Santa Claus has a sarcastic side, at least in our house he does.
Prior to coming Christmas Eve, my 6-year-old son, Braden, wanted to set something out for him to eat. “Santa will like some candy,” said the boy, setting out four Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the big man.
“I’m not sure Santa would want that,” I told Braden. “He gets sweets everywhere he goes tonight. Why not set out some chips and salsa? I bet he would really like that.”
“Nope. He wants candy.”
“I think you’re wrong on that one.”
I lost the argument, and we left out some candy for him.
The next morning Braden woke my wife and me up fairly late, at 7 a.m. much to our delight, and was excited not just for the gifts under the tree but also for the note Santa left him.
“What does it say?” my wife asked, encouraging him to use his new reading skills.
Braden read the note: “Dear Braden. Thanks for the candy, but some chips and salsa would have been nice. Santa.” He struggled with the words “chips” and “salsa,” but otherwise read it perfectly.
“I guess you were right Dad. Santa would have liked some chips and salsa better.”
Validation. It’s always nice, but I think I had the advantage on that one so I’m not sure it counts. Besides, I think Santa helped himself to some chips and salsa right before saying “Ho, ho, ho,” which Braden insists he heard that night. He might be right on that one.
When I was a kid, we always left out cookies and milk for Santa, as well as carrots for his reindeer. Santa was always nice in return, leaving appreciative notes.
Santa has found his sarcastic side now, the victim of several decades of sarcasm that bombarded my entire generation. Kids in films always had to be more sarcastic than the kid next to him or her, and the laugh tracks of comedy series on television were set to go off with every sarcastic comment by characters like Jerry Seinfeld and Roseanne.
It’s such a part of our lexicon now that even Braden knows its definition, much to his great aunt Barb’s amazement Christmas Eve when he told her someone’s comment was sarcastic. As her mouth dropped from his correct usage of the term, my wife told her he also can define “lines of symmetry.”
“I couldn’t tell you what they were,” she said. “What are they Braden?”
He pointed to her television stand, at a line created by a pair of cupboard shelves, and said it’s the line of symmetry because it divides the rectangle in half and creates two rectangles that are exactly the same.
I’m glad he defined it for her, because even though I was on my school’s geometry team in high school, I couldn’t remember it.
“Pretty simple,” Braden told her, dripping his statement with a bit of sarcasm.
I can’t wait until I see what types of notes Santa leaves his children.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 30, 2011.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Picture sometimes needed to put right face to a name
You might notice something different with my column this week: my picture. After years of refusing to put it in the paper, I’m finally giving in – not because I want everyone to put a face to my name, but more so because I don’t want people putting the wrong face to my name.
You see, I met the wife of a Gazette employee for the first time at the company Christmas party last week. She told me she was a fan of my column (her words – I’m not trying to make myself seem more important than I really am), but said she said was surprised by my looks. Apparently, I look nothing like she imagined I would.
She thought I would be short, pudgy and much balder. In other words, George Costanza.
In real life, I’m 6’4”, and while I could lose another 30 pounds, I think I carry my weight fairly well in a sturdy German-like package. I won’t deny that I’m balding, but I’ll note I still have some hair up there, which I keep short to disguise how thin it really is.
I wear glasses some of the time but mostly wear contacts, and I have braces on my teeth but they are coming off Jan. 16. When they do, I won’t be afraid to smile like I have most of my life.
I also have big lips. Not cool Steven Tyler of Aerosmith-type lips, but fat ones that make me look like I have a big mouth. I can have a big mouth, but I also know when to keep it shut.
I usually have a goatee and sideburns, although I sometimes let the hair grow all over my face when I desire to have a beard. I grow the beard to assure myself once in awhile that I still have the ability to grow hair on my head.
I’m also one of the whitest people I know. My Irish blood doesn’t allow me to stay out in the sun too long, so I can sympathize with the vampires in “The Twilight Saga” and “True Blood.” When I was younger, I hated my inability to tan, but now that I’m older and wiser, I realize tanning isn’t really important in the big scheme of things, especially with the health risk involved.
My white skin comes with a lot of moles. Moles on my hands, arms, legs, back and face. A dermatologist removed a large ugly mole near my eye last year, much to my delight, as well as several other moles she suspected could be trouble. They weren’t, but I’ll continue to return as my mom had a cancerous one removed earlier this year.
That’s me in words, and my picture with this column proves it. I definitely don’t want people thinking I’m George Costanza, although I’d love to be him for a day if it means I can drape myself in velvet like he once did. I’d agree with him in saying I’d wear it if it were socially acceptable.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 23, 2011.
You see, I met the wife of a Gazette employee for the first time at the company Christmas party last week. She told me she was a fan of my column (her words – I’m not trying to make myself seem more important than I really am), but said she said was surprised by my looks. Apparently, I look nothing like she imagined I would.
She thought I would be short, pudgy and much balder. In other words, George Costanza.
In real life, I’m 6’4”, and while I could lose another 30 pounds, I think I carry my weight fairly well in a sturdy German-like package. I won’t deny that I’m balding, but I’ll note I still have some hair up there, which I keep short to disguise how thin it really is.
I wear glasses some of the time but mostly wear contacts, and I have braces on my teeth but they are coming off Jan. 16. When they do, I won’t be afraid to smile like I have most of my life.
I also have big lips. Not cool Steven Tyler of Aerosmith-type lips, but fat ones that make me look like I have a big mouth. I can have a big mouth, but I also know when to keep it shut.
I usually have a goatee and sideburns, although I sometimes let the hair grow all over my face when I desire to have a beard. I grow the beard to assure myself once in awhile that I still have the ability to grow hair on my head.
I’m also one of the whitest people I know. My Irish blood doesn’t allow me to stay out in the sun too long, so I can sympathize with the vampires in “The Twilight Saga” and “True Blood.” When I was younger, I hated my inability to tan, but now that I’m older and wiser, I realize tanning isn’t really important in the big scheme of things, especially with the health risk involved.
My white skin comes with a lot of moles. Moles on my hands, arms, legs, back and face. A dermatologist removed a large ugly mole near my eye last year, much to my delight, as well as several other moles she suspected could be trouble. They weren’t, but I’ll continue to return as my mom had a cancerous one removed earlier this year.
That’s me in words, and my picture with this column proves it. I definitely don’t want people thinking I’m George Costanza, although I’d love to be him for a day if it means I can drape myself in velvet like he once did. I’d agree with him in saying I’d wear it if it were socially acceptable.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 23, 2011.
Doomsday may be less than year away, if Mayans are correct
I hope everybody has some fun in the next 12 months, as we are now less than one year away from the apocalypse, if you believe the Mayans are correct in their end of time prophecy.
Actually, the claims about the prophecy are disputable; plenty of people say they have been misinterpreted. For fun, though, let’s imagine the world will end on Dec. 21, 2012, because that’s always a fun thing to do.
I don’t have a “bucket list,” as my biggest goal in life is just to achieve a triple-triple word playing Scrabble. It’s not much of a goal, and I do expect to achieve it someday, but so far in more than 600 online games against friends it has eluded me. I’d feel bad about this petty goal, and the fact I spend so much time playing Scrabble (that has been over a two-year period in which I have compiled a fairly impressive 497-106 record), but a friend I play against has the same goal in life, which makes me feel somewhat better.
Not having a bucket list means I can pretty much do what I want during this possible final year of life on this planet. Of course, what I choose to do will be with my family, which includes my 6-year-old son, Braden. This means I won’t be climbing to the top of Mount Everest, which is something I’d love to try although I’m afraid of heights, hate the cold and I’ve read Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air,” which should pretty much dissuade anybody from ever trying the endeavor.
So limited in what I’ll pursue, the first thing I’ll do with my family is go someplace warm for the winter. I don’t care where, as long as it has a beach. The only ocean beach I’ve ever been on was in San Francisco this past January, and that hardly counted because I only touched the water once just to say I touched the ocean. I wouldn’t want the apocalypse to come next year without having even touched it. On a warm beach, though, I can submerge myself in the ocean waters and try to get over my fear of sharks eating me. I have a feeling I won’t be too scared of this, because becoming shark bait would be slightly better than becoming just another apocalypse victim like billions of others.
If I manage to survive the ocean, the next thing we’ll do is road-trip through the various sites in America. My wife has told me she would never take a long car trip with me, because of some minor road rage issues she says I have, but I believe I could control myself knowing bad drivers will get their due on 12-21-12. Then again, my time is limited, and if I have to follow a slow Ford Focus in a city where every traffic light I encounter turns red as I get there, then I might get upset.
We’d go out west first, to take Braden to cool places like the Badlands and Yellowstone Park, as well as the Idaho isthmus where he has told me he’s wanted to go. I’m not sure what’s there – hopefully not just potatoes – but I think it would be fun to find out.
Then we’ll go down South, so I can explore the rock and roll, jazz, and country music scenes cities there are famous for. And to eat authentic Southern food, which I’ve never had.
We’ll head up on the East Coast in the final leg of our American tour, stopping in Washington, D.C., New York and Boston on our way.
At home, every day would be a fun day, and nothing would be off the table. If Braden wants me to build him a tree fort, I’ll try to find a way, even though we don’t have any trees and I don’t have any building skills. It’ll probably be the worst nontree fort in history, but we won’t care. The apocalypse will be coming anyway.
After we have our fun at home, and if money and time are still available, we’d then go to Europe. I might have to wait until after 2012 for that one, though, as I have a feeling we’ll still be around. What do those Mayans know anyway?
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 16, 2011.
Actually, the claims about the prophecy are disputable; plenty of people say they have been misinterpreted. For fun, though, let’s imagine the world will end on Dec. 21, 2012, because that’s always a fun thing to do.
I don’t have a “bucket list,” as my biggest goal in life is just to achieve a triple-triple word playing Scrabble. It’s not much of a goal, and I do expect to achieve it someday, but so far in more than 600 online games against friends it has eluded me. I’d feel bad about this petty goal, and the fact I spend so much time playing Scrabble (that has been over a two-year period in which I have compiled a fairly impressive 497-106 record), but a friend I play against has the same goal in life, which makes me feel somewhat better.
Not having a bucket list means I can pretty much do what I want during this possible final year of life on this planet. Of course, what I choose to do will be with my family, which includes my 6-year-old son, Braden. This means I won’t be climbing to the top of Mount Everest, which is something I’d love to try although I’m afraid of heights, hate the cold and I’ve read Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air,” which should pretty much dissuade anybody from ever trying the endeavor.
So limited in what I’ll pursue, the first thing I’ll do with my family is go someplace warm for the winter. I don’t care where, as long as it has a beach. The only ocean beach I’ve ever been on was in San Francisco this past January, and that hardly counted because I only touched the water once just to say I touched the ocean. I wouldn’t want the apocalypse to come next year without having even touched it. On a warm beach, though, I can submerge myself in the ocean waters and try to get over my fear of sharks eating me. I have a feeling I won’t be too scared of this, because becoming shark bait would be slightly better than becoming just another apocalypse victim like billions of others.
If I manage to survive the ocean, the next thing we’ll do is road-trip through the various sites in America. My wife has told me she would never take a long car trip with me, because of some minor road rage issues she says I have, but I believe I could control myself knowing bad drivers will get their due on 12-21-12. Then again, my time is limited, and if I have to follow a slow Ford Focus in a city where every traffic light I encounter turns red as I get there, then I might get upset.
We’d go out west first, to take Braden to cool places like the Badlands and Yellowstone Park, as well as the Idaho isthmus where he has told me he’s wanted to go. I’m not sure what’s there – hopefully not just potatoes – but I think it would be fun to find out.
Then we’ll go down South, so I can explore the rock and roll, jazz, and country music scenes cities there are famous for. And to eat authentic Southern food, which I’ve never had.
We’ll head up on the East Coast in the final leg of our American tour, stopping in Washington, D.C., New York and Boston on our way.
At home, every day would be a fun day, and nothing would be off the table. If Braden wants me to build him a tree fort, I’ll try to find a way, even though we don’t have any trees and I don’t have any building skills. It’ll probably be the worst nontree fort in history, but we won’t care. The apocalypse will be coming anyway.
After we have our fun at home, and if money and time are still available, we’d then go to Europe. I might have to wait until after 2012 for that one, though, as I have a feeling we’ll still be around. What do those Mayans know anyway?
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 16, 2011.
Second guessing technology experts can bring favorable results.
Just because some of us might not be considered technology experts, doesn’t mean we’re stupid.
Twice in the past week I learned of two examples in which so-called experts looked down on some mere “amateurs” and tried to make them look stupid. Unfortunately for the experts, they only made themselves look stupid.
The first example occurred when someone I knew went to a certain cell phone company to replace a phone a washer had destroyed. He had another phone already, so he didn’t need to buy a new one; he just needed the number from his old phone switched to the other phone.
The customer service representative looked at the phones and said the switch wouldn’t work. “That’s an Alltel phone and won’t work,” he said.
Either the guy was new to the company or he was trying to pull a fast one to sell a new phone, but Alltel was the company his had been until a switch took place last year that frustrated thousands of customers. Yes, it was an Alltel phone, but it still was compatible with the phone company he worked for.
Instead of arguing with the customer service representative, the guy went home and got his wife’s cell phone, which was identical to the one he was trying to switch to. Realizing he wasn’t going to fool the guy, the customer service representative reluctantly made the switch, but not before trying to argue the battery was dead in the new cell phone so it wouldn’t work. The guy simply took the battery from his wife’s phone and put it in the new one and said, “make the switch.”
The second example occurred to me as I was attempting to get some help from the computer lab support person at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point library.
On Sunday, while working on a paper, the computer at the library stopped working. I had saved my file recently, but apparently I had saved it to the wrong file on the computer desktop and not the H drive as I didn’t know I was supposed to do, unbeknownst to me.
Figuring I’d come back when the computer was working, I left, not worrying too much about it. When I came back on Wednesday morning, I discovered the computer and the three others around it were “Out of Order.” Now I was worried.
I told the nearest library employee about my situation and he kindly referred me to the computer lab assistant who referred me to another person who promptly told me that nothing could be done about it. The hard drive was probably wiped and I would have lost everything, she said.
Confused by the word “probably,” I explained my situation again, wondering why she made such an assumption that the hard drive was wiped. Thankfully I did so, because one of the library’s computer guys, Miles, overheard the conversation and stepped in. “If the problem is affecting other computers around it, the hard drives probably weren’t wiped,” he said as we took a walk upstairs to look at the situation.
He looked at the computers and determined something must have gone wrong with the wiring and that he would fix the issue before I came back later in the afternoon. He assured me the hard drive hadn’t been wiped and that I will be able to access my report when I return.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed he’s right, but I’m definitely thankful he got involved in my situation. I’m thankful too I questioned the initial diagnosis. Just because I’m not an expert, doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The moral of the story: don’t be afraid to second guess what someone may tell you in technological matters. Second guessing might bring favorable results (or at least I hope in my case, which is yet to be fully determined).
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 9, 2011.
Twice in the past week I learned of two examples in which so-called experts looked down on some mere “amateurs” and tried to make them look stupid. Unfortunately for the experts, they only made themselves look stupid.
The first example occurred when someone I knew went to a certain cell phone company to replace a phone a washer had destroyed. He had another phone already, so he didn’t need to buy a new one; he just needed the number from his old phone switched to the other phone.
The customer service representative looked at the phones and said the switch wouldn’t work. “That’s an Alltel phone and won’t work,” he said.
Either the guy was new to the company or he was trying to pull a fast one to sell a new phone, but Alltel was the company his had been until a switch took place last year that frustrated thousands of customers. Yes, it was an Alltel phone, but it still was compatible with the phone company he worked for.
Instead of arguing with the customer service representative, the guy went home and got his wife’s cell phone, which was identical to the one he was trying to switch to. Realizing he wasn’t going to fool the guy, the customer service representative reluctantly made the switch, but not before trying to argue the battery was dead in the new cell phone so it wouldn’t work. The guy simply took the battery from his wife’s phone and put it in the new one and said, “make the switch.”
The second example occurred to me as I was attempting to get some help from the computer lab support person at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point library.
On Sunday, while working on a paper, the computer at the library stopped working. I had saved my file recently, but apparently I had saved it to the wrong file on the computer desktop and not the H drive as I didn’t know I was supposed to do, unbeknownst to me.
Figuring I’d come back when the computer was working, I left, not worrying too much about it. When I came back on Wednesday morning, I discovered the computer and the three others around it were “Out of Order.” Now I was worried.
I told the nearest library employee about my situation and he kindly referred me to the computer lab assistant who referred me to another person who promptly told me that nothing could be done about it. The hard drive was probably wiped and I would have lost everything, she said.
Confused by the word “probably,” I explained my situation again, wondering why she made such an assumption that the hard drive was wiped. Thankfully I did so, because one of the library’s computer guys, Miles, overheard the conversation and stepped in. “If the problem is affecting other computers around it, the hard drives probably weren’t wiped,” he said as we took a walk upstairs to look at the situation.
He looked at the computers and determined something must have gone wrong with the wiring and that he would fix the issue before I came back later in the afternoon. He assured me the hard drive hadn’t been wiped and that I will be able to access my report when I return.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed he’s right, but I’m definitely thankful he got involved in my situation. I’m thankful too I questioned the initial diagnosis. Just because I’m not an expert, doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The moral of the story: don’t be afraid to second guess what someone may tell you in technological matters. Second guessing might bring favorable results (or at least I hope in my case, which is yet to be fully determined).
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 9, 2011.
Child negotiators can be tough to deal with
If you give my 6-year-old son, Braden, an inch, he’ll try to take 10.
Actually, with his math, he’ll try to take 50 inches.
Braden has the makings of a world-class negotiator. An example:
The other night he had his first loose tooth. My wife and his mother, Jenny, told him the Tooth Fairy would bring him $2 if the tooth was extra shiny and clean when it fell out, hoping that would encourage him to brush his teeth better every day.
“If it is super extra shiny, bright and clean, maybe she’ll bring me $100,” he responded, attempting to increase the amount by 50.
Fortunately, Jenny was quick with her own response. “I don’t think she has that much money,” she said.
Everything is a negotiation with the kid.
“Braden, five minutes until bedtime,” I’ll tell him.
“Can it be 10 minutes?” he’ll ask.
“You can have one cookie.”
“Can I have three?”
“If you want dessert, you’ll have to eat this much on your plate,” we’ll tell him, showing him how much he needs to eat.
“Can I eat only that much?” he’ll say, moving some of the food we said he has to eat to the other side containing food he doesn’t have to eat.
I’m pretty sure most parents of young children have to deal with similar negotiations, but Braden is persistent about it, even though he rarely wins because Jenny and I are both too stubborn to let him. “No” is usually our final answer.
He’ll often try again, with a different figure less than what he was asking before, but our answer is still “no.”
Jenny’s response then is “This is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship and Mommy is the boss.”
That’s fine now, but wait until he starts learning about real-life dictators in history classes. She might not like the comparisons he’ll make then.
I believe he continues to negotiate, even though he knows he won’t win, because he has several grandmothers who allow him to win more often than not. It’s hard to blame them, because grandmas are supposed to spoil grandchildren and allowing them to win negotiations is part of the spoiling process.
I know this because it’s how I operated when I was a kid. If my mother didn’t allow something to happen, I’d just wait until I saw one of my grandmas and ask them. It usually worked.
I’m sure his negotiations probably annoy some of his teachers, but they probably have a lot of experience handling such manners. After all, they probably hear them multiple times an hour and know giving in to their demands would not be good for them in their career.
Jenny and I believe Braden will be an arbitrator when he gets older. For the most part, he’s scientific with his negotiations and tries to keep emotion out of it. He’ll often give good reasons why people should give in to his demands. He once told a babysitter that sometimes we allow him to stay up past 8:30 p.m., so she should do so despite our request to have him in bed by that time.
He’s correct in saying that, because there are times he can go to bed later, but he left out the fact that those times only occur on special occasions. Fortunately the babysitter didn’t listen to him.
At least he hasn’t gotten to the stage of promising to do more chores if we give in to him. I remember telling my mother I’ll do dishes for a week straight if she bought me something at a store. It often worked, too.
When he gets to this point, then we might be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 2, 2011
Actually, with his math, he’ll try to take 50 inches.
Braden has the makings of a world-class negotiator. An example:
The other night he had his first loose tooth. My wife and his mother, Jenny, told him the Tooth Fairy would bring him $2 if the tooth was extra shiny and clean when it fell out, hoping that would encourage him to brush his teeth better every day.
“If it is super extra shiny, bright and clean, maybe she’ll bring me $100,” he responded, attempting to increase the amount by 50.
Fortunately, Jenny was quick with her own response. “I don’t think she has that much money,” she said.
Everything is a negotiation with the kid.
“Braden, five minutes until bedtime,” I’ll tell him.
“Can it be 10 minutes?” he’ll ask.
“You can have one cookie.”
“Can I have three?”
“If you want dessert, you’ll have to eat this much on your plate,” we’ll tell him, showing him how much he needs to eat.
“Can I eat only that much?” he’ll say, moving some of the food we said he has to eat to the other side containing food he doesn’t have to eat.
I’m pretty sure most parents of young children have to deal with similar negotiations, but Braden is persistent about it, even though he rarely wins because Jenny and I are both too stubborn to let him. “No” is usually our final answer.
He’ll often try again, with a different figure less than what he was asking before, but our answer is still “no.”
Jenny’s response then is “This is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship and Mommy is the boss.”
That’s fine now, but wait until he starts learning about real-life dictators in history classes. She might not like the comparisons he’ll make then.
I believe he continues to negotiate, even though he knows he won’t win, because he has several grandmothers who allow him to win more often than not. It’s hard to blame them, because grandmas are supposed to spoil grandchildren and allowing them to win negotiations is part of the spoiling process.
I know this because it’s how I operated when I was a kid. If my mother didn’t allow something to happen, I’d just wait until I saw one of my grandmas and ask them. It usually worked.
I’m sure his negotiations probably annoy some of his teachers, but they probably have a lot of experience handling such manners. After all, they probably hear them multiple times an hour and know giving in to their demands would not be good for them in their career.
Jenny and I believe Braden will be an arbitrator when he gets older. For the most part, he’s scientific with his negotiations and tries to keep emotion out of it. He’ll often give good reasons why people should give in to his demands. He once told a babysitter that sometimes we allow him to stay up past 8:30 p.m., so she should do so despite our request to have him in bed by that time.
He’s correct in saying that, because there are times he can go to bed later, but he left out the fact that those times only occur on special occasions. Fortunately the babysitter didn’t listen to him.
At least he hasn’t gotten to the stage of promising to do more chores if we give in to him. I remember telling my mother I’ll do dishes for a week straight if she bought me something at a store. It often worked, too.
When he gets to this point, then we might be in trouble.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Dec. 2, 2011
Service could help deliver not so good news to people who need to hear it
Earlier this week I overheard a conversation in which the two participants talked about how no one wanted to deliver bad news to a specific person, and as a result this person was oblivious to a certain fact that affects her.
The news wasn’t really bad, in the sense of truly bad news like someone dying, but it was something that she wasn’t going to like when she heard it.
One of the people in the conversation said this person should have picked up on the clues about this fact, but so far she had not figured it out.
That’s when I interjected myself into the conversation. “I’d be happy to deliver that news to this person,” I said.
It’s not that I like to be the bearer of bad news, because truly bad news is something I’d never want to deliver, but in this case something needed to be said to her, and nobody seemed to have the heart to tell her.
Since I don’t know her, and the news wasn’t anything awful that would change her life, I figured it would be kind of fun to be a random stranger telling someone something not so good.
In fact, I thought, I could start a service: Bearers of Not Really Bad News and in parenthesis, But Not Good News Either.
I often have ideas for services I can start, although I’ve never actually started any, but this one seems like one of my better ideas. If you have to tell someone they are no longer wanted as a friend, I could be there. “So and so no longer enjoys your company. As a result, he is terminating your friendship.”
Even better, I could deliver news about a break-up. “Sorry, so-and-so is moving on. You need to also.”
Or I could let someone know they didn’t make a sports team. “Sorry, you weren’t good enough to make the baseball team. Try golf.”
Telling someone their cooking stinks and nobody wants to eat it would be fun. “Sorry, you don’t need to bring anything to so-and-so’s party. Nobody there wants to eat your food.”
Maybe I could tell an old person he or she shouldn’t drive anymore. “Sorry, so-and-so is concerned you are going to get into an accident. So we’re taking your keys away. Take a cab.”
This all sounds cruel, and I probably sound like a jerk for even considering such a service, but it seems like this service is needed if people can’t deliver such news themselves. Ultimately, this service delivers what’s needed to be said, and at the same time relieves the anxiety of those who don’t want to bear bad news. It seems like a win-win to me.
I just hope nobody has to hire me to tell me my idea kind of stinks.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 25, 2011.
The news wasn’t really bad, in the sense of truly bad news like someone dying, but it was something that she wasn’t going to like when she heard it.
One of the people in the conversation said this person should have picked up on the clues about this fact, but so far she had not figured it out.
That’s when I interjected myself into the conversation. “I’d be happy to deliver that news to this person,” I said.
It’s not that I like to be the bearer of bad news, because truly bad news is something I’d never want to deliver, but in this case something needed to be said to her, and nobody seemed to have the heart to tell her.
Since I don’t know her, and the news wasn’t anything awful that would change her life, I figured it would be kind of fun to be a random stranger telling someone something not so good.
In fact, I thought, I could start a service: Bearers of Not Really Bad News and in parenthesis, But Not Good News Either.
I often have ideas for services I can start, although I’ve never actually started any, but this one seems like one of my better ideas. If you have to tell someone they are no longer wanted as a friend, I could be there. “So and so no longer enjoys your company. As a result, he is terminating your friendship.”
Even better, I could deliver news about a break-up. “Sorry, so-and-so is moving on. You need to also.”
Or I could let someone know they didn’t make a sports team. “Sorry, you weren’t good enough to make the baseball team. Try golf.”
Telling someone their cooking stinks and nobody wants to eat it would be fun. “Sorry, you don’t need to bring anything to so-and-so’s party. Nobody there wants to eat your food.”
Maybe I could tell an old person he or she shouldn’t drive anymore. “Sorry, so-and-so is concerned you are going to get into an accident. So we’re taking your keys away. Take a cab.”
This all sounds cruel, and I probably sound like a jerk for even considering such a service, but it seems like this service is needed if people can’t deliver such news themselves. Ultimately, this service delivers what’s needed to be said, and at the same time relieves the anxiety of those who don’t want to bear bad news. It seems like a win-win to me.
I just hope nobody has to hire me to tell me my idea kind of stinks.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 25, 2011.
Pit of Doom returns bigger than ever
The Pit of Doom is back, and it’s bigger than ever before.
No, the Pit of Doom is not the Sarlacc Pit that swallowed ultracool bounty hunter Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” and it’s not some megahard olive pit that may have destroyed your back molar.’
It’s the name I gave to my wife’s purse years ago, and one that caught on with other husbands I know, including my late father-in-law who used to joke around with me that his wife’s Pit of Doom was bigger and deadlier than my wife’s.
Both of us knew that once an item went into the Pit of Doom, there was only a 50-50 chance it was ever coming out again.
But something strange happened over the years. The Pit of Doom shrunk. With every incarnation, it got smaller, to the point I rarely referred to it as the Pit of Doom. I figured smaller purses must have been the trend, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But out of nowhere the Pit of Doom returned. My wife said to me, as she often has, “I got a new purse.” Figuring I’d have to do the obligatory “It looks very nice,” my mouth nearly dropped when she showed me something not much smaller than a larger carry-on luggage bag.
“Whose body do you plan on hiding in there?” I asked, thinking maybe mine for even asking the question.
“Nobody’s,” she laughed. “I just liked it.” She probably said something about it being on sale, but I missed that because I was still awed at the sheer size of it, like people probably felt upon encountering the Titanic prior to its fateful maiden voyage.
I dropped the subject, figuring that maybe such a big purse would actually eliminate previous Pit of Doom issues, purely on the fact she could just stick her head in there when she needed to find something, making the task much easier.
That wasn’t to be, though, as I often started hearing the once familiar phrase of “I can’t find it in my purse.” Like the Bermuda Triangle, things have gone missing again, with little hope of ever being found again.
The Pit of Doom has its benefits when things aren’t getting lost in it, though. Needing a scissors one day, my wife pulled one out of her purse. I’m guessing not many other people can have scissors ready like that at their disposal.
With concealed carry, a gun is likely to get lost in the Pit of Doom, but the purse itself could serve as an effective weapon, so I don’t ever have to worry about her safety. Should she ever need it, she would just have to swing the purse and hit her target. The only problem would be having enough momentum to actually swing the purse.
I can joke all I want, but I wouldn’t dare print this without giving my wife her say. Her comment:
“I will accept and acknowledge that my purse has, on multiple occasions, become the final resting place of many an item which is never to be seen again. I attribute this to the same creature that eats at least one half of a pair of socks with every load of laundry that comes out of the dryer.
“As for the size, I, like many other mothers, find it necessary to carry something more fashionable, yet not dissimilar to a diaper bag for amusing and contending with children (and often husbands) on public outings. Frequently, you will find a wide variety of crayons, matchbox cars or Star Wars figurines within its clutches.
“Note to readers… the husband frequently cites Star Wars references… any guesses who the figurines are for in this case? It is not uncommon to find a juice box, packs of gum or a variety of other treats as well. We women need to do what we need to do to manage our families. If that includes keeping an arsenal in a large accessory, so be it.”
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 18, 2011.
No, the Pit of Doom is not the Sarlacc Pit that swallowed ultracool bounty hunter Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” and it’s not some megahard olive pit that may have destroyed your back molar.’
It’s the name I gave to my wife’s purse years ago, and one that caught on with other husbands I know, including my late father-in-law who used to joke around with me that his wife’s Pit of Doom was bigger and deadlier than my wife’s.
Both of us knew that once an item went into the Pit of Doom, there was only a 50-50 chance it was ever coming out again.
But something strange happened over the years. The Pit of Doom shrunk. With every incarnation, it got smaller, to the point I rarely referred to it as the Pit of Doom. I figured smaller purses must have been the trend, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But out of nowhere the Pit of Doom returned. My wife said to me, as she often has, “I got a new purse.” Figuring I’d have to do the obligatory “It looks very nice,” my mouth nearly dropped when she showed me something not much smaller than a larger carry-on luggage bag.
“Whose body do you plan on hiding in there?” I asked, thinking maybe mine for even asking the question.
“Nobody’s,” she laughed. “I just liked it.” She probably said something about it being on sale, but I missed that because I was still awed at the sheer size of it, like people probably felt upon encountering the Titanic prior to its fateful maiden voyage.
I dropped the subject, figuring that maybe such a big purse would actually eliminate previous Pit of Doom issues, purely on the fact she could just stick her head in there when she needed to find something, making the task much easier.
That wasn’t to be, though, as I often started hearing the once familiar phrase of “I can’t find it in my purse.” Like the Bermuda Triangle, things have gone missing again, with little hope of ever being found again.
The Pit of Doom has its benefits when things aren’t getting lost in it, though. Needing a scissors one day, my wife pulled one out of her purse. I’m guessing not many other people can have scissors ready like that at their disposal.
With concealed carry, a gun is likely to get lost in the Pit of Doom, but the purse itself could serve as an effective weapon, so I don’t ever have to worry about her safety. Should she ever need it, she would just have to swing the purse and hit her target. The only problem would be having enough momentum to actually swing the purse.
I can joke all I want, but I wouldn’t dare print this without giving my wife her say. Her comment:
“I will accept and acknowledge that my purse has, on multiple occasions, become the final resting place of many an item which is never to be seen again. I attribute this to the same creature that eats at least one half of a pair of socks with every load of laundry that comes out of the dryer.
“As for the size, I, like many other mothers, find it necessary to carry something more fashionable, yet not dissimilar to a diaper bag for amusing and contending with children (and often husbands) on public outings. Frequently, you will find a wide variety of crayons, matchbox cars or Star Wars figurines within its clutches.
“Note to readers… the husband frequently cites Star Wars references… any guesses who the figurines are for in this case? It is not uncommon to find a juice box, packs of gum or a variety of other treats as well. We women need to do what we need to do to manage our families. If that includes keeping an arsenal in a large accessory, so be it.”
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 18, 2011.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)