Nothing makes a rough day better like a warm cookie.

For the last past few months, my days have been anything but calm. I’m editing a book, shooting photo stories, working at a newspaper, covering college football, covering and two presidential campaigns, going to class, studying for class, and trying to finish a master’s degree.

This translates into a lot of nights where of I often comegetting home long after 9 o’clockp.m., watching a little “Family Guy,” then somehow makeing it into my pajamas and into bed. SI sleep a little bit and then repeat.

My roommate, Glenn, hasn’t been home much either. He was working for a Congressional campaign here in Missouri, and often came home long after I did and left early in the morning while I was reading the New York Times online before I went to class. We usually went weeks without seeing each other, often only “talking” with each other through Gmail Cchat, which we were both on all the time. Our conversations never advanced much farther than a “wuz up” and a “did u remember to send in the rent check?” mostly because we were working, and didn’t have time for chit-chat.

One night, I came home to find Glenn’s girlfriend, Caitlin, in our kitchen cooking dinner and greasing a cookie sheet. And I was all prepared to eat leftovers.

Glenn came home a few minutes later. While we ate dinner — burritos, sans-plates — the three of us had a good conversation for the first time since Glenn and I moved in together four months earlier. After a few minutes, Caitlin went to the oven and pulled out a sheet of freshly baked cookies. Glenn and I both stared at the break-and-bake Toll Houses while she put them onto one of our white dinner plates, trying to remember the last time either one of us had time to not only have a decent dinner, but also dessert.

Joshua A. Bickel is a photographer and graduate student in Columbia, Mo., and would probably be working away in a cubicle right now if not for photography. He’s originally from Kansas, and yes, he knows that Missouri and Kansas hate each other.

Joshua is a guest writer for This Ordinary Day’s Sunday Specials. If you would like to participate in Sunday Specials, please click here.

I’ve spent a lot of time with very smelly dogs in the various cars I’ve driven in the past, oh, five years.

In the last year alone, I’ve given five dogs rides — four of them reeked. The other one was Trego.

First, I pulled a 60-pound Australian sheep dog away from the remains of a half-eaten coyote and into the bed of my mom’s truck. I had been on my way to work a Thursday night late night with (TOD’s) Susan’s yearbook staff in Kansas City when I spotted the dog along the highway. I pulled out my cell phone as I pulled over. First I called Susan to tell her I’d be late; then I called the Lawrence Humane Society. I tied a bit of rope to the dog’s collar — which didn’t have tags — and U-turned illegally across a grassy median to get the dog to the shelter. I dropped him off. Then I headed home to change my clothes.

That dog made me two hours late for work and smelled up my favorite coat.

EXACTLY two weeks later, a nearly identical dog made me late for a nearly identical date. This dog was chewing on the hind leg of a dead deer and was much too skinny; she wasn’t wearing a collar. And she was limping. I was driving my car — a Chevy Caviler convertible. Otherwise, the story is basically the same: Girl tries to go to work; girl sees dog; girl rescues dog; girl stinks.

I was late to work again, but the weather was nice, so my freshly laundered coat was safe. And I wore gloves, so I felt a little more sanitary.

Dog No. 3 desperately needed a bath, but he smelled much better than dogs No. 1 and No. 2. I chock that up to his lack of a road kill chew toy. This dog, a black lab mix of some kind, was on my front porch when I left — already late — for class one day last April. He was collarless. His friend, a larger, brown mutt of some sort, was properly tagged. I grabbed for the brown dog’s collar. She wiggled out of it and bolted, leaving the collar limp in my hand.

Bernice.

And she had a phone number with a 9-1-3 area code. Kansas City. I all-but burst into tears. I had just de-taggified a dog that was 50 miles from home; I was a terrible person. And, more importantly, I had to do something about it.

I ran back into my house, grabbed an unopened package of sliced turkey and resigned myself to running around my neighborhood hollering for Bernice and her buddy. When I found them, I tossed slices of turkey their way, begging them to be good and come with me.

By the time I finally arrived at class — two minutes before it ended — I was sticky with sweat and, again, smelled like dog.

I had eventually wrestled Bernice’s friend into my car, but Bernice wanted nothing to do with me. The whole ordeal ended, as I later relayed to my teacher, when Bernice led me on a chase through the neighborhood to her home. “BERNICE! How did you get out here!?” Her owner’s roommate was smoking a cigarette on their front porch, less than three blocks away from mine.

Fortunately, my teacher believed my story — unbelievable as it was — and allowed me to retake the test that had been scheduled that day.

The fourth dog needed her toenails clipped. And it was raining. That’s what stood out. And, again, I was on my way to work, this time in Lawrence. I pulled the wet hound into my car — my sister’s VW bug — and drove to work. I had no choice. My students needed a teacher; the dog needed to be off the road.

I took the dog into class with me. Luckily, my friend Jane volunteered to watch my class while I took Grandma (that’s what I called her, because she was old) to the shelter.

The next day, my sister’s car still smelled like wet dog. But the Humane Society called to tell me Grandma’s owner took her home. I guess that was worth the Febreze my sister made me buy just after we traded back cars.

In the past year, these four dogs — two Australian sheep dogs, Bernice’s friend and “Grandma” — hitched rides in my car. All of them smelled terrible. All of them made me late.

I’d like to say that I haul dogs off the road because I am a dog person, but, the truth is, I’m not. I’m not even a dog person person. But the Lawrence Humane Society’s number is saved in my phone and I often pause my life to haul a muddy canine into my car. For a long time, I just couldn’t understand how other people could NOT stop.

But this past week, I realized something: There are things we are responsible for because of who we are. And there are things we are responsible for what we do. And there are things we are responsible for because we choose to be. And then there are things we are responsible for because they choose us.

The dogs chose me.

So I guess I choose them back. They’re lucky I smell so good.

My husband and I lead a small group at our church. One of our responsibilities is to attend a leadership meeting once a month, held at the home of one of the leaders of our church.

The meeting consists of about 12 other people, all small group leaders on our side of town. Eric, one of the church’s elders, and his wife host us, welcoming us into their crazy life of two kids, a dog, and full-time jobs. Over a coffee table littered with homemade brownies and cardboard toddler books, we discuss the concept of being a church and how to lead people into an understanding of it…a concept we ourselves sometimes struggle with.

This particular night, Cody and I had to drive separately, as I had to work late and he was at his parents’ house. So I arrived at the meeting 20 minutes late and found my way to the chair Cody had saved next to him. He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulders, giving me a small smile. I smiled back, relieved to see him after a long day.

Lately we had been communicating incredibly well. We had spent a lot of time doing fun things together, and life had slowed down. After 11 months of trying to figure out how to be married, it was refreshing to finally find some balance and connection in our daily lives.

When I walked into the meeting, Eric was asking different people questions like: What is the most challenging thing in your life right now? What is the most encouraging thing about your small group? Where are you from? What are your goals?

The group was still learning a lot about each other, so I enjoyed the exercise.

Then it was Cody’s turn. He had a long day as well, and I could tell he wasn’t as into the interviewing as I was. He was nowhere close to a bad mood, but he had been a little ornery most of the day.

“Cody, what’s the best thing in your life right now besides your wife?” Eric asked, looking up from his paper.

Cody was quiet for a bit. “Well, the best things going on right now include my wife so I can’t really answer that question without mentioning her.”

I beamed.

“What’s the best part about being married?” Eric asked.

“Sex.” Cody answered without hesitating even a second. He didn’t look around for people’s reactions, he didn’t laugh, he just waited for Eric to ask the next question.

Had Cody and I been with one or two very close friends, I might have burst out laughing. I knew the spirit in which Cody answered the question…jarring people with his honesty is one of his favorite things. But in this mixed group of people I still didn’t know all that well, I wasn’t sure how to react. My eyes widened, my face grew hot and I wasn’t sure who to look at. I felt all eyes on me. After a second of silence, there was laughing as well as a few people glancing awkwardly around.

Clair, sitting next to me, chuckled. “Wow,” she said. “He went there.”

Eric smiled, clearly appreciating Cody’s honesty, and said, “That’s understandable. I get that.”

I caught Clair’s glance again. “Wow,” she repeated, “he went there too.”

The moment passed as Eric went down his list of questions.

Before, I would have been so angry. I would have later told Cody it was inappropriate, I would have wished he could just ‘behave,’ and I would have said I was hurt that he had a slew of other completely wonderful things he could have said to answer that question, especially in light of the recent stretch of happiness and fun. Then everyone would know what a passionate and caring husband he is. But no. He had to say sex. Typical.

Now, I laugh at myself, even if on the inside. If there’s one thing I adore about my husband, it’s that he is real. He’s transparent; he’s not afraid to say what he feels or what he’s dealing with, and he doesn’t ever feel guilty for the way people react. I’m completely the opposite, very sensitive about what people think. Being married to Cody has been utterly freeing in this department. I’ve learned not to feel guilty for my feelings, not to feel bashful about my roller-coaster emotions, not to feel guilty about the reaction a simple comment might invoke in someone. He has told me on multiple occasions that he didn’t marry a gray emotionless blob. He married me, ups and downs and all, and that he loves every part of me. So I’ve learned to talk more and ask more questions. Why do you feel that way? Why did that upset you? This is how I see things… And what ensues is more often than not an intelligent conversation in which both speakers better understand one another.

Also, I knew that sex wasn’t his real answer. But then, his real answer may not have been much different, and may have sounded a little like this: My wife and I know and trust each other completely. We are completely transparent with each other. There are no secrets. We are vulnerable with each other and it has strengthened our sense of unity. We are layed bare before one another and we belong to each other. That’s my favorite part about marriage.

If all that can be summed up in one word, then Cody’s answer suits me just fine.

It was a day that will be remembered by Texas Tech fans for decades to come. The cheers of the rowdy 56,000-plus fans at Jones Stadium on the night of November 1, 2008, will echo forever in the halls of college football lore. That was the night that Red Raider quarterback Graham Harrell engineered a magical drive down the field, which was punctuated with a 28-yard touchdown throw to Michael Crabtree. It was nothing short of miraculous, and it was just the kind of victory that the Texas Tech faithful have been waiting on for years. This season has been every bit as sweet as it was built up to be, even though there is still a lot of football to be played.

However, there is one story that continues to grip me every time I hear it. It is not a story of heart-stopping, game-winning touchdown catches. It is not a story of a quarterback who is making a legitimate and unlikely run at the Heisman trophy. No, it is something far less intriguing, except perhaps as a joke, which is how it seems to be portrayed in the media. It is the story of a Texas Tech student who began the season as a fan, but now finds himself donning the scarlet and the black as a player.

Matt Williams woke up on September 20 and went about his day as much of the Texas Tech student body did. He made his way to the stadium to claim his spot in the general admission student section, probably not overly excited, as the team from the University of Massachusetts did not seem to pose much of a threat. Indeed Tech went up big early on, and was cruising on its way to a 56-14 rout of the Minutemen. However, things got at least semi-exciting when Matt got chosen to kick a 30-yard field goal in between quarters. If he made the kick, he would get a free month’s rent. Sounded like a pretty sweet deal.

Not only did he make the field goal, he drilled the ball right through the uprights with ease. Even though the goal post is 18.5 feet wide, this is no easy task. The ball must be struck properly with the foot, and it takes a surprising amount of leg strength to get the ball 30 yards. It takes strength and skill to get a football to go flying through those uprights, and Matt Williams made it look easy. One month’s rent, just like that.

But as fate would have it, Matt Williams was kicking for a lot more than free rent that mid-September day. Head coach Mike Leach liked what he saw, so he signed him up to see what might transpire. A couple of weeks later, Williams kicked nine extra points (an extra point is a much shorter field goal than the one that won him free rent) in a 63-21 trouncing of the Kansas Jayhawks (sorry, KU fans). He was again perfect on extra points against the University of Texas, although he did have a field goal blocked.

The reason I find this story so compelling is quite simple: I have always dreamed of something like that happening to me, and I’m not kidding. In fact, I used to think that exact same scenario would somehow play out in my own life. I would be the one chosen to kick for a charity or for a cash prize. And I would be the one that Mike Leach noticed, and subsequently asked to join the team. As you can probably tell, that dream is not really working out.

There was one time that I thought that I might actually have a chance. I was in my junior year at Texas Tech, and I was taking one of the several physical education classes that were required in my degree plan. Sometimes we got to play football, or ultimate Frisbee, in the same indoor practice facility that the football team uses. There were usually a handful of people in the athletics weight room (which was only available to athletes; regular students use the student recreation center), probably strength coaches preparing for workouts they would lead later on in the day. I secretly hoped that one of them would see me playing, and would think that I had potential and ask me to join the team.

One day I thought I had pulled it off.

I usually played quarterback, but on this day I had been playing receiver. We had a pretty good game going on, and several people in the weight room offices began to gather around the windows to watch. I made a few catches, but nothing spectacular, which is what I needed in order to impress the guys that were watching. And then it happened: I was running a deep flag route (going out for a long pass, towards the end zone), and I had run right past the would-be defender. The quarterback should have thrown the ball over my outside shoulder, but he threw it over my inside shoulder instead, which meant I had to adjust my route. The ball was also under-thrown, so I had to slow down and lean backwards so that I could see the ball while still moving forward. I was basically doing the limbo, while looking at the ball upside down in an effort to haul in the pass. And it worked. The ball fell into my hands right before my back hit the turf, and I went sliding and rolling into the end zone for the touchdown. My teammates went crazy, and I thought that those coaches would come running out and invite me to practice with the football team, right then and there.

That didn’t happen, though. They watched a few more plays, and then went back to their desks. I guess a short guy with average speed wasn’t exactly what they were looking for.

But it’s fun to dream those dreams, even if they don’t come true. It’s fun to have those hopes, even if they are never met. It’s fun, because every now and then you hear a story like this and are reminded what sports should really be about: competing and doing the very best you can. So keep kicking it, Matt, and know that there are countless others out there who are compelled by your story. But watch out, because I have been practicing my field goals, and you never know who might take your spot.

I don’t hate football. I really don’t.

In high school, one of my closest friends was a star on our football team. I loved watching him play. I had little idea what was happening, but I loved watching him be happy.

What I do hate is when football affects my schedule.

“Can we go to a movie Saturday night?”

“Um… there’s a game on.”

“Why don’t we meet on Monday to finalize these plans for our presentation next week?”

“But what about the game?”

I’ve avoided many of these awkward you’re seriously turning me down for a game that will probably be shown on ESPN for the next 24 hours? conversations since I left the land of college football – where I worked on Saturdays and never got to tailgate. Most of my friends in Houston rock climb and run and talk about working in urban gardens. Save for a few months dating a college football fan and the fact that both my current and former roommates had to have cable so they could have ESPN, my new group of friends have rarely allowed football to effect our Saturday evening plans.

Until last Saturday.

Texas Tech versus University of Texas. That game was apparently so big that it was being covered by major networks and being talked about a week out. Suddenly, everyone had football allegiances, and instead of attending a concert I’d been looking forward to for a few weeks, people were congregating at our house to yell at a television.

Don’t get me wrong. I love sports. I played soccer for years. I’ve coached since college, and I will gladly tell you how proud of the Kansas Jayhawks I am. I get that Tech being 8-0 and Texas being 8-0 is a big deal.

I still wanted to go to the concert.

Seeing that this line of thinking was going to get me no where, I gave in. People gathered at our house for the game (concert to follow). I went to the gym.

As I boarded one of the lines of treadmills, I happily noted that the Tech vs. Texas game wasn’t even on one of the 20-odd televisions hanging from the ceiling. I was free.

And then, there it was. A very large, lively man on an elliptical machine glued to the screen showing another football game. Nebraska versus Oklahoma. They ran; he raised let out low “whoop, whoop” noises. They fumbled; he grimaced and moaned. They scored, and he silently and triumphantly raised his arms in celebration. I ran on my machine transfixed by his silent excitement for a game happening so far away from him.

Here was this man surrounded by other people noiselessly transfixed, rooting for his team. He cheered earnestly – all the while keeping his balance on a moving elliptical machine. No small feat.

At first I found it all a little comical. I was at the gym on a Saturday night because of a game happening across the state of Texas. He was at the gym cheering for a game farther away than that. I was watching him watch a game to avoid watching my friends watch another game.

The thing is though, I can grant him that. His team. Anyone who cares enough to silently cheer amidst a line of treadmills deserves the respect that comes with being a fan. Anyone who cares that much makes me care a little too. Like in high school, watching Kristin. I didn’t know what was going on. If he hadn’t been on the field I wouldn’t have cared. But he was and I did.

The next day I checked both the score of the Tech-Texas game and Oklahoma-Nebraska game just to see if all the fans in my world came out happy. The Tech fans were a little happier than the man at the gym who was pulling for Nebraska.

I will never completely understand the need to forgo other social engagements to stay home to watch a football game. I will not be paying for ESPN when my roommate leaves this January. I will always be happier playing than watching.

But I will go as far as to grant the fans their passion.

And just to note, that was a beautiful game winning catch for Texas Tech. I’ll grant them that, too.

It is the evening of All Soul’s Day, Nov. 2 — Dia de Los Muertos in Latin American countries. I just got home from a lovely bilingual Mass celebrating the feast day, during which the priest talked about needing to remember our loved ones as part of who we are. Who I am is, in part, who came before me.

And so I sit here thinking of my grandparents. Gram and Pop, my mother’s parents, died about a year and a half apart — my grandmother in December 2005 and my grandfather in June 2007. It was the closest loss I’ve ever experienced, and it makes me realize what a huge part of my life and my personality they’ve become.

I can’t think of my Gram, Janet, without thinking about baking. Her maiden name was Baker, and it seemed as though she was on a life mission to live up to it. Whenever I went to her house, there would be something delicious sitting on the counter: brownies, zucchini bread, banana bread, a new kind of cake she wanted to try. I loved when I got the chance to bake with her. I’d stand arm to arm with her at the kitchen counter, hovering over her KitchenAid mixer, pouring in flour and sugar and vanilla. She would, of course, always let me lick the beater afterward.

She was a strong and active woman well into her 60s and 70s, working at our local paper as a typist for the classified ads section. She spent much of her spare time gardening, and I always marveled at what a deep tan her forearms would become in the summer. She would always take me clothes shopping and would trot next to me as I walked, always a little too quickly for her. She and my mother would argue constantly at the cashier about who would pay. Gram nearly always won.

My grandfather, Frank, was a strong, quiet man who never raised his voice in my memory. He loved to garden, particularly roses. He was a World War II vet reluctant to talk about his experiences, and heart trouble forced him to retire earlier than he would have liked. He instead spent much of his time doing home improvements, climbing on ladders, chopping and carrying wood, and partaking in other similar activities that made us a little nervous. He also was an omnipresent figure in my elementary school mornings, driving me to school in his gray 1989 Oldsmobile 88. I learned to drive in that car, with my grandparents, who both of my parents agreed would be much more patient teachers.

Frank was always Pop, to all of us. He would say a rosary every day and nap every afternoon in the orange recliner in their living room. He had a dry sense of humor that would sneak up on you, biting, but never hurtful. He had a penchant for Jelly Bellies (which I have definitely inherited). He was an avid Yankees fan. He wore polo shirts in solid, bright colors that might have seemed too strong for anyone else but him.

To try to write about them seems impossible, as it is for anyone who tries to sum up people they love beyond words. Their love for one another always spoke volumes to me and to my family. The one memory that always comes to mind for me is from a trip we took to Nova Scotia when I was about 12 or 13 years old. My parents, brother, aunt and I are sitting in a sunny room, eating breakfast, with my grandparents at a separate table. We look over at one point, and Gram is crying from laughing so hard. Pop is shaking with laughter. Both of them are laughing to the point they can’t speak.

Five minutes later, when they calm down, this is what they say happened. As they sat at their table, Pop reached into his pocket to pull out his handkerchief, as he often does, and pulled out instead, his own white sock. He did it perfectly — Houdini could hardly have been smoother — and he and Gram just about died. That simple, casual joy they took in one another — but never took for granted — was a hallmark of their relationship.

When Gram died in December 2005 — after a grueling year-and-a-half battle with brain cancer — I had nearly heart-stopping days when I wondered why it wasn’t plastered on the evening news, or why the clerks at the mall didn’t realize the ache in my stomach as I bought last-minute Christmas presents knowing there was one person fewer I’d give them to that year.

Pop died a year and a half later. There was a sense that he no longer had to be strong to help Gram through her battle, that he could finally rest. When he died, there was a sense of wondering why the rest of the world didn’t notice, as it had been with Gram’s death. But this time, I understood a little more clearly that a world that paused for every death would be a world in perpetual mourning. Survival depends on all the little pieces of life moving forward like they always do: planes flying, cars driving, traffic lights changing from red to green, phones ringing, people laughing.

My family reminds me that life will go on, must go on, with an aching emptiness, yes, but with a fullness of heart that comes from what the people we love have given us. It was the day of Pop’s funeral. In the middle of the living room of Gram and Pop’s house (which it will always be, no matter who’s living there), I felt like everyone was talking too loudly, as though we could fill the empty space in the house and in our hearts with more noise. But rising above the voices of my aunts and cousins was the voice of my Uncle Steve talking tenderly to his 3-year-old grandson Coby, who was looking at the pictures on the table.

“Do you remember Pop-Pop?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Coby said.

The room quieted.

“Do you remember Mamma?” Steve asked.

“She was sick here,” Coby said.

Everyone sat very still.

“Do you remember how she used to sing to you? Sing bye-o, my baby?” Steve asked.

I stared hard at the whorl of blond hair that was Coby’s part, thinking of Gram singing the same song to me. I would tease her for knowing so many songs, challenge her to sing a song for whatever inanimate object I picked. “Sing a song about telephone poles!” I’d demand, and she would come up with something, and I would be amazed.

It was hard for me to think of singing then. My family refrained from asking me to sing at either of their funerals because we feared I wouldn’t make it through the songs without breaking down. But now, I’m the one in my circle of friends who can bust out a song for any occasion. I bake the recipe for “Jan’s Banana Bread” that my mother gave me in a family recipe book for Christmas, and my housemates rave. I diligently knit scarves, unevenly, with the stitches that Gram taught me before knitting became cool. I hear my Gram’s voice in my Aunt Nancy, and see her in the way my mom’s face crinkles up when she smiles. I see Pop’s gentleness as my Uncle Donnie diligently tends the roses that still grow in my grandparents’ backyard. I strive to be as even-tempered and as kind, as unwilling to raise my voice.

I wish often that they could see me here in Denver, striving for my independence, figuring out who the heck I am, climbing mountains, and baking a lot of banana bread. But on another level, I know I don’t have to wish, and that they were present the moment I walked into Romero House. Who I am, in part, is who they are.