I Always Hate Turning On Lights Everywhere I Go

Hello!

Thanks for checking back here! Usually once school starts and people start doing “college stuff,” people kind of start to trail off into their studies. Hopefully this is a welcome distraction; if not, eh, why not make it one.

So, I have to start first by talking about perhaps the most exciting thing this week…my Aunt Luanda successfully drove her 1954 Ford F150 down the street to the post office where the office had been stock-piling her mail since 1996. It’s truly an amazing story…if it were true. Of course I’m talking about the Steelers thrilling and much deserved win over the (overrated) Indy Colts team, 21-18. Now, if I’m keeping track of what the score of the game should have been, I’m counting 31-10, at least. Pittsburgh truly thrashed the Colts, and I don’t even think my good ol’ pal from Indy, Mike Gallo, could argue that. The O-Line couldn’t keep the pressure off Manning and he was colder than the shoulder I always receive when I ask cute girls at the Pretzel Gourmet if they would like the regular- or large-sized Smoothie. Troy Polamalu was the most insane player on the field for Pittsburgh. Nick Harper deserves major props on the Colts side. Here’s a guy that gets slashed with a knife to his knee requiring three stitches the night before, injures his other knee during the game, makes some key tackles, and finally the fortunate fumble recovery that could have won the game had not Big Ben made the Pontiac Game-Changing Performance of the year. Anyway, the refereeing was the worst I’ve ever seen. Pass Interference, a no-call on a false-start/offside penalty, and the biggest abomination in sports this millennium: Troy Polamalu’s interception called an incomplete pass?! Troy intercepted the pass with his right hand, clutched it to his body, hit the ground with his left elbow, then his right arm, then touched with every single body part besides his pancreas (I think I even saw a tooth touch), before attempting to get up whereby he knocked the ball out of his possession with his left knee (a fumble), which he then recovered. A long sentence, yes, but here’s my theory on what really happened:

CBS Exec: Oh boy, guys, we’ve really got ourselves into a pickle now. The Patriots lost, now the Colts could lose…no one is going to watch the Steelers and Broncos, there’s no storyline there! We have to overturn this!
Ref: [enters replay booth, making caveman noises] Uhhh, why me here?
CBS Exec: We have no storyline for the game next week unless the Colts win, make up a rule to overturn this penalty.
Ref: Ug, um, there no rule
CBS Exec: Yes, yes, I realize, we need the Colts to win, go ahead, make up some crap and give the ball to the Colts, thanks. [click]

Honestly, if those refs with a clean conscience called that replay indisputable video evidence that the interception was photoshopped into Troy’s hands, I’m going to watch Synchronized Swimming from now on.

There was a major breakthrough in the science world last week. Apparently scientists in Taiwan have successfully bred the first “through and through” fluorescent green pigs. Yes, these pigs have been genetically mutated to exhibit a glow-in-the-dark skin tone that turns “torch-light bright” when blasted with a black light. Taiwanese scientists hope to use there genetic mutated pigs to further research on human stem cells. Brilliant! Allow me to be the first to sign up when they offer fluorescent human skin. I always hate turning on lights everywhere I go. Can you imagine the pork loin you’d get from those swine? Yum.

So time at the Pretzel Gourmet has been interesting. I would complain thoroughly about one new fellow who doesn’t quite stack up to the rest of the PG crew and with whom I got in a little odd confrontation, but I’ll give you an abbreviated story. So, Johnny (identity protected) showed up exactly one hour late to work the first day I was supposed to meet him without giving me a call. Okay, so bad first impression, but whatever. I open the next day and the store looks like garbage, and the owners called and I made them aware that the store looked as disgusting as Auntie Anne’s and they instructed me to jot down all of his shortcomings (pertaining to labor, duh). My list was pretty lengthy, and at the end I wrote something I shouldn’t have, but at the time I thought would have helped him work harder (since I understood that he was already on strike two). In short, I told him to put some pride into his work and that he did a good job other than the things I listed and that I was confident he could do better. Well you don’t pull on Superman’s cage and you don’t spit in the wind at the Pretzel Gourmet anymore according to Sir Johnny, who wrote me a note saying that I shouldn’t tell him how to do his job, and proceeded to write down the parts of my job I didn’t do (which, objectively, were exaggerated half-truths, and not near the extent of his lateness and poor closing). Alright, so I step out into the store and it looks like the filming of Twister 2 took place on-site in the Nittany Mall. I was displeased, but not surprised. So Saturday rolls around, and I’m thinking this kid is going to start busting caps in me even though I’ve only seen him in person for two minutes, and he confronts me during busy time. Beforehand, I had really been regretting telling him to take pride in his work, and repented for that and prayed that his heart would be opened. In our conversation at the store, if you could call it a conversation (it felt like a lecture to me), he refused to hear my calm argument. I did manage to get my apology out, which was all I wanted, and I still have nothing against him, I feel sorry for him. He was scheduled to leave at five and he left at 4:30 without telling me and with customers waiting. Needless to say, he was fired. I pray that God would be with him and help him through his obvious struggles.

Since I’ve been working daylight shift at the PG and no one frequents the mall, I have a lot of time to think. One such thought came to me yesterday. I’ve decided officially that I desire to be British. If there were a way for me to revoke my Americanness and trade it in for the original Red, White & Blue, I jolly well might. You see, while helping a British family at the register for about three separate visits within an hour, I fell in love with the dear chaps and their hilarious selves. I’ve met about three British people in my life, one in my family, and the other two yesterday, and I have to say they’re some of the jolliest, gentlemany people I’ve ever known. I’m pretty sure I was destined to be British and somehow have found myself on the wrong side of the pond. Firstly (or should I say lastly?), my last name is Constable, clearly British or United Kingdom-esque and would be a much respected and revered name in the Isles. Furthermore, I think I could pull off the look. Just give me some new threads and enable me to debrace the work of my braces when I was a young sprout and I’d have the teeth, nose, and fantastic fashion sense to fool any Englishman of old. And also, my favorite band (and the greatest band of all-time), Athlete, is from there! Finally, and perhaps the best part, the bloody language. Let’s just have a sample of the conversation I had with a British man (Robert let’s call him) and woman (Anne), both about my age.

Tyler: Hi! How can I help you?
Anne: Hello, sir!
Robert: Hello good chap! How is your day going?
Tyler: I’m doing fine, thank you. Uhh, can I get you something?
Anne: Yes, sir. What’s the difference between your large and small hot dogs?
Tyler: Well, the large hot dogs contain a quarter-pound of the meat, and the small ones are…smaller.
Anne: Oh that’s mighty fine. I’m sure a small hot dog will suffice.
Robert: Yes, yes, a small hot dog will do.
Anne: May I have a small hot dog please?
Tyler: Sure [rings it up]. Anything to drink?
Anne: Ah, a bottled water do ya have?
Tyler: [Having already had too much] Yes.
Anne: Oh great! I’ll have one of those as well.
Tyler: [retrieves hot dog and accepts cash] And for you, sir?
Robert: Ah, I’ll have a small hot dog as well.
Tyler: Anything to drink?
Robert: Ah, brilliant…eh, do you perchance have a medium Diet Coke?
Tyler: Yep. [rings it up]
Robert: Cheers!
Tyler: [Retrieves food and accepts payment] Thank you, sir, you both have a good day.
Anne: Oh thank you so much. You do the same, sir!
Robert: Yes, likewise. Have a fantastic day m’boy!

After their dismissal from the counter, I could not help but smile at the completely adorable exchange that had just expired. But as the voices rang through my head for the next few minutes, I decided that the girl’s voice was the greatest voice I have ever heard. Yes, you can take your Brent Musberger’s, Joe Buck’s and Al Michael’s and drive to Indianapolis to attend Peyton Manning’s Pity Party 2006; I’ll take the voice of that sweet lovely young British girl at the store yesterday. I fancy I shall hear it again someday. Brilliant!

I want to take a quick moment to give a shout-out to Roland and Rebecca. Roland complained that in my last entry I didn’t talk about our Wing Night Adventures. After I informed him that they weren’t really adventures and merely trips to Prospector’s on Thursday nights for really good wings at a minuscule price and cheery conversation, he blushed and ran away. In fact, Roland and I did go on an adventure. After we dropped off Rebecca, we went rummaging through Wegman’s! I’ve only been there a few times, but that place is ridiculous. We actually only went to check out their dessert displays, which are ridiculous, but they had shelved them for the night. So we went to the international section and I learned that all just-add-water bowls of noodles manufactured in Asia are spicy. Jolly good time! Regardless, the JOP’s live on, and this Thursday will mark the season finale. We’ll have four there Thursday (hopefully, Nev! [angry parent look]) and it should be a good time.

Guitar has been coming along decently. I’ve written a song, or at least I have thought of a song and I sing it at work and I’ve tried to put chords to it but I’m not sure if they’re correct. In any case, it’s a sweet song but not yet publishable or performable, I’m just giving you all the heads up.

It has taken me two days to write this entry, and I feel more sorry for the readers than I do myself (even though it takes me a good 2-3 hours to do this). I was sitting at the PG today looking out into the mall and realized how truly blind I am. Place anything more than four feet in front of my eyes, and I can’t make out any details. I see an outline and if I’ve been exposed to it at this distance numerous times I’m sure I could identify it, but otherwise, my eyes are useless. My eyes only see what is near, what is immediate, what is now, in detail. I’ve been thinking a lot about my calling lately. I’ve been delving through scripture, reading Max Lucado’s Cure for the Common Life, and praying and praying and praying, and today I’ve made a connection. My eyes and their deficiencies are just like my connection with my Father; I can only see what’s in front of me, what’s now. God doesn’t want me to see more than four feet in front of my eyes because I have trouble enough seeing three. When I’m praying, I’m asking for God to give me perfect vision, eyesight that will allow me to see my destination in life, my purpose and calling, which will allow me to reroute my life towards that goal. Life doesn’t happen that way. He’s not going to tell me, “Psst, hello, Tyler, here ya go! I want you to drive the space shuttle in 2028 to Mars to obtain the cure for cancer!” Nope. Nor will I hear, “Okay, quit asking me! I want you to teach Calculus in State College for three years, then four years in Kentucky, and then become a sports broadcaster for ABC until Joe Paterno dies, which will happen in 2054.” But that’s what I want. I like seeing the road. Why? So I can make sure I get there. Oh wait, there’s the problem: it’s not about me. Nope, try again. It’s not about me being comfortable, or “well-off,” or famous, or self-absorbed; it’s about Him. I want to see His plan for my life so I can get there. Again, wrong pronoun. He is the one getting me there, not me. I’m not in charge!! How can this be? If I’m going to please you, I need to know what to do! And God replies, “I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out – plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for.” (Jeremiah 29:10-11 Msg) As a believer in Christ, the future I hope for is one that pleases God my Creator to all praise is given! If that is my true hope, God has a plan for it and he’s executing that plan today just as he executed it yesterday and will execute it tomorrow and all tomorrow’s to come. I’m not in control! What?! Are you nuts! Get it back! Ever think that God could prove his love to be all the greater by taking away control. If I knew the plan and were in control, I would mess it up. I’d draw a straight line to the finish and end up crawling over mountains until I sat down frustrated that I’ve lost my way. So what does God do? How do we get there if we don’t know where we’re going? He lets us do what we can do. He says, “Tyler, talk to this man,” and “Tyler, read this and tell me what you think.” He loves me too much to say, “Tyler, your purpose in life is to teach English in Germany,” because he knows I’m the kind of guy that will be on the next flight to Hannover, looking up private schools on my laptop all the way. And I miss the point: Him. If I do it all on my own, then where along the way can I say that God was responsible, that God deserves the glory over me. I can’t.

Max Lucado writes in It’s Not About Me:

“He knows your limitations. He’s well aware of your weaknesses. You can no more die for your own sins than you can solve world hunger. And, according to him, that’s okay. The world doesn’t rely on you. God loves you too much to say it’s all about you. He keeps the cosmos humming. You and I sprinkle sawdust on oil spots and thank him for the privilege. We’ve peeked under the hood. We don’t know what it takes to run the world, and wise are we who leave the work to his hands.”

It’s not about me! And thank God it isn’t, I don’t want that responsibility. It’s all about Him; and Him working out His plan for His glory. I’m merely sprinkling sawdust. Thankfully, my eyes can only see four feet in front of me clearly. Sure, you can give me glasses, contacts, or surgery, but those are all temporary fixes that merely hide the facts. My job is not to see far away, but to see close. My job is to look for Him in the things I can see. What good is it to look at things far away? It will only be blurry and I will end up making costly conjectures. “But if you have trouble seeing things four feet in front of you, how do you expect to see God who is infinitely far away? someone will ask.” Nay; I like to think that God is not infinitely far away but infinitely close and I just haven’t the strength to focus. All I can hope for are quick glimpses of Him at work and have faith that God will work all things out according to His plan. And when it’s all over and I’m reunited in Heaven, He will give me new eyes that will see all and I will behold the most glorious sight of all, the face of my Creator and the fullness of his glory!

I’m pumped now…but it’s time for bed. It’s time for yet more God-pondering and pretzel-producing at the Gourmet tomorrow morning.

Later days!