Paddle and the damage it could do to both me and my pants. I don't know.

In any case, she saved my britches — and it's true what my Dad says — she's been saving them ever since.

Coupla baby food tips

2009-03-03T12:36:00.002-05:00

Tip 1: Buy baby food in adult-sized containers

My wife, Sarah, gets complete credit for this tip. She astutely noticed that the ingredients on the Nutrition Facts of Organic Gerber sweet potatoes were exactly the same as the Nutrition Facts on a can of Trader Joe's organic puréed sweet potatoes (Ingredients: organic sweet potatoes). Ration those 'toes in 4 ounce servings and you just saved yourself some money and space in the old recycling bin. The same tip applies for organic apple sauce.

Tip 2: Don't whistle while feeding your baby apple sauce*

Be forewarned, your baby may find whistling absolutely hilarious (even if your whistling is to the tune of a melancholy M. Ward tune). If your baby does happen to find whistling funny and cause for burst of laughter, as mine does, the apple sauce your child was so contentedly eating may be projected forcefully on your face, hair and nearby laptop computer. Further, said baby may laugh even more at the sight of his stunned parent/target ensuring that all remaining apple sauce bits make their way from his or her mouth to your face and laptop.

*This tip only applies for those parents who don't think it's uproariously funny and the spice/joy of parenthood to have your child make a mess of you.

Babies are a big flippin' deal

2009-02-13T10:03:00.004-05:00

Our friends, Colin and Penny, just gave birth to a beautiful little girl this morning, and I'm so excited about it. I've discussed at length (here, here and here), how fatherhood has affected me, and getting super pumped about new babies is one of those ways. I think what I love about it is that when a baby is born (especially a first born), we're welcoming three people into the world: a new child, a mother, and a father. It's a celebration of parental potential and understanding that has been latent, and then released in one very powerful moment. I can't help but get excited about that.

Welcome to the world, Dullaghan Family.

Trigger'd

2009-02-02T11:00:00.000-05:00

Triggers. Everyone has them. That is to say, everyone has certain stimulus that spurs certain behavior. I've heard the term most often used as stimulus causing bad behavior, like the sight of someone smoking crack triggering a recovering addict to relapse. But, triggers can cause the urge for any behavior. A person can also have multiple triggers for the same behavior. For example, the summer heat, a cold winter wind, flipping the lights on in the kitchen, blinking, and breathing all trigger my wife, Sarah, to want ice cream.

I am not trigger-exempt. Oh no. Far from it. I'm discovering new ones all the time. But, I have a favorite trigger.

About a year ago, I IMDB'd Danny Elfman, whom I admire as much as any movie score composer, I reckon. I had forgotten he wrote the score for Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, starring Paul Reubens (famously triggered), one of my favorite movies as a kid. So, I went on over to iTunes and downloaded the soundtrack. Well, Pee-Wee's theme song triggered some, uhh, primal behavior in me that had laid dormant in me for the previous 31 years of my life. I can't explain it. The song just makes me crazy, like I'm Jack in a box that hasn't been opened for 31 years — until now. My trigger is best illustrated in the little video that my co-worker, Chris, put together below ...

So, do you have triggers? (Not to be confused with chiggers. Completely different.)

Thank you, Ms.

2009-01-28T19:20:00.002-05:00

I'm no expert on marriage, or love. But, it seems to me that our American divorce rate might be lower if we spent more time finding new things to love about our spouses, and less time wishing they'd be "the person I fell in love with." I'm amazed by the moments when I learn something new about Sarah that I never knew in spite of my best efforts to have an open and honest relationship. What's better is when this "something new" comes by surprise and is mildly humorous.

Sarah and I went out on a date last weekend — sweeper and a movie. We dropped our Little Man off at my parents, who were happy to receive him; then went to Best Buy to get a new vacuum; then to see Slumdog Millionaire at the near-by Castleton Mall. Our vacuum purchase took less time than expected, so if we went straight to the theater we would have been forced to read the same Coca-Cola sponsored trivia slides 3 or 4 times over. We had too little time to go into Borders and have Sarah risk losing me in the media and literature labyrinth; I tend to wander when I'm not wearing my leash. So, we jointly agreed that going straight to the theater would be best.

As we approached the cinema Sarah said to me, "Does this theater have an arcade?" That's strange, I thought. Does she want me to try and grab a stuffed Spongebob from the claw game as a surprise for Simeon?

"I assume so," I replied. "Most theaters do these days. Why?"

"Well, do you think they have Pac-Man?," she said.

Pac-Man?, I thought, still confused by her line of questioning. "Why do you want to know if there is Pac-Man?"

"Sometimes I just like to play Pac-Man."

Who is this woman? I think I love her.

I cupped my hands, put them to my brow and pressed my face to the window to see if there were any joysticks present. If I were to be her hero, I would find Pac-Man and deliver him to her.

But no, there was no Pac-Man, "but there is Ms. Pac-Man!" Would she receive this as good news? Is Ms. Pac-Man an acceptable substitute for the original? Turns out, it is.

"Oh good, I want to play." She didn't use a deep breathy voice and bat her eyelashes at me, but I sure imagined she did. This was a lot to wrap my mind around, because the last time I played Pac-Man, I thought girls had cooties.

We bought our movie tickets and headed straight to the arcade. Tokens. We had to have tokens. Sarah rifled through her purse and pulled out a dollar bill, "oh, that won't work." She knew you had to have a crisp dollar bill to get game tokens. "Here. Try this one." It wasn't perfectly crisp, but it worked; four game tokens clinked into the tray! Sarah popped in two tokens (can you believe Ms. Pac-Man costs 50 cents?) and hit the "start" button.

She used her whole body to navigate the maze and gobble up Power Pellets while the ghosts gave chase. When her three lives were up, she scrambled for two more tokens to continue her conquest. After each passed stage, she said with bright eyes, "I've never made it this far before." And with each passed level, I fell more in love.

I can't quite explain why I got so excited about this revelation, other than to say that learning something new about Sarah, even a seemingly insignificant "something", is something I hope I'm always excited about.

Alloneword.

2009-01-27T11:28:00.002-05:00

Writing dreams down is a fascinating practice, and one that I've done for a few years now. I receive a dream remembered as a gift, especially one that you remember in some detail. It's also somewhat liberating that dreams are unfiltered by a social setting. They can be frightening, enraging, and many times just plain funny, and always unfiltered, which is what I love so much about the exchange in this dream:

I was sitting outside and Simeon was standing on my knee as he often does. I said to him, "can you say Ma-ma?"

"Mommy."

My head snapped back, creating the inevitable double-chin. "Can you say Da-Da-Da-Da-Da?"

"Daddy."

I looked up to Sarah, who was standing near-by and said, "Did you hear that?" She laughed and put her head over my shoulder to see if Simeon's Talk Show would continue.

I felt so proud of him, and pulled him to me and he wrapped his arms around my neck. "I love you, Son."

"I love you too, Daddy."

"What the..." I thought. Then I said, "when did you learn all these words — and sentences?!"

"I've been storing them up."

"Well, mister, what other words have you learned?"

"Dickpenis." Yes. All one word.

Just before the dream ended I said to Simeon, "I remember the day in Maui when you first found your dickpenis."

A little Thursday inspiration

2009-01-22T10:34:00.004-05:00

Vik Muniz, whose presentation I've posted is a favorite artist of mine. I first became familiar with him when he had an exhibit at the IMA (Indianapolis Museum of Art) several years ago. Since then, when teaching, I've used his work several times as examples of using alternative media for communication, and how the media itself can become a communicative. I especially like the distinction he makes between creation and creativity.

This video is about 15 minutes long, but worth checking out.

Thanks MLK

2009-01-19T08:46:00.002-05:00

More than likely, this video will be the most posted, most linked, video by web loggers today, second only to the Japanese man who plays Mary Had A Little Lamb with broccoli.

Anyway, it does me some good to watch this, and I suspect it'd do you some as well.

Worsts Nightmares

2009-01-13T13:18:00.009-05:00

"That's my worst nightmare," Sarah blurted, as she looked at a cluster of college-aged kids outside their tents as a spattering of rain came down.

"What?"

"Camping in the rain — that's my worst nightmare."

"Really?"

"I have a lot of worst nightmares, actually."

When my cheeks ceased being sore from laughter, I tried to explain that the word worst implies that there is only one worst nightmare allowed per person.

"Nope. I can have lots of them," she said flatly.

She does this all the time... she forces me out of my reality and enter in to hers against my will — sorta like The World's Biggest Loser (which is exactly what I feel like when I get sucked into just about any "reality" TV show) or, um, Wife Swap. This time, it wasn't really against my will because I thought there could be some comedy in it, or perhaps a blog entry.

"What are some of your other worst nightmares?," I wondered aloud. This is when she started reciting her list; since then, the list has been expanded, mostly unintentionally. So here, I give you the first (hopefully of many) Sarah's Worst Nightmares List:

Camping in the rain
Seeing a shark while snorkeling
A week without Chapstick* (This one KILLS me)
Waking up with a Gecko** on her face
Sleeping with sand on the sheets
Riding to Hana, Maui on a tour bus
Being lactose intolerant (This one too)
Sleeping in a wet sleeping bag.

I'm getting such a kick out of our little project now, that I think I have decided on mine. My worst nightmare: If Sarah stops having worst nightmares.

*Check out the coolest lip balm-related illustration of all time.

** Here's a cool one of a gecko too.

Not much to say

2009-01-13T13:10:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to share one of the best moments of my life ...

Makena

2009-01-10T01:11:00.006-05:00

We went to my favorite beach, Big Beach in Makena. I admit, the name of the beach is a little low hanging, but appropriate. And, who am I to criticize the name of this beach, when I am admittedly “not good at naming things.” If it were left to me, I’d name it Huge Beach, or maybe Noel Beach. But, it wasn’t up to me, so it’s Big Beach.

There are many contributors to my love for this beach. First, it is the best place to whale watch. I saw two mama and calf Humpback whales breach today. When the mamas came back to the surface, it looked like grenades going off in the water, and when the babies landed they looked like baby grenades going off in the water.

Big beach also has some of the biggest waves on the Island. These waves are good for getting pummeled and watching others get pummeled. I’ve been dumped more than my fair share, so I took it easy today and watched other people shake the sand out of their bathing attire.

Mostly, I love this beach because it’s where I spent the day of my wedding with two of my best friends, Jim and Darren. That day started splendidly. We picked up a hitchhiker named, Bliss. Bliss was an interesting fellow, one who probably warrants his own blog entry, actually. We dropped Bliss off at the beach, but not until he told us about how he wanted to be a "shaman on the mountain" and learn how to teleport. When asked how he planned to teleport, he told us, “I just need to get as comfortable as possible,” and that’s why he ended up in Maui. If being comfortable is what it takes to teleport — I'm with Bliss — Maui's the place to do it. We hated to see Bliss go, but he had some teleportin’ to do - and probably some LSD droppin’.

Jim, Darren and I spent the morning and afternoon letting the waves tenderize us, until about an hour before marryin’ time. We showered hurriedly and got dressed in our "Aloha" shirts and linen pants, then walked down to the beach where I waited for Sarah’s Dad to deliver her hand to mine.

I saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Sarah, she saw the sand from Big Beach stuck to my face.

Vacation within a vacation

2009-01-10T00:07:00.008-05:00

A few days ago, Sarah and I were headed for a bed and breakfast for a vacation within our vacation. It turned out to be exactly that. We set out for the Road to Hana just after we finished our coffee with our hiking shoes and beach apparel, and without the flash card for my camera.

Blasted!

The Road to Hana is approximately 35 miles long — and if you’re minding the speed limit and see some of the sights along the way — might take you 3 to 4 hours. It’s an arduous trek, but I was feeling good about the drive this time, due mostly to the nice man in the black T-shirt blowing kisses to people as they drove by. That’s how it suits him to show the Aloha spirit, and we were happy to be the recipients of his generosity.

The drive is always more beautiful than you remember it — and longer too. We made it to Wainapanapa State Park (pronounced, WY-UH-NAH-PUH-NAH-PUH STATE PARK) within a couple of hours of leaving the Condo. It’s guys like me that lend creedance to the bumper sticker, “SLOW DOWN — This Ain’t The Mainland.” Wainapanapa is amazing.

Sarah and I went for a hike along the rugged coastline and watched in awe as the the turquoise waves slammed the black lava formations. It’s the closest either of us has been to witnessing an unstoppable force meet and immovable object.

My favorite part of the hike are the blow holes. Lava tubes were created in the rock by the hot flow of lava that once poured into the sea. But, now waves flow back up the tube forcing water and air straight up like a geyser or , uh, blowhole. I love climbing up the nearest rock to the blowhole and looking down into it and let the salt water wash over me. It makes my sunglasses unusable for the moment, but it’s worth it. Sarah has always pleaded with me when I choose to step near the edge of any potential peril, but she has new material to coax me back from the edge. This time she called, “Ryan, you’re a father now. I don’t want to be a single parent.” It worked. I stepped down from my perch and we continued our hike.

Next, we went to a red sand beach in Maui (this is it ^^^. Sorry I had to use someone else's photo). You have to hike a little way to get there, but it’s worth it once you do. The beach appears to have been scooped out of the side of a mountain with the world's largest ice cream scoop. Very few people make it to this beach in Hana, and we like it that way. There was never more than 6 people on the beach while we were there. It’s also a nude beach, and just before we left, it finally lived up to it’s designation.

Then, we headed to Hamoa Beach (also someone else's photo), which has my favorite sand. It’s considered a black sand beach; but it’s brown/black mix, if you ask me. Whatever the color, it’s the softest sand I’ve ever set feet to.

Finally, we headed to our Bed and Breakfast. The directions told us to turn right at the cluster of 3 or 4 mailboxes (it’s 5, actually) and make another right at the fence posts, so we did. Sam (short for something I can’t remember) Butterfly (who could forget this name?) was there to meet us by the clotheslines. Sam had long red curly hair, a big gap-toothed smile, welcoming eyes and no brassiere to speak of. Sam’s daughter, Mercury, went running across the lawn toward the house. She wasn't wearing a bra either — or a shirt for that matter. Sam and Mercury were a delight, and so was their place*, which they allowed to be our place for the night.

The guest house where we stayed had everything you could possibly need in the middle of paradise:

A view of the ocean right from the bed
An outdoor bathtub in the manicured gardens near the koi pond
An indoor shower with a high-efficiency shower head
An outdoor kitchenette with fridge, stove top, sink, tea pot and coffee percolator
A Weber Grill(!) - if you know me, you know how big of a deal this was
A banana orchard, which supplied the bounty left in our fruit basket
A bookshelf with 246 VHS tapes (I counted) — Everything from A Fish Called Wanda to Xanadu, and a book collection complete with copies of Dating for Dummies and Breaking the Surface, by Greg Louganis.

It rained most of the night, and the ocean breeze blew threw our room all night; it was perfect sleeping conditions by nearly any measure. Apparently, having a such a good day requires some recovery; we slept for 12 hours.

*Their place was completely solar-powered. Very cool.

Walking on water

2009-01-03T11:51:00.003-05:00

Oh man, was this fun! Simeon's first step into the ocean. This was the kind of image/experience that finds permanent residence in the "Happiest Memories" section of one's mind. These are the moments that make the memory loss Sarah's grandparents are suffering so painful for everyone. Now that's sad...time for a subject change.

We're having a wonderful time. Simeon's having some difficulty adjusting to the time change, which means we're having difficulty adjusting as well. But, he's enjoying his first vacation, mostly because it has been a vacation from his clothes—thanks to the warm temperatures.

Sarah and I are leaving little-s behind for the night and heading to Hana to stay here. A vacation within our vacation.

Aloha.

Maui perspective

2009-01-01T12:02:00.004-05:00

Well, we made it. The flight certainly wasn't easy, but Sarah demonstrated that she's every bit the superstar mama I knew she was. After a long flight where we packed three bodies into two coach seats—which I'm pretty sure are designed to seat one and a half people semi-comfortably—we needed to stretch our legs a bit. So, Sarah and I went for a run this morning. We didn't say much to each other. We didn't have to. We just let the Island do the talking and it had plenty to say.

We started under an indigo sky with stars overhead, lightning striking in the distance over the pacific to our left, and a rising sun beginning to vignette Haleakala* to our right. The Island said "good morning."

We ran by the site where we pledged to spend our lives together. Neither one of us mentioned it. Like I said, we were letting the Island talk, and it's rude to interrupt.

The sky began to brighten, which the Myna bird takes as its cue to wake the rest of the sleeping Island.

Hibiscus flowers open and their scent coats the inside of my nostrils, making every deep breath a pleasure; this is the Island's reminder that every breath is a gift.

We jogged past a fleet of canoes which reminded me of how the first Polynesians came to Maui, and how long, difficult, and treacherous their journey must have been. This was the Island offering me perspective on how "difficult" flying coach with a 5 month old really is.

*the volcano responsible for creating this insanely beautiful place.

Aloha

2008-12-30T15:38:00.004-05:00

Aloha, as you all know, is a very versatile word. My intended meaning in this case is: check back over the next couple of weeks for postings and photos from Maui.

The three of us are flying out tomorrow morning. I'm admittedly apprehensive about flying all that way with a 5 month old. I don't expect to get anyone's sympathy (especially from our friends Derek and Kath who flew with their crawling one year old to Australia and back). No matter how it goes, I imagine I'll have a story or two to tell, and hopefully some pictures to go along with it.

Aloha (this time I choose for it to mean Happy New Year).

RMM (Random Mouth Movement)

2008-12-30T09:15:00.005-05:00

One of my new favorite things to do with Simeon nowadays is feed him rice cereal. Over the last month we have both gotten a little better at it with practice, just like anything else, I suppose (although I never seem to get any better at Guitar Hero, returning phone calls from friends in a timely manner, or Excel spreadsheets).

The best time I had feeding Simeon was the first, maybe the second time. I couldn't quite get the food to him fast enough, and he wasn't totally sure what to do with it once I did. If I didn't get the spoonful to his lips quickly enough, he would jam his fists (both of them) into his mouth. I honestly believe that he thought he was helping me. And I guess he was. He was helping me make a mess Mike Rowe (Dirty Jobs host), or Marc Summers (Double Dare host) would be proud of.

I spooned cereal in, Simeon swallowed half, and scooped the rest of it out with his hands and smeared it on any surface within a fathom. Surfaces included: His Bumbo, his pants, his shirt, his hair, my hair, my arm, and my face. I had no control — and it was a blast!

Recently, Sarah brought it to my attention that while I am feeding Simeon, I make interesting mouth movements, myself. She laughed at me, and justifiably so — I could tell I looked ridiculous. I tried stopping, but couldn't. The movements were completely involuntary, I thought.

But, I'm not so sure it is involuntary. I think it comes from that part of me that wants Simeon to do well, to learn, to get better. At least that's what I keep telling myself. You be the judge. A father willing his son to cereal-eating success or a doofus who can't properly control his own face?

Very Merry

2008-12-23T15:37:00.003-05:00

May this Christmas be filled with less fruitcake and more ... ooooh … fudge.

***

Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra,
Ryan, Sarah and Simeon

A Christmas at the Zoo Haiku

2008-12-18T22:17:00.007-05:00

Strings light up the way
Simeon’s a platybear
Good night at the zoo

Mu Shu, the nearly forgotten family pet

2008-12-16T10:50:00.009-05:00

I've spent the last few minutes reflecting on my informal and completely undocumented goal of writing at least 4 web log entries per month. So far so-so.

As I was looking back at my entries, I noticed that I had not blogged about, or even mentioned our Shih Tzu (pronounced sheets•zoo, so stop snickering), Mu Shu.

Mu Shu doesn't read my blog — she's illiterate — so I don't think there are any damaged feelings. However, I'm certain she would be crushed if she knew I had written about my friend, Alfred the bat, but not a syllable about her. I can't take that risk.

Compounding my guilt is Mu Shu having to take a back seat since Simeon's birth. It was bound to happen, but I don't think she could have predicted how little we would be throwing her squeaky toy.

I'm going to try and make it up to her by telling you, and whomever happens to read this, what Mu Shu has reminded me of in recent months.

Be less predictable.

It didn't take long for Mu Shu to have my tracks sniffed out. She usually knows where I'm going and what I'm going to do before I do. In the morning, she waits by the stairs when she hears my electric toothbrush, because she knows I will turn my closet light off next and head downstairs. She stops at the threshold below and cranes her neck back as if to encourage me in the steps she knows I will make. She almost always knows where I'm going before I'm there. My paths are so well worn and Mu Shu knows it. While I am a creature of habit, she's inspired me to change some things up. Now, I occasionally mix yogurt into my cereal on occasion, instead of milk; and sometimes I read after Sarah goes to bed instead of watching television; and when I'm feeling crazy, I get the newspaper before I pour my cereal into the bowl.

Family is worth protecting.

Mu Shu stands proud with Napoleonic stature and is in the same weight class as other common watch dogs — the bullying Bichon Frise, the loathsome Llasa Apso, and the malicious Maltese.

If she hears the whine of our front or back gate, she lets the whole neighborhood know our family force field has been breached. (I often have to explain to her that these are invited guests, at which point she is wagged by her tail to the point of dizziness and she snorts like a pig — perhaps because we named her after a Chinese pork dish.)

She often lays on the the threshold of Simeon's bedroom as if to say, "Nothing to see here. Everything's under control. Move along." She is a constant reminder that family is worth protecting.

Maintain a non-anxious presence.

Simeon is neck-deep in the Grabby Phase. Considering MuShu's deep affection for Simeon, she often positions herself within baby fathom. Simeon yanks, tugs, jerks and tweaks Mu Shu's ears, whiskers, head and tail without mercy; and she just sits there. She doesn't necessarily like it. But she doesn't nip at him — not so much as a yelp; she doesn't even run away; She tolerates it.

While I am neck-deep in the Everything-Simeon-Does-Is-Cute Phase, I know it won't last forever. There will be times when Simeon will push any one of my many buttons, and keep pushing them, in fact. In those red button moments, I'll do my best to remember Mu Shu remaining non-anxious as Simeon mistook her tail for a teething ring.

Tradition is a gift

2008-12-09T12:33:00.006-05:00

One of the most wonderful things about the holidays is that it is when so many traditions get started and cared for.

The best thing about being a new parent is the privilege of showing your child so many things (nearly everything) for the first time. I take nothing for granted. "Simeon this is a black key on the piano, and this is a metronome. This – it's a vinyl record of Stevie Wonder's best work, in my opinion, Songs in the Key of Life. This is an orchid, one of the most beautiful flowers and most difficult to keep alive. Oh, and it sits on a plant stand — that's what this is.

This season has given me opportunity to show Simeon his first snowfall, Christmas tree and Red Ryder BB gun. But, I'm most looking forward to Simeon seeing my parents sing O Holy Night for the first time.

I'm not sure when the tradition of my parent's singing O Holy Night on Christmas Day started, but I'm certain that it was my Grandpa Noel who got it going. He would request this song every year, without exception. I'm not even sure he knew what he was starting — which is a common attribute to the best traditions, in my opinion. This is the tradition that keeps my Grandpa Noel alive in my heart. It's what calls on me to remember everything else I loved about him. It inspires me to ask my Grandma to tell me, or retell me about him.

I'm grateful to share the O Holy Night tradition with Simeon 16 days from now, and it will likely mean something completely different to him, and me.

--

Traditions are for sharing. It's in this spirit that I've included video of what, for me, is a sacred tradition.

What is a favorite holiday tradition for you or your family? Please share.

Carlisle

2008-12-01T10:29:00.009-05:00

Please, do yourself a favor and read this story from the Lexington Herald-Leader. The characters from Carlisle, Kentucky seem to have leaped straight out of an abandoned Coen Brothers script. If you're feeling engorged from this past weekend's festivities and too sloth-like to actually click the link and read the story, I'll paraphrase for you:

Frances Barton needed to move her trailer.
She hires a guy named "Pancake" 200 dollars to move her trailer — with a farm tractor.
The trailer breaks down on the Highway, blocking the road for several hours
Sheriff Dick Garrett gets involved and tries fruitlessly to move the single-wide off the road — at first.
A determined Garrett orders two farmers to tip Barton's trailer into the side ditch.
Barton's Trailer disintegrates.
Barton's family, "a mishmash of real kin and unofficially adopted kids, teens and young adults" along with a mess of pets are left with no home to spend Thanksgiving.

If you still haven't read the story, well, you're missing out on priceless tidbits like: The Sheriff's campaign slogan in 2006 was "More Dick." Seriously.

Before you go thinkin' that I'm a heartless jerk getting some sick pleasure from Frances' Thanksgiving from hell... the story has a happy ending. A billionaire heard her story and bought her a new house on wheels.

Contributing to my fascination with this story is that I have my own Carlisle, Kentucky story.

Carlisle, as my father-in-law says, is on the way to Nowhere. I disagree with him only slightly. For me, Carlisle was on the way (in an out-of-the-way kind of way) to Morehead, Kentucky where I was to visit Sarah in her home for the first time.

Sarah and I had been dating for a short while when it came time for one of the early important courtship steps — meeting her parents.

My parents' MR2 (it looked something like this) was my chosen and only method of transportation at the time. I affectionately knew that car as Mister Two.

My trip didn't take place before MapQuest, but it was before I had fully adopted its use into my traveling methodology. BMQ (Before MapQuest (I love me some acronyms)(...and parentheses)), I would rely on directions the old-fashioned way; someone would tell me how to get from here to over yonder. I preferred the landmark method. "Take a left at the Suds Car Wash and then a right after you pass the house with the yellow shutters" worked for me. There's a couple problems with this: 1) the landmark method is problematic in the dark (are those yellow or brown shutters?); 2) The person giving the landmark-based directions really needs to be a landmark person too.

I would be driving at night, and I'm pretty sure it was under a new moon. And, Sarah's Dad sure don't need no stinking landmarks to get from here to there. When he gave me directions, the macho in me couldn't bear to ask if there happened to be a Skyline Chili, or at least a uniquely shaped boulder, when I turn onto KY11. So, I took my notes, and off I went.

I was doing well, by my standards. I made it out of Anderson, down to 74, meandered around Cincinnati, to the Double A Highway. I drove past my first turn, but caught myself; I whipped a U-wee and made my turn at KY11; no harm done. Feeling good. On to KY 32...

Here's where the trip went from care-free to precarious. I was approaching an intersection where the postings said that whether I went left, right, or straight I would still be on 32. I knew didn't want to go west, which was a left turn. But, still I had two options. My left brain, which I use sparingly, told me, "Ryan, the opposite of west is east. West is left, east must be Right." So wrong.

The MR2 handled the midnight-dark serpentine road with aplomb. There were several curvy road signs, none quite as descriptive as the one to the left, but there should have been. For 45 minutes there was nothing but me and the 10 yard halo of the headlights. No landmarks, ner nuthin'. After those 45 minutes, hope beamed in the distance. Had I finally made it to Morehead? Nope. A Shell station, which that night resembled Grand Central.

As lost as I was feeling, a Shell station sighting was a welcome one. You see, BMQ was also BMP (Before Mobile Phone) for me. I might have been the last baby boomer's kid to get a cell phone.

Okay, I swear to you, there were 50 pickup trucks in that Shell station parking lot, every one of them Ford F150s; all were equipped with gigantic muddin' tires, naked lady silhouette mudflaps, gun rack, one of these, and I'm fairly certain a 12 point buck antler mounted on the grill. Mister Two could have fit comfortably in the bed of any one of the beasts. As intimidating as this V8 Convention was, the people in attendance were more frightening; after all, I could only assume they knew how to use the guns on those racks.

I parked in the only spot not occupied by an F150 — in the little gap between an actual parking space and the dumpster. I slinked over to the walkway that hugged the outside walls of the convenience store. Opposite the storefront was a lineup of gentlemen sitting on tailgates. I tried not to look in their direction, but I think I'm safe in saying they all were wearing sleeveless flannel shirts, Wrangler jeans, trucker caps and belt buckles the size of Mister Two's hubcaps.

I made it to the pay phone, conveniently positioned at center stage. I was one banjo string pluck away from running for my life. There was no banjo music, so I dropped my coins in and started dialing.

Sarah answered, "Hello, are you lost?" No sense in denying it. "Here's my Dad."

Sarah's Dad asked me where I was. I had no idea, so I said, "I have no idea."

He replied, "Well, can you ask someone?"

Apparently, he had never been to this Shell station. But the macho in me won again, "Okay."

I turned around and asked anyone that would listen, "where am I?"

Appearing completely put off, the guy directly in front of me slurred, "Caw-laawl." I turned back to the pay phone and told my future Father-In-Law, "The guy told me that I'm in Caw-laawl." I was pretty sure Caw-laawl was a level of Hell. Why didn't I pay more attention to Dante's Inferno in high school?

Sarah's Pop: "What?"

"He said, Caw-laawl."

"Can you ask him again?"

I found out that my macho definitely has limits. I told him that there was no way I was asking again. Thankfully, he had a map of Kentucky handy and perused the neighboring counties for a town that, with the proper Kentucky accent, might sound like "Caw-laawl."

"Carlisle!," he sounded. He went on to tell me exactly how to get from here to over yonder.

It's fitting that Sarah's Dad, now Simeon's Granddad, told me about the trailer debacle story in the Lexington Herald-Leader. After we were done laughing about that one, I got to tell my "Caw-laawl" story again as if neither of us had ever heard it. That's what makes a good personal story, isn't it?

My hope for Ms. Barton is that in the comfort of her new home, she'll be able to one day laugh about the Sheriff who ordered two farmers to tip her single-wide into a ditch and threatened to fine her for the mess he had just made.

Thanksgiving Breakfast

2008-11-27T10:27:00.002-05:00

Simeon had heard all the hubbub about about Thanksgiving meal and had this to say: "My first Thanksgiving meal? It was like Star Wars Episode 1 The Phantom Menace — a lot of hype, but pretty bland. And, my Dad was fruitlessly trying to get me to smile the whole time — more annoying than funny — sorta like JarJar Binks. All in all, I'm just thankful my first Thanksgiving meal is over."

Take Mini Driver off my credits

2008-11-25T12:41:00.003-05:00

Sarah has been lobbying for a larger vehicle — a crossover (clever marketing term to make me not feel environmental guilt for driving an SUV) more specifically — for some time.

"It's much more practical," she argued.

"When we have the baby, I will need something higher off the ground than the Camry," she would say.

The Toyota Camry that Sarah has been driving is getting up in years, so we have been proactive in saving for a new crossover. One problem, I thought it was a good idea to put our car savings in the stock market. Have you seen the stock market lately? That money turned from "car money" to Simeon's college savings faster than I could say "Wall Street Bailout."

"Well," I said, "we have more equity in my Mini, it probably makes more sense to sell my car to buy the new one. Then I'll drive the Camry and you can drive the new car." It was a moment of complete selflessness — or lunacy — I'm not sure which. Sarah wasted nary a nanosecond in taking me up on the offer.

I have driven a 2004 Mini Cooper named Pepé since, well, 2004. I loved that car. I loved that it's fuel efficient. I loved that I could parallel park where no other car would dare, unless it was lowered in by a helicopter. I loved when people would marvel at how a man of above average size, like myself, could fit comfortably inside. I loved the looks I would get when pulling up to the garden center at Lowe's and load massive amounts of soil, mulch and plants into the back. I understood their intrigue; It was like watching clowns pile in to a VW Beetle. And, I loved the styling and design that you just don't get in a Ford Taurus. To me, inside the cab is where form and function live happily ever after.

As you might have surmised from all the "-ed" suffixes in the paragraph above, I said "Adiós" to Pepé this weekend.

I spent most of the day on Sunday cleaning the Mini, and then the evening feeling sad about selling it. Since then, I've just felt bad about feeling sad. After all, it's just a car, a material thing, right?

Last night, I went to the garage to meet our new car. It's a 2005 Hyundai Santa Fe (I haven't given it a name yet, but I'm thinking Kimchi). I spent the first two minutes in the driver's seat playing with all the buttons and switces while trying to convince myself that this Santa Fe is not a gateway vehicle to a minivan.

Then, I imagined the three of us on road trips together, kayaks strapped to the roof, bike rack on the back, jogging stroller in the back, and well, I'm okay with not being a Mini driver.

Allow me to introduce myself

2008-11-20T10:21:00.006-05:00

Emelia always has a big morning greeting waiting for me in the kitchen. That's just one of the reasons I love her.

She is one of many who Robert Mugabe has it out for, so she's here on political asylum from Zimbabwe. I have scarcely known someone so full of joy and energy. It's contagious. To top it off, she wears a beret. How charming is that?

Emelia also helps clean our house, which is why once a month she's in the kitchen to give me a big morning greeting. This morning was no different. Well, a little different.

In sync with my first step on the cold tile kitchen floor, Emelia turned and said, "Goooood Mohning, Baba Simeon!" I asked for her to repeat herself, which I often do; my ability to find the English language deep within her Zimbabwean accent is still a work in progress. "I said, good mohning Baba Simeon."

She went on to tell me that in Zimbabwe, when a person has a child or grandchild, you no longer use your first name. Baba means father. That makes me father of Simeon — Baba Simeon.

It's wonderful, a perfect reflection of how I feel nowadays. I have never felt so selfless in my life. I spent a good many years as Ryan Noel; Then, I spent a good many more learning to be Husband Sarah; Now, I have another name to grow into.

Hello, my name is Baba Simeon.

'Tis nesting season

2008-11-11T12:43:00.005-05:00

You know those lazy cold weather days when you just want to put on your most comfortable lounging clothes, make a warm beverage of choice, curl up under a blanket with your beloved and watch a movie or four?

I wish every wintry day was like this.

Spooning on the couch, when combined with the elements mentioned above, is nice — and perfectly lazy. But spooning comes with a few impositions that stand in the way of complete relaxation:

My bottom arm always falls asleep.
What if I need to go to the bathroom, or get a refill of my warm beverage? I don't want Sarah to have to get up every time and then have to get the blankets situated all over again.
Sarah's hair sometimes gets in my nose - and that really tickles
I can't see Sarah's eyes to know if she's fallen asleep on me; She needs a friendly nudge on occasion.

I concede that these two problems aren't major, but there's no reason we can't do lazy better. Doing lazy better — this is what motivated me and Sarah to create The Nest.

It's simple:

Pick your spot. We find that nestled in next to the love seat and couch is best (the cushion-free furniture makes a nice spot to place snacks and beverages),
Pull all the cushions off of your couches, love seats, etc.
Arrange cushions neatly (pile extra cushions an pillows at the head)
Move an ottoman (makes a handy remote control holder) or other piece of furniture in so the only open side of the nest is at the foot (where the TV is)
Pile in loads of blankets
Press play

The term "nesting" often refers to expectant parents getting the house ready for the newest member of your family. Maybe that is why Sarah and I often dreamed of a time when our own kid(s) would join us in The Nest. Between Godfather films, we would talk about how fun it would be to Nest as a family; it could be a Noel tradition.

Well, we just had our first Nest-worthy days of the season this past weekend. So, while Sarah changed Simeon's diaper and put him into his cuddly blue fleecy sleep sack, I prepared The Nest and queued the movie — Sweeney Todd.

I know, Sweeney Todd is totally inappropriate for a child. But, I got to cover his eyes, like my mom would have done to me (and probably still would), every time ole Sweeney decided to slash an unsuspecting patron's throat — which was roughly every 47 seconds.

Even with Tim Burton's creepiest, Simeon knew what to do in The Nest: curl up with his beloved and relax.

Grow up? Nah.

2008-11-10T19:46:00.005-05:00

I'm not sure I'll ever grow out of getting Dum-Dum lollipops from the bank, bubblegum toothpaste from the dental hygienist, plastic spider rings for 10 skee-ball tickets, or stickers for showing bravery when faced with a flu shot.

Love my little law breaker

2008-11-04T16:31:00.002-05:00

The quickest way to creepy

2008-11-02T17:15:00.013-05:00

I spend every October growing a beard, such as it is. My beard isn't very full the way beards are supposed to be — not like my dad's beard. My dad's beard is so even and fine that my mom threatens divorce at the mere mention of him shaving. We'll never know whether she means it, because my dad loves her too much to risk finding out. He's had a beard for as long as I can remember, with one notable exception.

I was 3, maybe 4, when my mom and I came home from somewhere — probably a fabric store (My admittedly selective memory places me in a fabric store with my mom for about 72% of my formative years.) The bathroom door at the top of the stairs slammed shut in perfect time with my mom opening the front door. Half a beat later my mom cried, "Daaaaave! Did you shave your beard?!" That was the first and only time I've seen my dad sans facial fur.

My beard is partly a celebration of my favorite season, autumn, but mostly it is so I can have a mustache for Halloween. While scary is Halloween's calling card, I settle comfortably into creepy. My hypothesis is that the quickest way to creepy is to shave your beard down to a mustache. Below is my Halloween experiment (I call it: 1980s Disney Dad) that supports this hypothesis, and also supports my mother's position that my dad allow the razor to continue catching dust.

Privy

2008-10-30T13:52:00.010-04:00

Priv•y
adjective (privy to) sharing in the knowledge of (something secret).
noun (pl. privies) a toilet in a small shed outside a house.

--

This past August I went for my annual pilgrimage to Somewhere, Kentucky, with some of my best friends on the planet (I wrote about the impending trip here.) What I did not mention was the amount of food consumed over a course of 3 days (snack cakes, trail mix, hobo pies, oh my). And what I don't need to mention is that food, once eaten, has to go somewhere; and that somewhere is the bottom of a ditch with a cathedral and throne straddling it.

After a day or more of eating our weight in campfire fried potatoes and downing a few cups of french-pressed coffee we were collectively, well, creating something.

I liked it. I was proud of it. I did what I could to make sure I wasn't going to be like the jerk that yanks the Jenga® peg out carelessly and makes the tower collapse. Carefully, I would adjust my position so I might leave our creation taller, stronger, than I found it. During this adjustment period, I noticed I wasn't the only one in awe of this work in progress.

A giant mosquito! It was like one of those mosquitoes you'd see along the Amazon. (Okay, I've never been to the Amazon and am not altogether sure they have giant mosquitos. But, it's a good bet. Let's just say the Amazon has mammoth mosquitos so I can finish my story.) Where was I? Oh yeah — A giant mosquito!

You won't believe this, but that little bugger wasn't even flapping his wings. He was just hovering on the updraft like a pterodactyl on the coastline. It's true.

While I was impressed by his gliding acumen, I've never liked mosquitoes, for all the obvious reasons. And I certainly wasn't going to risk him biting me in the only spots I've managed to keep mosquito-bite free my entire life. In that moment I thought, "Ryan, how cool would it be to make a meaningful addition to the tower and give this mosquito a proper burial." What's that old saying? Oh yeah. That would be like killing two mosquitoes with one bomb.

I made one final adjustment. Bombs away!

Bugs-eye.

--

I'm really sorry about the puns. I'm a dad, though. It's my right.

Smiling through tears

2008-10-17T12:06:00.007-04:00

My friend, Rod, said to me, "when you're expecting a child, people warn you about the wrong things." I agree.

Don't get me wrong, people generally have good intentions when it comes to helping you prepare for parenthood. But, what they're usually preparing you for is lack of sleep, hundreds of dirty diapers, whether to pacify or not, etc.

What people should warn expectant parents about is the inexplicably large love you'll have for that child, and the reward and challenge that come courtesy of this love.

In the moment Simeon was passed from Dr. Hurry to Sarah, I could instantly see the power I had as a child to bring unspeakable joy and heartbreak to my parents. Suddenly, the familiar parental refrain, "when you're a parent, you'll understand...," didn't seem so trite. This week has been illuminating in that regard.

When I get emotional, my cheeks tighten up, like I've got Gobstoppers stuffed between my upper gums and cheek bones. I feel like I've had a mouth full of Gobstoppers since Tuesday.

Tuesday was Sarah's first day back to work, which coincides (not coincidentally) to Simeon's first day of daycare. I knew the day was coming, but I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know how difficult it would be to turn over the child, whom we've been life and love support for three solid months, to strangers. Sarah says they're really sweet strangers, but still — strangers.

The emotions inherent to this event have tested me and the civility of our marriage for a couple of days. It has not been easy. In the midst of such tumult, it's difficult to understand how a coo or a half-smile can light me up, but it does.

This morning, on the heels of a very difficult week, Simeon beamed as I changed his diaper. It was a great gift he gave me. He showed me that I can still smile — even with a mouth full of Gobstoppers.

Stories beget stories

2008-10-13T12:28:00.008-04:00

I have spent two of the past four weekends at storytelling festivals. First, was the Cave Run Storytelling Festival, then came the Hoosier Storytelling Festival. Describing a storytelling festival, for some reason, is every bit as difficult to describe as getting someone to understand what I do for a living (my friends say, "... so you sit around and draw pictures all day?" My reply is, "close enough.") But, I'll do my best.

A storytelling festival — think big tent revival. There's a big tent plus a revival of our almost lost oral tradition.

In most cases, skilled speakers and writers tell tales, some tall, some true, some mostly true, some folksy, some familial, some historical, all to an audience ready to listen and imagine. But, my favorite thing about a storytelling festival is that it almost always blows the dust off of stories of my own that I have nearly forgotten.

A couple weeks back, at Cave Run, Bil Lepp was telling tales. Lepp, a teller of tall tales, explained that male fascination with how far he can pee is the real reason for hunting from a tree stand. If you put your tree stand 80 feet in the air, guess what — you can pee 80 feet! Well, I have no interest in hunting, but Bil's point prompted me to check eBay for the cheapest tree stand that could still support my 210 pounds plus a gallon jug of drinking water or two.

I've long thought that urination is a competitive sport waiting to happen (so has my friend Art, who made this great TV spot).

As a kindergartner, I remember lining up with my friends Stephen and Darryl Mangus at the urinal and carefully backing away as far as we could until our stream began to weaken; then we'd just as carefully, but more urgently, move back toward the urinal. We tried really hard not to make a complete mess. As you might have guessed the boy who peed furthest won bragging rights until the next Piss Off.

Our game wasn't called a Piss Off at the time, my mom wouldn't let me say "piss off", although that's exactly what our game did to the janitor.*

*I'd like to use this footnote to apologize to the janitor at King's Academy, Oklahoma City, 1981.

The first SPAM-ME Awards

2008-10-08T15:44:00.002-04:00

I have spent most of my e-mailing existence getting frustrated with the amount of spam I receive. As a member of the advertising community, I know that most ads are directed at a particular demographic or target audience. So hypothetically, if you're a male enhancement company, it would be in your company's interest to target your communications to men with small ... well, you can see why spam irritates me.

I've spent far too much time being irritated by spam, so I'm embracing it. I want to make spam better. I've decided to start the SPAM-ME Awards, which celebrate the best email subject lines that get captured by my spam filter.

My goal in creating this award is that it will encourage creativity in spam writers who too often rely on disgusting and overt subject lines like, "Get a ma$$ive **** to pleaze all naked Russians of the Univers3." I mean, Simeon is, like, 12 months away from his first e-mail account. I don't want him subjected to this smut. Be more discreet, creative, and grammatically correct, Mr. and Ms. Spamwriter. You can do better than that.

So, let's find out who our lucky SPAM-ME award winners are (please hold your applause and boos until the end of the awards ceremony):

The "Could Be For The Do-it Yourself Pumpkin Farmer" SPAM-ME goes to:

Grow fat ones yourself

The "Maybe It's An Omaha Steaks Promo" SPAM-ME goes to:

More meat is never excessive

The SPAM-ME in the "Anatomical Public Service" category goes to:

Penile Health Publication

The "Entrepreneurial Amish" SPAM-ME goes to:

Horses for loan

The "Bob the Builder" SPAM-ME goes to:

Give your new tool some practice

The "Luis Vuitton" SPAM-ME goes to:

Surprise her with the nicest bag in town

{I just want to reiterate, all of the winners were subject lines of emails I actually received}

Nolte + X = Busey

2008-10-03T15:22:00.012-04:00

It occurred to me the other day, that there are only two degrees of separation between Nick Nolte and Gary Busey. You can take a dash of Nolte, add a smidge of just about anything, and you get Busey. Allow me to illustrate my point.

First, let's get our Nolte, stir in a little cocaine – voila! A-busey!

You need more evidence? Okay. Happy to oblige. This time, let's take a Mugshot Nolte, throw in some Mr. Ed...

Woah, buddy! Gotta keep the reins tight on this Busey.

You're starting to come around, I think. But, you need a bit more convincing. Let's try one more experiment.

Okay, this time we're going for the standard Nolte (I love the versatility of this Nolte), add a litte MJ — Ow! I think Billy Jean was Busey's lover. It's easy to see how "the girl" might have mistaken Michael Jackson for his father. I was skeptical before I saw this Busey, but I guess the kid wasn't Michael's son.

Emotional muscles in their infancy

2008-09-23T09:49:00.004-04:00

So, you've been jogging consistently, lifting some weights and riding your bike on occasion. You're in pretty good shape, right? Well, you decide to play basketball with kids 15 years your junior and the next day your body feels ravaged. Muscles ache in places you didn't even realize you had muscles. You're sore because you're using under-utilized muscles. The great thing is, that your muscles (the ones you didn't know you had) are breaking down, but when they rebuild they're stronger.

Yesterday, Sarah called me in tears. She was at the doctor's office with Simeon, and he had just received his first round of vaccinations and I could hear him crying in the background. Meetings be damned, I wanted to drive to him and comfort him. But I couldn't. I've progressed (I think I can call it that) in my career to the point where I have real responsibilities. But these responsibilities felt very flimsy in the moment. I gutted out the rest of the day, and drove home as quickly as possible. I needed to hold him.

When I arrived, he was clearly not himself. He had a rough day; you could see it all over his face. The timbre of his cry was one I hope to never hear again. After thirty minutes of crying, Simeon fell asleep.

He was exhausted, and I was wrung out.

Sat down for dinner, and started to cry.

Walked by his room, started to cry.

Laid on the couch, started to cry.

I asked myself, "What's become of me?" Even that made me cry.

The only thing I can figure is that I've had some emotional muscles that haven't seen much (or any) work and have become atrophied. I suspect that these emotional muscles really only see work once you become a parent. This theory makes me feel slightly better about being a blubbering idiot, at least.

I was discouraged that these emotional muscles felt so weak. Dads are supposed strong and stable family presence, right? That's how my dad seemed when I was growing up, anyway.

However, upon reflection, I'm actually encouraged to know that I have the muscles to begin with; and, Lord willin', after the soreness subsides they'll rebuild and become stronger.

Saturdays with Simeon

2008-09-16T11:49:00.005-04:00

Saturday is a good day for very well established reasons, so I need not explain them. But, Saturday's have just gotten better for me. You see, Sarah has asked if she can go out on Saturday mornings to work out and maybe have breakfast with a friend or two. That, of course, leaves me and Simeon at home, just the two of us.

I may have a difficult time telling you why it was so wonderful, as most of the joys of fatherhood seem very slippery when it comes to writing about them. So, I'll run down our first Saturday morning’s activities, and maybe we can discover what made it so great, together.

Simeon woke me up gently. Not a cry so much, but a whimper as if to say, “Dad, I’m awake now. Let’s hang out.”
I held him in front of me and asked him what he was going to have for breakfast, and told him what I was going to have in my best British accent (which mysteriously transitioned into a New Zealand accent) — this coaxed many smiles out of him. One smile alone is enough to make my day.
He let me eat my breakfast before he started licking his lips.
I fed him and he looked curiously at me the entire time. He burped well, so no stomach ache.
I changed his cloth diaper, which makes him bear a striking resemblance to a Sumo wrestler. He stared the ink drawing of a monkey (Sarah's named him Moe) I put next to his changing table.
Saturday is college football day, so I put him in an IU shirt that our friend John Garrison gave him.
I laid on the floor with him in his little play gym. We played with the dangling rattles and such.
I noticed how his neck is getting quite strong, so I ran to get his Bumbo (its a little baby chair that allows babies to sit upright)
Sarah came home and told me you’re not supposed to put babies his age in Bumbos yet. Simeon begged to differ.
We took him to a focus group about my friend’s baby food enterprise. In the middle of my contribution, Simeon poo’d in the most indiscreet way, and looked darned pleased doing it.
We took him to the library and the grocery
He slept the rest of the day

Nothing extraordinary. I just seem to find new ways and reasons to love Simeon everyday — especially Saturdays.

Tom Bodett – He's no George Lopez

2008-09-08T10:12:00.007-04:00

Tom Bodett is a real guy.

Through the 80s and 90s I'd always figured that Tom Bodett was a figment of some ad guy's imagination. I'm not altogether sure how, in all my NPR listening, I was lost on the fact that Tom Bodett is a man who lives in Vermont, United States of America, and Alaska before that.

I've always liked Tom Bodett, the character. As a child, my family sought out Motel 6s (preferably with a pool) like they were Mexican restaurants (my parents are like blood hounds when it comes to sniffing out the nearest mexican restaurant), I always felt a kinship with him. He was just so likable as the "we'll leave the light on for ya" guy, that it made me feel better about staying in a place where the bed spread felt like sleeping with a curtain.

I found out about Tom Bodett's double-life from a friend, Colin, whom I had only talked to for the first few months of having "known" him. After we met in person, we were discussing how we had one another pictured based on only knowing one another over email and phone conversations. Colin mentioned that he thought I sounded like Tom Bodett on the phone. I can see how he got that; I do have a very deliberate delivery. Colin also mentioned that Tom Bodett (I can't seem to type only "Tom" or "Bodett" – always "Tom Bodett") has a blog. He might as well have told me that Max Headroom runs a breakdancing clinic in Des Moines.

I was all like, "Woah, woah, woah, Tom Bodett is real?" He was all like, "yeah, and a talented writer, too."

I had to check it out. To my everlasting delight, Tom Bodett's writing and podcasts are completely consistent with the Motel 6 character I've grown to love. He does humor that makes you smile, not belly laugh. I like that.

I would like to think that Tom Bodett is different than other characters who are based on themselves. For instance, I suspect that when Jerry Seinfeld, Larry David and George Lopez (I've never actually watched the George Lopez Show – not that I'm admitting to, anyway) play "themselves," they're actually playing a caricature of themselves, or someone who shares their name; I don't think that's a stretch.

It is conceivable that Tom Bodett has created a public character that he maintains through various media, that he's giving people, like me, what they want; but, I don't want to believe that. I choose not to.

I choose to believe that Tom Bodett, if given the chance, will leave the light on for me.

COTRHPMD

2008-09-02T12:33:00.003-04:00

Sundays in the Noel household are a day of rest. Part of our weekly rest exercise is that we don't cook – without a microwave anyway. This means that Sunday is, as Sarah puts it, "clean out the refrigerator hodge podge meal day (COTRHPMD)". COTRHPMD is just as it sounds. All of the food we've accumulated in the previous week(s) or month(s) gets pulled out of the ice box (I'd like to make a motion to re-popularize the word "ice box" in place of refrigerator), and spread out on the counter. You are free to either eat a random collection of foods, or do as Sarah often does, combine different food items into a new never-thought-of-before-and-for-good-reason dish.

We moved COTRHPMD to monday this week because of the long Labour (can we also start putting the "u" back in Labor) Day weekend. We figured that if protestants can move the Sabbath from Saturday to Sunday we should have no trouble moving our own faintly sacred tradition.

So here's what was on the menu yesterday:

For Ryan:

A 4-day old frankfurter with ketchup, whole grain mustard and sauerkraut
A ham submarine sandwich donated by our dog-sitter when we went to pick up our dog, Mu Shu. (I'm not sure why she gave it to us. Maybe she's like my great grandmother who would always insist you take a biscuit before you left the house.)
A salad with all the veggies that are a day or two from being unfit to eat.

For Sarah:

Gnocchi (a dumpling-like potato pasta) that Sarah made longer ago than I can remember, and has been frozen since then.
Vegetarian breakfast sausage links — she mixed these into her Gnocchi. The thought of this still makes me gag a little bit.
A salad (see salad description above)

For Simeon:

We defrozeified some old breast milk just so he wouldn't feel left out.

Oh, and it wouldn't be a real COTHRPMD if after dinner Sarah didn't say, "Ryan, why do you always have your hands down your pants?"

Pride (In the name of Marcus)

2008-08-26T21:33:00.004-04:00

I'm so proud. I can hardly stand it.

Sunday, August 24th (one month and one day after Simeon's birthday) my sister gave birth to Marcus Kai Williams. On that day, I found out that there is such thing as love at no sight. I haven't met Marcus, won't meet him until Christmas, but gosh, I love that little boy.

I can't type anymore and expect to keep my eyes dry. So, I'm just gonna stop. But not before I say — I couldn't be more proud.

Two kinds of people

2008-08-18T12:44:00.006-04:00

"There's two kinds of people in this world: those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don't. My ex-wife loves him."

– Bob (Bill Murray) explained to Dr. Marvin why his marriage ended in divorce (I just realized that I've referenced What About Bob? twice in my blog's relatively short existence)

I was at an Indianapolis Indians game this past week with a friend and he came seat-hopping down to our spot on the first base line with a beer and tray of nachos in hand. We discovered that we have a shared passion for nachos.

I said, "have you had the nachos at Old Point Tavern?"

"Funny you mention it," he went on, "there's two philosophies on how to make nachos."

My interest was piqued, because he's a chef n'all. "How so?," I hadn't ever given nachos that much thought, I guess.

He told me that you can make nachos piled "high and deep" (<-- also a What About Bob reference), like they do at Old Point Tavern, or you can spread the chips out flat on a giant plate with cheese spread evenly on top. He explained that the second nacho execution produces a perfect nacho bite – each and every bite. While the "high and deep" method makes quite the visual impression, you're left with "dry" areas deep in the nacho pile.

My wife has often preached the virtues of the "perfect bite." You should watch Sarah eat. She measures and assembles each bite to maximize flavor potential. So, I don't even need to ask which side of the nacho divide Sarah has planted herself.

She's a proud member of the "out flat" camp.

I had to give it some thought. I'm a visual guy, so the "high and deep" pile is appealing. I can remember being mildly concerned with what I'd do with those dry extra chips at the end, but it had never bothered me that much. But, I could definitely see my friend's point on the "out flat" style. He made a very good case.

I was torn.

In the end, I decided I'm not going to be like Bob and risk my marriage to Sarah just to be a "high and deep person."

I'm "out flat" and proud.

Taste is a fickle thing

2008-08-14T22:44:00.008-04:00

I'm the biggest sucker for list and countdown shows. I must be the prototype for VH1's target market. Man, I can't feel more uncool. When did I stop being in MTV's target market and start being part of VH1's?

The last couple of days I've been kicking around in my head some things that I used to not like, even hate, but now I can't get enough of. So, here it goes:

Jalapeño peppers – maybe it's just taken me awhile to get over my mom squirting me in the eye with jalapeño juice. (it was an accident, so no need to call Social Services)
NPR – I'm not exactly sure when I started caring what was going on in the World, but I do now
Running long distances
Mushrooms – Shitake, Portobella, Morel — I like them all
Eggplant – If you don't think you like it, you haven't had it fried
Reading novels – also sitting still long enough to read on the beach
Strong coffee – no, very strong coffee
Adam Vinatieri
Cole Slaw
David Bowie – he scared me to death in Labrynth as a kid, but now I love him for his music
Sauerkraut
Taking a nap – I used to resent being made to take a nap, and my parents for always having to nap on Sunday afternoons.
Sushi – admittedly, my first exposure to sushi was at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, so there was no chance for me to like it
Tofu
Small dogs – our Shih Tzu, Mu Shu has won me over

What people, place or things did you detest that you now love?

Fishin' and spittin' – something to look forward to

2008-08-13T21:56:00.005-04:00

In about a week's time, I will be making my annual trip to Lewis Lake, Somewhere, Kentucky, with some of my best friends.

Sarah's extended family has created this retreat in the most bucolic (<-- that one's for you Colin) setting one can imagine. Some of the features and amenities that have me aching to get there are:

A 1 mile road that passes through a tobacco field (where it's not uncommon to see a wild turkey or two), through a creek bed and requires a truck or SUV to navigate
A cabin – a cinder block structure, really)
An aluminum boat – complete with a couple wooden oars to navigate the pond for fishing or frog giggin'
Frog gigs
A window A/C unit that sounds like a Boeing 747
A big screen TV that is good for little more than holding your fishing lures and loose change
A luxury outhouse – also serves as a booby trap for locking unsuspecting pooper in with their own stink
Corn hole boards – maybe the most essential amenity for our reunion
A deep fryer – in case we feel so compelled to fry up some of the day's catch
My friend Cliff brings a hammock – I have every intention to read a book while in that hammock, but the hammock is a natural sedative. I think I read 8 words total last year.
Two queen sized beds – have I mentioned there are 6 guys going?

That's a lot to look forward to.

Breakfast with Simeon

2008-08-11T09:10:00.007-04:00

I sat down at the Noel dairy bar for a day-starting meal – me over some Trader's Point Creamery yogurt and Indiana blueberries, Simeon over Sarah's left breast. To my amazement and surprise, Simeon detached to say, "You know Dad (that's what he calls me), I've had a pretty great first 2.5 weeks of life."

"Yeah, Son? Well, we've sure enjoyed having you around. What's made your first 2.5 weeks so great?," I replied.

The rest of our conversation follows:

Simeon: The hospital was cool, 'cause all these people I didn't know yet, but recognized their voices, came to hang out with us. Some even drove great distances to make me feel welcome. Not only that, but those same people brought gifts, lots of gifts. I especially liked the cookie bouquet that Auntie Jill sent. I'd always heard from you what a magical combo milk and cookies are. But, nothing could prepare me for when mom had one of those sugar cookies, and it filtered to her milk – Yum! I could eat, like, 5 ounces of milk and cookies if you let me.

Burp! Excuse me, Mom had cabbage last night.

Anyway, when we got home I was afraid I'd get bored since I had to stay home and allow my immune system to build up for a few days. Bored? Not at all. It was Shark Week! It's never too early for Great White exposure, as far as I'm concerned.

On my sixth day, we went for a walk on the Monon for the first time with Mom, and she let me eat in public for the first time.

Ryan: Yeah, that was my last day of Paternity leave. I thought about how much fun it would be coming home from work to see you and Mom together, but how sad I'd be to leave you in the morning.

Simeon: I was sad to see you leave too. But, Mom has kept me busy so I wouldn't think too much about you leaving.

Ryan: Yeah, I guess your first couple of weeks have been pretty eventful ...

Simeon: Oh, I wasn't finished. I've seen more animals than one can imagine. I went to the Trader's Point Creamery and saw some dairy cows...

Ryan: Yeah, remember when I told your mom that as productive as she's been, she could earn some extra money up at the Creamery?

Sarah: That's still not funny, Ryan. Stop laughing, Simeon.

Simeon: Anyway, I've been to the Zoo twice. Count 'em – ONE, (he uses his middle finger he doesn't know what it means yet) TWO (he held up 4 fingers – motor skills aren't finely tuned yet). I went to the fair and saw some more animals, some were in cages and others were eating fried Twinkies. I saw the World's Largest Boar who also happened to have the World's Largest Boar Testicles.

Ryan: That's hilarious, you noticed his testicles?

Simeon: How could I not? They were the world's largest.

Ryan: It seems like you've been living pretty large, little man.

Simeon: *rolls his eyes and gets back to his breakfast*

I love poo. Poo loves me. We're a happy family.

2008-08-05T21:26:00.005-04:00

It has been over a year and a half since my last poo blog. That is a travesty, if you ask me. I understand that you haven't asked for it, but I just can't resist putting together consonants and vowels to chat about bowels. So, back by unpopular demand ...

Sarah and I went to a class to prepare ourselves for the rigors and joys (more rigors, really) of parenting a newborn. In truth, the only thing I remember about that class was a laminated letter-sized card of poo, a Periodic Poo Table. I was equal parts horrified and intrigued. The chart had pictures, yes pictures, of every stage of poo for the first weeks of life for the newborn. Like Mexican food, it's nearly impossible for poo to look good in a photograph.

There was only one copy of the Poo Table, so each person got to take gander at the poo gammut, and then pass it on to their neighbor saying, "Take a look at the poo on row 2," or "I found where they compared the size of the poo to a quarter especially helpful," in an attempt to stem the awkwardness.

Currently, I think we're in the honeymoon poo period with Simeon. Thanks to the breast milk he gulps, his poo is virtually odorless. I'm amazed that in spite of eating the exact same thing day in and day out, his poo has evolved.

First, it looked like Bovril®, but with a slightly green tint.

Then it transitioned to looking exactly like whole-grain mustard.

And as of yesterday, I was most surprised at how it so strikingly looked like arugula pesto!

I propose that newborn classes use images of Bovril, whole grain mustard and arugula pesto to prepare parents for poo. It's much more photogenic, and people may actually be able to eat dinner after the class.

Thus concludes the first leg of Simeon's tour de poo. I'll keep you updated, whether you like it or not.

Peace, Love and Understanding

2008-07-30T18:26:00.007-04:00

I've been mucking about, trying to encapsulate in words what it is like to have a newborn son. I have met limited, no, zero success.

Is sleep deprivation to blame? Preoccupation with poop? Or is the experience just too darned cool for words?

Last Friday, our first evening home, my parents came by. (I actually think they sleep in the car outside our house, with cell phone in hand, waiting for an invitation to come see their grandson.) My dad was holding Simeon close to his chest. I nestled close to them to combine my gaze with my dad's.

We just stared.

Slightly above a whisper I said, "I could just stare at him for days. My heart is so full of love." Dad responded, "You understand now, don't you?"

In that moment, immersed in a cornucopia of emotions, yearnings and compulsions, my dad put it in a way that I just couldn't. He helped me realize that I don't need to explain the unexplainable. But, with a newborn child comes an understanding that needs no explanation.

I understand.

I'm still sorta speechless.

2008-07-25T19:40:00.003-04:00

Simeon does all his talking with calisthenics. I like that about him.

Good Morning, Son.

2008-07-25T08:45:00.005-04:00

Simeon's stats:
DOB: 07.23/2008
TOB: 11:52 am
8 lbs 2 oz
20 inches

Words Fail

2008-07-24T10:36:00.009-04:00

4:56 a.m.
"Ryan! Wake up!" I sit straight up and look around the room for an intruder. "I think my water broke!," Sarah exclaimed. She wasn't lying. There was a pool of evidence right there on her side of the bed.

--

The car ride – 6:00 a.m.
Sarah's contractions have started in earnest. I don't know what I was thinking. Every time she began a contraction, I wanted to chat. That is when Sarah made the first of two rules – so far.

1. Do not ask me questions.
2. Do not tell jokes – I guess laughing makes contractions hurt extra bad
3. I'm still waiting for the third rule.

--

Hospital arrival – 6:30

I dropped Sarah off at the door with the bags, and a nice lady asks, "Are you okay, miss?"

"Oh, I'm just having a baby," Sarah replied calmly.

I swear, she's Wonder Woman.

--

We're in our room now.

It's so strange to me that you ask a woman in labor to do a bunch of admission and insurance paperwork. I suppose it has to be done.

We're playing some music from the birthing playlist. Among those on the list, "Between My Legs" by Rufus Wainwright and "Here Comes The Sun" by George Harrison.

--

A friend of mine texts me, "Go Horny (The Noel Boy's in utero name), it's your birthday." I show complete lack of judgement by reciting this to Sarah mid-contraction. Dammit, I already forgot rule number 2.

--

Sarah quickly squashed the music with lyrics. There goes my dream of the head coming out to the sounds of "Here Comes The Sun (Son)".

--

Sarah is a superstar! She's endured most of her contractions while sitting on a birthing ball and digging finger nail marks into a wooden chair arm.

--

She's moved to the bed, laying on her side and focused intently on a photo of Charley Young Beach in Maui, where we were married. I've never seen her so focused.

By the way, our doula, Brielle has been a total Godsend. I'm good at the motivational speeches, not so good with the breathing part. I lack focus!

--

11:15 a.m.
Doctor Hurry is in the house. Sarah's getting ready to push!

--

I've never seen Sarah like this. I'm turning white and tearing up, not because of witnessing birth, but seeing Sarah in so much pain (no epidural).

--

Dr. Hurry is doing an amazing job. She said to Sarah, "You were made to birth babies, it just took us a while to get you pregnant." I think Sarah tried to laugh, but this is serious business.

--

Dr. Hurry apologizes to Sarah for blocking her view of the mirror that shows the birth site, Sarah amidst furious pushing says sweetly, "oh, that's okay."

--
11:52 a.m.
40 minutes of pushing, and less than seven hours after Sarah's water broke, baby Simeon David Noel arrived. He wailed as soon as he came out, as did Sarah and I.

--
Words fail.

I'm quite happy with high gas prices

2008-07-22T18:59:00.004-04:00

I've been riding my bicycle more often recently. I like it because I think you get to see the world at just the right speed.

Riding in a car is too fast for me. There is a reason they (the advertising gods, I presume) say to only put seven words on a billboard – because it's hard for anyone to process any more than that. If one can't take in more than seven words, think of all the nuance in our surroundings that are missed while riding in a car.

I run as well, or jog, rather. This is a good speed to see the world as well, except that by the first mile or so, I'm too fixated on one of a few things. I may be trying to keep a particular time, in which case, I stare the screen of my Nike+ iPod and watch my pace fluctuate from 8:07 to 7:53. Or, I may be so tired and/or out of breath that I only focus on the next landmark and hope just to get there; or maybe I'm staring at my feet, making sure I continue to put one in front of the other.

Walking is a good option, too. But, if you're a little A.D.D. like me, it's nice to get more frequent changes in scenery.

Biking, though, is just the right speed. I've gotten to witness everything from a zoo keeper walking an elephant to a man urinating on the side of a building from my moderately comfortable bicycle seat (it doesn't supply the unmatched comfort of the banana seat, to be sure). Riding a bike truly is one of life's simple pleasures.

In summer's past I've chosen to ride my bike to work on Fridays. But, with a little nudge from escalating gas prices, I decided to make a more concerted effort to ride my bike to work every day possible. It's proven quite doable.

I ride to work an average of 4 days a week. I calculated that for every third day of riding my bike to work, I conserve 1 gallon of gas. I've also decided that my twice-weekly trips to the library will be made on my bike. I've saved nearly a tank of gas in last couple of months (any ideas of how I can spend my 50 dollars in savings – diapers excluded).

Saving gas and emissions pale in comparison to the satisfaction I get from starting and ending my work day on the saddle.

The beating we've all taken from the price of petrol seems to have made drivers more tolerant of people on bikes. People often wave me on, or just wave (they waved last summer too, but only with their middle finger). A man just last week stopped and held the door for me as I maneuvered my bike into my office building. How nice.

My co-workers haven't even made fun of my tight biker shorts. Recently.

If you know me, you probably know that I'm not a morning person. I normally don't often utter my first coherent word until about 9:30 a.m. In fact, on my last performance review, it was written, "Can be a bit grumpy before he gets coffee." I can't argue the point. But, since I've been riding to work I've felt noticeably more chipper upon arrival.

It's gotten me to thinkin'. These high gas prices have actually made my quality of life better, my world smaller – and, fingers crossed, my annual performance review more positive. An opportunity was created by high gas prices, and I pedaled right in without even knowing it.

All this has left me wondering – what other opportunities have I missed because I had my foot on the gas and not on the pedals?

Emoticon Invasion

2008-07-17T10:48:00.006-04:00

I was doing some work this morning – and today that was brainstorming some newsletter names for a power company. I was doing my best stream of consciousness act, when I wrote the words "Light Up."

Initially, I thought, "that's kinda cool," until the humor in it hit me. I smiled to myself, and without thinking, it happened. I handwrote this –> :). I had every opportunity to make a normal smiley face, but it just happened. Sideways Smiley! The conventions of email speak have finally taken me over.

Anyone else have similar stories of uninvited digital elements finding their way into your analog lives?

Robot Love

2008-07-16T15:16:00.005-04:00

I have a swelling interest in robots, that has crested in the purchase of a little tin robot (I used by unborn son as an excuse for buying it) from Mass Ave. Toys on, you know, Mass Ave. A friend pointed out that my robot is made in China and is likely lead-infested, but that will not dissuade me from loving it. If anything, it shows my dedication to the little tin box.

I'm not interested in the kind of robots to do something like mow your lawn or bring you a glass of orange juice in the morning. They're too useful for my taste.

My robot has integrity. He looks like tin, and guess what? He is tin. He looks like his insides are a series of cheap interlocking gears and coils. Sure enough, that's what's inside. I don't expect anything more from it. My robot rolls across my dining room table at an exceeding slow pace, has wheels for arms, and that's all I want out of a robot.

I've always loved watching people do the "Robot," and doing the "Robot" myself. It is the dance to save all of us who can't dance from dance floor embarrassment. One can't help but smile and be smiled at when Robot-ing.

Most of all, I love when people impersonate robots. You know why? It's because everybody does it the same. Stiff arms bent at the elbow. Fingers straight out and together. Rigid legs. And, inevitably the words "I am a ro-bot" pass from their lips – in their best monotone voice.

Do me and yourself a favor, stand up wherever you are, and no matter who may be watching and say "I am a ro-bot" while assuming the familiar robot posture.

That's better. It's about time we give robots who do nothing their due.

What's Happened To Me?

2008-07-15T19:46:00.003-04:00

Many things happen to you when you discover that you're having a child. There is no question that Sarah is experiencing more significant physiological and emotional changes than I can possible imagine, but I swear I've experienced some physiological change as well. My chemistry is altered.

Almost immediately following the ultrasound where we first saw a beating heart, I became much more emotional than I ever had been previously. It seemed that any movie with the slightest hint of drama would send me into a funk for a few hours after having watched it. The strained relationship between Dr. Marvin and his son in What About Bob? was more than this heart could handle.

Another thing that happened — I got comfortable around kids, even good with them. I went from wanting to be good with kids, but never quite feeling natural about it, to feeling so natural that it is hard to remember what it was like before.

One more thing I've noticed (not so much a change in chemistry or physiology), is that getting ready to have a child of my own has made me think a lot more about my own childhood. I think this is born out of a desire to visualise (<-- blatant British spelling for effect) what my own son will be like. I mentioned this to my mom. Her reply, "Did you have a good childho--," cutting herself off, "--don't tell me if it was bad."

This is a precarious position she put me in. Here's the thing about my mom. She is always teetering on the edge of tears. If you say something that hurts her feelings, she will cry. If you say something that will make her proud, she'll cry. If you make her happy, she'll cry. For a guy who is openly uncomfortable when others cry, well, like I said it was a precarious position.

I'd already been thinking about my childhood, so I thought I'd make a list of memories (some good and some bad), that all come together to form a darned good childhood, all told. It's a win-win, I can tell my Mom that I had a great childhood, and I don't have to get that awkward feeling inside when someone cries. So here's a representative sample:

Dad mowing the lawn with an orange electric mower, and jumping up to scare me at every pass by the kitchen window
Eating yogurt and watching Jesus movies around Easter time
Mom and I listening to the radio in the kitchen the day Keith Green died. I think I learned about death that day
Getting a TAB® from the church pop machine (the kind you pulled bottles out of, with that metal clanking sound)
Mom bringing home "surprises" – namely the G.I. Joe sleeping bag
Dad making me say "I will shut the door" 100 times, when I left the back door open
Mom saving me from a paddling at school for breaking a window
Walks in the evening that ended with an episode of Gunsmoke on the TV Set
Getting up early to play Pong before I had to go to school
Mom and Dad delaying our move from Oklahoma City a couple times so that I could be with my friends a little bit longer
Road trips in our Nissan Sentra
Waking up for naps in time for Days of Our Lives to end and Sesame Street and Electric Company to begin
Little League games, the concession stand afterwards (and if that wasn't enough sugar), Ice Cream with the whole family
Getting up early on Saturdays to get my allowance
Hiding in closets until my parents got justifiably worried
Late night tennis under the lights
Trips to TG&Y where mom let me get a Golden Book and/or a Star Wars action figure
Saturday breakfast with my dad
When traveling, planning our stops based on where the Hardees was for breakfast, or a Mexican restaurant was at any other time of day
Getting home late at night and learning Great Grandpa Noel had died
Dad telling me it is okay to quit playing football
Being mad at my Mom and Grandma for watching People's Court – All the time!
Playing dodge ball at recess
My Grandma's arm getting pooped on by a Hippo at the Oklahoma City Zoo
Jill coming home for the first time
Grandma and Grandpa buying the first microwave I'd ever seen from Montgomery Ward
Having jar after jar of every kind of creepy crawly organism known to man in the house
Mom rubbing my head and ears when I didn't deserve it

Well, that didn't exactly work out how I thought. I'm beginning to tear up. I should have listened to my own second paragraph.

I'm beginning to understand how you feel, Mom.

Assuming someone's reading this, I'd love to hear some of your favorite or least favorite childhood memories. So please, chime in.

Showering In A New Dimension

2008-07-14T10:31:00.000-04:00

You may or may not know that Sarah and I are expecting a son any day now. I'm officially on call. I'm delighted to be on call. I'm even more delighted that my sister, Jill and her husband Jeremy, are expecting a boy about six weeks after our son is expected to join us in the flesh.

What this means is that this Christmas, our sons will meet for the first time, and our collective family will never be the same. I see that as a very bless-ed thing.

You see, I have a wild imagination, but I don't think it's wild enough to imagine how our family life will change. It certainly wasn't wild enough to imagine having a baby shower moderated by a combined three Mac laptops and the wonder of iChat video. But, that is exactly what happened on Sunday, July 14, and I wasn't sure how to feel about such a technological "advancement", at first.

I try to not frequent baby showers, but this one very much resembled every other shower I've been to. The table in our house was sprinkled with baby-related confetti (storks, I think), and topped with finger foods and a pitcher of lemonade. Family members and my sister's friends funneled in, and we all gathered in the living room. There was one key distinction, the expectant mother was in Flagstaff, Arizona, and all of us were in Indianapolis, Indiana.

I couldn't quite sort out how I felt about the cyber shower, initially. Seeing my sister on the computer monitor only highlighted the distance between us. And, her image pixelating into what resembled a Chuck Close portrait when the Web connection slowed certainly didn't help. Then I realized, I was thinking about how it made me feel.

This occasion wasn't about me. I was about as focused as the aforementioned Chuck Close portrait. It was about Jill and Jeremy. When I adjusted my own focus, I saw a room packed with people to honor the coming of a baby that would arrive 1,604 miles away. I saw both of my aging grandmothers there with my great aunt, and a host of other friends and family who had traveled a significant distance to "see" Jill and her growing belly. This is quite a powerful testament to how loved Jill and Jeremy are, and that is a beautiful picture – no matter how pixelated.

Roman Noble's

2008-07-12T13:56:00.000-04:00

I always had an affinity for Noble Roman's. It's not the food, mind you. It's the memories. You may ask yourself, what's so memorable about Noble Roman's? Well, I'll tell you.

I remember them playing old re-runs of the Three Stooges on TV sets (we called them TV sets then). I loved the Threes Stooges. As a youngster, I used to beg my parents to allow me to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room by the TV so I could stay up late and watch the Stooges.

I remember the hardwood booths, and how they would transform your average flatulence into something that would rattle the Parmesan cheese shaker to the floor and encourage your parents to disassociate themselves with you.

I remember the picture window with the miniature staircase that made it possible for me, and youngsters like me, to watch some chap toss pizza dough. I remember having a serious admiration for whomever was behind that window. At the time, I had no idea that poor guy was probably living in his parents' basement and spending his pizza-tossing money on a 38-sided die for Dungeons and Dragons. In my eyes, he was a deserving of my admiration based solely on how he tossed the dough.

But, I loved Noble Roman's most because of my Mom's utter inability to say, "Noble Roman's." I would set the trap by saying something like, "Hey mom, what's that pizza place called where you can watch them make the pizza through the window?" And she'd step right into my snare, "Roman Nobles."
I'd chuckle.
"No, Noman Roble's."
I'd laugh.
"No, it's Roble Noman's."
I'm rolling at that point.
Then my dad would step in to save her from her rare and very narrowly-focused speech impediment. He'd say, "Sandy, what's my grandpa's first name?"
"Noble" She'd say, quickly followed by "Oh, Noble Roman's. Noble Roman's."
I couldn't count how many times we did this drill. It never got old. In fact, I tried it a few times in recent years, but she's gotten really good at remembering my great-grandfather's name first.

I've since become disenchanted by Noble Roman's. It seems they only exist as those weird fast food combo stores, ala A&W + Long John Silvers or Noble Roman's + TCBY + Convenience Store (I'll never understand how these concepts have survived, let alone flourished). It seems that the original Noble Roman's concept is dead.

Sarah happens to really like TCBY. Well, not necessarily TCBY. She's an equal opportunity frozen tasty treat eater. Sometimes we go to the TCBY + Noble Roman's combo two miles from our house.

It was Waffle Cone Wednesday and there are few things that Sarah loves more than her frozen tasty treats, but one of them is discounted frozen tasty treats. On Waffle Cone Wednesday you can have a waffle cone full of your favorite frozen yogurt for the low, low price of 99 cents. So we went to take advantage of this extraordinary bargain.

As is typical, I make my yogurt choice quickly (it was actually sherbet – orange to be exact) and then wait for Sarah to labor over her decision. It is customary for her to ask for one or more samples before making a decision. Meanwhile, I meandered toward the cash register when I noticed a little point of purchase (POP) sign. As a communications professional, my antennae are acutely tuned into ever little piece of design/advertisement. It feels a lot like a curse at times.

Anyway, there at the cash register was a little POP with a snipe announcing, "New at Noble Romans!" I thought, "Are they bringing the stooges back? The hardwoods? The window into where the magic happens?" No. Not exactly.

I read on. "This pizza has kick! Try our NEW Mexican-style Corn Chip Pizza!"

Corn Chips? Really? Sure enough, there was a Fritos® logo there to substantiate the claim. My curiosity was piqued.

"Loaded with 100% real sausage, 3 types of cheese, jalapeño slivers, and covered with a generous layer of crispy corn chips!"

As it relates to food, my curiosity and judgement are mutually exclusive, most of the time. The one major exception is Fair Food. Even then, I enjoy watching people eat such curiosities at the Fair more that I like eating them myself.

I couldn't help but think, "Oh my Lord, Noble Roman's is taking the Fair Food concept mainstream." This disturbs me because I've always thought that while Fair Food couldn't be worse for you, it's only once a year. Once a year makes it okay. Kinda. Sorta.

Like I said, I was curious – curious enough to visit the Noble Roman's Web site in search for nutrition facts. What kind of damage are we doing to our insides, I wondered?

I found the Nutrition Facts pretty easily. The nutrition facts about the Corn Chip Pizza, however, were not just elusive, but downright invisible. I did my best to try and piece it together, but couldn't. Just how much is a "generous layer of corn chips" anyway?

I backtracked to the nutrition facts main page, where I found this language:

Nutritional Information
Great tasting, high quality products are one of our highest priorities.

We serve a range of high-quality foods that can fit into your balanced diet. We believe that accurate and accessible nutrition information help guests make informed menu choices. The links below will provide you with all the nutritional information needed to help you make choices that are right for you and your lifestyle.

I'm curious. Who's balanced diet does a corn chip pizza fit into? Accurate and accessible nutrition information – Really?

Suddenly, it occurred to me that some guy or gal in some agency, like the one where I work, likely wrote this. In fact, the potential is there for me to participate in this same sort of messaging on a daily basis. It's something I need to be more mindful of, a responsibility I need to take very seriously. I'm not interested in misleading people, or harming people. I generally like people and the potential of people.

Further, it validated what I've spent a reasonable amount of time thinking about. I want to, and will, actively pursue promoting and talking about products, services and people that I really like and believe in.

Because in the end, if the product is hollow (or even damaging) it doesn't matter whether you call it Roman Noble's, Roble Noman's or Noble Roman's, it still leaves me unsatisfied.

Buckle Up. No Don't.

2008-05-22T14:22:00.001-04:00

My wife and I recently visited South Haven, Michigan as a sort of "last hoorah" before our son is born. While there, we visited a charming used book store called Hidden Room Book Shoppe.

It is owned and operated by a married couple, who by appearance, I place in their early 70s. In recent years, I've begun to really enjoy reading. It is no longer the chore it once was. But, what drew me to this store were the aesthetics.

I had the inescapable sense, "this is how a book store should look and feel." Upon entering, on my left was a wall filled with early edition classics. The wall, as high as it was wide, was filled with a stunning selection of books which served as a billboard for "all the best books money can buy that I can't actually afford." The books all cost at least 300 dollars. The reality of not having enough money has never stopped me from taking a closer look, so I crept in.

There they were, most of the classics I've never actually read. I saw the complete Mark Twain collection with beautifully sewn binding, the titles and cover illustrations stamped in foil on colorful fabric book covers. The collective smell of these books left me feeling nostalgic for anything old. For clarity's sake, old is anything from my childhood or earlier.

This bookstore was aisle after aisle of books higher than my longer than average arms could reach.

Sarah and I decided that we would each get a book. We determined a couple years ago that we would no longer buy greeting cards for one another for special occasions. Instead, we buy one another a book and scrawl a loving message on the inside cover.

I owed her one, because we were celebrating our anniversary and for a number of reasons, (all pretty poor excuses, I might add) I hadn't gotten her a book. She agreed to allow me to get a book as well, out of the goodness of her heart, or my incessant begging.

I never knew what a tall task it was to find a book when I had no reason to get a book, aside from me wanting a book. I went blank. I asked myself, "What do I like to read?" Blank. "What authors do I like?" Blank. It's quite a commitment for me to read a book. The relationship usually lasts a long time (I'm not the fastest reader in the world). The pressure was getting to me.

Sarah had long since chosen her book and was applying more non-verbal pressure in a way that only she can. She offers to help me find a book, which I perceive as her way of saying, "Hurry it up, I want to get out of here." Then she stops offering her help and just gives it.

"What authors do you like? What about this," as she pulls books off of the shelf. "I think you'd like this." Then she stated in a stroke of brilliance, "You like John Knowles." Well, yes I do, in fact. A Separate Peace is one of my all time favorites. I think it makes my "All-Time Favorite Books" list because I wasn't made to read it in school. I read it on my own terms, on a beach in Maui. Reading a book on a beach in Maui makes it nearly impossible to not love that book. I digress. Focus, Ryan. Focus.

That was it. I needed to find a John Knowles book. I was pleased as punch to see a hard back copy of Indian Summer, by John Knowles for four dollars. This book was last owned by Mary Lou Slentz, who signed the first page and dated it "Jan – 1967." I printed my name right below hers in my weird upper case/lower case combo I write with:

RyaN DAviD NoeL
May – 2008

Over the course of our get-a-way, I didn't read Indian Summer much. I read 10, 12 pages at the most.

Fast forward to June 15th, please. The weekend of June 15 had lived up to all a Summer weekend should be, in my estimation. I bought a tin robot, I had a Father's Day dinner with my parents, I went for a bike ride, I had a pint of Bell's Oberon on the back patio with some friends and I had a great meal with my very pregnant wife. On Sunday morning, Sarah suggested we go to the Indianapolis Museum of Art (IMA) and spend the morning surrounded by the most beautiful fauna Indianapolis had to offer.

We often use the IMA gardens as our "third space" as compensation for our unusually small lawn. Sarah reminded me, "Don't you want to take your book?" Of course I did. I'd like to say Sarah reads my mind, but she doesn't. She predicts whatever I might get around to thinking, if I remember. She's an astounding woman. I digress again. FOCUS!

I ran upstairs and grabbed my book.

Now, I am a pacer. Anyone who knows me, knows that I pace. If I'm watching a game, I pace. If I have friends over, I pace. Truth be told, I'd eat every meal standing up if Sarah, my astounding wife, would have it. What's great about the IMA gardens is the wide open lawns and spaces are quite conducive to pacing. So, while Sarah found a nice shady spot under an apple tree, I picked up my book and paced, and read, and paced.

I don't know if this is common, but I began reading a passage in Indian Summer and thought, "If stop reading this book, and put it down forever, I've gotten my 4 dollars worth." This passage reached a place so deep in me, I found it impossible to explain. The details seemed so vivid, the message so powerful. My pace quickened as I read. I could hardly wait to re-read these words to Sarah. So, I did just that.

Before I key in this entire passage I want to give a little back story on the main character, Cleet. Cleet is a former Air Force man, who wanted to be a pilot but failed his test. He has since left the military and is pursuing a job as a crop duster. He sees this as the ideal situation. Cleet could fly while spending time in the idyllic rural midwest. The problem is, Alex, the head of the crop dusting operation, hasn't conceded to allow Cleet to actually fly the plane.

Looking across at the airfield, Cleet, suddenly tempted, reminded himself that he did not have his pilot's license, although Alex had given him several lessons in flying the biplane. Also, the one pilot whom he had served under and liked in the Air Force had let him take the controls of the bomber several times; and of course there was the unforgettable day when he had first handled an airplane, the Reardons' family plane, when he had been fifteen.

Therefore, having a free Sunday afternoon, suddenly not able to control himself, he walked across the highway, unlocked the little hanger, lifted the tail of the tiny biplane and pulled it out onto the grass, got into the cockpit, started teh engine, and began bouncing faster and faster across the field until the plane kind of jumped into the air and continued lifting, above the meadows and the roads he had just been hiking along. The plane's wide expanse of wing surface sailed him up into the air in a really beautiful way; it seemed to Cleet that a biplane was less a plane that a kite, a giant box kite, and he was riding in the middle of it, sailing along not very far above the tree tops, in the clean midwestern air, the silent and empty Sunday fields stretching away close below him in all directions, and this was his idea of how to spend a Sunday afternoon.

The plane glided along over the trees like a big, if not bright, bird, sending its shadow, undulating swiftly across fields and hedges and haystacks. The engine clattered along in front of him–in some ways it was the funniest sensation in the world, riding this motorized kite–and he wondered just what the plane could do. He gently moved the stick over and the plane banked majestically to the right; he gently moved it the other way and banked a little jerkily to the left; he pulled the stick back and the plane began to climb rather slowly into what the Air Force described as the wild blue yonder. He pushed the stick forward and the biplane nosed over and began rapidly descending. Slowly and smoothly he leveled off at about fifty feet and swept along over the trees. Below him now he saw Milly's Road House; he made a pass at that, and climbed away from it and was immediately confronted by a silo which he was just able to bank around, which came and went so fast that he didn't feel the slightest apprehension, only noticing that the plane after all was moving very rapidly in relation to the ground and therefore he would have to stay alert.
He would have to stay alert, especially since he hadn't exactly asked Alex for permission to fly the plane, hadn't asked for permission at all, to be perfectly accurate, and was a matter of fact probably breaking some kind of law—"flying with out a license" seemed a peculiar law but it probably existed—and he had better be careful. Nothing as wondering as this could be wrong, he understood that, but still, it might be awkward if he got into any kind of trouble. Alex might not understand, and probably the Air Police or whoever arrested someone for Flying Without a License might not understand either. He pulled back the stick a little to lift over an especially tall row of trees and noticed horses scattering in all directions and a man in a field dropped and axe to gape at him; he was probably flying a little low for complete security so he climbed a little higher; he passed over the macabam highway, where a car slowed down and a man stuck his head out the window to stare at him—people didn't seem to have anything better to look at around here—and then he missed a church steeple by an adequate number of feet, it seemed to him; life was marvelous, he began to climb again, and finally he reached such a safe altitude that he asked himself whether a biplane could do a loop. There was only one way to find out and so he dived the plane and then he pulled the stick back steadily and the nose went higher and higher, he was looking straight up into the deeply blue sky and then his back was pressing heavily against the seat. The plane was nearing upside down position and he suddenly realized that he had not fastened the seat belt and was about to fall out of the plane.

He was not at all frightened but instead supernaturally alert and he knew if he let go of the stick to hold himself in the cockpit the plane might crash and as he began to slide head first out of the cockpit he held onto the stick and at the same time spread his legs, which were extremely strong, wide apart like an open pair of scissors and these wedged him part way out of the cockpit. He suddenly found himself shouting at the top of his lungs, a wild cry of despair or joy; his cry rang through the open empty sky and away into space, on and on further and higher, going forever; the nose of the plane slowly and deliberately began dropping back toward the farms and then Cleet abruptly slid back into his seat and pulled back on the throttle. The biplane at last leveled off, and dizzy with conquered fear, he headed back to the little airfield, thinking that this was his idea of what God intended Sundays to be: Keep holy the Sabbath day.*

Oh man, I was overwhelmed having read it aloud. I was thinking, this is how life should be lived. I want to live a life where I am making wild cries of "despair or joy." I want to avoid pit falls by an "adequate number of feet." I want to be "dizzy with conquered fear." I think of my good friend, Steve. He says, do your job in a way that you don't know whether you're going to be fired or get promoted. That is what I aspire to, but often fall short.

I was thinking of the confluence of events that led to me reading these pages, from this book, on this Sabbath, in this park.

I was thinking of the book, The Failure of Nerve, by Edwin Friedman, which explores how the spirit of adventure is lost in our "seatbelt society."

Conversely, in my life I am faced with domestication that comes with having a first born, whom I anxiously await.

All of this very intricate inner dialogue was taking place as I was reading and in the span of time it took for me to look to Sarah and see if she would join in my passion and externalize my inner dialogue.

Sarah's response to the passage, "I can't believe he didn't wear his seatbelt."

*-I apologize if I've misrepresented John Knowles words in the course of re-typing them. I take full responsibility for any misspelling or mutilation that may have occured.

New Beginnings and Happy Endings

2008-01-30T15:01:00.000-05:00

This is a true story about a boy who has no shame. At least not anymore. It is a story of tragedy, triumph, foul balls and solid contact, new beginnings and happy endings.
--
My wife and I have been married for 6.75 years. It has been the best 6.75 years of my life. In that time we have managed to find new ways to love one another. We've thoroughly enjoyed marriage and each other.

Somewhere around year 4 or 4.5, we decided that growing our family would be a good idea. We wanted to have a baby.

Sarah stopped taking the pill. That was supposed to be it, right? Girl doesn't take pill. Boy plays Marvin Gaye on the iPod. Girl and Boy become parents. I'd seen it a million times, on After School Specials and what not. Marvin Gaye never fails. Well, almost never.

We wore Marvin Gaye out. And then Maxwell. And then Barry White. Nothing. Nothing. And nothing.

So, we did what any normal couple does when Marvin, Maxwell and Barry aren't working. We turned to Gentry.

Doctor Gentry.

Dr. Gentry is a fertility specialist and one of the happiest-go-lucky people one could ever hope to meet. Every time he came into one of the examining rooms he would deliver this line in the most Mayberry sort of way, "You're doin' good I hope and pray."

Dr. Gentry's diagnosis was quick. While I can't remember the exact name he used, he basically said Sarah's (_____) gland which produces estrogen, which in-turn produces eggs, was not working as it should. While he quickly diagnosed her, his attention turned to me. He wanted to be double sure that my little alfalfa sprouts were in good shape. So, began my love affair with the little plastic cup.

Up to that point, I had never produced a "sample." I had no idea what to expect. I must admit, I I thought I would walk into room with low light, walls made of dark wood and a leather couch. What I walked into was quite different.

I arrived at the medical center and checked in with the other dozens of people. One by one nurses came and called the other patients in. My name was called. But, not from the same place everyone else's was called. Mine came from a side door. A super secret side door. I accompanied this nice lab tech up stairs and into her office to sign some paper work. The lab tech was nice enough, but she had this slight grin as if to say, "I know what you're about to do." With paper work all done, she escorted me down the hall and to a door. It said "Library" on the door. Just as I thought, the library is sure to have leather couches. Alas, the door opens. I couldn't have been more disappointed.

Imagine any hospital bathroom you've ever been in: Flourescent lighting, wallpapered walls and a toilet. That was it. The only exceptions were a metal cabinet and chair. The metal cabinet contained gently used "visual aids" and the chair was to make myself comfortable. The lab tech left the room but not before giving me some basic instructions and a questionnaire. Yes, a questionnaire.

Upon completion, I got to walk my sample down to the lab where I handed it to another Lab Tech. Hi, I'm Ryan and here is my semen.

I was delighted to know the sample was all good.

Dr. Gentry decided we'd do artificial insemination. This meant Sarah would have to give herself a shot every day for a week or so. Every other day, while she was getting shots, she'd have to go into the doctor's office and have blood taken as well as an ultrasound to monitor egg production. This also meant I'd get to produce more "samples." Music to my ears.

Now let me be clear, I'm not in any way saying that my semi-public masturbation even approaches the discomfort, pain, and rigors that accompany Sarah's part of the bargain. There is no doubt about it, Sarah gets the short end of the stick. Which leaves me with the long...never mind.

So, for those of you who don't know what artificial insemination is, it goes like this:

I go in the Dr. Gentry's office and sit in a waiting room full of other men waiting to become intimate with a little plastic cup and never making eye contact with one another.
I do my best to perform under immense pressure.
I leave while greeted with a waiting room full of couples with half-grins on their faces.
Meet Sarah at Starbucks. Meanwhile, our fertility nurse, Joyce, cleans the sperm. This creates a sperm concentrate of sorts.
Sarah lays on an examining table, feet in stirrups and Joyce injects the sperm concentrate into the cervix using a long syringe. Think half syringe/half turkey baster.
Sarah continues to lay on the table for 30 minutes.
We wait and watch the timer. The minute hand on the timer was a sperm, by the way.

Round 1 – Swing and a miss
This first time around, I administered all of Sarah's shots. Did I mention all of her shots have to go into the abdomen? Yeah, I can't think of a worse place to get a shot. You can see the thing coming the whole time. Suddenly, God's design for procreation, which has always been understood as a thoroughly enjoyable act, had turned to a series of needle pricks, vaginal probes and semi-public masturbation.

I'll never forget the first time Sarah was about to be inseminated, Joyce says, "Ryan, hold Sarah's hand. We've got to keep the romance in this."

Joyce also would say before she left the room, "You guys can have intercourse as much as you want now." This was great, now every time I got the "urge", which is quite often, I could cite DOCTOR'S ORDERS!

Unfortunately, no pregnancy. At the debriefing with Dr. Gentry he told us the success rate for this procedure is 25%. We swung and missed, but we had 3 more chances to meet the average.

Round 2 – Strike two
Second verse same as the first. In spite of our best efforts, it wasn't good enough. We were down, but certainly not out. We did have two strikes and the added pressure of living up to the 25% success rate.

Round 3 – Foul ball (still strike two)
The third time was quite similar to the previous two tries. A primary difference was, Sarah took me off of shot duty. She decided she'd prefer her fate be in her own hands. Besides, it was more fun for me to just watch. Each shot she'd need a dozen warm-up stabs in which her head and arm would bob in sync until she mustered the courage to stick herself. I should clarify, it was fun to watch her bob...not fun to watch her stick, shoot and tear up.

Another difference was that I had to attend all of her early morning appointments. It was hard at first, and I belly-ached. But, hey, we're in this together.

I also recall that when it was time for my contribution, there was a giant snow storm. So, I went to the doctor with about 12 layers of clothing and snow boots. If ever the odds were against me doing my part, it is trying to get "in the mood" while in a sterile bathroom with questionnaire and snow boots.

The biggest difference was this time we miscarried. It was devastating news. We took the weekend to grieve. My way of dealing with it was the hope of trying again. Sarah, couldn't move on so easily. It is her body.

At our usual follow-up appointment with Dr. Gentry, he was his usual chipper self. He said, "I'm sorry to hear about the miscarriage. But, hey we made contact, it was just a foul ball...that's all." I can't say I was comforted.

Round 4 – Foul Ball (still strike 2...hanging around)
The fourth time was much like the third, except the pregnancy went on a bit longer this time, making the miscarriage all the more devastating.

My only consolation was that the nurses always commented on how great my sperm was. I don't know why, but I can't help but puff up my chest every time I think of them commenting on my sperm. It's a weird thing to take pride in. But, a small consolation it was.

We were discouraged.

Round 5 – Foul ball (staying alive)
They say you can't strike out on a foul ball. But, this time felt a lot like a trip to the bench. We suffered our 3rd consecutive miscarriage. Again, I wanted to try again right away to deflect my pain. Sarah, and her body were not ready. This miscarriage happened further along than the other two. We found out on an ultrasound, when we saw no heartbeat.

Words can't describe the awkwardness when a Doctor is still trying to remain positive, when the picture we were looking at was so profoundly negative. The ultrasound tech seemed to be looking for a super secret exit from that room.

Round 6 – Sitting on the bench
Sarah needed a break. And I think I did too. We went to Europe and just loved one another. It was perfect. I think all the trials we'd been through in the previous months galvanized our relationship. In many ways, the wonderful time we had was manifestation of how we clung together in that time.

Round 7 – Still rounding the bases
Dr. Gentry decided to try something a little different. He switched up the shots prior to fertilization and put Sarah on Heprin (a blood thinner). Whatever he did, and we did ... worked. Sarah became pregnant once again.

It's sad, but Sarah and I have never had the "Pregnancy Test Commercial Moment." After so many miscarriages a positive test means, "oh shit, here we go again."

This time, rather than keep the news to ourselves, we decided to share the news with a few friends and family so they could pray with us. We needed support, if we were going to do this again. There was one Thursday night I got with some of my "guy friends." After hours mustering the courage, I asked them to pray for me. Steve, a great friend and mentor, suggested we prostrate on the ground as an act of submission to God. For me, it was a gesture of desperation...a gesture of, "I have no more strength to get through this myself, let alone be the support Sarah needs me to be." We prayed. Everyone prayed.

It worked. We saw a heartbeat on week 7, 8, and 9. The milestone of week 12 gestation has come and gone. I'm wrapping up this blog on week 15. So far, so good.

If you haven't processed it, yet. Let me put it plainly. Ryan Noel is going to be a father.

*giving you a moment to wrap your brain around that concept...as frightening as that may be for some of you to consider*

So, yeah...this is my very long winded way of shouting from the virtual mountaintops: Ryan and Sarah Noel are having a baby.

Bat Mobile

2007-11-27T15:20:00.000-05:00

It was Halloween. That is really the only explaination for what was to happen.

That Wednesday started as most do for me. I woke up to the "Morning Music Mind Bender" on 92.3 WTTS. I showered (best I can remember). I ate breakfast with my wife. I drove to work (I think that's how I got to work, although I never remember the journey – I just end up there). After a few shots of espresso, it is well established what I do at around 9:30 (if you don't know what I'm tallking about, see blog "Poo-pea". Then it's time to do a little work and start thinking about what's for lunch.

That's where the day started to become different from every other day of my existence. A couple co-workers (Jenn and Shannon) and I decided we were going for a driving lunch. Driving lunches are rare because I work downtown and when I'm not eating leftovers at my desk I am walking to one of the many nearby eateries. So, it's always a little extra treat to go somewhere just far away enough to necessitate a short little drive.

So, off we went. We hopped into my Mini and did a little "motoring." We went to The Abbey for lunch, which was lovely. Lunch was so lovely, that I was in no mood to return to work. So, I suggested we go up to Goose The Market for some gelato. Jenn and Shannon offered very little resistance. To the Goose we motored.

Mid-motoring Shannon says in a strained and slightly quivering voice, "Ryan. Please tell me the bat back here is fake! How does one respond to that? "Huh?," I said. "There's a bat back here, please tell me it's fake."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," I said as I'm driving, trying to remember if a fake bat is one of the many random things that has found it's way into my car, and craning my neck to see if I can get a glimpse of this alleged bat.

At the next stop, I turned around as Shannon pointed into a side compartment/catch-all next to the armrest in the back seat. Sure enough, there was something dark and fuzzy in there.

With Shannon plastered to the back window opposite the bat we proceeded to the market but had nearly forgotten about why we were headed to the market. I had a flippin' bat in my car.

I had a hundred questions going through my head...well, just one. "How in the hell did a bat get in my car?" I lied, two questions. "How did Shannon find this bat buried beneath all the other junk that finds its way into that compartment?" I still have no idea on the first question. But, Shannon confessed that she was being nosy and looking through some receipts in the side compartment when she felt something furry.

We arrived to the market and I flipped the driver's seat forward to get a closer look. Sure enough, a bat. A dead bat.

I grabbed a paper towel and picked him up and put him on the side walk. A stranger came walking by and I stopped him saying, "Not that you care, but I just found a freaking bat in my car." He didn't say much, but I took his silence to mean that he was as stunned as I was. I left the bat on the sidewalk and went on to get some gelato. Had I known what good friends we'd become, I would have never left him on the sidewalk where anything could have happened to him. He forgives me now, but it put a strain on our relationship for awhile.

I happened to have a Ziploc® baggy in the back, and that seemed like a good home for a bat. So, he joined us for our trip back to the office.

At first, I just brought him back to exhibit him for all my co-workers. He did draw quite a bit of attention.

When I took a close look at him and saw that his little paw was wiping his eyes like he was ready to take a nap, not knowing he'd be entering his last deep sleep, he stopped being a bat to me and started being Alfred. Alfred, that's his name. I don't really know why. It just is.

Anyway, Alfred and I have gotten quite close. He sits by me everyday at the office. He comes with me to meetings. He's quite creative. We've learned alot about each other. He's learned that I don't like to be interrupted when I'm in a creative flow. And, I've learned that he loves green Skittles®.

I hope this story can help you open your mind to being open to friendships with people or things that may not look like you do, talk like you do, may carry diseases, may not be the same species or even have a heartbeat. Heck, they may not even like the same color of Skittles® (I like red...which is green's complimentary color. Coincidence?). My friendship with Alfred is a story of friendship succeeding against all odds, and it lives on to this day.

If you care to meet Alfred, he's here at my right hand M-F, 8:30-5:30. If you can't make it down to my office, this photo will have to do.

Poo-Pea

2007-01-26T15:27:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing. I have this affinity for poop stories. I'm not crazy about poop itself for the same reasons most people don't like it (smell being the chief reason). But, I love a good poop story. Further, I love to tell a good poop story. Dog poop, people poop, bird poop ... I don't discriminate. My immediate family can vouch for this obsession. My brother-in-law will often bait me into getting on the topic because he knows I just can't stop myself.

So, I have a new story to share from today.

You can set a watch by my poop schedule. As far as regularity goes my pooper is the Big Ben of poopers. Predictably, I had to go to the restroom at 9 o' clock A.M. on the butt-on.

There was nothing extraordinary about the poop experience itself. Everything went as planned.

I stood over the stool as I flushed to ensure there were no stragglers. But, in fact there was a straggler. It was a perfectly shapen, toilet-washed pea floating in the bowl. It was so clean, shiney and looked good enough to eat. I marveled at its pristine condition, but knew I had to let it go. So, I pushed the lever and bowed my head in respect. The pea exhibited the kind of resiliency that allowed it to navigate my bowels without compromising its perfect shape and color by refusing to go down the chute. It just kept floating back to the top. I flushed and flushed until I started to feel guilty about forcing the issue. This pea clearly deserved to be immortalized in the Guiness Book of World Records – or something. This pea was a fighter. "Should I keep it?", I thought.

No, I couldn't possibly keep it. I wanted to remember the pea as I last saw it with its shiny green finish and perfect shape. I didn't want it to be remembered as a shriveled and brown chunk pinned up on a bulletin board somewhere.

Now that I had decided to let it go there was the matter of actually getting it to go down. So, I called on the problem-solving portion of my brain (small as it is) and decided that with a single square of toilet paper layed over the pea it might be just enough to send it on its way. Sure enough, the toilet paper wrapped itself around the pea and dragged it to its after-after life.

So, when you're sitting with friends sharing poo stories, please remember the "Poo-pea" and keep its memory alive.

Some Of My Favorite Things

2006-08-31T17:16:00.000-04:00

I start these lists with the reader in mind. I want you to feel free to add to or augment in any way you feel appropriate. So here are a couple starter lists that strike my fancy at the moment. You may also start random lists of your own.

Favorite words to say for it's phonetic qualities only, not emotive:
Proposal – especially when said with a Russian accent
Instinct
Fancy
Chum
Lookie – ok, this isn't a real word. But I still like it.
Monument
Webbing

Favorite Shoe Brand Names:
Lotto
British Knights
Troop
Buster Brown Wildcats

I Dream of Jesse

2006-08-29T15:32:00.000-04:00

The Setup: The night of August 15, 2006 I was Jesse James. I could see that night's events through the eyes of Jesse James, but also as the third person witness. But, the whole time I felt what Jesse felt. I was Jesse James. The entire dream took place with my knowing that I was going to die. I knew how I was going to die (gun shot wound). However, I didn't know the moment I was going to die, or who would ultimately kill me. It was as if I'd read the last page of the book, where I knew generally what was going to happen, but I hadn't read the whole last chapter. So, there was some mystery there. The entirety of events to follow were seen through this lens of not having anxiety of dying, but of just when it would happen and who would do it.

Scene One: I was in a cabin that sat on a prairie surrounded by thick woods. In the cabin with me were two women that I couldn't identify in a lineup. I started the dream in preparation for a group of lawmen coming to apprehend me because, well, I was Jesse James. I don't know how I knew they were coming, I just did. I began planning on how I might counter attack. I ended up sneaking into the woods as the lawmen were coming for me.

Scene Two: The lawmen came and I laid in wait. A series of gun fights ensued as I fought individuals wondering if this was going to be the guy that was going to kill me. I fought off most of them and retreated back to the cabin. After a brief moment of rest the lawmen brought reinforcements and began shooting at the house. It was becoming clear that I wouldn't escape, so I gave up. The lawmen apprehended me and took me to jail.

Scene Three: I am in prison. My cell is hardly a cell at all. It is all darkly stained hardwood walls and floors. There is a bench with a nice red cushion. There are no bars. The walls of the cell do not extend all the way to the ceiling. In fact, they were only about head high. I couldn't see over them but I could hear. The door was about two feet off the ground and was only about shoulder-high. Also, in the back of the room was a buffet of food (I mostly remember fruit). At the front of the room near the door was a desk with a desk lamp turned on.

I had many visitors coming by to meet Jesse James, the great outlaw. One by one, people came in and I tried to be amicable all the while wondering if this person was going to be the one to kill me. Eventually, a man comes in who I definitely sense is the one to kill me. He approaches the door and asks me to put my fingers in a device so he can cut them off. I tell the man, "No, you can't cut off my fingers." As we argue over whether he'll be cutting off my fingers the Sheriff comes and breaks the two of us up. He sends the man to the next cell, and visitors continue filing in. All the while, the man who tried to cut off my fingers is chattering and drawing all these parallels between my life and Jesus.

Eventually, the man who tried to cut off my fingers comes back and calls me to the door. I walk up to him and see him reaching into his pocket. It is then that I know this is it.

He pulls out a really small pistol. I put my hands out in an attempt to block the bullet. The bullet passed through my hand and into the side of my stomach. I remember thinking, "maybe I can survive this." The man who shot me then walked into an adjacent room and turned a Sanitation Dial to the lowest setting. He assured me that I would never live because the germs would cause an infection that I couldn't survive. So, I laid on the desk and waited to die.

Scene 4: As I'm waiting to die, one of the women that was in the cabin with me came to see me. She told me she loved me. Somehow I knew that she had never told me that before. There was no kiss or a real ending to the dream. It just ended as I was waiting to die. I didn't feel scared. It was a foregone conclusion I was ready for.

What's a blog?

2006-08-10T17:24:00.000-04:00

So, here it is my first Blog. This is significant because it was only 6 months ago that I hadn't the foggiest as to what a Blog was. It was six months ago that I sat in a banquet hall with this pocket-protector-wearing guy who started telling me about his blog and others he reads. I didn't have the nerve to tell him I didn't know what a blog was. I was a confused little boy. The conversation felt eerily similar to sitting in the back of my parents station wagon while they had an entire conversation s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g o-u-t e-v-e-r-y f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g w-o-r-d.

Thankfully, as I write these words I can put all that behind me, and I can laugh at anyone else who doesn't know what a blog is.

I'm All Growns'd Up

2006-02-21T15:42:00.000-05:00

So, many are probably expecting a tale of what has been coursing through my mind in such an event as turning 30. And while turning 30 certainly does make you think about a lot, the realization of my having "grown up" had nothing to do with the next click on my age-o-meter.

Something happened when my conscience went to San Diego. That is to say, my wife Sarah, went to San Diego. So, here I was in a familiar position of my conscience being away for days or a week at a time. My friends can vouch for me, any time my conscience has been away, disaster ensues (broken windows, trashed houses, drunks packed in boxes and left to be found by the police...I could go on.)

This time was different. Almost from the start. My conscience left on a Thursday morning. That Thursday evening I went to a pub with a friend of mine for a pint, then we went off to a prayer meeting in my neighborhood. The prayer meeting was closed. I went to bed.

This is when it gets eery*. What does a strapping 29-at-the-time young man do with a Friday night when his conscience is in San Diego. I'll tell you what a young man does (at least this young man), HE DOES HIS TAXES! Shitz. I did my taxes on a Friday night with no conscience in sight. Let me say this again just to allow it to sink in. I DID MY TAXES ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!

Saturday morning I wake up refreshed and ready to take in the day. Do I reach for the cereal box or instant oatmeal. Hell no. I'm doing oatmeal the old-fashioned way – on the stove top. I give it all the trimmings: Brown Sugar, raisins, dried blueberries and raspberries. I enjoy my concoction while reading the Indianapolis Star. Then I filled the pot with water to "soak" in order to shirk the responsibility of washing it until my conscience's plane was on the runway, right? No, I washed that pot til it shined. Weird, huh?

Weirder still is that I followed the pot washing by organizing my closet. By "organizing" I don't mean that I just picked up the huge pile of clothes and moved them to a less-conspicuous location. I categorized my clothes in the following categories: Jackets/Pullovers, Short-Sleeved Shirts (oxfords/button-ups), long-sleeved cotton shirts, long-sleeved button-ups, sport coats, suits, ties, and sports jerseys.

These short vignettes are just a microcosm of the week without my conscience. Those of you who read this and think "yeah, so" clearly don't know me well enough. I don't quite know what to make of the apparent change in me. I don't even know that I like it. But it is becoming apparent that I'm all growns'd up.

*-did you know "eery" can be spelled as I spelled it, or "eerie"...alternate spelling...interesting.