They saw no reason why they should be limited by gravity and human physical limitations.  All they needed to overcome physics were beach towels.  They came running up to me, towels in hand, and asked me to secure the towels around their necks.  They had already tried stuffing the towels in their collars, but the towels-turned-capes kept falling out.  And we all know that a superhero cannot have his cape falling out in mid flight.

The kids then spent the entire rest of the afternoon running with lightning speed back and forth across the yard.  I kid you not, they believed they were flying.  They kept yelling into the house, “Look, Dad!  We’re flying!”

Reality?  Reality is that they weren’t really flying.  It was more like skipping added to jumping with some uncoordinated arm flailing mixed in for effect.  No flying.  But I had a blast watching them try, and I was really impressed with the attempt.  I would never have the guts to try such a thing.  Not in a million years.

Isn’t this how it is with God?

Faith is the one thing that we can do to please God.  Nothing else will.  It moves mountains because it moves God.  I think faith is tied to our imagination – our willingness to dream divine dreams about what might be possible with God.  But it doesn’t end with imagination.  We’ve got to move.  We have to put the cape on, get out in the yard and flap our arms like idiots.  It’s not really faith until someone is running around like a fool with a cape in the front yard.

What I think we forget is that even when we are only getting 2 inches above the ground, our Father is delighting in the game.  What’s different, however, is that with God He comes out in the yard with us and actually makes us fly — not as superheroes with all the power, but as the laughing children of a Father that uses the universe like a plaything.

Even when we look around and realize that we aren’t flying the way we dreamed, we are still bringing our Father joy and glory which is reason enough to keep flapping in the wind.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My spiritual heritage is deep. I speak in tongues, prophesy, and believe that the gifts mentioned in I Corinthians 12:7-10 and elsewhere have not ceased. But I think it’s been long enough now for all of us to admit that there were some pretty cooky things we did as charismaniacs. We should laugh. I sure do.

One of the ways this manifested itself was in how we did Christmas caroling. I was about 12 at the time. Not sure of the age, but it feels like 12 when I remember it. A group of us gathered at the church to pray before going out. We huddled together like Gideon and his ragtag band of soldiers preparing to assault the gates of hell. Only they were armed with swords. We had Christmas carols and tambourines.

We came to the first house and marched (quite literally) to the front porch of these poor unsuspecting suburbanites. My Dad (pastor of the church at the time) led out with a rousing chorus of “O Come All Ye Faithful”. So far so good. The clanging tambourines and intercessors pacing in the background weren’t too noticeable. The residents came to the door to listen, smile, and act generally entertained.

Then things took a hard left turn into pre-pubescent hell. My Dad handed me and my two brothers the sheet music to a song that we sang often at church and said, “You guys are going to sing this as a solo.” The name of the song was “We are the Circumcision”. Allow me to share the primary lyric to the song before I continue:

We are the circumcision! We worship God in the Spirit.

The song was a fast-paced Jewish number and involved a lot of clapping and smiling. Not exactly traditional Christmas fare. Not exactly traditional for any time of year, in fact. Certainly not for any 12 year old male.

So, I and my brothers dutifully stepped forward and sang the song to this family. I believe I remember Dad coming in with a funky tambourine solo after the first chorus. Everything after that is kind of a blank spot in my memory. Sort of an extended blackout like what’s associated with post traumatic stress disorder. My next memory is of a Sunday morning soon after when I had the life-altering realization of what circumcision actually means. I think I may have passed out right in my seat.

But that was ok. People fell over in our church every week.

[tags]charismatic, church, christmas carols, songs, christmas, funny[/tags]

I’m going to reveal my secret tips to you, my loyal readers, free of charge (for a limited time, restrictions apply. Success varies depending on location, market fluctuations, intelligence and the direction of the wind. Ben Cotten cannot be held liable if these tips fail and a client sells a home quickly).

• Make sure that your children play in the front yard every day wearing nothing but their socks and overloaded diapers. Add in a homemade Slip ‘n Slide and a mud pit if you have the time. When prospective buyers drive by to see the house, they will hold off on purchasing your home because the kids are having so much fun.
• Landscaping is for people with no imagination. Prospective buyers want to be able to imagine their own bushes, trees, and grass in your yard. If you already have a beautiful lawn, they will say “Gee, this is disappointing. There’s nothing for us to do if we move here. Let’s keep looking.” I suggest letting the grass and other greenery die so that there is nothing left but a dome of dust and fire ants feasting on dead birds that flew too close.

• Buyers love a good mystery. Never place your for sale signs in obvious places. That’s not fun for people looking for your house. Leave them clues like writing on street signs with black permanent marker something like “Just a little farther.” By the time they make it to your house, they will be having so much fun they won’t want it to end.
• The decor of your home needs to be personalized since you won’t be there to tell the buyers how special your home is. I suggest using life size cardboard cutouts of you and your family in each room with thought bubbles saying something like, “This is where little Suzie threw up on the carpet after eating too much chicken tetrazinni. Don’t worry, the dresser covers the stain nicely.” Or in the bathroom, a cutout of Dad saying, “This is a great bathroom. Plenty of room here for me to change my bandages from my chronic bleeding and open sores.”
• When buyers enter your home, they should be greeted by homey aromas that make them think of good things. Some folks suggest an apple pie, baked bread, etc. Those are all nice, if you want the buyer to greedily snatch up your home by making an offer right away. I suggest a more subtle approach. Cook some fish, chitlins and cabbage in a large pot and leave it warm on the stove. The aroma will be a complex and intriguing feast for the senses.
• If you do get an offer on your house, don’t just accept it willy nilly.Now it’s time to negotiate. Some standard things to require as part of the deal are:
  1. they cannot ever change the color of the walls. You spent too much time painting them hunter orange to have it painted over by some yuppie with no appreciation for color.
  2. You have the right to stay with them anytime you come back through town to visit old friends.
  3. They will not press charges, no matter what they find under the house or in the walls.
• My final tip is perhaps the most important. You must treat all prospective buyers with that “personal touch”. If they feel that you are looking out for them, they will be much more likely to really think through their decision instead of recklessly offering you money. I suggest doing a little research on Google about them before hand. Then leave a little personalized note for them when they enter the house. It should read something like this:
  

  Dear Frank and Suzie Johnson (SS# 234-87-0967 and 234-45-3758): Welcome to our home! Even though your criminal record indicates some “water under the bridge”, Frank, we trust you! You guys sure reported a lot on your taxes last year. Wow. You must make good money! Suzie, I hope your ad on the online personals works out. You guys must have a very open relationship!

We’ve eaten out many times with the kids. Usually they do just fine. No screaming, running, etc. They enjoy going out and doing something different and Mom enjoys not having to cook. We went out to eat Saturday night for Chinese buffet. A family favorite.

We sit down, make our trips to the buffet and sit down to eat.

ELIANA: I all done. Want down.
ME: You haven’t eaten anything, eat your rice.
ELIANA: IIIIIIIIII DOOOOONNNNNEEEEEE!!!!!!!

This was accompanied by the loudest scream you have ever heard. It set off two car alarms in the parking lot outside. She threw herself onto her back, kicking, screaming, and making her opinion known. I grab her up and we made our way to the bathroom to reintroduce her to the idea that “Daddy is in charge and forgetting that will introduce discomfort to your otherwise comfortable existence”. When she was done crying, we went back out. All was well. For about 30 seconds.

The waitress brought a refill for me and put the tall glass about 6 inches from my 9 month old son. He’s amazingly quick with his hands. With ninja-like stealth and quickness he grabbed the top of the glass and dumped it in one movement. Then he squealed with delight and started banging and slapping the water. It splashed all over everything.

This is when Eliana saw her opportunity. She slid out of the booth under the table, crawled out and RAN. Ran towards the door to escape to the parking lot. I’m guessing she was planning on hitching to Vegas. Thankfully, some creepy guy who smelled like garlic and sweat stopped her at the door. She didn’t like him very much and came running back into the restaurant. Then the chase was on. I cut her off at the wontons and drug her back to the booth.

I found Heather cleaning up Owen and the table while my 5 year old was at another booth pouring all the salt and pepper into a pile on the table. Then she was taking a fork and swirling it around the table making designs. I think my head almost popped off. I got them all back into the booth, cleaned up the salt and pepper and sat down to eat.

Heather went to take a bite, leaving her bowl of rice unattended for .03 seconds. Owen saw his opening, grabbed it, dumped it and starting throwing fried rice in all directions like a spider monkey. He sounded kinda like one too squealing and growling at the top of his little lungs. I must say, for a moment I was pleased at his testosterone induced, man-fun. I was a little jealous really.

Heather was less impressed and said,

That’s IT! Everyone is going back to the van NOW.

We carried the kids back to the van, strapped them in and swore to never eat out again until the kids were grown, married and could take us out to eat. I wanted to leave them in the van strapped to their car seats while we had a nice meal inside, but apparently Social Services frowns on that particular parenting technique.

Oh well.

The waitress got an extra large tip for having to clean up about 30lbs. of rice from the floor.

Next time we order in.

[tags]children, eating, dining, restaurant, parenting help, advice[/tags]

I’ve had several pivotal moments in my life. For instance, once when I was a young boy about to get my tail kicked by the bully down the street, I decided that I would call his Momma a “big fatso”. My insult did not make him run away in tears as expected. Rather, it fueled his desire to pretzel me. Since then, I have never insulted a man’s momma. Even if she actually is a “big fatso”. It was a moment such as this that helped me see that a career as a redneck bomber was not for me.

It all started with Greg. Greg was the wayward teen in the neighborhood with a propensity for blowing things up as well as playing sniper with his BB gun. His dog, Snyder, was usually the primary target. Greg reminded me strongly of the kid in Toy Story who liked to take apart toys, torture them and then put them back together in unnatural ways. I thought Greg was the coolest guy I had ever met.

One Saturday afternoon in Greg’s backyard, Greg showed me his first attempt at a homemade explosive. It was a toilet paper tube packed with match heads. The ends were taped with scotch tape and he had left one match sticking out. That was to be the fuse. He lit the improvised fuse, and it just flashed up in a low flame and fizzled out. Needless to say, neither of us were impressed. However, our imaginations had been kickstarted.

Years went by, and Greg and I experimented with several design modifications never really getting anything more than a loud pop. This was before the internet was on the scene, so our lack of knowledge kept us out of any major trouble.

Then in high school I took Chemistry from Mr. Gunn. Mr. Gunn was a terribly boring lecturer, but he more than made up for it with his cool demonstrations. One of his demonstrations was a detailed lecture on how to make a good explosive out of standard fireworks found anywhere during the 4th of July. We learned all the principles of combustion, and the chemistry and physics involved in an explosion. We even made bombs in class and took them to the football field to set them off. I’m not making this up! We actually made explosives in class and detonated them on school grounds as part of a class project. (Ahh…remember the pre-Columbine world?) He had been doing this openly for years and everyone knew it and thought is was a great way to get the students interest.

Armed with my new knowledge I set out to make a way cool bomb. First, I drove down to the local hunting/fishing store and bought a large container of gunpowder used for loading black powder rifles (think “modern twist on Civil War era rifles”). The owner simply asked me if I was over 18. I said “yes”, paid up and walked out with the package under my arm and a look of glee on my face.

I went home and dug out my Mom’s stash of used medicine bottles. She had a lot of health problems at the time and for some reason she never seemed to throw the empty bottles away. They were in all sizes and perfect for packing in the powder. I used the fuses from some old bottle rockets and duct tape to cover the entire thing tightly. I made several and took them outside town to test them.

The results were nothing short of glorious! They made a horrendous noise and the black powder put up a giant plume of thick black smoke. Over several months I perfected my design until I was getting the most bang out of the least amount of powder.

My parent’s finally found out what I was doing and told me that I had to stop. I agreed and secretly decided that it would be a shame to waste the rest of my powder. I had a LOT left. It was roughly a quart. I decided to make one more huge bomb and then quit.

So I found the biggest medicine bottle in Mom’s drawer and packed all of the remaining powder inside as tightly as possible. I doubled the length of the fuse and wrapped it carefully in strips of duct tape. I then took my masterpiece to a small dirt road just outside town.

I dug out a little divot in the center of the road and placed the bomb in it. I packed some dirt around the sides to hold it virtical so I could light the fuse and run without it falling over and going out.

I lit the fuse, turned and ran back to where I had parked the car about 30 yards away. I turned to watch.

As the fuse burned slowly, I heard the distant sound of bass speakers thumping followed by the tell-tale rattle caused by the volume being turned up too loud inside the car causing it to vibrate. I noted that the sound was getting closer. Then to my dismay, at the end of the road I saw a white compact pickup truck ease around the corner into view. It was a custom low-rider. It had those huge spinner rims, tinted glass, and a custom paint job and body kit. The sound of the bass tones were clear now. It was so loud that I could feel the vibrations in my stomach. The truck was driving very slowly and carefully on this bumpy dirt road so as to not grind the lowered body on the ground.

Inbetween me and the truck, was my masterpiece. The fuse was already lit and I knew it would be foolish to approach it now and try to put it out. I panicked. All I could think to do was to run. I jumped in my car, and began turning it around. Half way through my turn, I froze. The front bumper of the pickup was beginning to pass over the bomb. The driver had not seen it. I knew it would go off at any second.

There was a flash of fire. Then an inpenetrable wall of black smoke. I couldn’t even see the truck. There was a tremendous noise, and the truck rolled a few feet through the smoke into view and stopped. The bomb had exploded right under the front bumper.

The bumper was now in two pieces. Both pieces hung from the truck dragging the ground. The hood was no longer white, but pitch black all the way back to the tinted windows. The front grill was shattered and there was steam pouring through it.

The bass was still thumping.

The driver side door opened, and out stepped the biggest black man I have ever seen. He was wearing a white tanktop t-shirt and jeans. He seemed upset. He pointed at me yelling something. I couldn’t quite make it out because of all the noise, but I can read lips well enough to know that it involved inflicting personal injury to myself and removing any hope that I may have had for procreation. I believe he said something about my mother too, but I’m not sure. I just remember his face was contorted in the angriest sneer I have ever seen and his large hands were pointing at me. That combined with the surrounding black smoke hanging in the air, made this guy look terrifying.

I decided to go with my original plan of running like a scared rabbit. I threw the car in drive and sped off. Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw my victim get back in his truck and attempt to chase me. As he took off, the bumper pieces were pulled under his truck and broke free. This caused the low-rider pickup to bump up and down violently on the road and he stopped. The last I saw of him as I turned off the road towards home, was him standing next to the wreckage giving me the universal hand signal for “you’re number one”.

Wow. What a forgiving fellow.

I remember being oily and sweaty all the time. By the end of every day, I looked like I had spent several hours rubbing Bojangles chicken all over my face. Then my head suddenly began to grow like it was in a race competing against the rest of my body. My feet were determined to catch up with my head, but never quite made it.

But, the most profound change an adolescent boy goes through is that he becomes obsessed with one solitary thing: the female form. Now, understand that this is completely against his will. He still wants to spend his imaginative energies on wondering who would prevail in a battle between Spiderman and Batman. Yet, somehow his thoughts are constantly being hijacked by this oily, sweaty monster growing within him. For most men, the story of how the “mystery” was solved for them is either very tragic, or very funny. I’m still not exactly sure which category mine belongs in…

It all started when Grandma starting taking her meals in her room because she didn’t feel up to coming out to the table any more. She had an attached apartment that afforded her some independence and privacy when she wanted it, but also allowed us to help her.

One evening, Mom called me to the kitchen and handed me a tray of food. I knew what this meant, but waited for Mom to give me the order anyway. She said, “Take this to your Grandmother, she isn’t coming out for dinner tonight.” Now, there were 3 of us brothers and not one of us enjoyed this job.

It’s not that we didn’t love our Grandmother. It’s that we understood that when you ventured onto her turf (her apartment), you were no longer in control of your exit. It was a rare occasion to go into her room and not leave with one more unpleasant memories to talk to your therapist about when you got older. It could be anything. Maybe her nightgown got stuck in the waste line of the back of her pantyhose and she needs your help getting it out. Maybe there is a cricket chirping somewhere in the room and she can’t sleep until you locate it. Ever try to do that? It’s impossible.

So of I go, food tray in hand, to Grandma’s room. The door was shut, so I knocked. I could hear her inside shuffling about getting to her walker. Then the steady creak and squeak of the walker as she slowly worked her way to the door. It took long enough that I got distracted and began staring blankly at the door stop imagining what it would be like to be Buck Rogers.

The awkward jiggle of the door knob pulled me out of my day-dream and I turned to look as the door opened. For some reason, my eyes went black. I couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t a black-out, no it was as if my eyes simply turned off. I know now that this was my brain’s desperate attempt at saving me from the trauma that awaited me behind that aluminum walker. My eyes refocused on the site before me.

There was my beloved Grandmother, without one stitch of clothing on her body. No bathrobe. No nightgown. No garment of any kind could be found. Nothing was where I thought it should be. It was like Grandma had melted. She had been turned into a Picasso painting where the forces of gravity had removed all rules of proportion and biology. Her skin hung on her body like an ill-fitting wet suit that was 2 sizes too big. Her skin had finally lost it’s fight against gravity and the results were truly frightening.

My first instinct was to look away, but I couldn’t because as she was opening the door she nearly lost her balance. I knew if she fell, not only would she be hurt, but other’s would come. They would come and see me standing there trying to help my naked Grandmother up off the floor without touching or looking at her.

I felt completely confused. My brain was screaming, “LOOK AWAY, MAN! LOOOKK AWAAAAYYYY!!! RUUUUUUNNNNN!!!” while at the same time it was screaming, “DON’T LET HER FALL! IF SHE FALLS, others will come.” This left me doing a spastic, back and forth pee-pee dance in her doorway, while still holding the food tray.

Grandma didn’t seem to even notice. She simply said, “Sam? Come on in!” Sam is my older brother. She always called me Sam, and this is one particular time when I didn’t mind her being confused. I realized, that she must not have noticed she had no clothes on. I knew that if I went any closer, she would want a hug. I assure you, that no force in heaven or earth could have made me go into that room.

I started to say, “I forgot something, I’ll be right back.” but my voice simply crackled and squeaked out a noise that sounded like a mouse that has been caught by a cat and realizes it is in for an afternoon of being the cat’s toy. That’s when I just turned, tray in hand, and walked calmly back to the kitchen where my Mom was still busily preparing dinner for the rest of the family.

I put the tray on the counter. Staring at the floor with my back to Mom, I said, “Mom, I’m not doing that anymore when her door is closed.” I walked out of the kitchen, to my room and locked the door. I don’t remember much after that. I’m pretty sure I just stared at the wall for a long long time. Eventually my old friend, Buck Rogers, returned to his rightful place in my imagination and the memory was successfully buried. Buried deep.

What do you think? Tragic or funny? I’m still not too sure…

A co-worker and I were swapping stories this past week about crazy jobs we have held in the past. Both of us had experienced the joy of being laid off by a fortune 500 company, so we had a surprising amount of similarities in our employment adventures. However, I trumped him with one of mine. Thought you might enjoy it too.

After being laid off from a great IT job at Nortel Networks (along with seemingly everyone else in North Carolina), I found the pickings pretty slim for employment options. I did the unemployment thing until The Man kicked me to the curb and told me to pay my own way. So, I trudged down to the Manpower temp agency office. I completed the miles of paperwork detailing all of my qualifications. I even took a computer skills test. My agent seemed very impressed and promised quick placement. I left there excited.

Within 48 hrs my agent had called me with a job placement paying $10 an hour in Sanford, NC. I asked her what the job involved and she told me, “All I know right now is that it’s Industrial. I need you to come in and take a math skills test.” I figured anything that required a math skills test couldn’t be too bad so I took the test (I should have clued in to what was coming when they gave us a cheat sheet with the answers on it for a test that a 7th grader could have easily passed). I was given directions to the new job site and an interview time.

I put on my best business suit, shaved, brushed my hair and dug out my old briefcase from the closet. I printed my resume out on fancy card-stock paper and left early enough to absorb the possibility of getting lost a few times. Then I set out, coffee-filled travel mug in hand, ready to take on the world.

As I neared the new job site, I noticed a strange, pungent odor in the air outside. I figured it was coming from one of the many factories lining the road. Then I arrived at a large, square, warehouse-style building with several tall smokestacks coming out the top. I double-checked my information with the sign out front and sure enough I was in the right place. I thought, “I guess I’ll be working in the office.”

I stepped from my car and was confronted with a smell that I can only describe as a mixture of burning hair, fingernail polish, and paint remover. I began walking towards my fate and noticed that the closer I got to the building, the stronger the smell was. “Not good. Not good at all.” I thought.
I was met by a man wearing a hard hat in a shirt with “Bud” stenciled on the front. He sported thick glasses and his yellow hard-hart was intentionally crooked on his head. Kind of a Bob the Builder meets Dick Tracey look. “My name is Bill. Most folks call me Bud.” I introduced myself and was led into a small conference room for my interview. Bud slowly removed his hat and sat down with my resume. He looked over the resume for a few seconds and said,

“You do computers, huh? I have a computer.”

I nodded, “Really?”

“You done good on the math test. Best score I seen, anyway.”

I nodded, “Really?”

“You got any steel toe boots?”

I shook my head, “I don’t think so.”

“You’ll need some. We make glue.”

I nodded, “OK.”

The rest was a blurr, but I recall being fitted for a HAZMAT suit and gas mask and being asked a lot of questions about having any allergies to common chemicals. Then I remember hearing someone say, “You start tomorrow. Don’t wear any clothes you want to keep.”

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

[tags]dirty jobs, unemployment, minimum wage, job, funny jobs, glue, factory, blue collar, HAZMAT, employment stories, employment, work, worst jobs, Nortel, Nortel Networks, IT[/tags]