Things Stupid Kids Do: Episode 1 (Storming the Castle)

In psychology there is a term to describe younger adults who feel that they are special or so unique that nothing bad can or will happen to them, regardless of the behaviors in which they engage (personal fable).

I don’t recall feeling especially unique or special as an adolescent, however, I do recall that feeling of not having to worry that something bad would happen to me; At least, nothing permanently bad (illusion of invulnerability). So, yeah, realistically I knew that I could be in a car accident, but there was no real feeling that if I was in a car accident it would be painful, disfiguring, or scarring. In fact, I think I believed that no accident could be bad enough to kill me. Worst case scenario: I would end up in a coma for a few weeks, then wake up with a couple of bandages and a hungry belly.

As a result, I made some bad decisions and acted on them.

Example one: Within serious jogging distance of where I grew up, there was a park that we would go to as kids to play (swing sets, etc.). It was located on a big chunk of forested land that had walking trails around a small lake (Kenoza). What was really interesting about this place was that it had a small castle, and it was (still is) fun to say its name. The castle was called Winnekenni (“winnee-kinnee” to some, “win-a-kinnee” to others) Castle!

Being bored pre-computers teens, my friend and I found our adventures through exploration of old, run-down, out-of-the-way places. Today those of similar ilk are referred to as “Urban Explorers!” I think we can all agree that being called an urban explorer is a way cooler title than “dipshit kid looking for trouble whilst trespassing.”

For some reason, our search for adventure brought us to the castle (perhaps to reminisce about the fun we’d had there as kids). Walking around, we visited the castle itself which always seemed abandoned and mysterious to us (everyone, probably).

The castle is not a very big one. Truthfully, it would probably have better served the role of barbican than castle. But because there was no larger castle-like structure to get to through this one, it makes a nice enough mini-castle. As we walked around the building, we noticed what appeared to be a power line or electrical cable hanging down the side of the castle.

“Think there’s any power going through that line?” One of us surely asked aloud, but both were already wondering. Saying it out loud was just our way of pointing out that someone was going to have to find out if it was a live wire or not.

My friend and I had long-ago settled the “who goes first” argument by simple agreement that we would alternate. No doubt we contracted the turn-taking agreement without discussion when one of us realized that we’d just finished doing something stupid. It didn’t seem fair to hog all of the stupidity, so one of us probably had said, “I went first last time.” So from then on we kept very good track of whose turn it currently was. No more arguments. Sometimes it was no big deal to be the one to go first, other times… well, it was a bigger deal. This was one of those times where it seemed like a bigger deal.

I was happy (for now) that it was his turn to go first. He grabbed the wire and touched it against as wide a variety of surfaces as he could find – except skin. It seemed pretty safe. Both of us moved the mental “whose turn to go first” peg into my column.

While he was moving the cable and trying to get it to reach different surfaces, it was apparent that the line was pretty well attached to something up on the roof. Looking up, we could see the line disappear between two battlements (merlons).

“Think there’s anything interesting up there?”

We had been fans of the Batman tv show and had always wanted to use a bat-rope to climb a building ala Batman and Robin. Even though we knew that the scenes in the television show of the crime fighters walking up a building were created by tilting the camera sideways, it looked like it should be easy enough to do for real.

My friend had not let go of the line yet, so he gave it a whirl. Basically it turns out that wall climbing works one of only two ways: (1) You can hold fast to the line and let your legs walk up the wall a little ways, or (2) you can pull yourself up the line one hand over the other while your legs stay in one spot until they lose traction on the wall and you just hang on to the line. There is no way for the hands AND the legs to move up the wall at the same time. So, turns out it was not at all easy enough to do for real.

Fatefully, there was a conifer tree growing about five feet away from the side of the building. While the cord was not quite long enough to reach around the base of the tree, we figured we could get a lot more slack in the line if we climbed the tree while holding on to the cable. In other words, we figured that we could tie the cable around the tree and just tight-rope our way across from the tree to the roof of the castle.

It was a bitch to climb the prickly bristly sappy tree high enough to get in line with the battlement. The tree was not a lumbering one, meaning that the higher we got, the more precarious it felt. The slightest wind put a sway into the trunk that made me rethink what we were trying to do. But my friend expressed no hesitation or doubt, so I figured everything was ok to proceed (illusion of transparency: look it up).

The thick plastic insulation around the line made it too difficult to tie around the tree in the same way as we might have been able to tie a rope. Of course, even if we had a rope, we would not have the advantage of it already being secured to the castle roof-top. We had to make do with what we had. Our solution was to wrap the cable about sixty-eleven times around the tree until it didn’t seem like it could just unwrap itself once we stepped on it to cross the few feet to the battlement.

Now that the cord was secured to the tree and to whatever it was attached to on the castle roof, it was time for phase two: tight-rope walking across.

It was my turn to go first. Because my friend was taller than me, the tiny voice of reason in my head wanted to use this fact to find a way out of doing this stupid thing. He would have had a much easier time reaching out between the tree and the castle than me… so maybe he should go first again?
I made the offer and it was declined.

Fine. Eyeing the setup, I had to admit that it looked perfectly simple and relatively safe to walk across that short distance to the castle. So I took a breath and committed.

To stand on the cable, I had to climb a few thinning branches beyond where it was wrapped. Slowly. Try not to look down. One small movement at a time. Right (coward) foot on cable against the tree. Try not to look down. Left (brave) foot probing toward the castle about half way along the stretch of cable. Try not to look down. Let go of tree with my left hand. Try not to look down. Slowly and wobbly stretch my brave arm toward castle. Try not to look down. Slowly let my weight accumulate on my brave foot. Hyperventilate as suddenly my weight on the middle of the wire pulls the tree-top closer to the castle dropping me barely to shoulder height with the edge of the roof!

Ok, now what has happened here is that I am balancing on a wire that has taken the shape of the letter “V” and both of my feet are being pinched by the bottom of that letter. I am high enough up that I do not want to fall. The nearest tree branches are too spindly to trust my weight on them without cracking, so I can’t go back to the tree. So I am committed to trying to grab the edge of the battlement and pull myself up to the roof. This is where adrenaline teams up with knowing the consequences of failure.

I could not see anything beyond the edge of the castle upon which my left hand was pressed upon. My right hand was pushed against the side of the castle for balance and support. I took a leap of faith and kinda jumped up with both arms stretched as far onto the battlement as I could reach and (lucky!) fingers found the far edge of stone and I was able to grab enough of it to haul my stupid ass to the top. As my weight left the cord, the tree swung back away from me to straighten up. It looked perfectly simple and relatively safe again.

Next was my friend’s turn. He’d seen what to expect so he made it seem pretty easy coming across. Of course, he did have the advantages of being taller and having longer arms to grab the edge of the roof. Plus I was able to help him climb up.

Sitting for a minute and looking at what we had just done, I admit that my heart was still pounding and I had small scrapes here and there. But best of all, I knew it was going to be him going first when it was time to get back down. Did I mention that it was going to be night soon?

As they say, it’s the journey, not the destination. The roof of the castle was unremarkable (almost). We looked around for a better way down (nothing). We took in the view from all sides (boring). Then figured we should get down while there was still a little bit of light left (smart).

First thing before we were getting ready to head back over to the tree was to double check that the part of the cable tied to the roof was secure (and not attached to an electrical source that might kick on unexpectedly). What we discovered was that the cable had curved around a big square fixture on the roof and had barely snagged itself to keep from detaching.

In other words, if we’d flicked the cable from the ground a few times, it would probably have come loose.

In other words, if we’d bounced around on the cable while crossing to the castle, it would probably have come loose.

In other words, we were super lucky that one of us didn’t smucker ourselves on the ground.

In other words, we were stupid kids doing stupid things.

Who Lives Under the Bridge NOW?!

I have a sad, and slightly embarrassing, confession to make.

It took me about 30 years of life to finally start to see people as something more than the flesh and bone that they walked around it.

In my defense, please remember that I am an introvert and so I tend to avoid interacting with people like an introvert avoids interacting with people.

There isn’t any particular event that I recall as an educating factor, it was just a threshold amount of life, I think. Finally enough experience in the world to “see the light” as they say. It just sort of evolved. But what the hell am I talking about? Basically I attributed prejudicial characteristics to people based on visual cues.

Huh?

Let’s give examples!

When I was a teenager, I really liked to think of myself as enlightened and open minded. However, some things I could not mentally tolerate. I was put off by behaviors and characteristics of others, such as the implicit intimidation I would feel in the presence of people with tattoos (keep in mind they were neither as popular nor as artistic in my day as they are now).

I did not like to see people with their mouths just hanging open (fish mouth = stupid person).

People who wore religious icons of any sort irritated me (religion = closed minded, ignorant, and uneducated). I really had no interest in being around or interacting with them (naively believing that if I left THEM alone, they would leave ME alone).

Really really really tall people freaked me out since they violated my made-up rules of what defines a human (tall = freak of nature and not to be trusted since they could spaz out for no reason at any time… and they were bigger than me).

Fat people made me think they had a poor work ethic. I genuinely thought they were lazy people since they had so much extra time to lie around eating rather than riding bikes, playing, working, and so on (fat = lazy and part of me envied them because I wasn’t allowed to do the same).

Other miscellaneous things affected my judgment of people such as the accents they spoke with, facial hair, too long or too short hair, people who drank alcohol, people who used the wrong (or mispronounced) words (“new-que-ler” for nuclear, seriously?!), the type of job a person had, mentally unstable people (the “crazies”), whether a person had a new vs. old car, whether they did their shopping at retail stores or thrift stores, homeless people, attractiveness vs. unattractiveness, age (old people are scary… almost as scary as really really really tall people), smokers, and so on.

Of course my judgments were exponentially more negative whenever I might meet a person who combined multiple elements. Imagine my view of a really really really tall, fat, religious, smoker wearing thrift clothes!

Basically, at some point it occurred to me that (for the most part) these were things that had no direct effect on me whatsoever. So why care about that? The person behind that superficial cue or behavior has a rich history of life experiences, beliefs, ideas, humor, pain, struggle, hopes, goals, losses. JUST LIKE ME. My fortune relative to them is merely that I rarely have to see myself. I just have to live in this skin-wrapped package of slowly dying meat.

Ok, admittedly, some exceptions still exist, such as the religious people who judge and treat me a certain way while trying to “convert” me or force me to live by their rules and standards directly or by pressuring lawmakers (they can righteously fuck the fuck off please); people under the influence of alcohol bug me because I get to see smart people instantly turned into stupid people (LITERALLY). Smokers still bug me because they force me to “smoke” with them… in fact the ONLY reason I don’t want to see marijuana legalized is because I don’t want to have to smell that shit everywhere. But these exceptions are relatively rare (and hopefully becoming more rare in most cases).

So it is with fish-mouthed disbelief that I see the internet trolls who trash-talk other people for the way they act, look, feel, or believe. This isn’t a local (USA) phenomenon. Other countries gleefully like to “insult” Americans for being fat or not being able to speak multiple languages or for behaving “like Americans” in other countries.

To some extent there is benefit to critical analysis, but nowhere near a benefit that would justify the amount of energy expended on the trash-talking that is taking place in the world.

When so shallowly insulted by others, as with, “You’re as ugly as a thing that is so ugly it doesn’t have a name except the name you have been given by your parents which is shared by others who aren’t as ugly so that wouldn’t be a good name for how ugly you are!”* Isn’t the best response simply to say as blasé as possible, something like: “So?”

*FYI: Typically the trolls use insults that are either parroted mindlessly from something they heard someone else say, or, when they create their own, tend to be as eloquent as my example here.

What can the troll say to that? They will scramble around in their uncluttered head for their sharpest repartee which will likely be something like, “Well… I don’t like having to look at you!” And again, the elegantly simple response of “So?” makes the point well enough again. The effort needed to say a single word compared with the buffoon’s attempt to assemble as many of the 4-6 letter words they know into the semi-coherent vomiting sound they call “speech” is unmatched.

I used to feel that simply ignoring the trolls was the best way to go. But that can escalate the trolls’ tirades because they feed off of others’ reactions. To give them nothing makes them hungry. So instead, I feel that the best way to get rid of them is to take the “nutrition” out of one’s reaction. They can’t get anything out of “So?” except frustration. Let them expend the limits of their intellect spinning their vile and wearing their stubby fingers away on their booger-coated keyboards. The effort of responding with a single word is negligible and you come away looking and sounding classy in comparison.

One last point, though. There are some other types of trolls that I wonder about. These are the “death trolls” whose insults stray into threats of violence (rape, torture, death). I have no idea how often such threats are actually carried out compared with the rates of similar stupid but unthreatened rapes, tortures, and killings. I don’t know if “So?” is a good enough response. But I wonder? It is emasculating to make a threat of violence only to have the object of your threat appear genuinely unfazed.

Ultimately I would prefer a world where what you see is what you get. The assholes of life would be obvious and we could avoid them. We would stop making them and they would eventually die out. But really the skinny troll fat-shaming another based on looks is the only way we have to reveal who should be the most ashamed. Skinny doesn’t make you a good (or a bad) person; attractive doesn’t make you a good (or a bad) person; rich doesn’t make you a good (or a bad) person; fat doesn’t make you a bad (or a good) person; ugly doesn’t make you a bad (or a good) person; poor doesn’t make you a bad (or a good) person. My truth is, it’s what you do, how you treat others, and what you value/devalue that makes you good or bad.

Are you a bad person?

Deep Pression

-or-

TLDL

First, let me make it clear that despite some of the content of this entry, you should still read this in a cheerfully lighthearted manner. This is all crap that happened YEARS before you were born (well, I don’t really know how old you are, but this was so many years ago that it is practically before I was born). So chill, ok? Besides, some people give me crap for writing anything that isn’t at least an attempt to be humorous.

This has to do with my seeming inability to socialize well. So, my earliest memories of having to deal with groups of people involved finding a corner and disappearing in my thoughts. Mainly this was because I never seemed to know what to say. And THAT was due to memories of strange looks from people when I did say something. So maybe I was imagining it all, maybe I was hyper-sensitive, but obviously I was socially retarded. Being horribly shy meant that once I started to talk to someone, I would feel my face getting hot, which would make me feel foolish and just want to finish my sentence in any way at all (probably usually nonsensically) and go find a corner to pretend to die in.

It took a lot of observing and testing the conversational waters with a person before I could maintain a conversation beyond three sentences. I could respond alright to questions, but could never really hold up my end of a conversation. This was very stressful for me because it seemed that conversation was an incredibly important skill since everyone around me seemed to be able to do it so effortlessly and all the time.

Having accumulated enough knowledge at this late point in my life, I feel pretty confident when I say that you can probably well imagine how depressing it can be to want to have a skill but not seem to be able to acquire it. Yeah, “practice” makes perfect. Well no; not always.

What did I try to do? Well, I remember trying to memorize good bits of conversation to use on others. That only works if you say the line, look at your watch, then smile and say, “Gotta run!” Otherwise, unless you memorized multiple follow-up sentences, plus possible branching topic-points, you were screwed and would quickly become embarrassed.

My best solution was to not talk much. Just observe and try to get a “read” on what sorts of things different people seemed to like to say or hear. Then try to say short and simple, but similar things to them. Not great, but with enough data, I could get by.

Sometime during my sophomore (or maybe junior) year of high school, I remember reading a book on how to be funny. The only two tips I absorbed (and retained) was to try to build off of what someone else just said, and to use exaggeration and obvious absurdity. It took until my senior year to finally start to try some of those things out. Needless to say, you aren’t going to find any “You were a funny guy” quotes in my yearbook. Actually, I think only four people actually signed my yearbook (the lunch lady, the girl three rows back in my geometry class who thought she was signing someone else’s book, my sister, and a teacher who felt bad for me – I don’t think I ever had that teacher for a class, though).

There were only two groups I did my best with in terms of having conversations: My relatives and adult female strangers. (Uh, huh. Don’t let your mind wander any further than that my pal. I mean grandmother-types who appreciated soft-spoken, overly polite, mostly quiet boys. Adult males always seemed to want to talk about sports, hunting, cars, guns, and about thirty nine other topics I had no interest or knowledge of.)

Ok, quick time-jump, but then I have to get back to something… The sense of humor I have today is a product of graduate school. I had to learn how to talk to groups of people without throwing up first. So I had to feel like they were friendly toward me which was achieved if I could hear them laugh. So here was the problem: I never felt confident that what I was saying was sensible or even appropriate. But that was when it clicked with the humor book for me. It occurred to me that I could stop worrying about whether I was saying something stupid or inappropriate if there was a chance that people would take it as a joke. That was really freeing. Not that I instantly felt comfortable about talking in front of groups of people, but it did start the wheel rolling.

Back in high school, I remember dreading oral reports, so I watched intently the students who went before me. The worst thing they did was behave nervously: Shaking, complaining about being nervous, not looking up from their notes, or the floor, and so on. I could see that the students in the class responded to that and made it even worse! So about 95% of my energy during a report was to monitor my behavior and try to suppress those nervous indicators. Of course my reports probably sucked since only 5% was focused on what I was saying. But I figured if I could not talk well in front of others, I could at least not show that it bothered me.

So, back to grade school to early junior high. For the most part, I was pretty lonely. I did have a pretty good friend who was as much a misfit as I was so part of me felt like our friendship was built on a mutual recognition that neither of us could do any better. We shared interest in science fiction and comic books. But then he moved away. As I understand it, he enlisted and at one point tried to find me, but it was when I was away at graduate school. He didn’t give my family a way for me to contact him, so we never saw each other again. I think he now lives in Florida. I did try to contact him a few years ago (via facebook), but my message was ignored, and I gave up. My childhood wasn’t really designed to build self-esteem or confidence.

It’s at this point that I wanted to say something like, “needless to say, I was pretty depressed most of the time” but I kinda hope that that actually would need to be said. Maybe the majority of kids are not depressed and it is only a minority. But really, yeah, I was fucking super depressed. I was a loner. My days were spent sleeping and nose in a book hidden away in my bedroom. I would occasionally come out to ride my bike to the store or explore the woods, but otherwise it was just me avoiding exposure to people so I would not have to blunder my interactions with them. (Don’t ask about my love life – only one girlfriend when I was in high school and I was almost paralyzed with fear in terms of showing physical affections. Too personal, so no more details about that…)

Depression became such a core part of me that I don’t think I will ever detach from it. Surely that much sadness at so early a time of cognitive development affected my brain chemistry and mental framework such that even 30+ years later I cannot imagine not having at least a minimal but constant level of depression. It has become part of my self-identity.

I made another friend in high school and he helped me to deal with my cloak of depression and really helped to develop my sense of humor. Our humor was pain-based. (The best kind of humor, right?!) It actually made things more bearable to laugh at the things that bothered us deeply. So a personal failure became a source of jokes which made the crappy bits of life less overwhelming.

So anyway, here’s the thing. When I was at my worst in terms of being depressed, I had a major internal struggle. One part of me just wanted everything to be over with; so yeah, thoughts of suicide were there. But, the other part fell into the category that the Internet refers to as “first world problems.” I knew that so many people in the world had it so much worse off in life than I did, and what the fuck did I even have to feel depressed about?! Really? You want to end it all because you can’t talk to a random stranger?! So guilt factored heavily in any plans toward suicide. Yeah, guilt, plus I really don’t like pain and suffering. Well, specifically, my own pain and suffering. There wasn’t really a lot of options to off-one’s self back then that didn’t involve some potentially bad moments of pain and suffering. So, no. (Again, first world problems, right?)

This was probably the closest I ever got to being religious. I actually tried to pray that I just not wake up. And I have to say, those prayers not being answered did not lend credibility to any all-powerful supernatural entities existing that cared about me. So to deal with the internal struggle I made a deal with myself that I would just try to figure out some method, but not actually use it on myself. It became an intellectual Russian-Roulette challenge.

After maybe five years (junior in HS) I came across a method that would theoretically work. I can only imagine how much faster things might have moved along if only the Internet had existed back then. Anyway, I prepped the method and then decided to work backwards to see if I could determine the historical effectiveness of my method. Again, no Internet, so it was slow going. Finally learned enough to know that it would be a horrifyingly nasty, painful, and drawn-out way to go. I gave up. Intellectually I had been gradually coming to the realization that the end is inevitable anyway. If I wait long enough, my prayers will be answered.

Over the years I learned to get along better. Memorizing as much as I could in terms of interactions, personal conversational approaches, etc. until I could probably last about five minutes in a conversation with a stranger. Much longer the more I got to know a person. Thankfully I also learned the strategy of asking questions of other people (letting THEM talk was a wonderful way to avoid my foot-in-mouth disease).

Now I am ancient in years (at least it feels that way). I have learned tons of additional tricks to dealing with people. Still not comfortable with people, but I can push through it (burning a million calories doing so as I sit still and quiet in a crowd). The semi-autistic cocoon of self-absorption is my primary defense: I.e., remain unnoticed and quiet hoping everyone will pretty much leave me alone so I don’t mess anything up. If you don’t think I am capable of messing things up, get me into a social situation with strangers where I cannot escape but must interact. Things may seem normal at first, but you will be amazed at the rapidity with which my comments and behavior will unravel toward the bizarre once my repertoire of social tricks runs out. But seriously, don’t do that to me.

Wish I could end this on an up-beat note. Maybe say “It will be ok!” to someone else who is suffering as much as, or probably more than me (since I’ve learned to just live with it)… But sorry, no. It can totally suckity-suck-suck. To be honest, sometimes the best I can do to make myself feel better enough to get out of bed is to remember that it won’t last forever (life, that is). But what I can say is that the experience/feeling is not unique to you. Sure, maybe the triggers you have are different from mine. Maybe your agony does not compare to mine because you have different experiences that make it worse (but listen, I haven’t shared any of the worst parts of my life). Yet here is a “universal” concept for you to ponder: For every single one of the billions of people on the planet (except for two individuals), there is at least one person who feels better, and there is also at least one person who feels worse. And you aren’t special enough to be that one person who feels worse than every other single person on the planet.

Bottom line? Well, as shitty as you feel, it could be worse; and in fact it IS worse for many – yet they carry on. So go write a blog about it that nobody reads!

The Embarrassments of Love and War: Part II

Because I have a really bad memory, I cannot know for sure how accurate these recollections are. So much of my past is just gone from my head that I really only feel like I should be about 14 years old (I only have enough memories for someone about that age, I think). But some events have survived the cognitive blight that is my memory.

In the previous essay I focused on the embarrassments we suffer from our “kids” (our dogs) and don’t have enough yet to write an essay about what our cats do to us. I guess so far I can tell you that from outside it must look like a cat-fraternity house. They are both female, so technically you might think I should call it a cat-sorority. But I think we associate wild abandon, excess partying, and destruction with fraternities. So we live in a Cat-Frat (Kappa Alpha Tau).

If you happened to be walking by our big front window you might see a cat dangling from a curtain rod while another cat peers upside down from the drapes swatting and teasing her sister who has her claw stuck in the gauzy fabric (this is how haunted house décor got started). The curtains and drapes are a mess and we’ve had to replace the rods twice now. To reinforce them, we’ve taped long strips of wood to the metal rods and strung the curtains over that mess. 

See? Not much to say. At night when we are trying to sleep, that’s when it sounds like 10-pound bags of potatoes chasing each other sloppily around the house. This usually gets Socrates howling and barking which, despite his sexy voice, is not conducive to deep or restful sleep.

So this essay will be focusing on me. (Everyone’s favorite subject, right?) I thought it might be nice to give some examples of how I embarrassed my mom when I was little (my father wasn’t really around much, so while my mother’s embarrassments were usually public, I think his embarrassments were limited to the private disappointments he had in me).

Ok, since I was the first-born, no doubt when I was an infant I cried in public, pooped in public, puked in public, etc. New parents are probably always embarrassed by these introductory baby events. Even older than that, I was never the screaming child collapsed on the floor of the department store wailing because I was being denied a toy. By the time my sister came around, I doubt that they would have been fazed by such stuff anyway. So let’s skip that and go with what I actually remember.

The earliest memory of embarrassing my mother I can think of is probably when I was somewhere around five to seven years old (totally a guess – but surely not older than that). This memory is slightly enhanced because my mother would sometimes tell people this story. Parts of it seem like real memories to me, other parts I rely on her story.

Keep in mind that I lived pretty much by myself. No playmates to speak of (at least not on anything like a regular basis). So I never really learned any social skills. I basically lived inside my head. To be honest, I don’t have any idea what I did for play when I was little (like before third grade). There is a vague memory of some Playskool toys (pastel colored nesting cups?) but I wonder what I did to keep myself occupied? Doesn’t matter. The bottom line here is that I lived in my head and had to find my own sources of amusement.

Well, one thing that really fascinated me was when a sunbeam would slice through a window to the floor. It was like a “thing” to me. Sometimes, under the right conditions, there would be multiple columns of light shining through a window. The beams seemed like they should have felt more solid than they were. I would pass my open hand through the beam to try to feel the substance of it. Nothing. I couldn’t tell what was happening. Was it avoiding my touch? How could I not feel any resistance?

The sunbeams also seemed to have texture. This made it all the more amazing that I could not feel it. Although I did not know it at the time, the texture I was seeing was the reflections of light bouncing off of the particles of dust floating in the air. But since I could only see that when the dust floated through the light, I believed that the sunbeams contained or were made up of the particles. So I would pass my hand through the beam and watch the particles dance and swirl in the wake I left behind. I wanted to capture some of these floating “things” so I carefully reached out with both hands and clapped into the light to try and catch some of the little dots of whatever. CLAP! Slowly bring my hands to my face. Open hands and find…?! Nothing. Drat! Try again! Clap! Look. Clap! Look. Clap! Look. I probably tried different clapping speeds, but nothing seemed to work.

Who knows how many times I did this. I was in my own little world and trying to figure it out. Nothing embarrassing about that, right?

As it turns out, a conversation had been going on between my mother and a neighbor during my methodical clapping into the air. Yeah. Well it was a proud opportunity for my mother to brag about her son to the neighbor as they sat in the other room drinking coffee and smoking. Apparently someone had told (lied to?) her that it was already clear that I was college material. I suspect that she had timed her delivery of this information so that it would be the last thing she and our neighbor talked about as we concluded our visit. She wanted to leave impressively. So as she expanded on her brilliant son whilst being escorted through the house to the door so we could go home, they turned the corner to see little-boy-brilliant sitting on the floor. What was Mr. College Material doing? Well, it looked like he was staring vacantly into the air and clapping slowly at nothing, probably with his mouth hanging slack. (At least I was not a drooler.)

We did indeed leave the house impressively.

The neighbors had little to do but talk about each other. So I can only imagine how that turned out for my mom and her standing in the group.

The Embarrassments of Love and War: Part I

I do not have kids (although there is an unconfirmed rumor that I was one a long time ago). What I do have, though, are pets (two dogs and two cats, but this essay is only going to focus on the dogs). They are the nearest I will have to the terrible burden of human offspring. Some people have tried to convince me that having kids is a great idea: “You never know love until you see your child for the first time” and “Your life changes; nothing will be more important to you than your kids.” But frankly, I am too lazy and selfish for those arguments to work. And truth be told, such arguments remind me too much of the “Just jump in! The water’s fine!” prank. In psychology we learn that misery does not love company, rather, misery loves miserable company.

So, in my haste to dodge the progeny bullet, I ended up stepping into dog poop. (I am not just being figurative. I’ve actually stepped barefoot in dog poop. The horror of it was that while I was heaving with disgust, there was a conscious part of me that thought it felt good squishing betwixt my toes.)
The point of this presumably mostly-ignored-by-the-world and long overdue blog entry is NOT to try to argue that dogs are better (or worse) than kids, or to suggest that the trials and tribulations of pet ownership are in any way the same (or different) from child ownership. It is actually just an observation that everyone who has human or canine pets can relate to: Embarrassing moments. (If you are childless and petless, then I feel arrogant envy and pity for your less meaningful life of hair-free and foul-smelling-stain-free clothes.)

As I mentioned, we have two dogs.

Socrates is a dappled short-hair mini-dachshund (maybe not so mini anymore) who has emotional problems but is essentially a lover. By “lover” I mean that he really likes to hump soft looking dogs, cats, raccoons, geese, pillows, and whatever else he can wrap his paws around. Neither the sex nor the size of the objects of his affection seem to matter. Socrates is an equal (and any) opportunity lover. I’ve heard the experts say that this is a dominance behavior. Well, I’ve seen the sparkle in his eye. It doesn’t look like a dominance sparkle to me. In fact, I should just warn everyone: He knows how to charm a smile out of you. Rolling to his side, he will raise a paw in salute, partly covering an eye in coy sweetness. Do not be fooled. He is trying to lure you close enough… close enough. Socrates is love.

Cricket, on the other hand, is a mix of Sheba Inu and Chihuahua (Sheba-huahua). She’s a sassy little blond with a lot of energy (jumping at the door when we get ready to go out; chasing the cats). Cricket has established a threat assessment base on the couch by the front window. Everything and everyone that passes triggers Cricket’s emergency broadcast system. Mail delivery results in an instant crime scene of vicious snarl, puncture, tearing, and bark. The daily chaos of paper on the floor would nauseate a seasoned homicide detective. You would know her by the tuft of hair that sticks up on the back of her neck punk-rocker style. She is a perpetual bad-ass. My little princess, Cricket, is war.

We take our pups to the local dog park where they roam and mingle with the other small dogs. By roam and mingle, I mean of course, hump and fight. If we are not pulling a hip-pivoting Socrates off of a nearly violated vallhund, we are snatching a snarling Cricket away from a terrorized terrier. (FYI: A vallhund looks like a German shepherd corgi mix; I learned this when trying to find a type of dog that would alliterate with “violated.”)

Yes, it’s embarrassing to have to apologize to everyone for our deviant dogs. But by hitting both ends of the continuum, on average, they balance each other out. I can’t imagine life without them.

Perhaps soon...

It is amazing how much death can suck the life out of a person... and their motivation to write certain types of blogs.

Over the past two years, every impulse I've had to write here was dark and depressing. I'd rather not do that - so those writings went elsewhere.

Soon... I think I will be (finally) adding a new entry. Not today (other than this "filler" bit), but soon.

"Soon," he says to the empty theater...

Marcy Flair

It was late afternoon and the room was mostly dark. The blinds were pulled so that only little beams of light stabbed the darkness here and there. Sitting in a chair in front of a small wooden desk, a little girl was hunched over a magnifying glass. Arts and crafts boxes surrounded her both on the floor as well as the periphery of her desktop. This was Marcy. She was almost fifteen years old. She loved sparkles of color, twinkles of rhinestones, and the precise edges along the facets of newly cut gemstones. She loved other things too. In fact, it was a testament to her creativity that Marcy had found a way to combine her loves.

Marcy squinted at her work. Pink sparkles surrounding a flat cat's-eye-blue plastic gem arranged like a constellation of beauty on a small triangular feather. She turned the otherwise white feather over, and blew gently on the afterfeather. Little wisps of powder-soft fingers waved at her nose. She smiled and arranged the feather on her desk, gem-side up next to a row of similarly adorned feathers, to let the glue dry undisturbed.

Next, Marcy reached for the glue gun, hot with a sticky trail of amber leaking from its nozzle. She pressed the trigger lightly to smear a narrow line of glue along the thin metal rod in front of her. It was just then that a flop of her bangs waggled down from her forehead and tried to play peek-a-boo with her eye. Bad timing! With a quick flick of her head, she tossed the curl to the top of her head long enough out of the way for her to quickly align a foil lightning bolt on the glue. She held it steady until the bright decoration adhered tightly despite the hot burning on her thumb where some of the glue had squished around to her skin.

Tiny creative fingers lifted the metal rod so that the slight bit of sunlight piercing the blinds could reflect off all of the foil lightning bolts decorating the titanium bar. Not quite satisfied, she held one end of the rod between her fingers so she could rotate the shaft more easily. Lifting an aerosol can she sprayed a puff of glue into the air, and then twirled the rod through it. Before the glue dried, she picked up a shaker of multi-colored sprinkles and shook tiny sparkles all over the now festive pole.

While these projects rested, Marcy turned her attention to the pink plastic handles she'd attached, each to one end of two solid aluminum bars. The bars were connected at the other end by a braided nylon and steel flex-cord. They looked so plain. Reaching under the desk, she pulled up a flimsy plastic shopping bag. Inside was a cardboard and cellophane package containing purple and red handlebar streamers. They were designed for bicycles, but they were going to work wonderfully for this project. She attached the streamers to the handles, as instructed in the directions, then modified them to better suit her needs. Hidden inside the streamers of one handle, she inserted a super-sized fishing hook designed to resemble something better suited to grappling. Once that was done, Marcy pulled open one of the drawers of the desk and carefully pulled out four long narrow razor blades. These were attached to a metal ring by small hoops that allowed the blades to move freely - much like the streamers. The metal ring was attached to the other pink handle so as to allow the razors to mingle with the streamers. She paused for a moment and wondered if the blades might eventually ruin the streamers. She made a note to herself to color the sides of the razors pink and maybe later simply replace all of the flimsy plastic with the thin slices of steel.

By now, the feathers and rods Marcy had been working on were ready to be assembled. She glued the feathers into the slots at the ends of the rods, and then carefully screwed in the arrow heads. She had quite a variety of arrow tips. The heavy bodkin tips were lightly dusted with glow-in-the-dark powder. The barbed tips were lightly sprayed with red paint, while the viper tips were dusted with orange day-glow paint. Marcy hefted one of the arrows in her hand. It held her only half-moon blade… just in case. Each of the arrows was carefully lowered into their slots in her home made quiver. She would know any of her arrows by the slightest touch of a feather.

Outside she heard some neighborhood children screaming as they danced through Mrs. Arnold's sprinkler. Marcy had a hard time understanding how they could get so much pleasure out of something so mundane. Shaking her head slightly, she reached for her pink glock. This was still somewhat of a puzzle. Although the outside of the gun had a few small crystals glued to it, she'd found out the hard way that the bullets did not take too well to any of the prettifications she'd tried so far. Even the very light coating of paint she'd tried out had ended badly. She was sad about losing her purple glock, but the pink had been her favorite anyway. Even the crystals on the gun had to be placed carefully as they otherwise tended to get in the way of the holster when she practiced her fast draw.

She turned the gun over in her hands for a few minutes and then put it aside to inspect the holster. It was already well decorated with gems, reflective lightning bolts and a few sparkly purple and green turtle stickers. She'd slightly modified the placement of the gems to spell out a cursive looking MF, and it didn't really look like there was room to do anything else. Although her eyes hesitated a bit on the streamers of her nunchucks. Maybe she could repurpose them when she got some more razor blades. Note to self!

From the diming light leaking from the sides of the curtains and the fading laughter of the children at play outside, Marcy knew that she was running out of time to prepare much more for tonight's excursions. She walked to her closet and opened the door. Inside were some dresses and shoes as well as a tall cardboard box that she'd decorated. The box opened like another smaller closet, and inside were her home made night excursion suits. She pulled out the midnight blue spandex body suit and she could hear some of the Kevlar panels sewn inside clack together. It was a comforting sound. She tossed the suit onto the bed and then reached in for her goggles. She preferred the dovetails, but tonight she was going to use the rhino style. It was the only one she had that would stay tightly enough on her head while she rode her bike through the back woods trails.

Marcy also pulled out her modified footwear. She'd never liked the steel toe shoes her father had gotten her for her birthday. They looked too masculine. Not pretty at all! So she'd looked around and found some acceptable sport shoes, and using her father's credit card, ordered a pair of Cats. They had a nice gel insole, plus they didn't complain about her color enhancements and glitter accents. And double-plus, they accepted the attachable pink heel skate rollers with flashing lights! Flashing lights! She was thrilled when she first discovered them!

Unfortunately, she hadn't yet finished making her chain mail leggings and shirt. Marcy had been dragging her feet on that project because she was feeling pretty weighted down as it was. At least she had the neck bib and gloves.

It being a school night, Marcy had to be careful about getting everything through the house and past the guards. Mom and dad would host a conniption if they caught her going out again. So she packed as much as she could into her hello kitty backpack and heaved it out the window. It was a bit of a risk doing it now since it was still plenty light outside, but she would need some time dressing behind the garage. She didn't want to be late.

Speaking of which, she went over to her computer and pushed the mouse to wake up the screen. She logged in and double checked the time and location. She then logged into her account and checked for messages. Nobody had cancelled. That was good. Otherwise, there was no sense going if she was going to be the only one there.

Marcy Flair stood in the center of her room and looked around. It felt like she was forgetting something. She looked at her craft station and saw that the glue gun had been unplugged. She mentally stepped through everything she'd put in her backpack. She'd packed it dozens of times and knew that everything was in it as usual. Then she walked through her plans for the evening, rehearsing the moves she expected to make. That was when she remembered!

"Of course! I wanted to try out the darts!" She said that loudly enough that her little brother knocked on the door and asked if she had called for him. She opened the door, kissed Scottie on the forehead and scooted him back to his room. To get there, Marcy had to duck under the police tape spider webbing across his bedroom doorway. Bright yellow "Property of Scott - DO NOT ENTER" tape that tore easily enough but that Scottie loved to wrap things in. She walked him to his bed to tuck him in. As she reached out to peel away the covers, she noticed a bright green oval sticker on her arm, "Property of Scott" that Scottie had somehow placed without her noticing. Looking around the room, every toy, book, and piece of clothing had some type of "Property of Scott" or "Scott's DO NOT TOUCH" sticker on it. She smiled and peeled the label carefully from her arm and stuck it on his forehead. He giggled and hopped into bed and lifted his arms for a hug. She couldn't resist, he was such a cutie-pie! She bent over and told him to go to sleep, he nuzzled into her neck and squeezed hard. "Ow! Scottie! You're pulling my hair!"

She pulled away and started to reach for her head to rub away the slight pain but Scottie grabbed her hands, "Will you read me a story?" She closed her hands together around his and leaned in again to give him butterfly kisses with her eyelashes.

"Not tonight, Scottie. Sorry. But tomorrow for sure, ok?"

He smiled and turned over, burying his head into the pillow and allowing her to tuck the blankets up over his ears. "Ok Barfie!" He giggled at his favorite play on her name. She gave him a pinch on the little bit of exposed earlobe and swatted him on the butt before leaving.

Marcy closed his door, ducked under the tape and quickly returned to the foot of her bed. It was getting late, but she reached underneath for the package that had been delivered only yesterday. Marcy had been so busy restocking her arrows and adjusting her other more familiar weapons that she's completely forgotten her new toys! Opening the box, she took out the wrist bands and strapped one around her right hand. On the strap were four metal locking rings which allowed her to secure a small metal box. The box contained twelve small holes that aimed in the direction her fingers pointed. On the side of the box, and furthest away from the holes, was one large indentation where the compressed gas canister was supposed to nestle. Placing it all on her wrist, it felt very heavy and the darts hadn't even been inserted yet. She considered moving the contraption back to her elbow, but she decided that there wasn't enough time after all. She would have to try it out another day. Besides, she wanted to practice with the device, although she felt that she would have no trouble mastering it. Carefully she packed it away. It wouldn't have been right to equip it until it looked pretty enough to use.

She closed the box and slid it back under the bed. Enough time wasted, she needed to get outside without drawing suspicion, and she knew exactly how to do it. Skipping down the stairs loudly and then walking through the living room, briefly blocking her parents' view of the television, she hummed her way to the kitchen. Once there, she grabbed a package of gummie fruits, a small pudding pack, and a juice box. Then she twirled back into the living room to pester her parents.

Munching loudly on a fist full of gummies, she asked, "What are we watching?"

"Just a show, Marcy. Please sit quietly and watch it."

"What is that guy doing there?" Marcy asked innocently while popping open the pudding lid.

"He's about to get into some trouble, just like someone in here if that someone doesn't quiet down."

Marcy crumpled up the now empty gummie bag and stuffed it part way into the barely eaten pudding cup. Slurping loudly through the tiny straw she wondered aloud, "Why do they make these straws so small?" To which her parents replied with annoyed silence. The show was reaching a critical moment, so Marcy knew that a commercial break was almost upon them. She had to time this just right. Taking another long drag on the straw, she reached empty just as some critical dialogue ushered in the commercial break. Her parents hadn't quite heard the last few words due to the empty juice box straw sucking sound and her mother turned an annoyed look to her daughter, "Marcy! Really?" Dad reached for the remote control to rewind back to the end of the scene.

Knowing that the timing was perfect, Marcy put her best hurt pout on and said, "Fine, I'll leave you to your precious show!" She stood, and started to walk back to the stairway as if she were going back to her bedroom. In the meantime, the crackly gummie bag that had been stuffed partway into the pudding cup had expanded enough to pop out of the container and drop first to the coffee table, and then to the floor. There was just enough pudding on it to leave a slight trail. The movement had caught both her parents' eyes and when they saw their daughter leaving behind the mess, mom's temper boiled a bit, "Marcy! Young lady you know better than to leave your trash. You march back here and pick that up. In fact, you can take the trash right out to the garage."

"But mooooom! That's not fair! It's Scottie's turn to do the trash!"

"I don't care! You pick this mess up and then take the trash out, Don't forget to replace the bag in the trash bin this time."

Marcy was again trying to time things to the television. She had to make certain that the commercial break would be over and her parents would be distracted by the show to notice that she never came back in from the garage. So she made a show of picking up every little bit of trash and mumbled her complaints as she walked slowly into the kitchen. She heard the television start up again and her parents re-watched the last of the scene they'd missed. Then her father started to fast-forward through as much of the commercials as possible before catching up to regular programming.

It was a fast job to get the trash ready to go, but Marcy still worried that her parents might miss her. So just as the show started up again, Marcy poked her head into the living room, "Mom? Dad?"

Her father hit the pause button, "Marcy? What is it?"

"I got the trash all set, do you guys want a snack or anything? I'll bring it in to you?"

Their slight annoyance melted away to smiles, "No Marcy, thank you, we're fine." Then the show started again and they were quickly mesmerized.

Good, thought Marcy. Now when they think back to whether Marcy had come back after doing the trash, they'll remember her asking if they needed a snack. They won't figure out she's gone until too late, or never at all if she can sneak back in later undetected.

Outside, the day was mostly over. Dusk would end soon and by then Marcy would be to her first rendezvous location. That would be the small dirt trail that formed a hairpin just above the small creek. Marcy knew that her wheel attachments wouldn't do her any good there, so she put them in the basket of her bicycle. The basket was latched with a bright red thumb lock in the shape of a heart. Marcy noticed that it would need to be re-glittered soon. In the basket she also had accessories belts. There was a nice wide one that hugged the top of her hips. It had spots for a stun gun, some gorgeous pearl handled butterfly knives, four different canisters of pepper sprays, and a holster for her glock. She pushed that one aside and instead withdrew the two extra-long belts that she wore crisscross over her chest. This was her favorite, but her recent growth in that area was making it less comfortable to wear. Soon she would retire this one and stick with just the hip hugger.

Sitting on the top of her basket of goodies was her problem-solving box, about the size of a portable first aid kit, and the current love of her life, Piggy-Bear. This was Marcy's special teddy bear. She took it out briefly, made sure that Piggy was ok, then gave it a quick hug and a kiss before checking that her problem-solving box was secure. She then closed her basket with a pleased sigh.

While straddling her bicycle, Marcy loaded up her accessories. Her favorite new add-on to the belt was a small elastic fabric band that held the crossing belts tighter to the small of her back where she had two knuckle knives tucked in secret pockets. It was a double-win because feeling the knives there made her feel stronger, plus, the fabric she used was from the Princess Pony cartoon she used to love to watch. Just like the pony, it was cute to look at, but it hid a nasty kick.

As Marcy double checked that all of her gear was secure, she stood on her left peddle to head down the driveway. There she looked over her shoulder at the house. The only evidence of activity came from the flickering bluish light from the television where her parents were cuddling on the couch. Smiling, she was about to peddle away when she thought she heard a noise. It was almost like a bug had just flown past her ear. Holding her breath, she pulled her goggles down over her eyes and switched them on. She looked up and down the cul-de-sac but saw nothing. Must have been a bug. Or maybe a bat? Either way it wasn't a big deal, besides, it was getting late and Ms. Flair had an appointment to keep. She switched off the goggles and slid them back up to the top of her helmet before pedaling down the road.

The ride to the small dirt hill was an easy one as the three miles of road were almost all either downhill or level. But it was a little surprising that no cars had passed her. It was a slight relief as well, though. She didn't want to draw any attention to herself. The sparkles and streamers decorating the bike tended to pull the eye away from the few weapons that she had holstered here and there. The overall impression people got from a quick look was that she was a little girl riding on her bike and carrying a bunch of toys.

Marcy turned off of the main streets between the two trees that marked the entrance to the small dirt access road. She coasted to the first turn and stopped to listen. There were the usual sounds of crickets and other nightly wildlife in the small woods. The quarter moon was mostly covered by clouds, so visibility was poor. Nonetheless, she liked her eyes to the dark before relying on her goggles. She also sniffed at the air. It was amazing how stupid some men can be. They think they are being so sneaky in their clever hiding spots, but then they can't help themselves but to light up a cigarette. Gives them away almost all the time. Although Marcy thought she could detect a hint of smoke, it wasn't enough to tell her anything useful tonight. So she got off her bike and walked slowly down the side of the gravel road as quietly as she could.

Every few feet, Marcy would pause and just listen. She had kept her eyes on the general spot through the woods where she was supposed to meet him, but couldn't see anything there yet. He must have a really dark car. Because she was getting so close without having any solid information yet, she decided to do a sweep of the area with her night goggles. She was glad she did. Not only was she able to see her appointment standing beside a sleek dark convertible, but settled more deeply in the woods, she could also see a van with two people inside. One was smoking. She wondered if there were more in the van. Her first thought as the sudden adrenaline evened out in her system was that this was going to be a blast!

Uncertainty

One of the things that I find annoying - really annoying - is arrogance. In truth, I don't encounter it very often, but I suspect its presence around me like the dust and pollen that fills the space between nearly all things.

You might think that by "arrogance" I refer to the arms-folded-over-chest sneering disdain that some people have for others (or other things). Well, no, not really. But yes, that is pretty annoying too.

Actually, I just mean the arrogance people display when they speak confidently of truths.

To me, this is an annoying form of arrogance. It implies that the person knows something absolutely even when, if pressed, they might have to admit that their "truth" is actually just a likelihood. Certainly a very likely likelihood; but certainly not a certainty.

The spring semester tends to stir up my feelings more so than other times because of the class that I teach (Psychology of Paranormal Beliefs). In this class we come into contact with a LOT of people who hold certainty close to their chests, yet still have enough in excess to trumpet it from their mouths. Very annoying.

I've surely mentioned this in an earlier blog-entry, but when I was much younger, I remember a comment my mother made to me about her view of people who have faith in God. (Which one? Take your pick!) She simply envied their ability to be certain.

At the time I agreed; but now, I do not.

By no means am I trying to rag on religion. There are plenty of other places on the web that you can visit for that. And I can't really say that I only noticed this in persistent arrogance among those who confidently claim that aliens are among us, the towers were collapsed by pre-placed explosive charges rather than jets crashing into them, or even (still!) that the moon landings were a hoax. That stuff (and so much more) just brought it into focus for me.

As I drive from here to there, I watch other drivers talking on cell phones, TEXTING, and daydreaming, all while speeding confidently down the street or highway. They seem quite certain that THEY can handle it and everyone else who died when a deer crossed their path, or another driver veered, or a rock hit their windshield, or the road turned and they didn't… that all those accidents were stupid mistakes that they THEMSELVES could never make.

In one intersection waiting for a light to change, I observe cars blowing through the red light as well as others driving confidently through their green light without even a glance left or right to make sure the coast is clear. If the light is green, it must be safe! Don't question it!

These people speed through parking lots, past parked cars that because they are "parked" are viewed as non-threats that can be ignored. I've seen kids dart out between these non-threats, I've seen people throw their cars into gear and pull out before even looking to see if the coast is clear. I've seen people speed around a car stopped to politely let someone out of their parking spot only to almost smash into the backing-out car! The speedy idiot honks and yells at the "stupid jerk" who was pulling out.

It's scary to think how little thought goes into people's heads when they blithely zip through the streets in these 4,000 pounds of plastic and rubber shells on wheels.

But it looks like I am drifting away from my focus... Let me make one other quick observation before I re-focus.

When I was in grad-school, my area of study was language processing. In particular, I did a lot of research with words that have multiple interpretations (ambiguity). Within less than one year of working with ambiguity in language, my mind was irreparably damaged. I had become sensitized to ambiguity to the point that I was no longer able to hear (or read) what people meant.

The simple question, "Did you remember to go to the bank today?" would give me pause.

I would hesitate, wondering if the person thought I was supposed to have stopped near a river for some reason. I'm a little better nowadays, but I still find myself over-analyzing practically everything I hear or read. Once you start looking for ambiguity, you'll be surprised how widespread it really is. But let me warn you, once you take that walk down that path, you may never find your way back.

Ok, so back to my focus (such that it is), which is just that as smug as I may sometimes feel that uncertainty and a general lack of trust is the only sane perspective, I find that it has a down side.

The arrogance of thinking that YOU "know" something makes me want to prove that you really don't. But I won't ever do that, because there's a part of me that questions whether I really know that you don't really know. So, my confidence in uncertainty undermines my own certainty that you should not be confident to the point that I can't be sure that you aren't right to be so sure.

So is it better to live a life of confidence (caught by surprise every time you turn out to be wrong about something), or, live a life of hesitance due to uncertainty (but rarely get caught being "wrong" since you hardly ever allow yourself to commit to a path of certainty)?

I hate being in car accidents (i.e., being wrong), but I also hate not being able to have the unquestioning faith in a belief.

Maybe I should just take to flipping coins?

Corny Lines: Number One Cause of Spousal Eye-Rolling for Over 10 Years

Over the years I have managed to come up with a few choice lines that I can use in social situations to mask my social phobia(s); In this case, my fear of talking to/with strangers.

Unfortunately, my wife has heard them all; Over and over again. So it occurred to me that I could list these out so others can annoy their own spouses with them as well!

Surely I've missed a few of my suave "des phrases intelligentes" but the ones below will certainly be sufficient for you to begin your stroll down the same dark path I've trampled for you.

I've provided some context for these since it occurred to me while I was writing down the ones I could remember that they may be a bit too ripe for the double entendre treatment without context. So if you like, please look them over again with one eye closed and throw in a couple of that's-what-she-said's for a different reading.

One final important note here too is that I in no way mean to imply anything disparaging about my wife. She is wonderful to put up with me for as long as she has and the behaviors listed below only scratch the surface of the torments I put her through. Eye-rolling is better than I'd expect from anyone else and certainly better than I deserve!

Out to Eat (for the most part - some of these work elsewhere, too)

1. When asked by the server, "Would you care for anything else?" I pause for a couple of beats and look straight in their eyes then say, "No, nothing else. Is that ok?" The usual response is something like, "Of course! But let me know if you change your mind."
2. Upon arrival a few moments later of the check, I don't allow it. "Excuse me, but, I think we agreed just a few seconds ago that I didn't want anything else." This is where the wife usually swats me on the arm and takes over the conversation with, "Thank you!" followed by the eye-roll.

1. Ok, this one is actually really cool. But it really wears a bit thin on people who have to endure it from me time and time again at every damn restaurant I go to! But so what?! It's really cool! To do this, you need to make sure that your server actually has a few minutes to spend at your table. Also, you need to have a cloth napkin or a paper napkin that is rolled diagonally to make the longest paper tube you can make with that napkin. In other words, if you don't have something to measure about a foot and a half or so (under half a meter), don't try this.
2. Place your soda glass in the center of the table. Then ask your server to estimate which distance is greater, once around the circumference of the glass or the distance from the edge of the glass to the table. It doesn't matter what they say at this point. You can even suggest that they might be about the same. Whatever the answer, grab the salt shaker and put it under the glass. You may need to hold the glass there to keep it from spilling. Ask the same question again. Of course now the distance from the lip of the glass to the table looks to be WAY more than the circumference of the glass. This is where the napkin comes in handy as a measuring tool. Have the server do the measuring. Specifically, have them find the circumference with the napkin and then use that length to see if it is greater than the distance from the table to the rim of the glass (i.e., including the distance added by the salt shaker). Unless it is an unusually small drink glass and/or an unusually tall salt shaker, the circumference is going to be greater than the distance of the glass and salt-shaker! Isn't that awesome?! Try it out and see for yourself! Too cool! You'll have your friends rolling their eyes in no time with this one alone!

General Shopping (grocery store, Wal-Mart, etc.)

1. When I am at the register to pay, the cashier will usually quote a price like, "That will be $17.12 please?" Note that this only works if paying with cash.
2. As I count out my money, I will hand over the $17 and then say, "Is that close enough? Or do you really need the rest of it?" Ha ha ha! We share a moment until my wife's giant sigh followed by her opening her pocketbook to add her 12 cents worth of eye rolling.
   Actually, you can't blame my wife's eye-rolling here since people don't really like to joke about money - for example, I've opened myself up to the same line if I hand over a dollar to cover the $0.12 and expect change back - the cashier can say, "Well, that's close enough isn't it? You don't need any change back, right?" Where's the humor there?!

1. My wife really hates this one. Practically every single time I get to the checkout the cashier will automatically ask, "How are you today?" Although I could go with, "How am I what?" (see below) I prefer to go another route that has gotten smiles every time I've used it (except from my wife and anyone else who has heard me do this multiple times before).
2. After a really big sigh, I will answer, "Well, I'm old, fat, out of shape, balding, I have bad knees, my teeth are crooked, my hearing is going and I will never get rid of these glasses." Plus whatever else occurs to me. Then I ask it back at them. Usually they say they are fine. To which I say, "Yeah, oh yeah, that's what I meant to say, I'm fine too." Cue the spousal eye-rolling! 

Note: If the person you are planning to inflict the preceding line upon seems like they are either in a bad mood or maybe having a bad day but are forced to be in public-relations mode, I recommend switching to a less abrasive response like, "I seem to be getting older faster than I am getting wiser."

1. Usually this works best at a restaurant when the manager comes around to the tables (e.g., "How was everything?"), but I find that cashiers at Wal-Mart and such ask something similar. They will greet you and then say something along the lines of, "Did you find everything ok?"
2. Wow, talk about a great setup line! Take them literally. "My gosh, it would have taken us forever if we were looking for everything!" Or, "Yikes! We only had the fish! We couldn't possibly have eaten everything!" Smile and look at your spouse to see the eyes start their obligatory rolling!

Anywhere Else (can include the above places)

1. Upon noticing that a person is left-handed.
2. "Excuse me. Perhaps you can answer an important question I have?" They say "Yes?" and then I ask very earnestly and innocently, "Is it true that left-handed people are more intelligent than right-handed people?" Commence eye-rolling. Note too that I happen to be left-handed. When that fact comes out, I simply state that I am trying to get unbiased data from people who would be in the best position to know the answer: Other left-handers. (More eye-rolling.)

1. This one is used any time that a salesperson (or whatever) is dealing with us and has to leave. So this would be for a server at a restaurant or a salesperson at Lowes, your aunt who leaves you in the living room to go to the bathroom, etc. You'll get the idea.
2. With a slightly worried or confused look on my face I ask, "So, do you want us to wait here?" This actually causes people to stumble a bit sometimes. You can see them working it out in their heads why I would think otherwise.
   The more obvious the situation, the more fun it is to say. Imagine getting pulled over by the police. They'll come up and ask for registration and license then want to go back to their cruiser. Try to catch them before they leave your window, "So, do you want me to wait here?" Or when you visit the doctor's office and the nurse gets you into the paper half-robe in that little examination room with the butcher-paper on the cold leather couch. "The doctor will be with you shortly." This is ripe for, "So, do you want me to wait here, then?" I think you get the idea.

1. These last two are usually inflicted on my students. My wife has long ago burned these set-ups from her linguistic repertoire. A few times each semester I will get a student to wave me over and make the mistake of saying, "Can I ask you a question?"
2. My now automatic response is, "You just did!" This is followed about 80 percent of the time with, "Can I ask you another question?" Which gets the same awesome answer! After a few moments of rusty gears turning in their noggin's they will finally get to, "Can I ask you two more questions?" This is often delivered with a bit of a smug, "gotcha now" grin. At this point I will tell them that I have a three-question limit and then I walk away. Surely they find this particularly endearing (especially when exam-time is upon them).

1. As noted above, this last one is often triggered by a student on Mondays. They will ask something like, "How was your weekend?" or more generally, "How are you?"
2. My response is to fall into an Asperger's-like semi-fugue-state and ask back, "How was my weekend what?" or, "How am I what?" They will come back with something they think is more specific, like, "How are you doing?" (etc.), hence, "How am I doing what?".

1. Oops, I just remembered another eye-roller (but this one isn't ever from my wife as I never have the chance to use it on her). Mainly this is for my students or the occasional cashier, etc. and can be used for best effect only on Monday or Tuesday.
2. As I or they leave, I will say, "Have a nice weekend!" Which gets me about a 90 percent hit with, "You too!" Followed moments later by them stopping in their tracks and saying, "Wait, it's only Monday…" Or, "Does that mean we don't have class the rest of the week?" I explain that it's never too early to wish someone a nice weekend; and yes, classes will be meeting.

Alright, that's what I can recall for now. Maybe if I remember some more I will add them in. But truthfully, probably not since I seem to be pretty lazy about this whole blog thing. On the other hand, maybe you know of a few more that you, a spouse, a significant other, a friend, a parent, etc. has used and you can send them to me?! I'd be happy to add them to my list!

The Airplane Lottery Hospital Crash

This month is just a short rant.

I love probability statistics - not that I'm great at calculating them, but because of the paradoxes that they seem to support.

Example: Air travel is safer than driving.

Is this true? Well... yes, but also no.

It is "safer" than driving if you calculate number of deaths per passenger-mile traveled.

Hm? What's this? What's "passenger mile?"

If a car has two people in it and travels 100 miles, you get two statistics. (1) Vehicle miles (1 vehicle x 100 miles = 100 vMiles). Then there's (2) Passenger miles (2 passengers x 100 miles = 200 pMiles). So compare the car trip to the airplane that travels 1,000 miles and has 100 passengers.

(1) Vehicle miles: 1 vehicle x 1,000 miles = 1,000 vehicle miles.

(2) Passenger miles: 100 passengers x 1,000 miles = 100,000 passenger miles.

BUT, imagine the car tops a hill (at its 100 mile mark) just as the plane flies over (at its 1,000 mile mark) and they collide in a spectacular display of light, color, and noise (i.e., all dead)!

Probability of Death
CAR	PLANE
2.0%/vMile	10.0%/vMile
1.0%/pMile	0.1%/pMile

Yeah, ok, you don't like math. So instead of figuring out what I did in the table, look at it this way: If "safety" is determined by looking at number of deaths per something (miles, accident, whatever), then you can twist the numbers to suit your needs.

Where's the most dangerous place to be in the world? A hospital! Look at how many people die there! I wonder what the statistics are? Hm, calculating the number of deaths per type of building will surely reveal that hospitals are the most deadly. Probably worse than bathrooms, kitchens, and that married person's bedroom when their spouse comes home all combined!

So you might say something like, "Yeah, sure, if you look at it THAT way, then it seems bad, but people who are sick or are more likely to die usually go to a hospital. So it isn't fair to say that it is the most dangerous place to be."

Good, got that out of your system. But you've missed my point. The point is that NO comparison of apples to oranges is "fair" to make.

People don't treat airplane travel the same way as car travel. How much do you feel threatened by an engine failure if you are driving a car? Is it scary enough that you do a complete check of the engine before every trip? What about engine failure on your plane? Don't you think there is a little more attention given to equipment in one scenario compared with the other?

Also, most fatal accidents are due to human error. Where is human error more common? Wherever there are more humans. How many humans are flying planes at any given moment? Compare that to the number of humans driving cars.

So in terms of the above two cases, would you rather be in a car or a plane if there is complete engine failure? (I'm going to go ahead and assume you picked CAR.) I'd bet that there are WAY more fatalities due to engine (equipment) failure in aircraft than in cars.

Then we switch to human error. If you fall asleep driving a car, you don't get to sleep long before you crash. But in most aircraft, there are backup and safety features to decrease the chances that a brief nap will result in death. (Frankly, though, I doubt that the car or plane option seems too good when human error is involved.)

Up to here then, I hope you can see that these sort of things depend on how you look at them, right? So next time someone throws out some little statistical factoid, you should ask, "Compared to what, exactly?"

Which brings me to the smug idiotards who spout off about how the lottery is a "tax on stupid people." Yikes! Are they WAY behind on their lottery tickets, then!

Their "argument" is based on the premise that all a person get's from their $1 (or whatever) outlay is a virtually sure loss of that money. Not much different from rolling down your car window and throwing your cash into the street. In other words, if I may extrapolate the view: Nothing is of value unless it is tangible.

Wow, that seems more materialistic than the people who can't wait to spend the money they hope to win playing the lottery.

Must all transactions result in a tangible exchange? Are these people demanding to take home fragments of the movie screen when they visit the cinema? Should all roller coasters and Ferris wheels be dismantled because they don't provide tangible gains? When these people go on a date, do they insist on taking souvenirs? (Ok, that one sounds good to me, somehow…) Should every sex act result in a baby?! (Please, nooooooooooooooooooo!)

The idea that people who play the lottery are getting absolutely nothing for their $1 seems farfetched to me. They get something similar to what people get when they go to a movie or to an amusement park.

So would it be fair to say that amusement parks are playgrounds designed for stupid people? Or that movies are ways to keep stupid people in one spot for about two hours?

Ok, I've seen the quality of most of the movies lately, so maybe the argument breaks down here...

A Love Story

In my naïveté, I had deluded myself into believing that to survive the great tragedies in my life it would only take the endurance to last the painfully slow process of an "emotional healing." Certainly, there would be the scars... always there to remind me of my pains... and, if I ever became careless enough, always there to be opened slightly. A renewal or rather, a reminder of the original pain.

This isn't true at all.

I find that great tragedy; loss; do not rip open gaping ragged edged wounds that slowly heal back up. No. Nothing at all like that. Instead I find that there is no "healing process" whatsoever. No such thing as "emotional scars." The wound persists. I think that all that will ever happen is that I will learn to avoid that particular spot in my soul. Find ways around the pain.

Often I find myself suddenly at the edge. Looming over the abyss trying not to fall inside again. Sometimes I can pull myself away. Sometimes not. There is some perverse pleasure, I admit, to sometimes falling in and succumbing to the pain, but for the most part it seems more of a relief to put distance between me and her.

It was a day in the later part of a New England summer when we first met. She was the boisterous orange/yellow pup in a tiny cage of the animal shelter's. Her reaction to us (although in retrospect, probably to all who passed her) was that of a joyous reunion between close friends tragically separated years before, never truly expecting to meet again. We could not resist. The drive home was an adventure. She squirmed and fidgeted all through the car. From under the gas peddle to the back seat, to Cindy's lap to the back seat again and then to my lap! We laughed, sometimes nervously, as we contemplated the potential of this four-legged dynamo.

The puppy was supposed to be for my father. My mother, though, simply stated that either the dog goes or she does. To my father's credit, the ultimate decision involved my taking her (the dog, not my mother) to college with me. There, Elizabeth Freedom (as she was eventually named) squirmed her way into my heart as well as numerous garbage pails and other troublesome spots.

Very briefly, Elizabeth began her dog's life with me and my undergraduate years at Plymouth State College (now university). She would ride with me in my navy blue 1975 Ford Maverick (no seatbelts) from Plaistow New Hampshire to visit my someday-to-be wife in Portsmouth. With each trip Elizabeth made it about two miles further before vomiting. Finally, she was able to hold her biscuits for entire car trips and going "bye-bye" became one of the phrases most certain to wag her tail and excite her sparkling eyes.

When home in Plaistow, we would walk in the trails behind my parents' house. With Elizabeth along it sometimes became a surrealistic experience. She would race ahead of us along the pathway until we'd lose sight of her. After a brief while she would shoot across the path in front of us left-to-right. Moments later she'd be passing us on the trail again to race ahead, while in a very short interval after that, she'd pass us again and race ahead as if she'd just lapped us on a race track or was an identical pup chasing her twin up the trail. We never could tell from which direction she'd appear!

After a while, I graduated from college, worked for a year and then married and moved to Kansas for graduate study. Of course Elizabeth came with us. She shared the passenger seat (built only for one I might add) of a Ryder truck one-way rental. The trip was memorable for us all.

I was six years at Kansas. We lived in three different apartments while there. Elizabeth tolerated each move with the easy-going good natured fatalism of a true companion. Wherever her "mom" and "dad" were (or maybe just her food bowl) was home to Elizabeth. And that was ok.

The University of Kansas campus included quite a large park filled with green grass and hills for rolling, trees, water, and most importantly, squirrels. As soon as the door of the car was opened the golden streak flamed into the woods. Elizabeth was like a locomotive charging from tree to tree with the unwavering determination of a guided missile. Many a squirrel no doubt traded red for grey coats because of Elizabeth. When she tired of the chase (that is, when all the squirrels were safely back in their trees), Elizabeth would nose-dive into a plush pile of green grass and squirm onto her back and kick her legs skyward. A sort of "Snoopy-dance" we called it. Her best trick was to find a slight hill and surf down it like an upside-down wiggling dog-torpedo.

Elizabeth was not fond of water. I've wondered why that might be from the day it first became obvious. Did someone try to drown her as an unwanted pup? The best we could get was a little wading until water touched her belly. Then it would be a few licks and maybe, if it was a warm day, a brief rest on the mud perhaps a tail's length from the shoreline into the water.

The six years ended and we moved a half-day closer to New England, Elizabeth's birthplace. This meant we had made it as far East from Kansas as St. Louis. I spent a mere four years there as a post-doc at Washington University. St. Louis was not as dog-friendly as Lawrence, Kansas. The closest running grounds never really compared with the University of Kansas campus nor were the squirrels as friendly or abundant. Our apartment was on the second floor of a converted house which meant quite a number of stairs to climb. This became more and more problematic for Elizabeth given her attraction to food and food-like things as well as her advancing years (she was nearly 13 years old when we finished up in St. Louis).

For the most part, Elizabeth had retired her serious squirrel chasing legs for a more stealthy approach to squirrel hunting. And, truth be known, squirrel hunting wasn't nearly as rewarding anymore as gum or tid-bit hunting. We did manage a few trips to a distant park where we would occasionally mosey along a trail. But it was clear that Elizabeth would never again amaze us with her limitless racing energy.

I finally took a "real" job in Mississippi and moved there June of 1996. For the first time in our lives we lived in a house by ourselves. No more apartments, and best of all for Elizabeth, only four steps to get inside! We stayed in this house for just over one year. This would be Elizabeth's last move. Her last home.

We traveled north during the Winter months of 1997. Cindy's father was quite ill and it seemed that he was declining fast. Elizabeth weathered this trip as any other. With calm interest and a keen eye for snacks. Once in New Hampshire, she stayed with my parents who naturally adored her. My father would kick me out of his chair, but if Elizabeth were in it, he'd hook a fanny-cheek on the edge of the cushion and share rather than disturb her highness. After a great deal of sadness, our reasons for coming to New Hampshire were laid to rest. We drove back to Mississippi and Elizabeth would never be close to her place of birth again.

She lasted until August of 1997. We made a number of tearful trips to the veterinarian's office and were given an assortment of pills. It was clear now that Elizabeth was not in very good shape. Congestive heart failure imminent, she still wagged her tail and seemed to smile pleasantly at us whenever we'd walk into the room. Her looks were always expectant, "Are we going 'bye-bye'?" or "Is it time to eat/play/cuddle?" I honestly don't think that in her heart she understood that she was old and failing. Maybe she lived each day with the expectation that whatever her ills, they would eventually pass and she'd once again run like a rabbit through the woods behind our house.

We've since bought two houses. Elizabeth would truly have loved our first house. Not even a single step to get inside. Plenty of cool spots to lie down. Sun spots to warm her belly in every room. And, a fireplace. She never knew a fireplace. I sometimes look wistfully at the flames and imagine how well she would have looked stretched in front of its warmth. I miss her. I always will.

My good girl has been gone now for as long as she'd lived. While it pains me even to write these few words, I hope that maybe when Elizabeth died beneath my caresses fourteen years ago today, somehow all that she was and knew of us passed back to that fidgety pup in that small cage so few years ago. Perhaps that was why she was so happy to see us. Perhaps she knew us already. Maybe we were the long lost friends she longed to see again. Her happiness was that she could do it all again.