I'm quite happy with high gas prices

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

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

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?

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

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

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.

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

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:

1. 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.
2. I do my best to perform under immense pressure.
3. I leave while greeted with a waiting room full of couples with half-grins on their faces.
4. Meet Sarah at Starbucks. Meanwhile, our fertility nurse, Joyce, cleans the sperm. This creates a sperm concentrate of sorts.
5. 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.
6. Sarah continues to lay on the table for 30 minutes.
7. 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

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

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.