The wind blew me away today.
It picked me up off my feet and swept me past
the windows in the office building
Where the people work next door.
I didn’t have much time to see them
working at their desks
before I was carried above the rooftops
and the trees
into the clear sky.
Below me I could see the cars in line
at the traffic light
and the people leaving the luncheonette.
They looked happy
But rushed.
The wind whirled me in a sudden gust,
making me do a loop-the-loop
before setting me gently down right where I started.
Nobody saw it happen
And nobody would believe me if I told them.
But that’s ok.
I hope it’s windy again tomorrow.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Wedding Bell Blues
Before I type up this entry, I wanted to respond to the anonymous person who wondered how a four-year old has homework. Trust me, we are not sadistic parents who send our young ones to a military-type school for purposes of whipping them into shape. On the day in question, I believe my son's homework was to bring something in to school that started with the letter "B". Not a big deal, really.
This past weekend, my sister got married. My little sister. My baby sister. My sister who needs love and protection and etc. Despite the fact that she's 28, despite the fact that she's a very independant person, despite the fact that her fiancee (now husband) is a wonderul guy, there's still a very small part of me that hates to see it happen. Good things aren't supposed to change. Good things are supposed to last forever. (Then again, sometimes good things get better.)
Rather than ruminate on the wedding (which was fabulous), I figure I'll just reprint the speech I gave. Why the hell not? This is *my* blog. I'm allowed to be selfish on it.
Oh, and one other thing I discovered this weekend is that giving a speech in front of 150 people is very different than talking in front of a class of 10.
Here's what I said:
I’d like to tell you a little bit about the bride. Rachel Heather Strieb…Alvini…. is the result of a carefully planned and executed scientific experiment that began over 28 years ago. She is a strong woman, independent and resourceful, well-able to take care of herself in the world. I can now reveal, on behalf of my brother and with all due respect to our parents, that Ron and I are taking full and complete credit for her many virtues.
We began our plan early on, when the subject was at a very young age. I distinctly remember overhearing Dad make the phone call to Nanny, asking her to come babysit so that he and Mom could go to the hospital. The baby was coming, and the ramifications were immediately clear: Ron and I were going to have someone else to beat up on.
It couldn’t happen right away, of course. Even at 7 and 5 years old, we knew there was no satisfaction in wrestling and pinning a newborn to the ground. It wasn’t long, however, before we found ways to test her regardless. We discovered that at a few months old, Rachel could belly crawl commando-style across the floor, exerting much effort to do so, if properly motivated. Motivation came in the guise of a big, clear ball with a sparkly plastic butterfly spinning in the center. The thing was at least as big as her head, and certainly too big for her to grab. But it was enticing. We’d place the ball about 5 feet in front of her and Rachel would spend 10 minutes working her way across the carpet, huffing and puffing, finally reaching out to the ball, only to have it slip through her fingers and roll further away. Another 10 minutes of entertainment ensued. Hours later, she would finally fall asleep from her exertions, mere inches from the toy. This is how Ron and I taught her determination.
As she got older and spent more time traveling in the car with us, she found out, as all youngest children do, that there is a hierarchy in the back seat. The smallest sits on the hump. Always. Without exception. Several years of this taught her gracious acceptance of necessary evils.
Only one thing breaks that hierarchy, and that is when the oldest child graduates to the front seat. Rachel wasn’t happy with this and often complained. “Why do you get to sit in front?” she’d ask. “Because I’m the oldest,” I’d say. The she’d ask, “When can I sit up front?” And I’d answer, “When you’re the oldest.” And so, of course, Rachel learned patience.
Then, of course, in the days before remote controls, little sisters made an excellent substitute. “Rachel, get up and change the channel.” “Rachel, grab me a soda.” “Rachel, all that Halloween candy will make you sick. Give it to me.” This phase of the experiment was carefully designed to educate her about leadership and how to listen to others.
Of course, we also labored to try to teach her how to appreciate a sophisticated and subtle sense of humor. The most memorable attempt was when we convinced her that she was left on the doorstep and the law said Mom and Dad were required to take her in. I also pointed out to her that the name “Rachel” really didn’t belong to her, as Mom and Dad had planned it for me. Since I turned out to be a boy, Ron got next dibs. The only reason she got it is because no one else wanted it. Although she didn’t seem to find the obvious comedic value in these examples, she managed to develop a sense of humor regardless. We theorize this is probably an inbred trait of younger siblings everywhere, in an effort to deal with the older ones.
So you see, Rachel, it was all part of the grand plan and it was all for your own good.
And although it falls to the brothers to protect their baby sister, eventually she grows up. Now that the experiment is complete, we can safely set Rachel loose into the wild. We feel safe doing so because she has found someone with as much daring, independence, intelligence, patience, and caring as she herself possesses. We didn’t think it possible for there to be someone like that, but there was and somehow they found each other. Billy is an astounding person, and I can’t say enough how glad I am to have him as a brother. The experiment is over, it’s a success…and Billy, she’s all yours. May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.
This past weekend, my sister got married. My little sister. My baby sister. My sister who needs love and protection and etc. Despite the fact that she's 28, despite the fact that she's a very independant person, despite the fact that her fiancee (now husband) is a wonderul guy, there's still a very small part of me that hates to see it happen. Good things aren't supposed to change. Good things are supposed to last forever. (Then again, sometimes good things get better.)
Rather than ruminate on the wedding (which was fabulous), I figure I'll just reprint the speech I gave. Why the hell not? This is *my* blog. I'm allowed to be selfish on it.
Oh, and one other thing I discovered this weekend is that giving a speech in front of 150 people is very different than talking in front of a class of 10.
Here's what I said:
I’d like to tell you a little bit about the bride. Rachel Heather Strieb…Alvini…. is the result of a carefully planned and executed scientific experiment that began over 28 years ago. She is a strong woman, independent and resourceful, well-able to take care of herself in the world. I can now reveal, on behalf of my brother and with all due respect to our parents, that Ron and I are taking full and complete credit for her many virtues.
We began our plan early on, when the subject was at a very young age. I distinctly remember overhearing Dad make the phone call to Nanny, asking her to come babysit so that he and Mom could go to the hospital. The baby was coming, and the ramifications were immediately clear: Ron and I were going to have someone else to beat up on.
It couldn’t happen right away, of course. Even at 7 and 5 years old, we knew there was no satisfaction in wrestling and pinning a newborn to the ground. It wasn’t long, however, before we found ways to test her regardless. We discovered that at a few months old, Rachel could belly crawl commando-style across the floor, exerting much effort to do so, if properly motivated. Motivation came in the guise of a big, clear ball with a sparkly plastic butterfly spinning in the center. The thing was at least as big as her head, and certainly too big for her to grab. But it was enticing. We’d place the ball about 5 feet in front of her and Rachel would spend 10 minutes working her way across the carpet, huffing and puffing, finally reaching out to the ball, only to have it slip through her fingers and roll further away. Another 10 minutes of entertainment ensued. Hours later, she would finally fall asleep from her exertions, mere inches from the toy. This is how Ron and I taught her determination.
As she got older and spent more time traveling in the car with us, she found out, as all youngest children do, that there is a hierarchy in the back seat. The smallest sits on the hump. Always. Without exception. Several years of this taught her gracious acceptance of necessary evils.
Only one thing breaks that hierarchy, and that is when the oldest child graduates to the front seat. Rachel wasn’t happy with this and often complained. “Why do you get to sit in front?” she’d ask. “Because I’m the oldest,” I’d say. The she’d ask, “When can I sit up front?” And I’d answer, “When you’re the oldest.” And so, of course, Rachel learned patience.
Then, of course, in the days before remote controls, little sisters made an excellent substitute. “Rachel, get up and change the channel.” “Rachel, grab me a soda.” “Rachel, all that Halloween candy will make you sick. Give it to me.” This phase of the experiment was carefully designed to educate her about leadership and how to listen to others.
Of course, we also labored to try to teach her how to appreciate a sophisticated and subtle sense of humor. The most memorable attempt was when we convinced her that she was left on the doorstep and the law said Mom and Dad were required to take her in. I also pointed out to her that the name “Rachel” really didn’t belong to her, as Mom and Dad had planned it for me. Since I turned out to be a boy, Ron got next dibs. The only reason she got it is because no one else wanted it. Although she didn’t seem to find the obvious comedic value in these examples, she managed to develop a sense of humor regardless. We theorize this is probably an inbred trait of younger siblings everywhere, in an effort to deal with the older ones.
So you see, Rachel, it was all part of the grand plan and it was all for your own good.
And although it falls to the brothers to protect their baby sister, eventually she grows up. Now that the experiment is complete, we can safely set Rachel loose into the wild. We feel safe doing so because she has found someone with as much daring, independence, intelligence, patience, and caring as she herself possesses. We didn’t think it possible for there to be someone like that, but there was and somehow they found each other. Billy is an astounding person, and I can’t say enough how glad I am to have him as a brother. The experiment is over, it’s a success…and Billy, she’s all yours. May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Mr. Mom
I have to keep writing. I know, I just posted a few hours ago, but it doesn't stop there and I just have to keep writing. Here's my night:
My wife went to work. Mind you, she's only been gone for 4 hours. In the time that she's been away,
--the Spiderman fiasco. See the previous post.
--my son spilled his milk. This was called to my attention by my daughter who yelled,"Dad, Alex spilled his milk!" I came in to see her pointing at the milk dripping down the side of the table. So I said, "Well, don't just stand there and look at it. Grab a paper towel and wipe it up!" So she does. Spilling her own milk in the process.
--I turned on the dishwasher and ten minutes later there was a river across the kitchen floor. I turned off the dishwasher, wiped up the water, opened the door, closed it more firmly, latched it, and turned it on. Ten minutes later, there was a river across the kitchen floor. Our dishwasher is dead.
--my son peed on the living room floor. He said he didn't have time to get to the bathroom. He said this while rooting through his Star Wars action figures collection which, apparently, he had plenty of time to get to. A man's gotta have his priotities.
--the phone died.
--ten minutes before bed, Alex says, "I have to do my homework." I say, "What is your homework?" He doesn't know. I don't know. He's going to throw a fit unless he does it. My wife knows. I need to call her. See the previous bullet point.
--I call upstairs "Alex, come down here please." He answers, "Dad, don't come up here." I say, "Why not?" He repeats, "Don't come up....uh oh. Um...you'd better come up here." When I get there, I find the entire bathroom floor covered in water. And, like Bill Cosby, I am compelled to ask, "What are you doing?" And my son sensibly answers, "I was washing the toothpaste off my foot." Of course he was. How silly of me to even ask.
I swear that this is all true, no exaggerations whatsoever. You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried.
My wife went to work. Mind you, she's only been gone for 4 hours. In the time that she's been away,
--the Spiderman fiasco. See the previous post.
--my son spilled his milk. This was called to my attention by my daughter who yelled,"Dad, Alex spilled his milk!" I came in to see her pointing at the milk dripping down the side of the table. So I said, "Well, don't just stand there and look at it. Grab a paper towel and wipe it up!" So she does. Spilling her own milk in the process.
--I turned on the dishwasher and ten minutes later there was a river across the kitchen floor. I turned off the dishwasher, wiped up the water, opened the door, closed it more firmly, latched it, and turned it on. Ten minutes later, there was a river across the kitchen floor. Our dishwasher is dead.
--my son peed on the living room floor. He said he didn't have time to get to the bathroom. He said this while rooting through his Star Wars action figures collection which, apparently, he had plenty of time to get to. A man's gotta have his priotities.
--the phone died.
--ten minutes before bed, Alex says, "I have to do my homework." I say, "What is your homework?" He doesn't know. I don't know. He's going to throw a fit unless he does it. My wife knows. I need to call her. See the previous bullet point.
--I call upstairs "Alex, come down here please." He answers, "Dad, don't come up here." I say, "Why not?" He repeats, "Don't come up....uh oh. Um...you'd better come up here." When I get there, I find the entire bathroom floor covered in water. And, like Bill Cosby, I am compelled to ask, "What are you doing?" And my son sensibly answers, "I was washing the toothpaste off my foot." Of course he was. How silly of me to even ask.
I swear that this is all true, no exaggerations whatsoever. You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried.
Days of September
Ah, what a flashback.
My son, Alex, was playing outside just now with his Spiderman action figure, complete with Nifty Web Action and Free-Movement Joints. He was making Spiderman fly from web to web in the manner of young kids everywhere: he was using his imagination. More specifically, he was tossing the figure in the air and filling in the rest of the details (the rush of wind, the web shooting from the wrist) in the second or two before gravity took over, bearing the piece of plastic to the ground. Then…..”Daddy!”
Spiderman is stuck in the tree. Pretty high, too. Completely out of reach for me. Of course, I immediately resorted to the first plan of action necessary in these cases. I threw something else at it. (Remember doing this as a kid? I sure do.)
I instructed Alex to go get a ball to throw at it. He returned with his (Spiderman) shoe. The left one, I think. Where in the mind of a four-year old is “ball” equated with “shoe” I don’t know, but it would do as a projectile. After several tries, however, it became apparent that Spiderman’s web was caught on a branch, and he wasn’t going to be knocked out of the tree.
Plan B involves a kitchen chair and a plastic light saber. The chair is positioned under the tree. With a flourish, Dad extends the light saber and climbs onto the chair. The four-year old audience holds his breath. And after a few tense moments, Dad becomes a hero. Spiderman is free.
I carefully instruct Alex not to throw him back into the tree. He nods carefully, and says, “Ok, Dad.” (You all remember the Bill Cosby skit, don’t you? You all see exactly what’s coming, right?)
Fast forward ten minutes. I’m cleaning the kitchen and realize it’s too quiet. (Parents understand this. Too much noise is bad. Too little is worse. It becomes an instinct to know.) I go outside to check on my darling son….
Spiderman is in the tree. So is the left shoe. And the right one is getting ready to follow it.
My son, Alex, was playing outside just now with his Spiderman action figure, complete with Nifty Web Action and Free-Movement Joints. He was making Spiderman fly from web to web in the manner of young kids everywhere: he was using his imagination. More specifically, he was tossing the figure in the air and filling in the rest of the details (the rush of wind, the web shooting from the wrist) in the second or two before gravity took over, bearing the piece of plastic to the ground. Then…..”Daddy!”
Spiderman is stuck in the tree. Pretty high, too. Completely out of reach for me. Of course, I immediately resorted to the first plan of action necessary in these cases. I threw something else at it. (Remember doing this as a kid? I sure do.)
I instructed Alex to go get a ball to throw at it. He returned with his (Spiderman) shoe. The left one, I think. Where in the mind of a four-year old is “ball” equated with “shoe” I don’t know, but it would do as a projectile. After several tries, however, it became apparent that Spiderman’s web was caught on a branch, and he wasn’t going to be knocked out of the tree.
Plan B involves a kitchen chair and a plastic light saber. The chair is positioned under the tree. With a flourish, Dad extends the light saber and climbs onto the chair. The four-year old audience holds his breath. And after a few tense moments, Dad becomes a hero. Spiderman is free.
I carefully instruct Alex not to throw him back into the tree. He nods carefully, and says, “Ok, Dad.” (You all remember the Bill Cosby skit, don’t you? You all see exactly what’s coming, right?)
Fast forward ten minutes. I’m cleaning the kitchen and realize it’s too quiet. (Parents understand this. Too much noise is bad. Too little is worse. It becomes an instinct to know.) I go outside to check on my darling son….
Spiderman is in the tree. So is the left shoe. And the right one is getting ready to follow it.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Koosh
So I went to Target yesterday (or, as my wife’s cousin calls it, “Tar-jjay”, with a French accent. She’s not French, she just likes pretending that Target is posh). We originally went to get some tub lids. (We already had the tubs, but the lids were the wrong size, so we haad to exchange them) While we were there, we randomly picked up a few other things…a whole cartload, in fact. Most of it was picked out by my wife and kids. I was just along for the ride.
And then, in the toy aisle, I got my chance. In between saying, “No, you can’t have another Barbie doll” and “No, we’re not getting a Power Rangers mask”, I saw them, hanging on the rack.
Koosh balls.
If you don’t know what Koosh balls are, go to Target and get some. But you should. They used to be everywhere. And nowadays you only find them with plastic faces sticking out, or in oversize sizes, or something else strange. Used to be, they only came in baseball-size sizes, and monochrome colors. Well, here they were, hanging on the wall. Sure, they’re striped and speckled, but they’re the right size and there are no faces sticking out of them. So I bought one. In fact, I bought four.
The first thing you notice about Koosh balls is that they feel just awesome. They are incredibly easy to hold, and you can tickle someone’s cheek very nicely with them. Then there’s the smell. New rubber. Mmmmmm. Almost as good as new car smell. Almost.
There’s the fact that they jiggle when you hold them. They look a lot like sea anemones. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if anemones were the inspiration for Koosh balls. This calls for some research. And finally, they are the ultimate juggling ball. Easy to catch, and if you are barefoot and miss one and are talented enough (and I, ahem, am) you can keep juggling what you have while your toes pick up the one you dropped. Much better than chasing the tennis ball under the sofa.
It’s been years since I owned any Koosh balls, much less new ones. I’m sure I have a couple hiding in drawers somewhere. Mark and I used them all the time for juggling, both the normal ones and the oversize ones. It got to the point where we each had our favorites. I’m surprised we didn’t name them. (Say, Mark, how’s Sophia been doing? You know, the little yellow one with the red stripe?)
There are some little known things you can do with Koosh balls. You can “mate” them. At least. that’s what we used to call it. If you hold two close and lightly jiggle them, bringing them slowly closer together, they intertwine and get stuck together. Mated Koosh balls.
But for the best reaction (even better than juggling five of them, which Mark can do and I can’t, damn you sir), for the best reaction of all, try dunking one in water.
And then, in the toy aisle, I got my chance. In between saying, “No, you can’t have another Barbie doll” and “No, we’re not getting a Power Rangers mask”, I saw them, hanging on the rack.
Koosh balls.
If you don’t know what Koosh balls are, go to Target and get some. But you should. They used to be everywhere. And nowadays you only find them with plastic faces sticking out, or in oversize sizes, or something else strange. Used to be, they only came in baseball-size sizes, and monochrome colors. Well, here they were, hanging on the wall. Sure, they’re striped and speckled, but they’re the right size and there are no faces sticking out of them. So I bought one. In fact, I bought four.
The first thing you notice about Koosh balls is that they feel just awesome. They are incredibly easy to hold, and you can tickle someone’s cheek very nicely with them. Then there’s the smell. New rubber. Mmmmmm. Almost as good as new car smell. Almost.
There’s the fact that they jiggle when you hold them. They look a lot like sea anemones. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if anemones were the inspiration for Koosh balls. This calls for some research. And finally, they are the ultimate juggling ball. Easy to catch, and if you are barefoot and miss one and are talented enough (and I, ahem, am) you can keep juggling what you have while your toes pick up the one you dropped. Much better than chasing the tennis ball under the sofa.
It’s been years since I owned any Koosh balls, much less new ones. I’m sure I have a couple hiding in drawers somewhere. Mark and I used them all the time for juggling, both the normal ones and the oversize ones. It got to the point where we each had our favorites. I’m surprised we didn’t name them. (Say, Mark, how’s Sophia been doing? You know, the little yellow one with the red stripe?)
There are some little known things you can do with Koosh balls. You can “mate” them. At least. that’s what we used to call it. If you hold two close and lightly jiggle them, bringing them slowly closer together, they intertwine and get stuck together. Mated Koosh balls.
But for the best reaction (even better than juggling five of them, which Mark can do and I can’t, damn you sir), for the best reaction of all, try dunking one in water.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Time For Some Change
For awhile now (months and months) we’ve been planning our vacation. To that end, we’ve been saving up in our own special way. What seems to work for us is that every time we need to purchase something, we use bills and not change. The change ends up in a jar, and by the time vacation comes around we have some significant spending money. We leave tomorrow, so today we need to cash in all that change.
Now, we know that some places charge to count your change, and while I am not a skinflint, I am morally opposed for someone charging me to take my money and turn it into my money. I have a similar feeling for those green change machines you see at the supermarket. And since I’m not opposed to rolling my own rolls of change, we decided to see how to go about cashing them in. First step: call the bank.
Knowing that we have a better chance at a bank where we have an account, we called them first. We have a branch of this bank within a 5 minute walk of our house, so Chris called there. They said they didn’t have a change machine, but the branch in Wayne does. Fine, we’ll call there.
Except that we can’t. The phone book didn’t list a number for the Wayne branch, it only listed a nationwide toll-free 800 number. So Chris calls that…..and someone in India picks up. That’s right, my bank’s information line has been outsourced.
Now, I only hear my wife’s half of the conversation, but it was pretty easy to put the rest of it together. See if you can do the same. (Sorta like Mad Libs, only crazier and true.)
Chris: I want to cash in some change for bills and wanted to get in touch with the Wayne branch to see if I can come in anytime to do that.
Pause.
Chris: About $200.
Pause.
Chris: Quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.
(At this point I started taking great interest.)
Pause.
Chris: Christine (spells last name).
Pause.
I have a few questions for Chris, such as a) why does the amount matter? b) why does her name matter? and c) what types of coins did the bank expect us to be cashing in? But at this point Chris has put her hand over the phone to explain to me what’s happening. It seems the operator in India is calling the Wayne branch of our bank, the people we wanted to talk to in the first place, to get the answer to our question.
One more time. We had to call India so they could call Wayne, a town a mere 6 miles away, to get the answer to a question we wanted to pose to the folks in Wayne in the first place.
This is the reason that banks charge you to use ATMs. They probably have people come all the way from India to refill them.
So, a moment later my wife says “Thank you very much” and hangs up. It seems we can just bring in the loose change, anytime, and have it counted, for free. Just the way it ought to be in the first place.
Now, we know that some places charge to count your change, and while I am not a skinflint, I am morally opposed for someone charging me to take my money and turn it into my money. I have a similar feeling for those green change machines you see at the supermarket. And since I’m not opposed to rolling my own rolls of change, we decided to see how to go about cashing them in. First step: call the bank.
Knowing that we have a better chance at a bank where we have an account, we called them first. We have a branch of this bank within a 5 minute walk of our house, so Chris called there. They said they didn’t have a change machine, but the branch in Wayne does. Fine, we’ll call there.
Except that we can’t. The phone book didn’t list a number for the Wayne branch, it only listed a nationwide toll-free 800 number. So Chris calls that…..and someone in India picks up. That’s right, my bank’s information line has been outsourced.
Now, I only hear my wife’s half of the conversation, but it was pretty easy to put the rest of it together. See if you can do the same. (Sorta like Mad Libs, only crazier and true.)
Chris: I want to cash in some change for bills and wanted to get in touch with the Wayne branch to see if I can come in anytime to do that.
Pause.
Chris: About $200.
Pause.
Chris: Quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.
(At this point I started taking great interest.)
Pause.
Chris: Christine (spells last name).
Pause.
I have a few questions for Chris, such as a) why does the amount matter? b) why does her name matter? and c) what types of coins did the bank expect us to be cashing in? But at this point Chris has put her hand over the phone to explain to me what’s happening. It seems the operator in India is calling the Wayne branch of our bank, the people we wanted to talk to in the first place, to get the answer to our question.
One more time. We had to call India so they could call Wayne, a town a mere 6 miles away, to get the answer to a question we wanted to pose to the folks in Wayne in the first place.
This is the reason that banks charge you to use ATMs. They probably have people come all the way from India to refill them.
So, a moment later my wife says “Thank you very much” and hangs up. It seems we can just bring in the loose change, anytime, and have it counted, for free. Just the way it ought to be in the first place.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Another one of those days
I don’t know how to type officially, but I do pretty well. I use two fingers on each hand, plus a thumb. For those keeping count, that’s five digits.
I’m only typing this with four.
Today started out okay, but a little weird. There were no problems around the house, but the weather couldn’t decide what to do. For a few minutes there were some nice, big fat drops of rain coming down, but then the sun arrived. Later on, it rained again, then more sunshine. About 2 hours before going to work at the restaurant tonight I felt a migraine coming on. The Tylenol I took didn’t help much, so I laid down for about an hour. That didn’t help either, so I took some migraine medication just before I left for work. For a little while I considered not going to work, since the migraine was causing me dizziness and nausea, but I decided to override myself. I guess I should have listened to my instincts, because half an hour into my shift I sliced part of my finger off.
I was chopping lettuce with a chef’s knife and zigged when I should have zagged. I knew immediately it wasn’t just a knick, cause it hurt like….well, I don’t usually use language like this, but it hurt like a motherfucker. I got it under running water almost immediately, cursing the whole time. I knew it was bad when I looked over at my co-worker. He was staring down at the cutting board, and I distinctly heard him say “Oh, shit.” I remember saying “If there’s a piece over there, could someone please put it on ice?”, but they must not have heard me, or there wasn’t enough to ice down (or they were just too grossed out). The owner did an expert job of wrapping it (so the ER nurse told me later), and I kept it elevated and pressurized all the way to the hospital, just like my Boy Scout manual says. (All my first aid classes over the years prepare you to perform aid on someone else, but every time I’ve used it I’ve had to use it on myself.)
The hospital staff was great. They had it unwrapped and rewrapped before I was even admitted. A half hour wait in the waiting room, and I was shown into one of those curtained-off areas. I move for the chair, but the guy says, “Here please,” and motions to the bed. Then he says, “Lay back,” and so I spent the next 45 minutes feeling ridiculous, lying in bed with a bandaged finger. Unwrap, rewrap (not just the finger. Apparently, hospital protocol requires that they wrap approximately 18 times the area of the wound. So I look like the mummy about now.) And then home again, and here I am, awkwardly typing up the account. I am attending a black tie wedding this weekend (my first! (black tie, not wedding), and dancing should be interesting. Also, I have a (mostly) unwarranted reputation among my friends for being a klutz, and this isn’t going to help any. I’m prepared for the jokes.
What’s weird, as my friend Jon will point out, is that I can juggle three of these chef’s knives, but yet can’t chop lettuce with just one of them. On the other hand, in all the years of working in restaurants, this is the most serious thing that’s ever happened. A few steam or oil burns, a knick or two, but those go with the job. This is the first that I could accurately label “occupational hazard”.
Oh, and to the customers I left behind: enjoy your salad.
I’m only typing this with four.
Today started out okay, but a little weird. There were no problems around the house, but the weather couldn’t decide what to do. For a few minutes there were some nice, big fat drops of rain coming down, but then the sun arrived. Later on, it rained again, then more sunshine. About 2 hours before going to work at the restaurant tonight I felt a migraine coming on. The Tylenol I took didn’t help much, so I laid down for about an hour. That didn’t help either, so I took some migraine medication just before I left for work. For a little while I considered not going to work, since the migraine was causing me dizziness and nausea, but I decided to override myself. I guess I should have listened to my instincts, because half an hour into my shift I sliced part of my finger off.
I was chopping lettuce with a chef’s knife and zigged when I should have zagged. I knew immediately it wasn’t just a knick, cause it hurt like….well, I don’t usually use language like this, but it hurt like a motherfucker. I got it under running water almost immediately, cursing the whole time. I knew it was bad when I looked over at my co-worker. He was staring down at the cutting board, and I distinctly heard him say “Oh, shit.” I remember saying “If there’s a piece over there, could someone please put it on ice?”, but they must not have heard me, or there wasn’t enough to ice down (or they were just too grossed out). The owner did an expert job of wrapping it (so the ER nurse told me later), and I kept it elevated and pressurized all the way to the hospital, just like my Boy Scout manual says. (All my first aid classes over the years prepare you to perform aid on someone else, but every time I’ve used it I’ve had to use it on myself.)
The hospital staff was great. They had it unwrapped and rewrapped before I was even admitted. A half hour wait in the waiting room, and I was shown into one of those curtained-off areas. I move for the chair, but the guy says, “Here please,” and motions to the bed. Then he says, “Lay back,” and so I spent the next 45 minutes feeling ridiculous, lying in bed with a bandaged finger. Unwrap, rewrap (not just the finger. Apparently, hospital protocol requires that they wrap approximately 18 times the area of the wound. So I look like the mummy about now.) And then home again, and here I am, awkwardly typing up the account. I am attending a black tie wedding this weekend (my first! (black tie, not wedding), and dancing should be interesting. Also, I have a (mostly) unwarranted reputation among my friends for being a klutz, and this isn’t going to help any. I’m prepared for the jokes.
What’s weird, as my friend Jon will point out, is that I can juggle three of these chef’s knives, but yet can’t chop lettuce with just one of them. On the other hand, in all the years of working in restaurants, this is the most serious thing that’s ever happened. A few steam or oil burns, a knick or two, but those go with the job. This is the first that I could accurately label “occupational hazard”.
Oh, and to the customers I left behind: enjoy your salad.
Monday, June 13, 2005
One of those days
Just the phrase “one of those days” tells everything a person needs to know about the tone of the story that follows. Everybody has “one of those days”, some people always look like they are having "one of those days”, and many people spend a lot of their time trying to avoid having "one of those days”.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Like all of those days, it started out innocently enough. I was privileged enough to have been invited to the graduation of a former student, and looked forward to the trip. It was a lovely drive, and I didn’t get lost once. The ceremony was outdoors and, while warm, very nice. The students were, typically, more entertaining than the head of school (who gave a fairly depressing speech, all about the dark uncertainty of the times we live in), and there was a reception of sandwiches, pasta salad, and cookies afterwards. I greeted the family, gave my hugs to the graduate, and after a while, headed out.
On the way back, I decided to be smart and listen to the traffic report. Good thing too: there was an accident at the exit I needed to take, and traffic was blocked for miles. So I got off the highway early.
Now, mind you, this is not a highway I normally travel on. In fact, I don’t think it’s a highway I’ve ever traveled on. So, in choosing to get off early, I made what I thought was a wise decision: I picked an exit whose name sounded familiar.
Those who know me know that this is typical Michael-logic.
I picked the “Neshaminy” exit, because I had once heard of the Neshaminyville Mall. Thinking back on it, I believe the reason I’ve heard of it is from those car ads that are yelled at you from the radio. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and as I wasn’t in any rush anyway, it turned out not to be so bad.
Keith would disagree. Keith is detail oriented, and anything that wastes time, space, or resources is an annoyance to him. So the fact that I didn’t use a map, the fact that I didn’t ask for directions, the fact that I got off the highway in an area that is totally unknown to me and decided to “wing it” probably bothers him to no end. The fact that I came from Newtown, got off at Neshaminy, and stumbled across Street Rd (a name I recognized, so why not follow it?) and took it to 309 (another route I recognized), the fact that I did all this instead of something more efficient drives him nuts and causes him to shake his head and cluck his tongue at me.
But it didn’t bother me, because I have a half-decent direction sense, and I knew basically where I wanted to go and which direction it was in, if not precisely which roads I needed to use to get there, and I was in no rush. And get there I did. I arrived at the intersection of Rt 309 and Rt 202, an intersection I knew. And behold, upon that intersection lay a gas station, and in the front of that gas station/convenience store was a banner that said, “Free soda and chips.” Well, I was hot and dehydrated, and free is a good price, so I pulled in. There were no parking spots, so I pulled into the business next door and shut off the car. That was the mistake of the day.
After getting my soda, I returned to my car to find it would not start. Nothing. Not a rev or a “grrr” or anything. Just a click and a hum. No problem, I’ve got jumper cables. So I go into the business I’m parked in front of to find someone to give me a jump. No one has a car. Back to the convenience store. Found a guy. Come back. Hook up the cables. Try the ignition: no go.
So he tells me there’s a Pep Boys about half a mile away. In yesterday’s weather (117° in the shade, 147% humidity) that wasn’t an entertaining thought, but I decided, what the hell. So I walk it. Arriving there, I describe my problem to the mechanic, and he suggests I bring the battery in to be tested first. Great. Now I have to walk back, remove the battery using nothing but my pocketknife, lug it back here, then haul it back and re-install it.
But wait! Inspiration strikes! Using the handy cell phone that I had previously sworn never to use (and now I swear, I’m getting one of my own), I call home to find that Keith and Jon are headed this way anyway. Yes, they can come this direction, yes, they can bring the toolbox, and yes, they can bring me and the battery to Pep Boys and back.
They arrive and we head back to the place where the car is parked….
Oh, haven’t I mentioned where the car is parked? No? I neglected that? Hmm, I suppose I should mention it. Ok, kids, cover your ears. Parents, turn the computer screen away from the young ones. Because yours truly chose to park (and break down) in the parking lot of Adult World. Yes, Adult World, conveniently located at the intersection of Rts 309 and 202, ready to serve all your video and pornographic toy needs. Special on DVDs, 2 for $15, all credit cards accepted, help wanted, apply within.
So we head back to Adult World. We take the battery out. Now listen carefully….three guys, one of whom is black with dreadlocks, are in the parking lot of an adult video store taking a battery from under the hood of a car and stashing it in the trunk of a second car. Fortunately, the police car didn’t do a drive-by until a moment after the trunk was closed (yes, I swear this is true).
By the way, taking the battery out wasn’t that easy. The bolts holding it in were rusted, and quite a bit of banging on them took place before even one of them moved. Jon regretted not bringing the WD-40, and I followed that up with a suggestion that we could probably purchase lubrication inside Adult World, but that was quickly overruled.
Back to Pep Boys, check the charge on the battery, prognosis is good (and bad). Good, because I don’t have to buy a new battery. Bad, because something else is the cause of the problem. So “Dave”, the sales guy, suggests I talk to “Lou”, the mechanic guy. (I put these names in quotes because nobody really knows who they are…the nametags mean nothing. I worked at a restaurant where, when you arrived, you just took a nametag out of a drawer and wore it whether it had your name or not. For three days I was “Sally”.) So “Lou” listens to my description and says, “Oh, that might be the starter. Find the solenoid on the starter and…” and I stopped him right there. I said, “Ok, I know from physics class what a solenoid is, and I can guess what the starter does, but I haven’t a clue what they look like or where to find them.” So he pulls out a box and shows me a brand new starter. It looks like the main engine for the space shuttle, and the solenoid is a brass cylinder mounted on the side of it. But he can’t tell me where in the car it is, even knowing the make and model. Apparently it’s a trade secret or something. So then I ask him, once I’ve found the solenoid, what do I do with it? And he says (no joke, this is word for word), “Oh, just give it a whack with a hammer or something, and it should start right up.”
Give it a whack? I came to Pep Boys, the king of automotive repair, where the store is lined with boxes of things I can’t pronounce and gadgets straight from a sci-fi movie, and this guy tells me to “give it a whack”? He looked at me strange, and I probably deserved it because by now I was giggling at everything (a half-mile in the sun will do that to you).
Back to Adult World, where except for me the parking lot has emptied out. (Although while we were there, I noticed a surprising number of women visit Adult World. I’ll have to ruminate on this in a later post.) Reinstall the battery. Now it’s time to find the starter.
In the next 10 minutes, my friends heard curses come out of my mouth that they’ve never heard me say before. Needless to say, I didn’t have a clue where it was.
Then…brilliant epiphany! My friend Tim is a mechanic and owns the exact same car, just a year older. I call and ask him about this. He describes the position of the solenoid, and check this out: it looks nothing like the mechanic described it. Not one bit. Thanks a lot, Lou.
And now, finally, came the only thing I did all day that made me feel smart. I took a look at the solenoid and said, “Hey, look! A wire’s loose!”
And then I drove to my friend’s house to relax. It’s really the only thing to do when you’re having one of those days.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Like all of those days, it started out innocently enough. I was privileged enough to have been invited to the graduation of a former student, and looked forward to the trip. It was a lovely drive, and I didn’t get lost once. The ceremony was outdoors and, while warm, very nice. The students were, typically, more entertaining than the head of school (who gave a fairly depressing speech, all about the dark uncertainty of the times we live in), and there was a reception of sandwiches, pasta salad, and cookies afterwards. I greeted the family, gave my hugs to the graduate, and after a while, headed out.
On the way back, I decided to be smart and listen to the traffic report. Good thing too: there was an accident at the exit I needed to take, and traffic was blocked for miles. So I got off the highway early.
Now, mind you, this is not a highway I normally travel on. In fact, I don’t think it’s a highway I’ve ever traveled on. So, in choosing to get off early, I made what I thought was a wise decision: I picked an exit whose name sounded familiar.
Those who know me know that this is typical Michael-logic.
I picked the “Neshaminy” exit, because I had once heard of the Neshaminyville Mall. Thinking back on it, I believe the reason I’ve heard of it is from those car ads that are yelled at you from the radio. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and as I wasn’t in any rush anyway, it turned out not to be so bad.
Keith would disagree. Keith is detail oriented, and anything that wastes time, space, or resources is an annoyance to him. So the fact that I didn’t use a map, the fact that I didn’t ask for directions, the fact that I got off the highway in an area that is totally unknown to me and decided to “wing it” probably bothers him to no end. The fact that I came from Newtown, got off at Neshaminy, and stumbled across Street Rd (a name I recognized, so why not follow it?) and took it to 309 (another route I recognized), the fact that I did all this instead of something more efficient drives him nuts and causes him to shake his head and cluck his tongue at me.
But it didn’t bother me, because I have a half-decent direction sense, and I knew basically where I wanted to go and which direction it was in, if not precisely which roads I needed to use to get there, and I was in no rush. And get there I did. I arrived at the intersection of Rt 309 and Rt 202, an intersection I knew. And behold, upon that intersection lay a gas station, and in the front of that gas station/convenience store was a banner that said, “Free soda and chips.” Well, I was hot and dehydrated, and free is a good price, so I pulled in. There were no parking spots, so I pulled into the business next door and shut off the car. That was the mistake of the day.
After getting my soda, I returned to my car to find it would not start. Nothing. Not a rev or a “grrr” or anything. Just a click and a hum. No problem, I’ve got jumper cables. So I go into the business I’m parked in front of to find someone to give me a jump. No one has a car. Back to the convenience store. Found a guy. Come back. Hook up the cables. Try the ignition: no go.
So he tells me there’s a Pep Boys about half a mile away. In yesterday’s weather (117° in the shade, 147% humidity) that wasn’t an entertaining thought, but I decided, what the hell. So I walk it. Arriving there, I describe my problem to the mechanic, and he suggests I bring the battery in to be tested first. Great. Now I have to walk back, remove the battery using nothing but my pocketknife, lug it back here, then haul it back and re-install it.
But wait! Inspiration strikes! Using the handy cell phone that I had previously sworn never to use (and now I swear, I’m getting one of my own), I call home to find that Keith and Jon are headed this way anyway. Yes, they can come this direction, yes, they can bring the toolbox, and yes, they can bring me and the battery to Pep Boys and back.
They arrive and we head back to the place where the car is parked….
Oh, haven’t I mentioned where the car is parked? No? I neglected that? Hmm, I suppose I should mention it. Ok, kids, cover your ears. Parents, turn the computer screen away from the young ones. Because yours truly chose to park (and break down) in the parking lot of Adult World. Yes, Adult World, conveniently located at the intersection of Rts 309 and 202, ready to serve all your video and pornographic toy needs. Special on DVDs, 2 for $15, all credit cards accepted, help wanted, apply within.
So we head back to Adult World. We take the battery out. Now listen carefully….three guys, one of whom is black with dreadlocks, are in the parking lot of an adult video store taking a battery from under the hood of a car and stashing it in the trunk of a second car. Fortunately, the police car didn’t do a drive-by until a moment after the trunk was closed (yes, I swear this is true).
By the way, taking the battery out wasn’t that easy. The bolts holding it in were rusted, and quite a bit of banging on them took place before even one of them moved. Jon regretted not bringing the WD-40, and I followed that up with a suggestion that we could probably purchase lubrication inside Adult World, but that was quickly overruled.
Back to Pep Boys, check the charge on the battery, prognosis is good (and bad). Good, because I don’t have to buy a new battery. Bad, because something else is the cause of the problem. So “Dave”, the sales guy, suggests I talk to “Lou”, the mechanic guy. (I put these names in quotes because nobody really knows who they are…the nametags mean nothing. I worked at a restaurant where, when you arrived, you just took a nametag out of a drawer and wore it whether it had your name or not. For three days I was “Sally”.) So “Lou” listens to my description and says, “Oh, that might be the starter. Find the solenoid on the starter and…” and I stopped him right there. I said, “Ok, I know from physics class what a solenoid is, and I can guess what the starter does, but I haven’t a clue what they look like or where to find them.” So he pulls out a box and shows me a brand new starter. It looks like the main engine for the space shuttle, and the solenoid is a brass cylinder mounted on the side of it. But he can’t tell me where in the car it is, even knowing the make and model. Apparently it’s a trade secret or something. So then I ask him, once I’ve found the solenoid, what do I do with it? And he says (no joke, this is word for word), “Oh, just give it a whack with a hammer or something, and it should start right up.”
Give it a whack? I came to Pep Boys, the king of automotive repair, where the store is lined with boxes of things I can’t pronounce and gadgets straight from a sci-fi movie, and this guy tells me to “give it a whack”? He looked at me strange, and I probably deserved it because by now I was giggling at everything (a half-mile in the sun will do that to you).
Back to Adult World, where except for me the parking lot has emptied out. (Although while we were there, I noticed a surprising number of women visit Adult World. I’ll have to ruminate on this in a later post.) Reinstall the battery. Now it’s time to find the starter.
In the next 10 minutes, my friends heard curses come out of my mouth that they’ve never heard me say before. Needless to say, I didn’t have a clue where it was.
Then…brilliant epiphany! My friend Tim is a mechanic and owns the exact same car, just a year older. I call and ask him about this. He describes the position of the solenoid, and check this out: it looks nothing like the mechanic described it. Not one bit. Thanks a lot, Lou.
And now, finally, came the only thing I did all day that made me feel smart. I took a look at the solenoid and said, “Hey, look! A wire’s loose!”
And then I drove to my friend’s house to relax. It’s really the only thing to do when you’re having one of those days.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Clean-up, Aisle 7
Headache. Incontinence. Antacids. Greeting cards.
There is only one person in the world who could call me at 10:30 at night, say that something he saw reminded him of me, and proceed to use all of the words above in one sentence.
Mark and I do this. We see weird stuff, and then say, “Mike would understand.” or “Mark should really know about this.” And so we call across a distance of 430 miles to tell each other. We get a big laugh out of it, knowing that any FBI agents listening in would likely react with “What the fuck are these two talking about?!”
The above four terms were seen on a sign in a supermarket in North Carolina. They describe the contents of Aisle 7. Mark rightly called me, wondering if I could draw a connection between them. Before I could, though, I had to look up “incontinence”. (I didn’t feel too bad. So did Mark.) Turns out it meant what I imagined it did. Yuck.
My first thought was a new line of Hallmark cards. “Toilet Bowl Greetings”, we’d call them. Linking the above, our first printing would have to be….
“You make me sick to my stomach, but don’t let it go to your head, you little shit.”
Followed by…
“Roses are red, trees are green. Your trips to the bathroom are the longest we’ve seen.”
and
“For a very special occasion: the release of your bladder is a celebration to remember.”
So I started thinking, what other bodily-function-related greeting cards could we make?
“Glad you’re out of the hospital. Can we come over and see your kidney stones?”
“Sorry to hear about the diabetes. Hope the enclosed cheesecake makes you feel better.”
And of course, as long as we’re being politically incorrect, there’s the Mortuary Line.
“Sorry to hear about your husband’s passing. What are you doing Friday night?"
Now I can’t wait to go back to the supermarket.
There is only one person in the world who could call me at 10:30 at night, say that something he saw reminded him of me, and proceed to use all of the words above in one sentence.
Mark and I do this. We see weird stuff, and then say, “Mike would understand.” or “Mark should really know about this.” And so we call across a distance of 430 miles to tell each other. We get a big laugh out of it, knowing that any FBI agents listening in would likely react with “What the fuck are these two talking about?!”
The above four terms were seen on a sign in a supermarket in North Carolina. They describe the contents of Aisle 7. Mark rightly called me, wondering if I could draw a connection between them. Before I could, though, I had to look up “incontinence”. (I didn’t feel too bad. So did Mark.) Turns out it meant what I imagined it did. Yuck.
My first thought was a new line of Hallmark cards. “Toilet Bowl Greetings”, we’d call them. Linking the above, our first printing would have to be….
“You make me sick to my stomach, but don’t let it go to your head, you little shit.”
Followed by…
“Roses are red, trees are green. Your trips to the bathroom are the longest we’ve seen.”
and
“For a very special occasion: the release of your bladder is a celebration to remember.”
So I started thinking, what other bodily-function-related greeting cards could we make?
“Glad you’re out of the hospital. Can we come over and see your kidney stones?”
“Sorry to hear about the diabetes. Hope the enclosed cheesecake makes you feel better.”
And of course, as long as we’re being politically incorrect, there’s the Mortuary Line.
“Sorry to hear about your husband’s passing. What are you doing Friday night?"
Now I can’t wait to go back to the supermarket.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Reread, review, relearn
I see that I've said it, I can't say it any better. So rather than say again what I said, shall we say we see what I say I said?
See?
See?
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Things I've Learned From My Kids
A promise doesn't count as a promise unless it's a "pinky promise".
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Exercise
I’m making an attempt to get into shape. To be more specific, I’m making an attempt to get into a different shape than the one I’m in. Something not so blobish.
To this end, my sister and her fiancé pick me up each Thursday to go to the Y. This overcomes the first obstacle: avoidance is impossible. There’s only so long that I can hide in my living room, peeking out from behind the curtains like Boo Radley, while they annoy the neighbors by leaning on the horn.
We started out with swimming, since we’re used to that. (Ok, my sister and I are used to swimming. Her fiancé is used to imitating a golden retriever.) First day, we decided on a set of 20 laps, to be increased by 2 laps each week. No problem, right? After all, years ago when we were on the swim team, 20 laps was a warm-up before the real workout.
Go back and look at that last sentence. Take careful note of the phrase “years ago”. Now substitute “many, many, many years ago”.
After the first ten laps, I had some inkling of what that first protopod felt like as it crawled out of the primordial ooze onto dry land and gasped for a lungful of air. (Gasp is a more flexible word than you’d imagine. You can gasp in astonishment. You can gasp in fright. And you can gasp for oxygen. They all sound very different. When I gasp after 10 laps, it sounds like a sucking chest wound.)
After several weeks of watching us consistently outpace him (during which our laps increased to 34, and our lungs became accustomed to processing chlorinated water), Billy suggested changing things up a bit. So we played racquetball.
I had only been in a racquetball court once before and that was years (and years and years..well, you know) ago. Let me tell you, I had a blast! Like 3D billiards. Bank shot off the ceiling, into the corner, toe the line, and WHAMMO!! My point. All we need is to set one up in microgravity and I’m in heaven.
Three weeks ago it was skiing. I had never skied before. Ever. And let me tell you, I made the agony-of-defeat guy look good. I bruised in places I didn’t know I had. My doctor made me take a week off from swimming. And somehow (I must have been hypnotized), I’ve been convinced to go again. Everyone I’ve talked to says the first time is a different experience. Nobody I’ve talked to has said in what way. I’m actually looking forward to it, though, because the first time I was working too hard and didn’t take time to figure out if I was enjoying myself. I figure, if I don’t enjoy myself this time, that’s it for skiing.
Today it was tennis. The last time I played tennis was years, etc, with my friend Mark and his dad. At that time we were of the age where tennis was more like baseball.
“It’s a long fly ball over the center field fence. It’s going….going….gone!”
And then we’d laugh like maniacs.
To this end, my sister and her fiancé pick me up each Thursday to go to the Y. This overcomes the first obstacle: avoidance is impossible. There’s only so long that I can hide in my living room, peeking out from behind the curtains like Boo Radley, while they annoy the neighbors by leaning on the horn.
We started out with swimming, since we’re used to that. (Ok, my sister and I are used to swimming. Her fiancé is used to imitating a golden retriever.) First day, we decided on a set of 20 laps, to be increased by 2 laps each week. No problem, right? After all, years ago when we were on the swim team, 20 laps was a warm-up before the real workout.
Go back and look at that last sentence. Take careful note of the phrase “years ago”. Now substitute “many, many, many years ago”.
After the first ten laps, I had some inkling of what that first protopod felt like as it crawled out of the primordial ooze onto dry land and gasped for a lungful of air. (Gasp is a more flexible word than you’d imagine. You can gasp in astonishment. You can gasp in fright. And you can gasp for oxygen. They all sound very different. When I gasp after 10 laps, it sounds like a sucking chest wound.)
After several weeks of watching us consistently outpace him (during which our laps increased to 34, and our lungs became accustomed to processing chlorinated water), Billy suggested changing things up a bit. So we played racquetball.
I had only been in a racquetball court once before and that was years (and years and years..well, you know) ago. Let me tell you, I had a blast! Like 3D billiards. Bank shot off the ceiling, into the corner, toe the line, and WHAMMO!! My point. All we need is to set one up in microgravity and I’m in heaven.
Three weeks ago it was skiing. I had never skied before. Ever. And let me tell you, I made the agony-of-defeat guy look good. I bruised in places I didn’t know I had. My doctor made me take a week off from swimming. And somehow (I must have been hypnotized), I’ve been convinced to go again. Everyone I’ve talked to says the first time is a different experience. Nobody I’ve talked to has said in what way. I’m actually looking forward to it, though, because the first time I was working too hard and didn’t take time to figure out if I was enjoying myself. I figure, if I don’t enjoy myself this time, that’s it for skiing.
Today it was tennis. The last time I played tennis was years, etc, with my friend Mark and his dad. At that time we were of the age where tennis was more like baseball.
“It’s a long fly ball over the center field fence. It’s going….going….gone!”
And then we’d laugh like maniacs.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
"Common" sense
I teach at a Quaker school. I also am co-faculty advisor to a new interest group on campus. Today we announced the existence of our group. Our announcement was very carefully phrased, having been written and re-written over the last few weeks, and reviewed by both students and teachers. We thought long and hard on how this announcement should be made. During the rest of announcements? No, we didn’t want it to be lost among the others. It was too important for that. Just before assembly? No, we didn’t want it overshadowed. After consulting with a Quaker member of the faculty, as well as the head of school, we decided to give it at the beginning of Meeting For Worship.
For those who are not familiar with Quakerism, MFW is a strange thing. It’s the Quaker version of a church service, but nothing at all like church. There is no pastor. There is no altar. There are no hymns, prayers, or psalms. Everyone sits quietly, praying by themselves or meditating. If you feel “moved” to speak, you stand, do so, and sit down. There are certain rules, which are really more like guidelines, to speaking in MFW. You are not supposed to respond directly to someone else. You are not supposed to rally for a cause. You are not supposed to prepare anything ahead of time.
So making this announcement was going against the grain in a couple ways. We were promoting a cause, and we knew ahead of time what we were going to say. But, carefully prepared or not, it was straight from the heart, so we knew it’d be ok.
But it wasn’t. Some people are upset that we “broke the rules”. Some think we should have made it just another announcement, along with the others. Some think we shouldn’t have carefully crafted what we were going to say. Fortunately, at least one person said (and, I hope, many thought) that it is the message that is important, not the means of delivery.
To take this to further extremes, there are those people whose religious zeal is so extraordinarily strong that they overlook the message that religion purports to convey. These are the people who refuse medication for their children, because “God will provide”. Does this mean that it’s no problem for them to go jump off a bridge, because if God really wanted them to live He would arrange for a miraculous rescue?
I don’t presume to know God’s thoughts. I wouldn’t dare to say I did. But I’d like to think that there are certain gifts God gave us that we should not squander. We have the power and ability to develop medical procedures to cure “incurable” diseases. If we can overcome the letter of the law (“Thou shalt not kill”) and obey the spirit of the law (“Human life is important”), we can see that from a few stem cells can come hope for millions.
God gave us the ability to reason. If you are religious, you have to believe that He did that for a purpose. If we let blind devotion overcome common sense, we insult God and His gifts.
For those who are not familiar with Quakerism, MFW is a strange thing. It’s the Quaker version of a church service, but nothing at all like church. There is no pastor. There is no altar. There are no hymns, prayers, or psalms. Everyone sits quietly, praying by themselves or meditating. If you feel “moved” to speak, you stand, do so, and sit down. There are certain rules, which are really more like guidelines, to speaking in MFW. You are not supposed to respond directly to someone else. You are not supposed to rally for a cause. You are not supposed to prepare anything ahead of time.
So making this announcement was going against the grain in a couple ways. We were promoting a cause, and we knew ahead of time what we were going to say. But, carefully prepared or not, it was straight from the heart, so we knew it’d be ok.
But it wasn’t. Some people are upset that we “broke the rules”. Some think we should have made it just another announcement, along with the others. Some think we shouldn’t have carefully crafted what we were going to say. Fortunately, at least one person said (and, I hope, many thought) that it is the message that is important, not the means of delivery.
To take this to further extremes, there are those people whose religious zeal is so extraordinarily strong that they overlook the message that religion purports to convey. These are the people who refuse medication for their children, because “God will provide”. Does this mean that it’s no problem for them to go jump off a bridge, because if God really wanted them to live He would arrange for a miraculous rescue?
I don’t presume to know God’s thoughts. I wouldn’t dare to say I did. But I’d like to think that there are certain gifts God gave us that we should not squander. We have the power and ability to develop medical procedures to cure “incurable” diseases. If we can overcome the letter of the law (“Thou shalt not kill”) and obey the spirit of the law (“Human life is important”), we can see that from a few stem cells can come hope for millions.
God gave us the ability to reason. If you are religious, you have to believe that He did that for a purpose. If we let blind devotion overcome common sense, we insult God and His gifts.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Dealing with reality
Maybe I'm getting more cynical as I get older. Maybe I'm being a curmudgeon. Or maybe I'm just paying better attention. It took 6 days before the U.S. promised any financial help to the tsunami-affected countries. When we did, it was $15 million.
Now, while $15 million would certainly solve a very many of my personal struggles, on a national scale it is a pittance. It comes to a nickel per citizen. Then critics in other countries called us "stingy" and rightfully so. So we upped the donation to $35 million. Finally, someone pointed out that the inaugural parties would cost more than that, so we finally pledged $350 million. (Even so, as a percent of the GDP we rank 27th among countries donating.)
I can't believe that after viewing the devastation, we can't do better than that. I can't believe that with people dying every day, our leaders don't have the tact and proper respect expected of them. It took an actual article in the media to convince Donald Rumsfeld to sign his name to consolation letters to families of casualties!
It is obvious to me that there is no compassion in the current conservativism. Any emotions shown are purely for political purposes. Any remorse is demonstrated only because citizens expect it, not because it is actually felt. Has our president shed one tear for any one of the brave men and women who have died in the Mideast?
I doubt it.
Now, while $15 million would certainly solve a very many of my personal struggles, on a national scale it is a pittance. It comes to a nickel per citizen. Then critics in other countries called us "stingy" and rightfully so. So we upped the donation to $35 million. Finally, someone pointed out that the inaugural parties would cost more than that, so we finally pledged $350 million. (Even so, as a percent of the GDP we rank 27th among countries donating.)
I can't believe that after viewing the devastation, we can't do better than that. I can't believe that with people dying every day, our leaders don't have the tact and proper respect expected of them. It took an actual article in the media to convince Donald Rumsfeld to sign his name to consolation letters to families of casualties!
It is obvious to me that there is no compassion in the current conservativism. Any emotions shown are purely for political purposes. Any remorse is demonstrated only because citizens expect it, not because it is actually felt. Has our president shed one tear for any one of the brave men and women who have died in the Mideast?
I doubt it.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Oh yeah? Resolve this.
It’s been 2 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days since I last entered anything here. So much for last year’s resolutions. Maybe I should make some new ones?
1) Stop wasting my YMCA membership. Get there at least once a week.
2) While I’m there, exercise a little.
3) Stay organized by keeping appointments in a calendar.
4) Find my calendar.
5) Write in this blog, if not weekly, at the very least monthly.
6) Figure out how to keep the archive list from running off the page. (Help, Mark! Help!)
7) Find a quiet spot to do a little reading on occasion.
8) Try to remember that it’s not a good idea to cross a busy intersection with your nose in a book.
I’m not going to succumb to temptation by listing it, but I was considering keeping myself confused for an entire year by including “9) Ignore all New Year’s resolutions.”
Off-topic, as if there was one, last night I finished a fantastic article in the February 2005 issue of Discover. It’s the cover article, and I suggest you find it and read it. It’ll really put a bee in the creationist bonnet.
I followed that up with a conversation on the phone that has me convinced more than ever that running, jogging, marathons, and Gatorade are best avoided.
1) Stop wasting my YMCA membership. Get there at least once a week.
2) While I’m there, exercise a little.
3) Stay organized by keeping appointments in a calendar.
4) Find my calendar.
5) Write in this blog, if not weekly, at the very least monthly.
6) Figure out how to keep the archive list from running off the page. (Help, Mark! Help!)
7) Find a quiet spot to do a little reading on occasion.
8) Try to remember that it’s not a good idea to cross a busy intersection with your nose in a book.
I’m not going to succumb to temptation by listing it, but I was considering keeping myself confused for an entire year by including “9) Ignore all New Year’s resolutions.”
Off-topic, as if there was one, last night I finished a fantastic article in the February 2005 issue of Discover. It’s the cover article, and I suggest you find it and read it. It’ll really put a bee in the creationist bonnet.
I followed that up with a conversation on the phone that has me convinced more than ever that running, jogging, marathons, and Gatorade are best avoided.
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