Integrity: am I doing it?

I have been feeling very reflective the last week or so. I’ve read some interesting books and articles, revisited some of my travel journals and pictures, and have taken a good hard look at my life and life in general. You all know I have an arsenal of stories just waiting to be told, but this week I really wanted to write about something of substance. I always have a lot on my mind (which is sometimes good and sometimes bad) but I don’t usually share the deeper things mostly because I’m not sure who’s interested in hearing them and then I get self-conscious when I just put them out into oblivion without getting any sort of response. Anyway, I was going through some stuff I wrote during my last semester of grad school and found this piece in there. I’ve decided to forego any misgivings about sharing my deeper thoughts and put this out there because I think it's an interesting topic and because I'm anxious for others' feelings and thoughts.

This rumination was sparked by a conversation I had with some friends on a hike about a year and a half ago. We were arguing about the President's "real" agenda behind the war in Iraq (a heated discussion for sure) which eventually led to a discussion on foreign oil. Not knowing very much about the specifics of foreign oil, I found my mind wandering a bit. I wondered if we will ever be able to elect someone who doesn't have an agenda to increase their power at the expense of others. Will we ever have a leader whose agenda involves doing what is right no matter the cost? I think it would be very difficult for many reasons, one of which includes an inconsistent idea of right and wrong. I feel most would agree that integrity involves something along the lines of "being honest" or "obeying one's conscience," but the specifics can be a gray area; the person who offers a scathing rant on the most recent deception in the political arena might also be the same person who knowingly walks away with ten cents more change than deserved. I think the argument might revolve around asking when an action constitutes a breach of one’s integrity. Or considering how much one transgression of integrity affects the world. Does it depend on the gravity of the infraction? I read somewhere a quote attributed to Confucius. I like it; the sentiment rings true to me. It says,

To put the world right in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must first put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must first cultivate our personal life; we must first set our hearts right.

The idea that the smallest decisions in one’s life can affect a much bigger picture is both humbling and daunting.

I have always tried to be an honest person. When I was younger, it was definitely to the detriment of my popularity. Though it hurt sometimes to be ridiculed for my honesty, I valued the virtue above all else. I thought I had mastered it along with integrity. I encountered a situation during my sophomore year of college that taught me otherwise.

I took an introductory religious studies course from Dr. Mueller, a well-respected lecturer at SDSU, known for his engaging style and tough exams. I was enthralled as we studied Buddhism, Hinduism and Confucianism. When it came time for the tests my enthusiasm for the topic made studying easy. The tests, however, were not: three to five pages of short answer questions with points assigned according to how thoroughly the question was answered. As an undergraduate I was concerned to the point of obsession about my grades. I had emerged from high school as one of the valedictorians (a shared honor at my school) and had planned on maintaining as near-perfect grades as I could during college (darn astronomy...). Consequently, I stressed endlessly about tests. I also liked Dr. Mueller and studied hard not only to do well but because I genuinely enjoyed what I was learning.

I survived the first test and did surprisingly well. Exhausted but happy, I felt a bit more comfortable knowing what his tests were like and how to study for them. I moved onto the next round of material and tested well again. Then we got to a unit about which I was a bit apprehensive: Christianity. I considered myself a very knowledgeable Christian, but not a knowledgeable Catholic. I was desperately afraid of failing (which for me really means a B- or lower), of unconsciously mixing Mormon and Catholic doctrine. I participated extensively in class and studied harder for that test than any other previously.

Despite my efforts, trying to keep all the Catholic doctrines straight as well as historical figures in their proper chronological order left me feeling I had surely done poorly. I had to wait over a week to discover my fate.

The day finally came and Dr. Mueller returned all of the exams but my own. He asked that I walk with him back to his office to discuss my grade. I felt dread--pure dread--as I joined him on his walk down the metal staircase, down the hall past all the music majors in their practice rooms, finally arriving at his office. On the way, he asked me how I thought I did on the test. I knew it; I had bombed, and this little walk was his way of telling me, away from the rest of the class. I thought wildly that he would give me another chance given my excellent record in his class. I took a deep breath and was honest with him; I felt I had not done well. He asked me to be more specific, to guess my grade. I gave him a score somewhere in the high B range (although I was sure it was closer to the C range). By that time we had reached his office door. With one hand on the knob he then presented me with a choice: I could either take the grade I earned or the grade I guessed. I hesitated only for a moment; I took the grade I guessed. I justified it in those two seconds that it didn't matter what grade I had received; if I didn't understand the material perfectly, I deserved a high B. When I gave him my answer, he merely put his key in the lock, opened the door and walked straight over to his desk. He pulled my test off the top of a pile of papers, handed me the paper and said, "Well, that's unfortunate." There on my test in red pen was written my score: 116/117. I had received a near-perfect score. I had missed one point. I had received the highest grade in all of his classes and the highest grade he had ever given on this test. I almost cried in relief and disbelief. Horror washed over me as I realized I had just agreed to take a high B when a near-perfect score was staring me right in the face. I am ashamed to admit that I should have felt horrified for another reason entirely and yet I didn't. Not then anyway.

He ultimately gave me the score I had received and I left his office feeling tremendous relief. In the months following that experience, I liked to tell myself that he wanted me to see how much confidence I lacked in my abilities as a student. I thought maybe he cared enough to teach me to relax and trust that I was smart. However, after discussing the matter with a friend, and after another (more vicious) encounter with Dr. Mueller about a year later, I became convinced of something else. Dr. Mueller knew I was a Mormon, a devout Mormon, and he wanted to see how my religion would interact with my clearly stated desire for good grades. I think he thought he knew me and wanted to see how deep my religion ran.

The thing is I thought I knew me, too. I didn't even consider it a true breach of my integrity until I recounted what I felt was the humor and relief of the situation to a friend, much older and more experienced in life. He didn't laugh at the interaction but instead looked at me very seriously and told me he was disappointed in the way I handled the situation. He told me that my integrity should have guided me to take the score I had earned; that would have been the honest thing to do. I was ashamed and hurt to think that my professor had been testing my integrity and that I had failed – a virtue I once thought of as one of my strongest.

It took me a while after my friend's chastisement to decide whether to be upset at Dr. Mueller's tactic or grateful for his little experiment. I think I felt both emotions for a long time. He exposed some gaps in my integrity, but I didn't appreciate being exposed so maliciously. I more than passed the test administered to the rest of the class, but failed the test that I came to realize mattered more. I was more afraid of failure that would result in a poor grade on my transcript. I should have been worried about the poor mark on my character. I have reached a point now where I am wholly grateful for this experience. It has, over the years, taught me to be less concerned with the world's judgment of my success and to be more concerned with progressing in my own time and season, honestly and with the Lord's guidance and direction. But I must admit I cannot think of this experience without a pang of shame and a resolution to never repeat it.

Some reading this might think I'm being unnecessarily hard on myself, but I don't think I am. Integrity is something this world is severely lacking. How different would the world be if people only took what they earned, if they returned every bill they were given in error at the store? How would politics be different if every figure governed their lives with their "hearts right"? What would the world picture look like then? Is it possible to change? Confucius suggests that it is possible to change by starting with ourselves and working up to our families, then to our nation, and then to the world. But I worry that fear might keep this from becoming an actuality. "Fear of what?" one might ask. This question is best answered by describing a game I both loathe and love, called "Win as Much as You Can."

"Win as Much as You Can" is played as follows: Four people or four groups play and every person/group is given a piece of paper. Each group is to write down either an X or a Y at the beginning of each round and receives points based on the collective result. The game is scored as follows: XXXX = Everyone loses 1 point; XXYY = X wins 2, Y loses 2; XXXY = X wins 1, Y loses 3; YYYX = X wins 3, Y loses 1; YYYY = Everyone wins 1. The game operates on trust; all participants discuss beforehand what they will agree to put down but in the end each player enters their choice privately, revealing his or her choice only after everyone has written it down. If everyone agrees to put down a Y (and everyone actually does it), everyone wins 1 point. However, if everyone but one person puts down a Y, the person who puts down an X gets the maximum number of points one can gain in a round (3), and everyone else loses 1 point. Usually, once people are burned by a rogue group member who puts down an X after everyone has agreed on Y, it is difficult to get the group to agree to the Y strategy again; no one wants to be the one to put down a Y because unless everyone puts down a Y, the Y's always lose. Sometimes groups try the Y's again, but deception and suspicion has already entered the group; no one wants to be the trusting sucker. However, on the flip side, if no one trusts one another and everyone puts down an X, everyone loses a point and no one gains anything. Rarely does a game actually get played all the way through because group members end up yelling at each other and many refuse to continue playing.

I hate the contention the game creates, but it is fascinating to watch it play out. My mom would make her seminary students play it every year as her object lesson on the united order. A rare group would catch on and gladly mark down all Y's. More common were the games with partnerships aimed at winning as much as they could, laughing gleefully when they had successfully duped the other players. Integrity was non-existent; they were winning while sending the rest of the group into negative scores. Eventually the game would deteriorate into players abstaining or everyone putting down X's because it didn't matter if they lost anymore points. Hope was eventually lost for the entire game.

There are those who argue that competition and hierarchy is what drives invention and growth. I don’t know if I agree with that, but even if I did, does competition always have to involve a compromise of integrity? Why does progress always mean someone is ahead of another? What is so bad about everyone working together to become better? I'm not saying that order and authority are not necessary. I think there definitely has to be a governing body, but let that body be loving and genuinely interested in the building up of a nation or a kingdom for the sake of its strength, not to build an elite class that either laughs gleefully at duping the trusting souls or ignores them in apathy. Maybe it is naïve of me to think we can change the current state our world is in, a world where currently many talk about putting down a Y but are being dragged down by those secretly putting down an X. I wonder if we are at or near the point where everyone puts down an X (or abstains) because it appears we can't lose anymore than we already have. I wonder sometimes if hope will ever be revived, if integrity will prevail, if selfishness will ever be put aside.

I have to say, even though I wonder at times, the majority of the time I choose to be an optimist in this regard. I believe that day will come, but I think it will start quietly, in our own homes. I think it will spread to our neighbors, if we will share our experiences and hopes with them. All it takes is a few strong individuals to inspire many to live better, to give others the strength and courage to change and to be different than the majority, at least for a little while.

I hope I continue to stretch myself to have experiences that expose my weaknesses so that I can make them stronger and in turn help my future children, who in turn may influence those around them.

And now I'm not sure how to end this. It feels trite any way I've tried. So I'll just say, "the end." And I'm curious for your thoughts. And I promise a good story will be posted later in the week.

The Sickies

I'm sick. Really sick. The sickest I've been in years. Dr. Craven has diagnosed me with full blown influenza. Ick. Achy, coughing, stuffy head, fever, lathargic...I've spent almost two days in bed with one more day in store. I even missed Taco Tuesday last night.

However, I'm on the mend and have given up hope on any kind of sleep, so I'm going to finish this post. The last time I was significantly indisposed was almost one year ago, but I wasn't sick. Well, at least not in the traditional sense. Let me set the stage:

Boston Marathon, 2007. It was a dark and stormy night. For at least a week previously, Katie and I had been receiving emails from the BAA advising us of the incliment weather on its way and how to prepare for it. Upon our arrival at the expo, we were bombarded with pink sheets on how to recognize and rectify hypothermia. Katie and I not only chose to not dwell on it, but we mocked it. We had been training in the snow and sub-freezing temperatures all winter. It wasn't anything we hadn't seen before. No big deal. Scott tried to get us to take it a bit more seriously, but we wouldn't.

The day of the marathon we were all up in plenty of time due to the howling wind (I'd never heard anything like it) and pouring rain. The sky was dark and ominous as the day dawned. Barely a word was spoken as we cooked our oatmeal and packed our bags. A marathon in and of itself is a fairly daunting experience. This was my fourth and I knew the pain I was in for, even if the weather was cooperating. Add in the wind, rain, and freezing temperatures, and I knew I was in for a rough three-and-a-half hours (our goal time). As I considered the rotten weather, I reminded myself that I was in the best shape of my life. A little rain wasn't going to hurt. (Lies, all lies.)

We left Scott at home, expecting to see him at some point towards the end of the race, while Bill (our host for the weekend) dropped us off at the corner of the Boston Common on his way to work. It was still pouring; I was having second thoughts about the harmlessness of this rain. Katie and I made a break for the lines already forming for the busses. We got in line, staying as still as we could to conserve energy and to keep water from running into places it shouldn't. After about 5 minutes, I happened to glance across the street and saw deliverance. I made a beeline for the orange and pink sign across the street: Dunkin' Donuts. I ordered two extra-large hot chocolates and returned just in time to get loaded on a bus. We finished our vats of heavenly warmth near what we thought was the end of our bus ride. We soon discovered our bus driver was lost (how a bus gets lost amidst a caravan of hundreds is beyond me, but whatever). Meanwhile, the rain only increased in intensity and one of the joints above our seat started to leak – right into our empty hot chocolate cups. Drip. Drip. Drip. We burst out laughing, praying we were close and that the port-a-potty lines were short. We got both wishes, thankfully.

We made it to the starting corrals right on time. The crowd was incredible, horns blaring and cow bells clanging. Once we got through the mess of mile one, shooting through open holes, trying not to cut people off too badly, we were running even splits--7:45 pace. It had stopped raining about 10 minutes before the race, so by mile two I had already tied my windbreaker around my waist. The rain started back up around mile 8, but by then it was a refreshing change; despite the chilliness of the day, I was roasting as usual.

Katie and I talked about everything: boys, school, infectious diseases (she is Dr. Craven, after all), and quoted many, many movies ("what fer? there's only three little ones!"). I know it sounds crazy, but we were having a great time.

Then we hit mile 17. I could feel my legs fatiguing in an unfamiliar way and at an unfamiliar time. I ignored the feeling as best as I could; I knew I was in better shape than to be tired already. Mile 18 passed, and my steps were coming with increasing effort. I shook out my arms a little and rolled my neck, trying to loosen up a little bit. Katie shot me a side glance and asked how I was doing. I lied and said I was fine, our normal shtick.

Scott burst out of the crowd around mile 18 and annouced he was going to run with us for a while, an unexpected surprise. We hit the first hill at mile 19. The Seven Brides for Seven Brothers "what fer, it's just three little ones" joke was long since over as I felt like I was plodding through mud. I had just barely recovered when hill number two came. The fatigue hit hard at the top and I cut Katie loose. I knew she was feeling good and wanted to take off, and I couldn't go with her. She told me she'd meet me at the top of Heartbreak. I pretended to believe her. She left me with Scott; we were still running at a pretty good pace – I had slowed to about 8:20 – but I felt like crying.

I have very few memories of miles 21 through 25. Scott tried to distract me with stories but I couldn't get over the fact that something was not right. As soon as we had come over the last hill and began our descent into the city, the wind picked up something fierce and I had neither the presence of mind nor the capability of putting my windbreaker back on. I barely heard his last story. I could only think about how cold I was. The tears spilled over. My only memories of the last two miles are of Scott running along-side me yelling to the crowd to “cheer for Julie!”

The last mile is deep with fans. It is the perfect place for "bandit" runners like Scott to disappear, and I knew he was planning on leaving me there. I told him he couldn't leave because when I crossed that line, I was going to pass out and I needed him to catch me. I know, it sounds dramatic; I had never passed out without a blow to the head before, but somehow I knew it was true. He agreed to stay. We rounded the last corner, the roar of the crowd defeaning.

“Julie! Look! The finish line! Isn’t it beautiful?”

I couldn’t say anything. I could barely see anything. The finish line was a blurry light at the end of a very foggy, dim tunnel. When we crossed, I had the presence of mind to stop my watch; I needed to know my time. I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed when it finally registered: 3:41:17. I had missed requalifying by 18 seconds. 18 measely seconds.

“Ma’am, do you need help?” I registered the female voice and answered in my head, ‘No I don’t need help,’ but the words wouldn’t form on my lips.

“Ma’am, do you need a wheelchair?” A wheelchair? Of course not. Still, I couldn’t form the words.

“Julie, can you hear me?” Scott's voice. I looked up at him, my mind screaming defiantly I didn’t need help, but still no words. I looked at him helplessly before I swayed; he caught me.

“Put her in the wheelchair,” I heard him say. I couldn’t even fight them. I was lowered into the wheelchair and taken into the medical tent, fighting muted feelings of humiliation. I vaguely remember seeing rows and rows of beds and registering the blessed absence of wind. I tried to talk again.

“I don’t know what happened out there.” My words were thick and slurred. I stopped and tried again. “My legs felt like lead.” I sounded drunk, unintelligibly drunk. I stopped trying to talk; it took far too much energy. One volunteer asked Scott what I had said. He just shrugged.

I was placed on the edge of a cot and was poked and prodded by a volunteer who noted that I was soaked all the way through. My brain rationally thought out, ‘Well, I should get out of these clothes then.’ I calmly and silently stripped off my wet hat, jacket and shirt; Scott just as silently walked away. The volunteers quickly wrapped numerous blankets around me and laid me back on the cot. They then announced they were going to take my temperature. I thought they were crazy; I was freezing, not hot. The woman stuck a thermometer in my ear. When it beeped, she pulled it out and looked at it. She shot a grave look at the second volunteer at my side.

“92 degrees,” she said quietly as she handed her the thermometer over my body. The second lady took my temperature in my other ear. 92.1 degrees. I knew the number was all wrong, but I couldn't figure out in which direction.

“We need a bear hug over here!” The first woman yelled. Immediately there were three new people at my side, one taking my blood pressure, one touching my feet asking if I could feel them (I could but just barely), and one trying to get my personal information. I got scared and started crying; I hated feeling so helpless. I asked Scott through my tears what was going on (it sounded more like "wuzgoinon"). He explained that I was just a little cold and that I needed to get warmed up.

The first volunteer came back with a bear hug, which was this blanket with a tube attached to it. The tube blew in hot air and enveloped my body's core in immediate warmth. As soon as that got situated, the questions from the volunteers began. Scott translated the unintelligible answers. The warmer I got, the clearer my speech became. However, my filter was broken; I was delirious.

Example #1:
"Do you watch Grey's Anatomy?" I asked the nurse.
"No. Do you?"
"No, terrible show. But I saw this one episode when Meredith fell in the freezing cold water and died. McDreamy brought her back to life. I've always been afraid of drowning. And dying of hypothermia." Neither of which is true.

Example #2:
[after I'd been in the medical tent for a while]
“Scott?”
“Yes, Julie.”
“I’m starving.”
“Well, what do you want?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I want a donut.”
“Uh, Julie, I don’t think they have donuts here. But let me ask to see what they do have.” He grabbed our volunteer as she rushed by us again. “Excuse me. She says she is starving. Do you have anything she could eat?”
"A donut!" I yelled from my cot.
“No, we don’t have anything to eat, but we do have broth. Would you like some?” She proposed this option as if it was ten times better than a donut. (By the way, the lack of food was a total lie. Once my body temperature was above 95, they let me eat as many potato chips as I wanted.)
“Broth? 26.2 miles and I all I get is broth?” The volunteer's look told me that was exactly the situation. I thought about pointing out that if I'd walked through the finishing chute they would have given me food, but instead I responded, “Fine, I’ll take the broth." Unreasonable and surly.

Example #3:
Scott went over to a table in the middle of the tent and grabbed two cups full of broth. I was still mummified in blankets and the bear hug, so he set one down on the ground to free up a hand to put behind my head; he carefully pressed the cup of broth to my lips. The liquid was like manna from heaven, nectar from Olympia; I could feel myself being warmed from the inside out as it made its way down my esaphogus. I closed my eyes in delight. He was my savior.

“Scott, I love you.” Yep. Still delirious. He was getting a huge kick out of this.
“I love you, too, Julie," he replied patronizingly. "Drink your broth.”

Example #4:
My temperature had risen to 95 degrees in about 30 minutes. They took away my bear hug to revive another runner. I had gotten warm enough to start shaking uncontrollably. It seemed inconsistent to me for them to take away my warmth just as I started shivering, but that response indicated to them that I was in the clear. Scott, no doubt cold himself, offered me his sweatshirt. According to him, my eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning as I exclaimed, "I had a dream you had a dry sweatshirt for me!"

There were several other incidents. Almost an hour in a delirious state provides years of entertainment in storytelling. Such as Scott telling the nurse all of my food allergies and making up their side effects to get me to start revealing more information (we're not in the car anymore...); me realizing the nurse thought Scott was my boyfriend because he knew so much information about me (when in reality it's just a function of spending countless hours together on runs) and blurting out my observation, effectively mocking the nurse; I'm sure there are others that Scott is just holding in his arsenal for the perfect moment.

Lest you think marathoners are crazy...well, I have no defense. We are. There is a certain satisfaction we derive from pushing our bodies to their outer limits and beyond. However, that being said, I think I'm done pushing those particular limits. :) I've banked enough running stories to last me a lifetime. And now I think it's time for me to go back to bed. A donut sounds really good right about now.

In honor of love

This time of year is always kind of dreary, or at least it has been since my trek west from the land of sunshine. February blues. Blah. Add in a holiday that can put stress on even the strongest of relationships and you've got a potentially bad combination. But I'm determined that this month's holiday is all what one makes of it. I believe that if it is viewed as a celebration of all types of love (and if one is not held to an unrealistic expectation of ostentatious or perfect expressions of that love on one, arbitrary day) it really can be a lovely day, single or coupled.

It is always good for me to stop and think about the things that I love, the things that bring me joy. There exist the obvious objects of my deepest love: Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ; my parents, nine brothers, one sister, and 34 nieces and nephews; the gospel; the temple; scriptures - really, the eternal things in my life. Then there are other, perhaps more transitory things that tickle and touch my heart deeply, things that enrich my life experience simply because they feel unique to my mortal existence. Here they are, in no particular order:

cookies
walking in the rain without an umbrella
walking barefoot (in the rain, without an umbrella)
blankets
sunsets, preferably on the beach
blustery days
holding hands
playing "Once There Was a Snowman" with my brothers
staying up late talking
midnight thunder storms
working hard
getting dirty - the kind of dirty where you're still finding dirt in your ears days later even though you're positive you've scrubbed and scrubbed
playing so hard it hurts for days afterwards, maybe even earned a scar or two
children in other countries
speaking Spanish
England
celebrating victories big and small with friends and family
getting back rubs and having my hair combed
looking at pictures of my family
fireplaces and armchairs
coming up with the perfect gift or act of service, and that feeling right before it's given
holding and kissing a newborn baby and/or any child that wants to be held and kissed
making kids laugh
dancing dancing dancing
loving deeply
the smell and feel of the air when I walk out of the San Diego airport
being disciplined
feeling the spirit
singing for people who love music
good literature
dreaming and hoping
Dad's difficulty in commencing family prayer once he gets laughing
Mom's difficulty in remembering whether it's "Texas Walker Ranger" or "Walker Texas Ranger" (and other verbal mishaps)
laughter in general
reliving good memories
telling stories to a captive audience
keeping a journal and watching growth and revelation unfold
being obedient
asking questions
learning new skills

I could write story after story about "Once There Was a Snowman" mishaps, FHE games such as human chess, Crows and Cranes, and "Buckle buckle beanstalk (anyone else just have visions of John shaking his bum on the couch?), Brian's ballerina escapades (he never would have called back for a second date anyway, Brian - no worries), the Great Dalmudi, midget skits, Transformer wars, "Sleigh Ride," Kibbles and Bits, being tied to the piano (I'm still plotting my revenge), etc. etc. etc. However, no one comes to a blog to listen to me relive my childhood memories. So, instead I'll just leave you with these sentiments...

...and maybe one youtube clip. Men, please don't judge me, but what would a Valentine's Day celebration be without Jane Austen. I am a Jane Austen lover, but you should know it is not because I think any of these men actually exist. I appreciate Austen's commentary on various relationships, her acknowledgement of the ridiculousness of some situations and the unlikely existence of any Darcy's or Knightly's in their truest forms (this sentiment is lost in movie adaptations but is alive and well in her books). However, I do believe the depth of friendship and love described does exist. That being said, I think this clip is hilarious and have chosen it as an appropriate ending for my piece celebrating love. Really, I just need to give you all the laugh you came to this blog for. :) Next week will be more entertaining, I promise.

Bat Cave Update

No sign of the bat. It's hiding. My landlady may or may not think I'm making things up. Looks like I'll have to go down at night and make some noise to try to get the bad boy out of hiding. Animal control better work 24 hrs.

Also, I did not mean for my last expostulation - "Where are the home teachers when I need them?" - to imply that they do not come when I need them. I just needed someone in the day club, and Jay fit that bill.

Dumb bat.

Addendum, Courtesy of Animal Control

The following is found on the Arlington County Animal Control website:

Bats hibernate in winter, and their young are born April-July. They cannot gnaw or dig, relying instead on existing openings to enter buildings. Actual damage is minor, mainly stains and odor from feces and urine. Ammonia will drive them out of the attic. If a bat is flying inside the house, don't panic. Try to isolate it in one room and call the League for assistance. Do not touch it. Remember, bats eat insects, not people.

Problems I have with this statement:

1. It is winter. This bat clearly is not hibernating.
2. I'm not sure where the opening is in our basement but I'm not about to put ammonia down there to "drive the bat out." It would drive all of us roommates out as well.
3. Have they ever been in a room with a flapping bat? Don't panic? Right. Check.
4. "Bats eat insects, not people." Sure thing. Rabies, anyone?

And don't worry - they just told me that I have to go in the basement, spot it AGAIN, and then call them and they'll be right over. AND THEN told me not to touch it because bats carry rabies. Sick. Gross. Where are my home teachers when I need them? Bless Jay for coming to the rescue. More later...

The Night That Nearly Rendered Necessary "Julie Bradshaw's Taco Tuesday DC Memorial DDR Rabies Awareness Marathon Fun Run Race for the Cure"

So, tonight as we sat around the Taco Tuesday table, I thought how very tame our dinner was and how nothing untoward had really happened over the past week. I had frustrations at work (like always), a Jane Austen sleepover with Stephanie (and friends), and attended President Hinckley's funeral. All very noteworthy events, but nothing that really stuck out to me. Earlier today I considered taking a cue from President Hinckley's funeral and writing about Grandma Willardson's funeral ("she's going down!"), and had already started formulating my story as I drove home tonight, when the night got interesting.

A boy called. One who had spurned me not long ago but still wanted to be friends. [pause] Right. I of course sent him to voicemail as I thought, "Oh yes, he has given me the perfect story for TTC." I was all set. But then, the night took another ugly, hairy turn, pushing this story to the #2 spot in the queue and Grandma back to #3.

Katie and I decided to do a little post-Taco Tuesday ("TT") Dance Dance Revolution before we parted ways for the evening. For Christmas, my bosses just handed me money and told me to buy my own Christmas present, so I splurged on a PS2 and DDR dance pads. Katie and I have passed some cold winter nights playing DDR, and since I wasn't feeling up to going to the pool tonight, this was to be my evening's exercise.

We made our way down to the basement, pulled out the DDR mats and limbered up. We decided that we could spend an hour down there. Now, let me paint a picture of our surroundings. Our basement is unfinished, but we have dedicated half of it to a home gym and put down gym matting with some weights, a TV and DVD player, and, now, the PS2. About two weeks ago I was in our home gym doing some pilates and, while trying to hold a core position, saw something fly over my head. I could have sworn it was a bat and I told my roommates and landlady as much, but when my hometeacher came over to investigate we couldn't find anything. I chalked it up to my imagination and fear of dark corners and have tried not to think much about it since. However, my landlady called last night to see if we had heard anything more from the bat. I was getting ready to call her back and give her the "all clear," when the following happened.

Tonight. Me, Katie, DDR. We were halfway through our second song, just getting slaughtered by a tricky techno beat, when all of a sudden we heard - you guessed it - flapping. I turned around just in time to see a giant bat whiz over my head. And thus comes this week's Taco Tuesday Confession:

I, Julie Bradshaw, screamed like a girl.

This was no ordinary scream. It was a scream such that I've never allowed to escape my throat before. Even worse, I had no control whatsoever over my vocal cords. I continued to scream involuntarily as I laid flat out on the gym matting, face down, arms tucked up against my face and chin, body stiff as a board. That's right, Office watchers: I looked exactly like Angela and sounded exactly like Kelly from the bat episode, Season 3, Episode 16. Katie was also screaming, just as loudly as I was, and had curled up in a little ball as close as she could get to me. We continued to scream, getting louder each time the bat whooshed over our heads; it kept circling and circling around the staircase, flying under and over, effectively cutting off our one avenue of escape with its hairy, brown body and leather wings. Its wing span was much longer than my last sighting, which convinced me that we were seeing either Mama or Papa Bat and that one or the other, as well as Baby Bat, weren't too far away. My nerves couldn't take the thought of an impending family attack, and I yelled, "I'm getting out of here!" and jumped up, running blindly up the basement stairs, screaming all the way. Katie jumped up and managed to get out a, "Hey! Don't leave without me," amidst her own screams. We clamoured up the stairs, emerging at the top on our hands and knees and slammed the door shut. Sprawled in the hallway, breathing heavy and still screaming softly, I army-crawled into my roommate Kate's room and yelled, "The BAT is BACK!" Kate's reaction: shock (as she observed the wild panic in our eyes), followed by some expostulation of disbelief. Once Katie and I caught our breath we were composed enough to tell Kate all the gory details.

Sharri came home not two minutes after the incident and joined the house council in the hallway. We had to figure out what to do; the DDR game was still playing at full volume, all the lights were still on, and Katie's sweatshirt was still down there. "What are we going to do?" was the question of the night. The consensus was, "Call animal control."

But wait.

If Dwight Schrute was here, he wouldn't wait for animal control, and fact of the matter was, we couldn't; there was no way we would be able to sleep with techno music bumping in the basement all night long. There was only one thing to do. I grabbed my coat, put it over my head (a-la-Stanley), and went downstairs. The door was shut behind me with the promise that if I screamed it would be opened as soon as I hit the top of the stairs. With that comfort, I formulated a plan: First, get the TV off. Second, get Katie's sweatshirt. Third, turn off the lights. I crouched as low as I could go and made my way down the stairs. No sign of the nasty, hairy, rabid beast. I crossed the basement. TV off. Check. Katie's sweatshirt tossd up the staircase (where it was retrieved by the door guardian). Check. All that was left were the lights.

The first time I saw the bat, it came from the corner where the first light chord was dangling. I was afraid to approach a known hiding place. I tentatively reached up, pulled and waited, cringing into my coat. No flapping. Relieved, I ran to the second one, tugged emphatically and bolted up the stairs (this time not being dumb enough to wait to hear flapping sounds), finally flipping the last light switch off at the top of the stairs and slamming the door behind me. Redemption was mine.

Now I will call animal control.