Pinewood Derby

The first Jensen Family Pinewood Derby happened this past Wednesday. 

It all started over a month ago when Ethan brought home his pinewood derby kit in one hand and his favorite Hot Wheels car in the other.

"Dad, I want you to make my Pinewood Derby car look like this!"

Yeah.  I'm supposed to turn a 3" X 7" piece of warped wood into something that resembles this piece of machinery.  All I have is a couple of dull saws, chipped chisels, and a little handheld Rotozip thing.  Ethan also raised the stakes, saying not only does he want the derby car to LOOK like this, he also wants it to PERFORM like this, too.

The car in the picture is a Bugatti Veyron.  We happened across this car in Target's toy section... the Hot Wheels version.  It is Ethan's favorite car... mine too (the real one).  You can buy the real one for $1.6 million-- but, with that you get a car that is the fastest production car in the world: 268 mph.  Other bits of candy: 8-liter 16 cylinder engine; 1100 horsepower; 4 turbos; tires that cost $25,000 for the set; a personal mechanic on call (and can replace the tires for an additional $70,000); and, can go from 0-60 in 2.5 seconds.

I had my work cut out for me. 

So, I set out to work on it while trying to keep it within the rules of the Cub Scouts Pinewood Derby Rulebook PLUS doing "expectation management" with my son.  After all, there is only so much a guy can do in a situation like this.

The result:

It was as close to the Supercar that I could come.  Ethan put the stickers on top.

Just prior to the race, Ethan said, "Dad, I better win or I will be really ashamed."  After all that hard work, I was given the ultimatum: win or be ousted.  After all that work, I was hoping for "ousted".

Ethan's car did OK.  I noticed it came in 2nd place for most races.  Clearly, I did not have the experience of other Pinewood Derby engineers, nor the patience, nor the enthusiasm, nor the ambition, but for his opening race, I think it went rather well.

Of course, halfway through the race, Ethan walked past me in utter disgust.  As he passed in front of me, he hit me and said, "Thanks a lot, dad.  My car is in 6th place."  From that point on, Ethan began to experiment by letting it go backwards, warming up the wheels before putting it on the starting line, praying, etc.

I think he had a good time though. 

Ethan and Kenny Karatassos

The Pit Crew Boss

Shootin' for #1, with Preston sizing up the racetrack.

He even got his first driver's license and his first Cub Scout award.

He did not win first place, or second, or third.  Towards the end of the race, he was pushing 6th place.  I'm just glad it ended before his standing got any lower.  It slowly deteriorated from 2nd place to 6th, which was the last check before the race ended.

I'm just glad it didn't do what MY Pinewood Derby car did.  Dad put all the weight on the back, and the dumb thing would pop-a-wheelie all the way to the bottom of the hill, then come to a complete stop about 12 inches out on the "flat".  I never finished a race with that car.

Since there are never any LOSERS in youth activities any longer, all kids walked away with something.  Ethans: "Most Glossy".  Eh?  I guess that was due to the coat of clear finger nail polish with glitter that we used to cover the car.  So, in the end, all I really had to do was paint the square block of wood and cover it with glitter.  Why all the work?  I was going to correct the judges to say that, I believe, proper English would be "Glossiest" rather than "Most Glossy", but I held back.  After all, I had failed... miserably, and I was now a part of Ethan' Shame List.

Not to let a good (or bad) thing die, Ethan is already trying to determine how the next Pinewood Derby car will look.  And how it should perform.  The good thing is that with a 6th place finish, my chances are pretty good that I'll do better the next time...

David v Goliath

I think the Bible is the only place where some little pip-squeak takes on a person about 10 times his own size and lives to tell about it.

Okay, the Bible-- and the Primary class I taught last Sunday. However, since they are both in the realms of religion, I do not think this kind of behavior exists elsewhere. Why? Because Natural Selection removes these people (or animals) foolish enough to try it. In the wild, they are chased out of the herd or, in worse cases, torn limb-from-limb. In civilization, they are given Swirlies. In both cases, the offender is ostracized. Don’t believe me? Walk in to your local Hell’s Angels hangout and call the first guy you meet a greasy long-haired hippy, then count how many seconds it takes before you are either dismembered or hog-tied and left in your underwear in the parking lot.

I have often stated in this blog how I was never meant to be a teacher of children younger than about 14. I haven’t taught children older than 14, but I believe this applies to them as well. You have read about my experiences teaching adults, too. In both cases, the outcomes are often the same—total disaster. I’m beginning to think that all of these experiences are trying to tell me that if I ever consider a job in academia, I should stick to that of the janitor as opposed to an instructor.

This past Sunday, I had the “pleasure” (read: “unfortunate assignment”) of teaching the 9-10 year-olds in church. The lesson: Respect. In hindsight, I should have perceived the clash of ideals long before I stepped foot into the classroom. Here I had 9 year-olds, most of which I presume have very little understanding or appreciation of the word “respect”, and me trying to teach them this fundamental principle of survival while not “doing them in” before class was over. Anyhow, I get to work trying to teach this lesson to 4 little kids who can barely keep themselves settled long enough to breathe. We get done in record time—20 minutes left on the clock.

They ask if they can play “Hangman” on the chalkboard. Sure… what harm can there be with that? Again, I should have seen the red flag… I just finished a lesson on “respect” for four 9-year-old kids, and they want to close the lesson by hanging some poor guy on account of him not choosing the correct letters?

We start—actually, I start—the game. Being the teacher, I get the privilege of being the first “executioner”. My phrase: “I Should Be Respectful”. So I put the appropriate number of spaces on the board and ready the gallows. The kids start their turn at guessing letters.

Soon, it comes to Child #3, whom I shall call Ferdinand. Ferdinand guesses the letter “L” and I proceed to put in the “L” at the end of the word “Respectful”. However, in my haste to get out of the classroom, I overlooked the “L” in the word “Should”. Ferdinand is given the chance to guess the phrase, then “passes” to the next kid after failing to correctly guess the phrase in 10 seconds.

Before doing so, however, Ferdinand asks, “Is the last work ‘disrespectful’?” and I say, “No”. We move on.

After a few additional letters being placed in the phrase, another Child (Child #1, whom I shall call Clarabelle), correctly answers the phrase, at which point Ferdinand goes bizerke, telling me that I said “no” when asked if the last word was “disrespectful”. True, I said, it wasn’t… it was “respectful”, to which Ferdinand said, “Yeah, but ‘respectful’ IS part of the word ‘disrespectful’… and, you even forgot the “L” in the world ‘Should’. You really ARE dumb.”

Here is the David and Goliath moment. A kid, weighing in at 60 lbs soaking wet, calling me—weighing in at 240 lbs completely dry—“dumb”, without so much as a smirk of “unseriousness” on the kid’s face. Ferdinand sat there, staring at me with arms crossed, after dropping the “D” bomb on me-- someone that could theoretically pound him into the floor like a railroad spike.

Clearly, due to the environment and the guilt that would undoubtedly follow, I couldn’t do the Swirlie idea that first came to mind. I considered the hog-tying. But, in the end, I had no choice: I had to outwit the kid.

My response: “Yeah, but you forget that our lesson was on RESPECT, something you clearly LACK, so who really is the dumb one here?”
Ferdinand: “Just so you know, I won the last FOUR Hangmans in a row, and some of them only had a few letters.”
Me: “Did your teacher give you a big star sticker to put on your chest so you can walk around church showing everyone what a smart-alic you really are?”

Goliath: 1. David: 0.

Next up: Child #4, whom I shall call Ernest. Ernest had the idea of outwitting all of us. This child opens the Bible to some unknown verse and proceeds to put marks on the board for the entire thing… all 44 or 45 of them! Ferdinand goes back to the “L” letter of prior controversy (all in an attempt to drive home the point to me that I clearly failed the Primary IQ test), to which Ernest puts down the letter in the appropriate spaces. Clarabelle was next—and this child says, “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain”, which was the correct answer. Two spaces filled out of 45, and she wins. No one could have foreseen the ensuing events.

Like the Philistines, Ernest throws a temper tantrum. The chalk goes flying. The erasers go flying. Both bounce off the walls, table, and chairs. Ernest runs out of the classroom, crying at the top of his lungs, as the rest of us sit there with a dazed look of disbelief on our eyes (except for Ferdinand, who was still giving me the Stink Eye). About 10 seconds later, in runs Ernest, crying, tears falling all over the place. Ernest finds a place in the corner, sits down, and with head in arms, cries and cries and accuses the rest of us as conspirators (he used the word “cheaters”).

Me: “Whoa. Are you serious? There are no cry-babies allowed here! It’s just a game, ‘Ernest’!”
Ernest: “It’s not fair! You cheated!”
Me: “You are falling below the ‘respect’ line, Ernest. Okay, Clarabelle, it’s now your turn.”
Ernest: “NO!! I want another chance!” Waaa-waaa…
Me: “Okay, stop crying! Pick something original then, and keep it simple!”

Ernest picks up the chalk and eraser, walks up to the chalkboard while wiping tears, and proceeds to use a single word for the next gig. Before the gallows are even drawn, Ferdinand says, “That’s too easy! Its your last name!”

Ernest quickly wipes the board and starts over with something that is a bit longer, but altogether, even easier than before… it’s the classic Hangman default phrase. Clarabelle says, “I already know it!”, but Ernest says that he isn’t going to call on me or Clarabelle for this game, leaving it to Child #2 (I didn’t know her name) and Ferdinand to solve. Finally, Child #2 solves it, after which I looked at Ferdinand and said, “Yeah, that was the easiest Hangman ever… who again did you say was the dumb one in the class?” I got the Death Look from Ferdinand who rolled his eyes and sat in defiance till it was time to let them leave.

Okay, so I took it too far with Ferdinand and Ernest, but am I not doing them a favor? Is it a good idea to allow a child to grow up thinking that he/she is so clearly superior to everyone else that nothing they say or do will ever be punished by someone that is so obviously bigger and unwilling to take their crap? Had I had my current temperament but been transformed into a 10 year old at that moment, it would have been a WWE Cage Match inside that classroom, me winning the bout after a Suicidal Pile Driver to the floor.

The lesson on “Respect” came to a close.

I’m not sure how this will get reported, but my hope is that I’m blacklisted from the Primary Substitute Teacher list.

Kid Quotes - Ethan

****

Ethan: "Mom, did you know that tennis shoes are like humans?"
Mom: "How?"
Ethan: "When tennis shoes get old like mine, they start to fall apart.  When humans get old like you, they start to fall apart, too.  So you see, there is a connection there."

****

The Paper Dilemma

Today I experienced one of those awkward moments in a person’s life: being stuck in a bathroom stall only to found out a little too late that there is no TP in the TP holder.

So I had a choice to make. I could play the Seinfeld approach or I could sneak one stall over at the appropriate time.

The Seinfeld approach stems from one of my favorite episodes in which Elaine found out too late that she was without TP. Finding herself in the same situation I was in, she decided to ask the person next to her if she could “spare 3 squares” or “a single ply”. After being refused, and the neighbor left, Elaine was stuck with a decision to make that… well, you never find out what she did after that.
 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gysu0kgFwT0

In my case, after a brief glance under the stall wall, I realized I had no neighbor, but there were other people in the bathroom “servicing” other venues. So, neither approach was going to work. I couldn’t easily sneak to the next stall without being seen, and there was no one next door to either approve or deny my request for assistance.

I realized I had a third option… a risky option. I’ll call it the Senator Craig option. If you can recall, Senator Larry Craig, formerly of the great state of Idaho, got into trouble by making certain signals with his hands under the stall wall to the guy next to him. It became a huge scandal, one he got arrested for and, ultimately, lost his Senate seat because of. He blamed it on a “wide stance”, but this sudden bizarre thought gave me an idea. Knowing that the TP dispenser was located about 6 inches up the stall wall on the other side, if, by luck, the last person had left the TP hanging close to the bottom edge of the stall wall, I could slide my hand under in a similar matter and, hopefully, snag the line.

Yes, it was risky. Very risky. There could be a guy with really short legs in the stall next to me—legs too short to see from my vantage point. But I had to do something, so I took the Senator Craig option and felt under the stall wall and up the opposite side as best I could. Victory! I snagged the loose end of the line and pulled in about 20 feet of the white stuff.

I didn’t need that much, but in my situation, I couldn’t cut myself short. I had to take full advantage of things when I had the chance. You never know when your opportunities close on you… so, carpe diem—seize the day! Or, carpe Charmin, in my case.

I victoriously left the stall to wash my hands and, with a smile on my face, went to the paper towel dispenser to get my towels to dry with. It was a small victory, but one that I was proud of.

But, both paper towel dispensers were empty.

So I had to leave the bathroom with water dripping from my elbows.

I guess you win some, and you lose some.

Another Pool Experience

What I am about to tell you could get me disfellowshipped from the church.  And, it could be dreadfully embarrassing.  But, it is a story that has to be told.  The little shoulder devil that speaks to me is urging me, "Go on!  Go on!"  Since my shoulder angel is silent on the subject, I feel compelled to tell.  Here goes nothing...

Yesterday, we had a temple trip for our ward.  Columbus Ohio.  Prior to this, I had been asked, if needed, if I would be willing to help with baptisms.  I said I was fine with that-- I had never done them before, so what the heck?

I never heard anything more until we arrived at the temple, 9AM, after a slippery 3.5 hour drive from Pittsburgh.  I took Chrissa into the temple to meet up with our group and I was asked if I was still OK to help.  Sure, I said.

Then, I was asked if I would perform the baptisms.  "Uh, sure," I said.  I sensed a conspiracy, raising my senses to high alert.

There were 22 kids that were participating.  I was one of 2 guys doing the baptisms.  The line-up of kids was a mixed bag... some big, some small, but odds were that the other guy and I would get a pretty equal share of "proportions", both in age and in size.

I was second to get to work, after the first guy did 10 baptisms per kid for half the group for a total of 110, give or take. 

However, prior to the start of the work, I had noticed that the font wasn't really up to par.  Clearly, it had been used by a sufficient number of people prior to our arrival.  Evidence had been left by some.  You all know my thoughts and feelings on public pools-- I avoid them like the bubonic plague.  Knowing that this font was probably more "public" than private really forced me to do a thorough visual examination of the font structure and the condition of the water's surface, clarity, and overall quality.  Sure enough, there they were... hair balls, gleefully floating on the water's surface and in full contrast to the overall whiteness of the font.

I leaned over to the guy next to me and said, "Look at those... they look like dead cats floating in the font.  I think I just barfed in my mouth."  I was serious.  A single hair of unknown origins can send me over the edge.  He got to laughing and then made the comment to the temple workers that they needed to skim the water before we started.  When a guy has to ask for something to be cleaned, you KNOW there is a good reason for it.  Not sure what happened, other than this request didn't produce any results.

So, I see floaties and wonder, "What is under the water's surface that I can't see?"  All something has to be is lighter than water and it'll float.  I can think of thousands of nasty things that are more dense than water that could surely exist quite comfortably below the water line or, worse, on the bottom out of sight.  Considering the use of the font by, generally, youth between the ages of 12 and 17-ish, it wasn't entirely out of the question.

My predecessor finishes his half, and it became my turn to get wet.  So I slowly get down into the water, splashing those floaties away from me as I go, and prepare for my 11 kids at 10 "reps" each.

Uh, no.  The temple guy said that they had more work to do than they had anticipated, so I was needed to do 10 reps for the young men, and FIFTEEN for the young women. 

That was issue #2, actually.

Issue #1 came down to the members of my "team".  You see, not to sound judgemental or rude, but one player in particular is... well.. how do I say it?  This kid possesses significant circumferential qualities resulting in an uncommonly large mass.  Fair enough?  I had secretly been praying that this person wouldn't be on my "team" because, to be honest, I didn't have the strength.  Furthermore, I had suffered an injury to my shoulder years ago and it still acts up on me from time to time.  Nor does the church carry workman's compensation insurance, so any injury that resulted would be on my dime and on my time.

My prayers went unanswered.  Sure enough, the group split happened before this kid had the chance to participate, leaving this person in my line-up.  This kid wasn't on deck, but did come "to bat" at spot #3.

It became to this kid's turn and slowly the kid decended the short steps into the font.  Now, again, I do not mean to be rude here, but I found myself in a very awkward position.  Here I am, waist deep in water and up against a concrete structure surrounded in paned glass, and decending upon me from a higher position is a person that was clearly uneasy about decending the stairs, could slip and... well, you get the picture. 

Immediately, I wondered what safety equipment should have been provided to me.  A life preserver?  A harnass attached to a firm structure of some kind or a high speed winch to pull me to safety?  Any kind of automated defibrillator? Unfortunately, I had no such equipment, as anyone who has done this work can attest to. 

This person thankfully made it into the water without incident and, after a short silent prayer for strength, I get to work on the baptisms.  Fifteeen.  However, after one, I knew this was going to be a real chore.  You see... again, I'll try to be professional about this... when one gets to a certain size, being able to bend at the waist becomes more difficult and then, ultimately, impossible.  The knees provide little relief as they simply lack the leverage needed to do their job.  Once a person is "tilted" past a certain angle, gravity pretty well takes over... and, in a natural effort to slow the effects of gravity, the person tries to shuffle their feet to compensate.

In this case, the feet did more harm than good.  At that critical angle, the feet lost their grip on the bottom, and out they came... and down this person went.  And, I had to pull this person back up to the surface. 

Fifteen.

And, in probably 75% of the "reps", the footing was lost and, once again, I had to haul this person up to the surface.

All while trying to keep the floaties at bay.

After 15, I was beat.  Literally. 
Today, my arm and shoulder is virtually numb.  I may have torn a muscle, ligament, tendon, or all three, trying to do this job.  Ironically, I learned later that the guy before me had asked that he be spared this particular person because in times past, he had to do the work and his back had never recovered... or so the rumor goes.  Not sure how much truth there is to that.

Anyhow, we finish, and I finish up the other kids and pull myself out of the font when the temple lady gave me a towel and said, "Uh-uh... you need to wipe the water off the glass to clean things up a bit before you get out."  Huh?  Okay, whatever, I thought.  But the water had done some pretty excessive splashing during my short stint, and the water drips were everywhere.  Clearly, there had been some pretty hefty waves.  Splashing the floaties out of the way, I made my rounds and got the glass clean.

The floaties... no mention to clean those up. 

To add insult to injury, upon leaving the temple, this particular person was being asked by someone else how the experience was, and this person said, "IT WAS HORRIBLE!"  Yeah.  How do you think I felt?? 

The moral of this story is-- be aware of your surroundings and know your personal risk.  Stay out of the line of fire.  And, have an escape plan in mind, just in case.  And, stay out of public pools.

To Catch A Teenager

Today is January 31st, 2011. It is also the first day of the new semester for kids attending the Seneca Valley School District here in western Pennsylvania.

This morning, the alarm goes off at 5:50AM so that Michelle or I can run Chrissa to the designated meeting spot for transport to early morning seminary. Instead, Chrissa walks in and, in a very groaning voice, says, “Mom… I don’t feel very good. My stomach is queasy.” Michelle: “OK, call the driver for seminary and tell them you won’t be going.”

JUST LIKE THAT.

My eyes had to be on fire before my parents would believe a statement like that.

So, Chrissa stays home, and I leave for work.

Michelle had plans to go to Ohio today with Sherry, a lady from our ward, to pick up some stuff. Naturally, she took Ambie and Preston with her, especially since Chrissa was home being sick.

At noon, I come home from work, as I usually do, to have some lunch. As I open the door to the house from inside the garage (remember… our “basement” is actually at ground level, so our first floor would be above me at that location), I hear some feet running across the wood floor—very quietly—and disappear at the stairs that lead to the top floor.

I’m fairly confident at that point that it is not a burglar or Jack the Ripper or even a really big rat. I’m certain that it is our teenager—equally menacing as these others, however.

So, I go up to the main floor and, seeing no one there, continue up the stairs to the top floor and Chrissa’s bedroom. Sure enough, there she is, in bed and blankets, with eyes closed and mouth wide open making labored-breathing sounds, trying to show that she is in deep sleep.

Hmmm. She is either faking it, or Jack the Ripper made a quick exit from the house the moment I walked in.  I guess it could be a ghost, too.

Me: “Chrissa.”
Chrissa: zzzzzzzzzz
Me: “Chrissa!”

Chrissa, opening her eyes as if being awaken from a coma: “Y-y-yeahhh?”

Me: “Who just ran through the kitchen a minute ago?”
Chrissa: “Huh? I don’t know.”
Me: “Chrissa!!”
Chrissa: “It wasn’t me!”

Me: “Who was it, then, the One-Armed Man?”

My innate sense of teenage body language interpretation told me that there was more to this story than she was letting on.

Her mouth begins to pucker and, trying to hold back the smile, says, “OK, it was me, but I was just trying to get something to eat because I haven’t eaten anything today.”

Me: “Then why try to hide? What is going on at school today?”

Chrissa, after much thought, finally confesses that today is the first day of the semester—new teachers, new classes, etc. She was just too nervous to go, though she stays firm on her statement that she was feeling sick.  So, seeing she’s not as sick as she had been, and considering the fact that she had been on the computer and eating regular food, I tell her to get ready and I’d take her to school.

Skreeeeetch! “Oh dad, my stomach is feeling queasy again…” *Cough, cough*.

Uh-huh, sure. I asked her if any of her new classes included Drama. When she said “no”, I said, “Good… you wouldn’t get a very good grade for your acting skills.”