AH, TRADITION
Christmas, more so than any other holiday, revolves around traditions. At least in my world it does. I do not pretend to include the holidays of other major religions, I’m just talking about the holidays I encounter. There are fun little traditions associated with other holidays like Thanksgiving, Easter, the 4th of July, Groundhog’s Day… but none seem to depend so much, no other holiday is defined so much in terms of its traditions. Christmas is a heavily anticipated holiday, not just for the gifts but for the songs in the stores, the snow on the ground, the special foods, the clay-mation movies, and all of the events each family has accumulated through the years that have come to define the spirit of the season for them, whether it be a special church service or something more secular.
For example, my family has a tree lighting ceremony. Our tree is not officially lit until after this ceremony is complete. We make my brother emcee the production. In revenge, he makes the rest of us participate (the dog does not usually have to do anything, but she does at least get a mention). It’s all great fun.
The tradition I really want to talk about, though, is the Christmas Eve dinner. And I want to talk about it because it occurred to me recently that my parents have a very different concept of this event than my brother and I do. Actually, the concept is not so different, it’s the importance we each assign to various aspects of it that differs.
My family has always gone out for dinner the night before Christmas. When we lived in Massachusetts, that meant Chinese food because The Royal Mandarin was the only restaurant open that night. My earliest memories of Christmas involve candle lit rooms with paper screens, pu pu platters, and tea in little cups (which, I suspect may have contributed more than any pre-Santa jitters to my brother’s and my inability to fall asleep the night before Christmas).
We lived in Massachusetts for ten years before moving to Connecticut. In our new town, however, there were no Chinese restaurants as nice as The Royal Mandarin. There was a take-out place of a questionable nature and a Chinese buffet three towns over, but no true restaurants. So my parents, who conceived of the tradition as “going out to a restaurant” brought us to other places. These were nice places, but they did not serve tea in little cups and as far as my brother and I are concerned, they are temporary replacements for the true tradition, which we conceive of as “eating Chinese food.”
I think, actually, that my mother was getting a bit tired of eating Chinese food for Christmas Eve dinner and considered THAT the temporary deviation while we searched for something more appropriate.
It’s significant that there is such a distinction in what is tradition and what is not WITHIN a family as close as mine. How difficult does it become, then, to bring two entirely different families together? There are so many little factors that people consider THE way to do things. When do you open gifts? Who goes first? Do you take turns or does everyone open at once? What food is appropriate? When do you eat? Which church service do you go to, or do you even go to church? We all have traditions and expectations we’re not aware of until someone else points out that they do it differently.
I attended four different weddings this year. That’s four different couples I know who are experience their first Christmas in marriage. They’ll do well, I know they will, but it will be an adventure. You can figure out all the little things and then get blindsided by something like Chinese food on Christmas Eve. When you can handle something like THAT, you know you've found true love.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY BACK
I read a short story once about a spaceship carrying people in hibernation (I promise this whole entry won't be in geek, just the beginning). Something went wrong (show me a short story where nothing goes wrong and I'll show you a short story nobody reads) and the ship woke everyone up about a billion years too late. Or maybe they made a hyperspace jump and it went badly. Doesn't really matter and most of you don't care about the details. In any case, civilization was gone. Not just "civilization as they knew it" but humanity and alienmanity and sentience period was gone. It was just them. And they weren't going to last long either since the solar system was decaying. It was kind of a crappy position to be in. Their original intent, as yours might be too in such a situation, was to find a way back to their own time. They couldn't do it. Just not possible. They had to make do with what they had and live out the remainder of their lives in this foreign time.
This violated a basic assumption I have about stories, that there's always a way back. I was quite surprised. It was an assumption I was vaguely aware I was making, but I was not really conscious of it until this particular short story brought it to my attention. I've read enough to know that the "hero always survives" assumption is wrong and that the "good guys always win" assumption is wrong, too. It should not have surprised me that the "when you're lost, there's always a way back" assumption was wrong, too.
It's an assumption I tend to make about life outside of stories, too, and it's not true there either. I find myself, when I make mistakes, thinking "Next time, I'll do it differently." Sounds common enough, but I don't mean "Later in life, if a similar situation occurs, I will learn from this one and do things differently." What I really mean, and yes I do think this way, is "The next time I repeat this part of my life, I'll try something a little different." I also anticipate future decisions with such an expectation. I occasionally catch myself thinking "I'll try this first. If that doesn't work, I'll go back and do it differently." It's not conscious or deliberate, I don't actually have a time travel machine in my room that enables me to explore the consequences of my actions before I settle on a final course (not that I'm permitted to tell you about, at any rate).
In a certain light, quantum theory suggests (did I say the rest of this wouldn't be in geek? I might have lied. Next time I'll do it differently.) that there are versions of me that are making every possible decision. But a) I'm not really aware of it and b) that's still not "going back."
It's a subtle assumption that does not have enough significance to cause problems for me, but it's there nonetheless. And it's mostly wrong.
You can't go back. You never step in the same river twice. You can't undo your mistakes. You can't go home again. You can want to go home again, or to go back to your old college town, but even if your parents kept your room the same way you left it (complete with papers on the floor and dust on the shelves), it's not the home you left behind. Things change. You change. Other people change. All it takes is the single tick of a second and everything is different than it once was. Mostly, but not entirely, because you are different.
This is not half as depressing as it sounds. Really.
You can't undo mistakes, but you can often rectify them. Or forgive yourself for them, and move on. The trick to returning home is to accept what it has become, and to learn to stop lamenting the loss of what it once was.
You can't go back to being friends. Although sometimes you can go forward.
Even when you can't, even when going forward leads to something completely different from where you were and contains not even the illusion of going back, as for the passengers in the story, if it's the only place you can go, it's not a good idea to lose yourself in worry over what you have left behind. That will not save you. It might do just the opposite. If you can do that, though, step from one world to the next without looking back, without cursing inevitability and without missing all that was left behind, you are a stronger person than I am.
But I do manage to make those steps, I do find myself going forward when I need to, and I do not (often) lose myself searching for a path back that does not exist. And maybe the reason I can do that is because I hold somewhere the secret the belief that I can go back, that someday I will go back, just not yet.
It seems to work for me (most of the time).
I read a short story once about a spaceship carrying people in hibernation (I promise this whole entry won't be in geek, just the beginning). Something went wrong (show me a short story where nothing goes wrong and I'll show you a short story nobody reads) and the ship woke everyone up about a billion years too late. Or maybe they made a hyperspace jump and it went badly. Doesn't really matter and most of you don't care about the details. In any case, civilization was gone. Not just "civilization as they knew it" but humanity and alienmanity and sentience period was gone. It was just them. And they weren't going to last long either since the solar system was decaying. It was kind of a crappy position to be in. Their original intent, as yours might be too in such a situation, was to find a way back to their own time. They couldn't do it. Just not possible. They had to make do with what they had and live out the remainder of their lives in this foreign time.
This violated a basic assumption I have about stories, that there's always a way back. I was quite surprised. It was an assumption I was vaguely aware I was making, but I was not really conscious of it until this particular short story brought it to my attention. I've read enough to know that the "hero always survives" assumption is wrong and that the "good guys always win" assumption is wrong, too. It should not have surprised me that the "when you're lost, there's always a way back" assumption was wrong, too.
It's an assumption I tend to make about life outside of stories, too, and it's not true there either. I find myself, when I make mistakes, thinking "Next time, I'll do it differently." Sounds common enough, but I don't mean "Later in life, if a similar situation occurs, I will learn from this one and do things differently." What I really mean, and yes I do think this way, is "The next time I repeat this part of my life, I'll try something a little different." I also anticipate future decisions with such an expectation. I occasionally catch myself thinking "I'll try this first. If that doesn't work, I'll go back and do it differently." It's not conscious or deliberate, I don't actually have a time travel machine in my room that enables me to explore the consequences of my actions before I settle on a final course (not that I'm permitted to tell you about, at any rate).
In a certain light, quantum theory suggests (did I say the rest of this wouldn't be in geek? I might have lied. Next time I'll do it differently.) that there are versions of me that are making every possible decision. But a) I'm not really aware of it and b) that's still not "going back."
It's a subtle assumption that does not have enough significance to cause problems for me, but it's there nonetheless. And it's mostly wrong.
You can't go back. You never step in the same river twice. You can't undo your mistakes. You can't go home again. You can want to go home again, or to go back to your old college town, but even if your parents kept your room the same way you left it (complete with papers on the floor and dust on the shelves), it's not the home you left behind. Things change. You change. Other people change. All it takes is the single tick of a second and everything is different than it once was. Mostly, but not entirely, because you are different.
This is not half as depressing as it sounds. Really.
You can't undo mistakes, but you can often rectify them. Or forgive yourself for them, and move on. The trick to returning home is to accept what it has become, and to learn to stop lamenting the loss of what it once was.
You can't go back to being friends. Although sometimes you can go forward.
Even when you can't, even when going forward leads to something completely different from where you were and contains not even the illusion of going back, as for the passengers in the story, if it's the only place you can go, it's not a good idea to lose yourself in worry over what you have left behind. That will not save you. It might do just the opposite. If you can do that, though, step from one world to the next without looking back, without cursing inevitability and without missing all that was left behind, you are a stronger person than I am.
But I do manage to make those steps, I do find myself going forward when I need to, and I do not (often) lose myself searching for a path back that does not exist. And maybe the reason I can do that is because I hold somewhere the secret the belief that I can go back, that someday I will go back, just not yet.
It seems to work for me (most of the time).
Monday, November 15, 2004
ON COMMENTS
I just discovered that I had created a comment feature that did not actually allow people to comment without specific permission. Not ideal, so I've changed that. If you feel like responding to my posts where other readers (Hi Dad!) can see it, go right ahead. You now have all the permission you need. (Void where prohibited).
I just discovered that I had created a comment feature that did not actually allow people to comment without specific permission. Not ideal, so I've changed that. If you feel like responding to my posts where other readers (Hi Dad!) can see it, go right ahead. You now have all the permission you need. (Void where prohibited).
Sunday, November 07, 2004
HEY, I'M TALKING TO YOU
I talk to myself pretty much constantly. This should not be news to most of you. Or, for those of you for whom it is news, it should not be surprising news. Generally these conversations are silent, taking place entirely in my own head. Although there are times, when I think I’m alone, that I’ll have these conversations out loud. This can be amusing when it turns out I’m not actually alone, especially since I tend to make up voices to fit my mood (but that’s perhaps a story for another time).
The thing about these conversations that might be surprising (or not, some of you know me better than I’m willing to admit), is that while sometimes I’m having them with myself, just as often I’m having them with you. I talk to specific people in my head. The girls of note in my life tend to get the bulk of the attention but I also have these conversations with family and friends. Sometimes, it’s for a specific reason (trying to figure out how to tell my Mom I’m growing that beard she hates again), sometimes, it’s just me talking to talk.
One such conversation that occurs relatively frequently, involves introducing a person to someplace that has great significance in my life (right now that mostly means my home town or my college town, but there are other places as well). I say “relatively” because this conversation pretty much only occurs when I’m visiting such a place, which does not happen as often as it should. When I do visit these places, though, I always, without fail, find myself providing a running commentary in my head, directed at a specific person, about everything around me.
I had my first date at a coffee shop up that street. I helped redo the tile floor in that diner. My mom worked at that library. I used to run on these streets for cross country practice. My dad, my brother, and I used to hike together on these trails. My best friend lived down this road. This house is the site of a really funny story that wasn’t all that funny at the time.
That’s the dorm where I lived first year. I had a major crush on a girl who lived in the corner apartment in that building. A group of us went to eat at that sandwich shop, in formal wear. I had a major crush on a girl who lived on the bottom floor of this building. That office is where I worked for Dr. Gorman. I had a major crush on a girl who shared a class with me in that building.
Of course, the conversations I have in my head go into more detail, these are just examples of how they might start. I have a lot of stories in my head that I want to share, and if there’s nobody present to share them with, I’ll create someone. That works well enough for now but it’s all just practice. Someday I’ll be able to inflict all these stories on a real person and I’m really looking forward to that. That is, after all, what I’m practicing for (Oh, the poor girl who gets taken home to meet my parents. She’ll be talked half to death before we even get off the highway… I’ve had eight years to practice those stories.).
So, anyone up for a trip to Charlottesville? (I'll hold off on suggesting Southbury. That's only for the truly brave)
I talk to myself pretty much constantly. This should not be news to most of you. Or, for those of you for whom it is news, it should not be surprising news. Generally these conversations are silent, taking place entirely in my own head. Although there are times, when I think I’m alone, that I’ll have these conversations out loud. This can be amusing when it turns out I’m not actually alone, especially since I tend to make up voices to fit my mood (but that’s perhaps a story for another time).
The thing about these conversations that might be surprising (or not, some of you know me better than I’m willing to admit), is that while sometimes I’m having them with myself, just as often I’m having them with you. I talk to specific people in my head. The girls of note in my life tend to get the bulk of the attention but I also have these conversations with family and friends. Sometimes, it’s for a specific reason (trying to figure out how to tell my Mom I’m growing that beard she hates again), sometimes, it’s just me talking to talk.
One such conversation that occurs relatively frequently, involves introducing a person to someplace that has great significance in my life (right now that mostly means my home town or my college town, but there are other places as well). I say “relatively” because this conversation pretty much only occurs when I’m visiting such a place, which does not happen as often as it should. When I do visit these places, though, I always, without fail, find myself providing a running commentary in my head, directed at a specific person, about everything around me.
I had my first date at a coffee shop up that street. I helped redo the tile floor in that diner. My mom worked at that library. I used to run on these streets for cross country practice. My dad, my brother, and I used to hike together on these trails. My best friend lived down this road. This house is the site of a really funny story that wasn’t all that funny at the time.
That’s the dorm where I lived first year. I had a major crush on a girl who lived in the corner apartment in that building. A group of us went to eat at that sandwich shop, in formal wear. I had a major crush on a girl who lived on the bottom floor of this building. That office is where I worked for Dr. Gorman. I had a major crush on a girl who shared a class with me in that building.
Of course, the conversations I have in my head go into more detail, these are just examples of how they might start. I have a lot of stories in my head that I want to share, and if there’s nobody present to share them with, I’ll create someone. That works well enough for now but it’s all just practice. Someday I’ll be able to inflict all these stories on a real person and I’m really looking forward to that. That is, after all, what I’m practicing for (Oh, the poor girl who gets taken home to meet my parents. She’ll be talked half to death before we even get off the highway… I’ve had eight years to practice those stories.).
So, anyone up for a trip to Charlottesville? (I'll hold off on suggesting Southbury. That's only for the truly brave)
Thursday, November 04, 2004
AND BY "TRUE" I MEAN "FALSE"
To say that the following frustration is a pet peeve is not entirely accurate. It is, however, close enough that I'll go ahead and use that phrase to describe it until I come up with a better one (it's less like a pet than a wild animal that keeps returning to my door because I feed it from time to time - maybe leaving little gifts for me, but not actually my pet). The peeve is this: the systematic abuse of the english language. I do not mean that I get upset everytime someone gets confused about grammar or accidentally replaces "accept" with "except. I am talking about a more insidious form of abuse, blatantly using words in a manner that directly contradicts their own definition. My specific example today is the word "literally." Here's the Random House College Dictionary version of the definition:
lit.er.al.ly adv. 1. in a literal manner; word for word "to translate literally." 2. in the literal or strict sense. "what does the word mean literally?" 3. without exaggeration or inaccuracy "literally bankrupt"
Note that "literally" does not mean "very." It does not mean "extremely." It is not purely for emphasis, it does in fact have a definition that restricts it to a very specific use. When you use "literally" to modify a phrase, it means that the phrase is completely accurate as stated with no metaphorical deviations. It is a way of setting apart those times when you are exaggerating from those times when that's honestly-to-um-goodnessly exactly the way things are.
In today's world, however, "literally" seems to have lost its way. People use it as a form of exaggeration, which seems (to me at least) to run exactly counter to its stated definition. It has been used as a way to take another step closer to superlative. When someone says "Today was literally the worst day of my life," they do not usually mean what they say, that it was worse than every previous day they have ever experienced. What they mean is that this particular day is worse than the days they have claimed to be the worst day of their life. "Literally" has become a matter of scale. However, like "pregant" or "dead," "literal" is a true/false word, not an indicator of degree.
I could sit here and make up hundreds of examples (literally) but alert reader Bruce has already provided me an excellent true life example of exactly the problem I'm talking about (the bold emphasis is my own):
I know how much the overuse of "literally" gets on your nerves so i thought you'd find this annoying. But if you make a mental picture it's down right gruesome: "This form of massage involves the use of heated lava stones blended with Swedish strokes. The heated basalt stones literally "melt" through stiff muscles, going beyond the physical experience of typical massage and entering a deeper dimension of relaxation, health, and spiritual well being."
As stated, that certainly does go beyond the typical massage. I don't know about you, but my spiritual well being might be significantly compromised if my muscles started to melt. Although as Bruce points out, "I'm especially amused that they use quotes around "melt" to show they mean it figuratively, even though they say they mean it literally." These people went so far as to acknowledge that they were not being accurate, and yet kept "literally." I guess it means their stones really (don't really) melt people's muscles. Sigh. Think about what you're saying people, that's all I'm asking...
To say that the following frustration is a pet peeve is not entirely accurate. It is, however, close enough that I'll go ahead and use that phrase to describe it until I come up with a better one (it's less like a pet than a wild animal that keeps returning to my door because I feed it from time to time - maybe leaving little gifts for me, but not actually my pet). The peeve is this: the systematic abuse of the english language. I do not mean that I get upset everytime someone gets confused about grammar or accidentally replaces "accept" with "except. I am talking about a more insidious form of abuse, blatantly using words in a manner that directly contradicts their own definition. My specific example today is the word "literally." Here's the Random House College Dictionary version of the definition:
lit.er.al.ly adv. 1. in a literal manner; word for word "to translate literally." 2. in the literal or strict sense. "what does the word mean literally?" 3. without exaggeration or inaccuracy "literally bankrupt"
Note that "literally" does not mean "very." It does not mean "extremely." It is not purely for emphasis, it does in fact have a definition that restricts it to a very specific use. When you use "literally" to modify a phrase, it means that the phrase is completely accurate as stated with no metaphorical deviations. It is a way of setting apart those times when you are exaggerating from those times when that's honestly-to-um-goodnessly exactly the way things are.
In today's world, however, "literally" seems to have lost its way. People use it as a form of exaggeration, which seems (to me at least) to run exactly counter to its stated definition. It has been used as a way to take another step closer to superlative. When someone says "Today was literally the worst day of my life," they do not usually mean what they say, that it was worse than every previous day they have ever experienced. What they mean is that this particular day is worse than the days they have claimed to be the worst day of their life. "Literally" has become a matter of scale. However, like "pregant" or "dead," "literal" is a true/false word, not an indicator of degree.
I could sit here and make up hundreds of examples (literally) but alert reader Bruce has already provided me an excellent true life example of exactly the problem I'm talking about (the bold emphasis is my own):
I know how much the overuse of "literally" gets on your nerves so i thought you'd find this annoying. But if you make a mental picture it's down right gruesome: "This form of massage involves the use of heated lava stones blended with Swedish strokes. The heated basalt stones literally "melt" through stiff muscles, going beyond the physical experience of typical massage and entering a deeper dimension of relaxation, health, and spiritual well being."
As stated, that certainly does go beyond the typical massage. I don't know about you, but my spiritual well being might be significantly compromised if my muscles started to melt. Although as Bruce points out, "I'm especially amused that they use quotes around "melt" to show they mean it figuratively, even though they say they mean it literally." These people went so far as to acknowledge that they were not being accurate, and yet kept "literally." I guess it means their stones really (don't really) melt people's muscles. Sigh. Think about what you're saying people, that's all I'm asking...
Thursday, October 28, 2004
TODAY I'M FEELING...
[This is perhaps a bit atypical of posts to this blog, but it kind of deals with a form of contemporary insanity, and I'm in a sharing mood, so you get to hear it anyway. Plus the metaphor is just too good to keep to myself]
I think I understand how Jack'O'Lanterns feel. I would go so far as to say it's the most appropriate way to describe my current state of being. I've got this kind of warm glowing feeling, this sense of shining with friendly promise. At the same time, though, it's a bit drafty - as if everything that actually belonged inside me has been completely scooped out, as if I've been scraped clean and left empty. It's a very curious feeling, to be spilling over with light and yet completely hollow, and I'm not sure I'd recommend the experience. It's got its pluses and minuses, but it's got them at the same time and that's a bit tricky to deal with. I can, of course, deal. I know this because I've felt this dichotomy before, I just didn't have such a good name for it at the time. Now I do, though, so that's something... I can and I will deal, and in the future I'll be much more sympathetic to the pumpkin plight.
Also (and this is the one place where this feeling differs most from that experienced by the Jack'O'Lantern) it makes me feel tremendously alive, not tremendously pleasantly alive, but very alive nonetheless, and it's been too long since I've felt that.
[This is perhaps a bit atypical of posts to this blog, but it kind of deals with a form of contemporary insanity, and I'm in a sharing mood, so you get to hear it anyway. Plus the metaphor is just too good to keep to myself]
I think I understand how Jack'O'Lanterns feel. I would go so far as to say it's the most appropriate way to describe my current state of being. I've got this kind of warm glowing feeling, this sense of shining with friendly promise. At the same time, though, it's a bit drafty - as if everything that actually belonged inside me has been completely scooped out, as if I've been scraped clean and left empty. It's a very curious feeling, to be spilling over with light and yet completely hollow, and I'm not sure I'd recommend the experience. It's got its pluses and minuses, but it's got them at the same time and that's a bit tricky to deal with. I can, of course, deal. I know this because I've felt this dichotomy before, I just didn't have such a good name for it at the time. Now I do, though, so that's something... I can and I will deal, and in the future I'll be much more sympathetic to the pumpkin plight.
Also (and this is the one place where this feeling differs most from that experienced by the Jack'O'Lantern) it makes me feel tremendously alive, not tremendously pleasantly alive, but very alive nonetheless, and it's been too long since I've felt that.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
QUICK BIT O' NEWS
I have just created another blog. "But Rob" I hear you say, "You never update this blog, why do you need another one?" Well, dear reader, I'm adding another blog because it's a completely different concept. The posts here are meandering musings on the oddities of life (often of my life in particular, but not always). What I intend to post over at this new blog are the little pieces of fiction that pop into my head on a near constant basis. My muse works pretty hard to get these ideas to me and its about time I shared them. I've started trying to write something new every day. I don't actually hit that mark, but I'm trying. Some of them have inspired new ideas for stories, some of them come from story ideas that I cannot yet figure out how to assemble.
Now that I have a decent backlog, I'm going to start posting them for other people to see. At my current rate, I feel comfortable committing to producing three a week (and the backlog will serve as a nice buffer to keep that rate constant). I do not think it will slow my posting here. I would say, given the evidence of the past month or so, that it has actually accelerated my posting here. So no worries on that front.
Check it out, let me know what you think. This is as much for my practice and growth as a writer as it is for your entertainment (probably moreso, if I'm going to be honest about it) so anything you have to say good, bad, or indifferent will be appreciated. It's called "Leaves from the Tree" and you can find it here.
I have just created another blog. "But Rob" I hear you say, "You never update this blog, why do you need another one?" Well, dear reader, I'm adding another blog because it's a completely different concept. The posts here are meandering musings on the oddities of life (often of my life in particular, but not always). What I intend to post over at this new blog are the little pieces of fiction that pop into my head on a near constant basis. My muse works pretty hard to get these ideas to me and its about time I shared them. I've started trying to write something new every day. I don't actually hit that mark, but I'm trying. Some of them have inspired new ideas for stories, some of them come from story ideas that I cannot yet figure out how to assemble.
Now that I have a decent backlog, I'm going to start posting them for other people to see. At my current rate, I feel comfortable committing to producing three a week (and the backlog will serve as a nice buffer to keep that rate constant). I do not think it will slow my posting here. I would say, given the evidence of the past month or so, that it has actually accelerated my posting here. So no worries on that front.
Check it out, let me know what you think. This is as much for my practice and growth as a writer as it is for your entertainment (probably moreso, if I'm going to be honest about it) so anything you have to say good, bad, or indifferent will be appreciated. It's called "Leaves from the Tree" and you can find it here.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
SHOPPING HABITS, GOOD AND BAD
My parents do not buy food or other various necessities unless it is on sale. Then, when it does go on sale, they buy large quantities of the discounted item. This is a pretty sound practice. It is also self-supporting. By buying enough when things are on sale, they never run out of any given necessity. There's always a box or two stored in a closet somewhere. Since they never run out, they never need to get a specific item and therefore do not get trapped into paying higher prices. They can afford, in terms of time, to wait for the sale. It generally works pretty well for them and, I believe, saves them a good deal of money.
It helps that they have free reign over an entire house in which to store what they’re not currently eating. I do not. This is one of two reasons I get into trouble when I attempt to put this practice into effect. I share a house with three others, all of whom insist on storing their food somewhere in the house as well. If they could just agree not to keep any food here, we would all be happier. Well, I would be happier, they would be hungrier. Since they continue to take up space, I have very little room of my own in which to store what I am eating, let alone anything extra I wish to put aside for another day.
The other reason I have difficulty when attempting to follow my parents’ example is that while I have a good grasp of the generalities I tend to muff the specifics. Specifically I often neglect the importance of the fact that I am only one person and I only eat as much food as one person can eat. It’s not that I don’t know this, I do know it, what I get wrong is failing to appreciate how my limited rate of consumption relates to terms like “perishable.”
In other words, I do not always make the best decisions regarding which food items I choose to store. Take, for instance, Ranch Dressing. It comes in a small bottle as do most salad dressings. This makes it easy to store and, given its relative volume, it seems on first impression like something I would go through pretty quickly. If this were true, it would be the ideal candidate for my parent’s bulk sale purchase policy. One does not go through a food very quickly, however, when one only uses small amounts with each use, does not often eat salads, and tends to prefer Italian dressing anyway.
I am, as you may have guessed by now, referring to a specific incident. At dinner this week, one of my guests requested Ranch Dressing. I happily retrieved the bottle I had been storing in the top cabinet for just such an occasion. I’d been meaning to open it for some time and was delighted to finally have the opportunity. When I brought it into the light I noticed it was what can only be described as a light tan color. This did not alarm me, partly because I tend to operate on wishful thinking and partly because this particular bottle had been that color as long as I could remember. It did, however, alarm several of my guests, who decided it might be safest to check the expiration date before actually applying this substance to their food.
I was surprised, not realizing salad dressings even have an expiration date. I tend to be of the school of thought that if an item is sealed and unopened, it should keep indefinitely. This, as I was about to discover, was not a correct assumption. The bottle did indeed have an expiration date. It was three and a half years past. As one of my guests pointed out, that’s just when it expired; it is likely I have owned that bottle longer even than that. At the very least I have carried it with me through three separate moves.
Of course, we had to open it up to see what it looked like. I’ll relieve the suspense right now: not pretty. After everyone had gotten a look, I threw it out.
I wish I could say that this is the first time such a thing has happened. Thinking about it as I write this, I seem to recall a bottle of French Dressing with similar problems. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson this time. Maybe I’ll be more careful in my choices when it comes to buying extra food I do not intend to eat right away. Right now, though, I think I need to go through my cabinets and take a close look at all those things I’ve been saving for later.
My parents do not buy food or other various necessities unless it is on sale. Then, when it does go on sale, they buy large quantities of the discounted item. This is a pretty sound practice. It is also self-supporting. By buying enough when things are on sale, they never run out of any given necessity. There's always a box or two stored in a closet somewhere. Since they never run out, they never need to get a specific item and therefore do not get trapped into paying higher prices. They can afford, in terms of time, to wait for the sale. It generally works pretty well for them and, I believe, saves them a good deal of money.
It helps that they have free reign over an entire house in which to store what they’re not currently eating. I do not. This is one of two reasons I get into trouble when I attempt to put this practice into effect. I share a house with three others, all of whom insist on storing their food somewhere in the house as well. If they could just agree not to keep any food here, we would all be happier. Well, I would be happier, they would be hungrier. Since they continue to take up space, I have very little room of my own in which to store what I am eating, let alone anything extra I wish to put aside for another day.
The other reason I have difficulty when attempting to follow my parents’ example is that while I have a good grasp of the generalities I tend to muff the specifics. Specifically I often neglect the importance of the fact that I am only one person and I only eat as much food as one person can eat. It’s not that I don’t know this, I do know it, what I get wrong is failing to appreciate how my limited rate of consumption relates to terms like “perishable.”
In other words, I do not always make the best decisions regarding which food items I choose to store. Take, for instance, Ranch Dressing. It comes in a small bottle as do most salad dressings. This makes it easy to store and, given its relative volume, it seems on first impression like something I would go through pretty quickly. If this were true, it would be the ideal candidate for my parent’s bulk sale purchase policy. One does not go through a food very quickly, however, when one only uses small amounts with each use, does not often eat salads, and tends to prefer Italian dressing anyway.
I am, as you may have guessed by now, referring to a specific incident. At dinner this week, one of my guests requested Ranch Dressing. I happily retrieved the bottle I had been storing in the top cabinet for just such an occasion. I’d been meaning to open it for some time and was delighted to finally have the opportunity. When I brought it into the light I noticed it was what can only be described as a light tan color. This did not alarm me, partly because I tend to operate on wishful thinking and partly because this particular bottle had been that color as long as I could remember. It did, however, alarm several of my guests, who decided it might be safest to check the expiration date before actually applying this substance to their food.
I was surprised, not realizing salad dressings even have an expiration date. I tend to be of the school of thought that if an item is sealed and unopened, it should keep indefinitely. This, as I was about to discover, was not a correct assumption. The bottle did indeed have an expiration date. It was three and a half years past. As one of my guests pointed out, that’s just when it expired; it is likely I have owned that bottle longer even than that. At the very least I have carried it with me through three separate moves.
Of course, we had to open it up to see what it looked like. I’ll relieve the suspense right now: not pretty. After everyone had gotten a look, I threw it out.
I wish I could say that this is the first time such a thing has happened. Thinking about it as I write this, I seem to recall a bottle of French Dressing with similar problems. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson this time. Maybe I’ll be more careful in my choices when it comes to buying extra food I do not intend to eat right away. Right now, though, I think I need to go through my cabinets and take a close look at all those things I’ve been saving for later.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
THANK YOU, NANCY
This is not the only place I chatter. Those of you who know me know that my general failure to update is not the result of a failure to have anything to say. I have lots to say and the fact that I don't say it all here only suggests that there are other places where I spill my thoughts.
One such place is a journal I have been keeping almost as long as I’ve been able to write. Every so often I will get the urge to read through my old entries and not too long ago I did just that. Specifically, I was looking up a trip I took in high school to Oklahoma for a student government conference. (For the gentlemen who never participated in student government: you're all fools. We were outnumbered three to one by the girls on this trip.)
I read through the pages of my journal that covered this trip and was disappointed to find that I never mentioned Nancy. Perhaps this is because I did not have a crush on Nancy. I have found, in perusing my high school entries, that if I did not have a crush on you, you didn't get much face time in my journal. Nancy did not get mentioned at all.
I did not know Nancy before the trip and I never saw her again after it was over, but for that week we were good friends.
Nancy, and I sat together on the bus from Tulsa to Branson, Missouri and decided there was something “off” about the trees in Oklahoma. We couldn’t figure out what it was, but they just looked wrong. We also decided that there was way too much open space and that when we were old enough and rich enough, we would return to that area of the country and build a single tower, paint it purple, run lights up and down it at night, and build no roads to get to it. The idea was to let people see it (force them to, really) but refuse to tell them its purpose or ever allow them to get near it.
We determined that the people running the shows in Branson, Missouri obviously had no idea what they were doing when it came to billboards and that the best way to get the money for our tower was to hire ourselves out as ad writers. “We could go into advertising in Branson” one of us would say, to which the other would respond, “Someone certainly should.” We also concluded that Branson itself was what happened when you crossed Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale. For the record, we decided we do not recommend crossing Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale.
Along the way there was the world’s second largest McDonald’s and an enormous hunting store where we took pictures of ourselves in front of a stuffed grizzly bear. There was the American Cowboy Museum. There was also an outlet mall and a real mall partially under construction where I bought my first pair of non-dorky clip on sunglasses. Of that trip I remember the first half best, all the touristy really random things we did, and I spent most of that time with Nancy.
Nancy introduced me to the joy of brushing a girl’s hair (Girls, take note, I brush hair. Guys, take note, most girls seem to dig that). She also, by having me brush her hair, got me the in I needed to brush the hair of the girl who I did have the crush on. As I said, I did not have a crush on Nancy. Perhaps if I’d been smarter, I would have. Perhaps not. She was no more interested in dating me than I was in dating her. Actually, I’m pretty sure she had a boyfriend.
Nancy was never catty or manipulative. Nor was she shy and fragile either. I wish I had written about her at the time because that would enable me to tell you now what she was, rather than what she was not. If I try now, though, I’ll assign her attributes I think she should have had and they won’t necessarily be the right ones. All I can really say is that she was real enough and meant enough to me then that I still think of her now after having only known her for one week nine years ago.
Do not misunderstand me, I do not sigh wistfully when I think of her and wonder what might have been. This is not a "lost love" story. It’s the story of a good, if brief, friendship that I would like to honor. I named a character in one of my books after her. It’s not a good name for the setting, though, so it’s not going to stay. I’ll have to find some other way to honor her. Until I find a story her name does fit, this will have to do.
This is not the only place I chatter. Those of you who know me know that my general failure to update is not the result of a failure to have anything to say. I have lots to say and the fact that I don't say it all here only suggests that there are other places where I spill my thoughts.
One such place is a journal I have been keeping almost as long as I’ve been able to write. Every so often I will get the urge to read through my old entries and not too long ago I did just that. Specifically, I was looking up a trip I took in high school to Oklahoma for a student government conference. (For the gentlemen who never participated in student government: you're all fools. We were outnumbered three to one by the girls on this trip.)
I read through the pages of my journal that covered this trip and was disappointed to find that I never mentioned Nancy. Perhaps this is because I did not have a crush on Nancy. I have found, in perusing my high school entries, that if I did not have a crush on you, you didn't get much face time in my journal. Nancy did not get mentioned at all.
I did not know Nancy before the trip and I never saw her again after it was over, but for that week we were good friends.
Nancy, and I sat together on the bus from Tulsa to Branson, Missouri and decided there was something “off” about the trees in Oklahoma. We couldn’t figure out what it was, but they just looked wrong. We also decided that there was way too much open space and that when we were old enough and rich enough, we would return to that area of the country and build a single tower, paint it purple, run lights up and down it at night, and build no roads to get to it. The idea was to let people see it (force them to, really) but refuse to tell them its purpose or ever allow them to get near it.
We determined that the people running the shows in Branson, Missouri obviously had no idea what they were doing when it came to billboards and that the best way to get the money for our tower was to hire ourselves out as ad writers. “We could go into advertising in Branson” one of us would say, to which the other would respond, “Someone certainly should.” We also concluded that Branson itself was what happened when you crossed Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale. For the record, we decided we do not recommend crossing Las Vegas and Fort Lauderdale.
Along the way there was the world’s second largest McDonald’s and an enormous hunting store where we took pictures of ourselves in front of a stuffed grizzly bear. There was the American Cowboy Museum. There was also an outlet mall and a real mall partially under construction where I bought my first pair of non-dorky clip on sunglasses. Of that trip I remember the first half best, all the touristy really random things we did, and I spent most of that time with Nancy.
Nancy introduced me to the joy of brushing a girl’s hair (Girls, take note, I brush hair. Guys, take note, most girls seem to dig that). She also, by having me brush her hair, got me the in I needed to brush the hair of the girl who I did have the crush on. As I said, I did not have a crush on Nancy. Perhaps if I’d been smarter, I would have. Perhaps not. She was no more interested in dating me than I was in dating her. Actually, I’m pretty sure she had a boyfriend.
Nancy was never catty or manipulative. Nor was she shy and fragile either. I wish I had written about her at the time because that would enable me to tell you now what she was, rather than what she was not. If I try now, though, I’ll assign her attributes I think she should have had and they won’t necessarily be the right ones. All I can really say is that she was real enough and meant enough to me then that I still think of her now after having only known her for one week nine years ago.
Do not misunderstand me, I do not sigh wistfully when I think of her and wonder what might have been. This is not a "lost love" story. It’s the story of a good, if brief, friendship that I would like to honor. I named a character in one of my books after her. It’s not a good name for the setting, though, so it’s not going to stay. I’ll have to find some other way to honor her. Until I find a story her name does fit, this will have to do.
Monday, September 06, 2004
WHAT TO WATCH, WHAT TO WATCH
I do not watch many TV shows. This year’s Olympics marked the first time I had turned on a TV without also turning on a DVD player or video game console since April. With a few exceptions (which I’ll get to in due time), most of my TV experience comes from walking through the room when my roommates are watching something. This does tend to broaden my experience. I know more about politics than I would otherwise thanks to my current roommates’ choice of shows. My previous roommate helped improve my sports awareness while his girlfriend worked on keeping me up to date in reality shows.
It is something of a trap for me. Though I tend to avoid activating the device myself, I have difficulty passing unhindered through a room where it is already on. I stop, I watch. At home it drives my parents crazy because I tend to stand behind the couch, always on the verge of taking that next step towards my intended goal, but never actually taking it. Whoever is there will finally get tired of having me watch over their shoulder and will ask (tell) me to sit down. If it’s my parents’ house, I’ll walk around the couch and sit. If it’s mine, I tend to climb over the back of the couch instead. Either way, I get sucked in. But only for that one episode. I watch, then go away, rarely ever seeking a repeat performance. There are, however, a few exceptions.
Occasionally, I will find a show appealing enough that I actually schedule time to watch it and will, of my own volition and without prompting, turn on the TV with the express purpose of watching said show. The Simpsons, The Tick, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and most recently Scrubs. This phenomenon only rarely occurs simultaneously. One show will begin to fail (Simpsons) or get canceled (Tick, Buffy) before I discover the next one.
I mention this because the new Scrubs season has begun and once again I find myself planning my Tuesdays around this event. Actively preparing to watch a TV show is a rare occurrence for me, a noteworthy event. So I note it here. It being an event I also like to share, those of you who live nearby are invited to come watch with me. Those who do not live nearby will just have to watch it on their own. Those inclined to neither, some explaining may be required. But converting you will have to wait. I need to go learn how to use my TV again. I have a show to prepare for.
I do not watch many TV shows. This year’s Olympics marked the first time I had turned on a TV without also turning on a DVD player or video game console since April. With a few exceptions (which I’ll get to in due time), most of my TV experience comes from walking through the room when my roommates are watching something. This does tend to broaden my experience. I know more about politics than I would otherwise thanks to my current roommates’ choice of shows. My previous roommate helped improve my sports awareness while his girlfriend worked on keeping me up to date in reality shows.
It is something of a trap for me. Though I tend to avoid activating the device myself, I have difficulty passing unhindered through a room where it is already on. I stop, I watch. At home it drives my parents crazy because I tend to stand behind the couch, always on the verge of taking that next step towards my intended goal, but never actually taking it. Whoever is there will finally get tired of having me watch over their shoulder and will ask (tell) me to sit down. If it’s my parents’ house, I’ll walk around the couch and sit. If it’s mine, I tend to climb over the back of the couch instead. Either way, I get sucked in. But only for that one episode. I watch, then go away, rarely ever seeking a repeat performance. There are, however, a few exceptions.
Occasionally, I will find a show appealing enough that I actually schedule time to watch it and will, of my own volition and without prompting, turn on the TV with the express purpose of watching said show. The Simpsons, The Tick, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and most recently Scrubs. This phenomenon only rarely occurs simultaneously. One show will begin to fail (Simpsons) or get canceled (Tick, Buffy) before I discover the next one.
I mention this because the new Scrubs season has begun and once again I find myself planning my Tuesdays around this event. Actively preparing to watch a TV show is a rare occurrence for me, a noteworthy event. So I note it here. It being an event I also like to share, those of you who live nearby are invited to come watch with me. Those who do not live nearby will just have to watch it on their own. Those inclined to neither, some explaining may be required. But converting you will have to wait. I need to go learn how to use my TV again. I have a show to prepare for.
Monday, June 28, 2004
BIGGER THAN LIFE
I buckled and bought a GiantKat today, or a MegaKat, or some other [modifier meaning big, perhaps even “big” itself]Kat. This MamoKat is a Kit Kat bar, but, as the modifier implies, it has been big-ified. I saw it sitting in the vending machine when I stopped to make copies today (note to office planners: putting the vending machine next to the copy machine is a brilliant marketing strategy, if morally suspect). I managed to make several copies before I caved.
I must admit that when I made my purchase, I did not really know what I was getting into. I just saw the label and figured it maybe contained more of those little bar pieces than usual, or perhaps the ones it contained were longer. It was hard to tell from the packaging. Upon opening the wrapper, I discovered that I had been in error. All my guesses were wrong. The MassiKat turned out to be a single bar, one huge piece of Kit Kat. That whole advertising jingle that they did, you know “break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar” has no bearing on this goliath. It is a huge, unified whole. It’s as if someone did break off a piece of the kit kat bar but instead of eating it, they hit it with the same concoction of radiation and gene therapy that led to The Hulk. I treated it very carefully. I really didn’t want to make this thing angry, afraid it might get bigger.
After I recovered my initial shock and remembered that it was a candy bar and that candy bars, as a rule, do not generally get angry, I was overcome with joy. I love Kit Kats. Finding this one was like finding a dollar bill in your pocket and then realizing that you had misread the numbers and discovering it was actually ten dollars. So I ate it.
Turns out Kit Kat bars don’t scale up very well. Perhaps something was off in the ratio of smooth chocolate and crisp wafers. Perhaps that much Kit Kat in one place upset the balance of nature and warped reality. Perhaps the gods found it offensive that mortals would dare toy with such forces and cursed the monstrous candy bar and all who gazed upon it. I don’t know. I just know that my dream became a nightmare, the ten dollar bill turned out to be Monopoly money after all. I am, several hours later, still regretting my decision to purchase the MonstroKat. I’m thinking I should have gone for the MegaCrunch instead.
I buckled and bought a GiantKat today, or a MegaKat, or some other [modifier meaning big, perhaps even “big” itself]Kat. This MamoKat is a Kit Kat bar, but, as the modifier implies, it has been big-ified. I saw it sitting in the vending machine when I stopped to make copies today (note to office planners: putting the vending machine next to the copy machine is a brilliant marketing strategy, if morally suspect). I managed to make several copies before I caved.
I must admit that when I made my purchase, I did not really know what I was getting into. I just saw the label and figured it maybe contained more of those little bar pieces than usual, or perhaps the ones it contained were longer. It was hard to tell from the packaging. Upon opening the wrapper, I discovered that I had been in error. All my guesses were wrong. The MassiKat turned out to be a single bar, one huge piece of Kit Kat. That whole advertising jingle that they did, you know “break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar” has no bearing on this goliath. It is a huge, unified whole. It’s as if someone did break off a piece of the kit kat bar but instead of eating it, they hit it with the same concoction of radiation and gene therapy that led to The Hulk. I treated it very carefully. I really didn’t want to make this thing angry, afraid it might get bigger.
After I recovered my initial shock and remembered that it was a candy bar and that candy bars, as a rule, do not generally get angry, I was overcome with joy. I love Kit Kats. Finding this one was like finding a dollar bill in your pocket and then realizing that you had misread the numbers and discovering it was actually ten dollars. So I ate it.
Turns out Kit Kat bars don’t scale up very well. Perhaps something was off in the ratio of smooth chocolate and crisp wafers. Perhaps that much Kit Kat in one place upset the balance of nature and warped reality. Perhaps the gods found it offensive that mortals would dare toy with such forces and cursed the monstrous candy bar and all who gazed upon it. I don’t know. I just know that my dream became a nightmare, the ten dollar bill turned out to be Monopoly money after all. I am, several hours later, still regretting my decision to purchase the MonstroKat. I’m thinking I should have gone for the MegaCrunch instead.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
THINK PEOPLE, THINK!
From the Not-Entirely-Clear-On-the-Concept Department:
Today’s discussion is about signs. Two of them. They’re unrelated in content, scope, and purpose. What they do share, it would seem, is the apparent failure of their creators to really think about the purpose of the sign before putting it on display.
Sign 1:
The first sign is in Bethesda. Bethesda is the restaurant capital of the world, possibly the universe. There are more restaurants per something (capita or square foot, I’ve never really been sure which, maybe both) than any other city in the United States. There are also quite a few businesses (to better serve the restaurants, I guess). This means that traffic, both automobile and foot, is often heavy (especially after eating – hahaha I crack me up). Someone has apparently decided that it would be a good idea to remind motorists to be careful. So they put up a banner over the road. They put it high enough so trucks could get underneath it, which was intelligent. The idea itself wasn’t a bad idea, either. The implementation, however, needs improvement. They chose to post their public service announcement as two lines of black text on a green background. Did I mention that this was a banner that spanned three lanes of traffic? Two lines of that length is a lot of text. A lot of text high in the air that is hard to distinguish from its background. By the time I figured out what it said and finished reading it, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me. Seems a little counter-productive if you ask me.
Sign 2:
I saw the second sign in my apartment building on the community message board. It was a thin strip of paper with about a paragraph of text on it. The gist of the message was that the person was new to graphic design and wanted small jobs to help build their resume. The idea makes sense and selling small services to neighbors seemed smart to me. The trouble with this sign is that it completely failed to demonstrate any skill at graphic design. It was a paragraph cut from a printed page. This ad is the only evidence a potential customer has of the person’s graphic design abilities and it does not inspire confidence.
So, today’s lesson, is THINK about what you’re doing. Think about the goal, and then think about how ALL aspects of your solution affect that goal. If you’re designing a sign to promote safety, make sure the sign itself isn’t dangerous. If you’re trying to promote your graphic design skills, make sure your advertisement does not suggest you have none.
From the Not-Entirely-Clear-On-the-Concept Department:
Today’s discussion is about signs. Two of them. They’re unrelated in content, scope, and purpose. What they do share, it would seem, is the apparent failure of their creators to really think about the purpose of the sign before putting it on display.
Sign 1:
The first sign is in Bethesda. Bethesda is the restaurant capital of the world, possibly the universe. There are more restaurants per something (capita or square foot, I’ve never really been sure which, maybe both) than any other city in the United States. There are also quite a few businesses (to better serve the restaurants, I guess). This means that traffic, both automobile and foot, is often heavy (especially after eating – hahaha I crack me up). Someone has apparently decided that it would be a good idea to remind motorists to be careful. So they put up a banner over the road. They put it high enough so trucks could get underneath it, which was intelligent. The idea itself wasn’t a bad idea, either. The implementation, however, needs improvement. They chose to post their public service announcement as two lines of black text on a green background. Did I mention that this was a banner that spanned three lanes of traffic? Two lines of that length is a lot of text. A lot of text high in the air that is hard to distinguish from its background. By the time I figured out what it said and finished reading it, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me. Seems a little counter-productive if you ask me.
Sign 2:
I saw the second sign in my apartment building on the community message board. It was a thin strip of paper with about a paragraph of text on it. The gist of the message was that the person was new to graphic design and wanted small jobs to help build their resume. The idea makes sense and selling small services to neighbors seemed smart to me. The trouble with this sign is that it completely failed to demonstrate any skill at graphic design. It was a paragraph cut from a printed page. This ad is the only evidence a potential customer has of the person’s graphic design abilities and it does not inspire confidence.
So, today’s lesson, is THINK about what you’re doing. Think about the goal, and then think about how ALL aspects of your solution affect that goal. If you’re designing a sign to promote safety, make sure the sign itself isn’t dangerous. If you’re trying to promote your graphic design skills, make sure your advertisement does not suggest you have none.
Friday, March 19, 2004
NO GIRLS ALLOWED
My roommate is getting married and it is my privilege, honor, and absolute joy to be in charge of the bachelor party. Good stuff. I have attended a few and I have planned one once before. Well, one and a half. The “one” went really well. The “half” was not quite as spectacular. My roommate and I collaborated on that one when we found out that the Best Man had no intention of doing so. Unfortunately, we only noticed this omission about a week before the wedding and were forced to hold the event on a Thursday evening before a Saturday wedding with only about two days to actually plan. It was small, but intense. The groom was still hung over at the rehearsal dinner. The bride has not forgiven us for that one. She fails to appreciate that we gave the groom a whole day longer to recuperate than his father received when he did his bachelor party. Being hung-over at the rehearsal dinner is much much better than being hung-over at the wedding itself.
After witnessing the effects of that bachelor party (on both the groom AND my roommate), my roommate’s fiancée made us promise (several times) to keep my roommate sober in the 48 hours prior to the wedding. I find this interesting because our other friend’s wife has made him promise to do the exact opposite. She would consider it fitting revenge to see my roommate hung-over at his own rehearsal dinner (see, I told you she still hasn’t forgiven us). How that will play out, I do not know, but I cannot wait to find out. As far as the official bachelor party is concerned, we are keeping the first promise. We are, in fact, holding the bachelor party a week before even the bachelorette party. But that’s okay, because our party will be better.
My roommate’s fiancée is beginning to get worried. She wants more time with him that weekend. She wants to make sure he’s safe. She wants to know what is going on. She’s getting none of it. Ordinarily, I’m a pretty decent fellow. I do, in fact, feel a little guilty that she is getting nervous about this. But this is a bachelor party. The entire point of the bachelor party is to take the groom away from the bride, to raucously establish his masculine independence. So if the bride is worried, good. I’m not going to console her. I’m not going to reassure her. I will promise we won’t intend to do any permanent damage, but that’s about it.
She’s not alone. There are apparently numerous other women who share her curiosity and, to their chagrin, her ignorance. “But I promise I won’t tell her,” they say. I do not care. Then they threaten or cajole. One girl even stood on my toes and threatened to stay there until I told my secret. I left with a slight limp and she left with nothing. It is my philosophy that no female is to be privy to any of the plans unless her assistance is necessary. And certainly, no female should attend the party unless she is paid for services rendered at said party. Some girls do not this applies to them. “But I’m just like one of the guys…” No, actually, you’re not. Close, maybe, in some behaviors, but lacking a certain something.
The bachelor party is for males and unless you have fulfilled all the requirements to be a male, you may not attend. And blocking your attempts to do so is half the fun.
My roommate is getting married and it is my privilege, honor, and absolute joy to be in charge of the bachelor party. Good stuff. I have attended a few and I have planned one once before. Well, one and a half. The “one” went really well. The “half” was not quite as spectacular. My roommate and I collaborated on that one when we found out that the Best Man had no intention of doing so. Unfortunately, we only noticed this omission about a week before the wedding and were forced to hold the event on a Thursday evening before a Saturday wedding with only about two days to actually plan. It was small, but intense. The groom was still hung over at the rehearsal dinner. The bride has not forgiven us for that one. She fails to appreciate that we gave the groom a whole day longer to recuperate than his father received when he did his bachelor party. Being hung-over at the rehearsal dinner is much much better than being hung-over at the wedding itself.
After witnessing the effects of that bachelor party (on both the groom AND my roommate), my roommate’s fiancée made us promise (several times) to keep my roommate sober in the 48 hours prior to the wedding. I find this interesting because our other friend’s wife has made him promise to do the exact opposite. She would consider it fitting revenge to see my roommate hung-over at his own rehearsal dinner (see, I told you she still hasn’t forgiven us). How that will play out, I do not know, but I cannot wait to find out. As far as the official bachelor party is concerned, we are keeping the first promise. We are, in fact, holding the bachelor party a week before even the bachelorette party. But that’s okay, because our party will be better.
My roommate’s fiancée is beginning to get worried. She wants more time with him that weekend. She wants to make sure he’s safe. She wants to know what is going on. She’s getting none of it. Ordinarily, I’m a pretty decent fellow. I do, in fact, feel a little guilty that she is getting nervous about this. But this is a bachelor party. The entire point of the bachelor party is to take the groom away from the bride, to raucously establish his masculine independence. So if the bride is worried, good. I’m not going to console her. I’m not going to reassure her. I will promise we won’t intend to do any permanent damage, but that’s about it.
She’s not alone. There are apparently numerous other women who share her curiosity and, to their chagrin, her ignorance. “But I promise I won’t tell her,” they say. I do not care. Then they threaten or cajole. One girl even stood on my toes and threatened to stay there until I told my secret. I left with a slight limp and she left with nothing. It is my philosophy that no female is to be privy to any of the plans unless her assistance is necessary. And certainly, no female should attend the party unless she is paid for services rendered at said party. Some girls do not this applies to them. “But I’m just like one of the guys…” No, actually, you’re not. Close, maybe, in some behaviors, but lacking a certain something.
The bachelor party is for males and unless you have fulfilled all the requirements to be a male, you may not attend. And blocking your attempts to do so is half the fun.
Monday, January 12, 2004
JUMPING THROUGH HOOPS
It has been suggested to be my several different people that I should compile my various "pursuit of relationship" stories. They think it would be a very amusing read. They mean it as a compliment but I pretend to take it as it sounds, because it's more fun to do that. In truth, though, it does not really bother me. I am rather taken by the idea. I may do just such a thing someday. I've even gone as far as to identify which stories might be the best to include in such a collection. I do have quite a few.
The original idea came from my mother. I make her laugh when I tell of my various adventures in dating. She first mentioned it to me after I told her about the time I tried to take a girl out by arranging an ice skating trip among my friends to which I could "incidentally" invite the girl in a sort of low/no pressure situation (this was in college, but I apparently had not yet escaped the middle-school notion that you must keep your interest a secret from the object of your interests until the last possible moment). It took me a while to find a night when my friends could make such a trip, but I did eventually. Then, armed with just enough confirmations (several of them couples, but not ALL of them, of course) that I could legitimately say "Hey, a group of us are going ice skating this Thursday and I was wondering if you'd like to join us," I called her up and said just that. To which she responded, "I'd love to, but I'm busy on that night." The night I had so painstakingly picked so I could have the right mix of friends present. Once the purpose of the trip vanished, my friends all admitted that they weren't really that interested in going skating anyway, not just then, and the whole trip was canceled. It made my mom laugh and she told me I needed to write these stories down somewhere, because it was not the first time one of my adventures had made her laugh, nor would it be the last. It made me laugh, too, which is good, because as I have already said, it wasn't the last time I did such a thing (see previous column TRU LUV). And I know of friends who also have amusing stories to tell (see previous column WHY I LOVE VALENTINE'S DAY). I imagine, on this particular subject, just about everyone has done something at least faintly ridiculous.
I even know what I would call it, "Jumping through Hoops," because that's what I tend to do. Elaborate schemes and well thought out plans (perhaps "endlessly" would be a better word than "well"), I am the Rube Goldberg of the dating world. It's fun to be me. I do not always get the dates, but I do get good stories to tell.
It has been suggested to be my several different people that I should compile my various "pursuit of relationship" stories. They think it would be a very amusing read. They mean it as a compliment but I pretend to take it as it sounds, because it's more fun to do that. In truth, though, it does not really bother me. I am rather taken by the idea. I may do just such a thing someday. I've even gone as far as to identify which stories might be the best to include in such a collection. I do have quite a few.
The original idea came from my mother. I make her laugh when I tell of my various adventures in dating. She first mentioned it to me after I told her about the time I tried to take a girl out by arranging an ice skating trip among my friends to which I could "incidentally" invite the girl in a sort of low/no pressure situation (this was in college, but I apparently had not yet escaped the middle-school notion that you must keep your interest a secret from the object of your interests until the last possible moment). It took me a while to find a night when my friends could make such a trip, but I did eventually. Then, armed with just enough confirmations (several of them couples, but not ALL of them, of course) that I could legitimately say "Hey, a group of us are going ice skating this Thursday and I was wondering if you'd like to join us," I called her up and said just that. To which she responded, "I'd love to, but I'm busy on that night." The night I had so painstakingly picked so I could have the right mix of friends present. Once the purpose of the trip vanished, my friends all admitted that they weren't really that interested in going skating anyway, not just then, and the whole trip was canceled. It made my mom laugh and she told me I needed to write these stories down somewhere, because it was not the first time one of my adventures had made her laugh, nor would it be the last. It made me laugh, too, which is good, because as I have already said, it wasn't the last time I did such a thing (see previous column TRU LUV). And I know of friends who also have amusing stories to tell (see previous column WHY I LOVE VALENTINE'S DAY). I imagine, on this particular subject, just about everyone has done something at least faintly ridiculous.
I even know what I would call it, "Jumping through Hoops," because that's what I tend to do. Elaborate schemes and well thought out plans (perhaps "endlessly" would be a better word than "well"), I am the Rube Goldberg of the dating world. It's fun to be me. I do not always get the dates, but I do get good stories to tell.
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