God help me, but I cannot tell a lie. An article by sports writer Steve Sipple (of Things I Know and Think I Know "fame,") actually got me thinking this morning. In it, he credits Husker coach Connie Yori's pre-game reaping of her players' digital devices as one explanation for her team's late-season success.
As I witness and work with a generation of people more apt to look at their laps than
each other, maybe it's a good time to start referring to eye
contact as "I contact" instead. Call me a dreamer, but maybe such a switch would help highlight what we lose when our devices become the go-to medium for personal communication.
Five or ten years ago, when I would catch a seated teen seriously focusing on his or her lap, pity would come over me, as I assumed the culprit was a burgeoning body part or a new wave of shame. Nowadays, I know better. Such intensely-personal awakenings have been replaced by the electronic hum of a Droid or iPhone, although I suppose the "hum" part might prove personally problematic. . . .
At least in public schools, where some would say God hasn't stopped by in years, bowing one's teenaged head doesn't signal prayer so much as it does confirmation of which fast-food restaurant will offer up lunch today.
OMG. When did discussing fat-laden carbs become more important than understanding AP-style rules?!
Such distractions are not new, though.
Twenty three years ago, the smartest thing I uttered during an intense and uncomfortable meeting with the newspaper editor and his dad was "You need to look at me when we are talking." That challenge proved to be a great one for this young man, who required Kung-Fu concentration and commitment to fulfill my request. The end result, though, was significant. When he was forced to voice his concerns directly to me, we started to make real progress towards addressing those concerns.
Even at home, I've found the Yori Method to be effective. Dipping grades and missing assignments in math class? Try prohibiting access to personal devices during homework hours and I guarantee you'll see some impressive results. After implementing such a plan this spring, an interesting thing has happened. Allison has started going into school early to talk with--egad, perhaps even look at--her math teacher, and the synapses have again begun firing. Oh, and her grade has climbed ever upward.
Phew. I'd hate to think all this unplugged staring at each other was for naught.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Life's a Beach, Maybe
A few months ago, I saw a woman practicing the tightrope, its length pulled taut between two pines. It was one of those rare winter days when the air was warm enough and the ground dry enough to beckon me to Holmes Lake for a walkabout. As I wrapped up my jaunt, I observed this amateur acrobat tucked into the trees near the north shore, seemingly oblivious to the rest of us. And, even though the rope was hovering a mere foot or two above the ground, it was hard not to be impressed by her endeavor.
Taking the long view, her wobbly, determined trek came to represent something larger to me--namely, the precariousness of every life lived, each often played out on a novel stage.
Let's not be fooled by the word "novel," however, for it often is code for "you may feel some discomfort." And, while I have never walked a tightrope--unless you count doing so symbolically--I imagine that the ability to fool oneself ("This is no big deal. It's normal.") is as important a skill as being able to hug a small surface with your toes. Frankly, neither sounds particularly natural to me, although we humans do talk a good game.
I've been exercising my own talk-a-good-game skills these days, although to see me in action wouldn't be nearly as interesting as happening upon a tightrope walker. That's because mine is a strictly mental battle, one in which I practice convincing myself that it would be great if daughter Allison moved to Florida and attended college there. And that the ocean, just steps from her dorm door, would not keep her from attending classes regularly.
Balance is a brutal endeavor, and, frankly, my toes have grown tired of clinging to this fraying rope of my current existence. Surely, it would feel freeing to just stretch my feet, hop off the rope, and embrace the idea of sending the remaining of my brood into the great beyond called out-of-state tuition. Surely--eventually--I would again find my balance and come to enjoy the idea of my seed scattered in the winds. Especially if those winds were coming off the ocean.
For now, though, I flex my "fake it" muscles, gritting my teeth with each uttered dream that pours from my daughter's mouth, pretending that every last one of them is a viable, wonderful, future money-producing idea worth pursuing, all the while, my arms flailing wildly as I seek to find my balance.
Taking the long view, her wobbly, determined trek came to represent something larger to me--namely, the precariousness of every life lived, each often played out on a novel stage.
Let's not be fooled by the word "novel," however, for it often is code for "you may feel some discomfort." And, while I have never walked a tightrope--unless you count doing so symbolically--I imagine that the ability to fool oneself ("This is no big deal. It's normal.") is as important a skill as being able to hug a small surface with your toes. Frankly, neither sounds particularly natural to me, although we humans do talk a good game.
I've been exercising my own talk-a-good-game skills these days, although to see me in action wouldn't be nearly as interesting as happening upon a tightrope walker. That's because mine is a strictly mental battle, one in which I practice convincing myself that it would be great if daughter Allison moved to Florida and attended college there. And that the ocean, just steps from her dorm door, would not keep her from attending classes regularly.
Balance is a brutal endeavor, and, frankly, my toes have grown tired of clinging to this fraying rope of my current existence. Surely, it would feel freeing to just stretch my feet, hop off the rope, and embrace the idea of sending the remaining of my brood into the great beyond called out-of-state tuition. Surely--eventually--I would again find my balance and come to enjoy the idea of my seed scattered in the winds. Especially if those winds were coming off the ocean.
For now, though, I flex my "fake it" muscles, gritting my teeth with each uttered dream that pours from my daughter's mouth, pretending that every last one of them is a viable, wonderful, future money-producing idea worth pursuing, all the while, my arms flailing wildly as I seek to find my balance.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Wild Kingdom, FAC-Style
Heaven help you if you wander into a local establishment late on some Friday afternoon between August and May, expecting a quiet refuge and a glassful of rejuvenation. Especially if said establishment happens to be located within a mile or two of a school.
Chances are, your outing will be ruined by a rambunctious collective of teacher types, their four-top tables hastily strung together with absolutely no regard for the tidy symmetry of 90-degree angles.
Seems school folks can't be bothered with symmetry when their minds are worn down by what they've seen all week long. And yet, these tapped-out teachers readily put aside their differences--both curricular and mascot-based--just for the chance to gather and unwind.
I realize that the idea of scientist and grammarian, Spartan and Link, willingly sitting at the same table runs counter to at least one current educational trend (namely, the one that encourages like-minded folk to spend every waking moment in fervent and productive collaboration). Still, you'd be forgiven--if not exactly religiously accurate--for comparing these faculty festivities to one of the Christian Bible's more memorable images, namely that one in which lions and lambs are contentedly hanging out together.
To the untrained eye, these gatherings have the feel of 20-year class reunions, such is their noise and fervor. Ironically, many of those seated at the tables have seen each other within the past day or two. And yet, upon spotting one another, their enthusiasm is palpable.
My advice to you, should you happen upon such a sighting? Treat your experience the way a tourist on an African safari would treat the spotting of a pride of lions--with patience and from a safe distance. Granted, teachers are not dangerous, but, seated in the worn wood chairs of a local eatery, loudly swapping ridiculous tales and tasty treats, they might seem a bit baffling to the untrained eye.
Chances are, your outing will be ruined by a rambunctious collective of teacher types, their four-top tables hastily strung together with absolutely no regard for the tidy symmetry of 90-degree angles.
Seems school folks can't be bothered with symmetry when their minds are worn down by what they've seen all week long. And yet, these tapped-out teachers readily put aside their differences--both curricular and mascot-based--just for the chance to gather and unwind.
I realize that the idea of scientist and grammarian, Spartan and Link, willingly sitting at the same table runs counter to at least one current educational trend (namely, the one that encourages like-minded folk to spend every waking moment in fervent and productive collaboration). Still, you'd be forgiven--if not exactly religiously accurate--for comparing these faculty festivities to one of the Christian Bible's more memorable images, namely that one in which lions and lambs are contentedly hanging out together.
To the untrained eye, these gatherings have the feel of 20-year class reunions, such is their noise and fervor. Ironically, many of those seated at the tables have seen each other within the past day or two. And yet, upon spotting one another, their enthusiasm is palpable.
My advice to you, should you happen upon such a sighting? Treat your experience the way a tourist on an African safari would treat the spotting of a pride of lions--with patience and from a safe distance. Granted, teachers are not dangerous, but, seated in the worn wood chairs of a local eatery, loudly swapping ridiculous tales and tasty treats, they might seem a bit baffling to the untrained eye.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Play Misty for Me
As I get older, more things seem to fall out of me, including tears. I still tell people that I cry about every few years, although the past few years have made me rethink the accuracy this statement. Honestly, if I include "tearing up" in the "crying" category, then I'd probably have to say that I cry about twice a day.
Yeah, I've become quite misty in my fifties.
If I were to identify a turning point in my crying life, it would probably be the Justin Bieber concert I attended with Allison back in the summer of 2011. As the designated driver, I can say that safety, not pop music, was the main reason I was attending this Omaha concert.
By the time I arrived and had acclimated to the stench of Axe and Viva la Juicy in the air (much different than the stench I recall at the Styx concert in 1977), I started to think about the music I was about to hear. I knew absolutely nothing about Justin Bieber, but, within 20 minutes of him taking stage, I was tearing up like an onion-factory worker, deeply moved by his song "U Smile." I think I teared up another two or three times before my next boyfriend left the stage two hours later.
Was he really that good? How about a "yeah, but" answer to that one? Certainly, I'd witnessed a fresh, young talent with heaps of energy and moves. But I also had experienced an ovarian shift during the concert, one that had flooded me with some serious hormones. So, maybe my tears were more manufactured than responsive. But they came, nonetheless.
Since that fateful night, my eyes have only grown more prolific in their unpredictable output, not only requiring me to buy glasses, but also forcing me to carry a wadded-up Kleenex tucked into my sleeve, much like my mother did throughout my youth. (An aside: I am pretty sure that, by the time I went to college, my mom was carrying the very same Kleenex that she had when I started middle school. I have no proof of this, however), beyond its rag-tag nature.)
Nowadays, I tear up at all kinds of things: when an African-American wins "Wheel of Fortune," when I light a candle at church, when I catch a glimpse of my children sleeping, when I hear a wonderful or funny song, when my period shows up again, . . . .
Even the tearing up seems to have a mind of its own. Consider Wednesday night, when Mark and I attended the Susan Werner concert. Now, this woman is everything you want in a person--she is wickedly funny, amazingly talented, utterly grounded, and quick on her toes. Within about three songs, both Mark and I were imagining having her as a friend, "imagining" being the key word. And, by the fourth song, my left eyeball began watering. Kind of profusely, at times. Didn't matter if the song was funny or moving, all my "good-feelings" emotions were being channeled through my left eyeball.
By intermission, that eye was pretty much out of control.
So be it, I say. I don't wear mascara, after all, so it's not like I'm striping my face in this new phase of life. I'm just living a little more emotionally and transparently, that's all.
Besides, if something on me is going to leak unpredictably, I'll take an eyeball any day of the week.
Yeah, I've become quite misty in my fifties.
If I were to identify a turning point in my crying life, it would probably be the Justin Bieber concert I attended with Allison back in the summer of 2011. As the designated driver, I can say that safety, not pop music, was the main reason I was attending this Omaha concert.
By the time I arrived and had acclimated to the stench of Axe and Viva la Juicy in the air (much different than the stench I recall at the Styx concert in 1977), I started to think about the music I was about to hear. I knew absolutely nothing about Justin Bieber, but, within 20 minutes of him taking stage, I was tearing up like an onion-factory worker, deeply moved by his song "U Smile." I think I teared up another two or three times before my next boyfriend left the stage two hours later.
Was he really that good? How about a "yeah, but" answer to that one? Certainly, I'd witnessed a fresh, young talent with heaps of energy and moves. But I also had experienced an ovarian shift during the concert, one that had flooded me with some serious hormones. So, maybe my tears were more manufactured than responsive. But they came, nonetheless.
Since that fateful night, my eyes have only grown more prolific in their unpredictable output, not only requiring me to buy glasses, but also forcing me to carry a wadded-up Kleenex tucked into my sleeve, much like my mother did throughout my youth. (An aside: I am pretty sure that, by the time I went to college, my mom was carrying the very same Kleenex that she had when I started middle school. I have no proof of this, however), beyond its rag-tag nature.)
Nowadays, I tear up at all kinds of things: when an African-American wins "Wheel of Fortune," when I light a candle at church, when I catch a glimpse of my children sleeping, when I hear a wonderful or funny song, when my period shows up again, . . . .
Even the tearing up seems to have a mind of its own. Consider Wednesday night, when Mark and I attended the Susan Werner concert. Now, this woman is everything you want in a person--she is wickedly funny, amazingly talented, utterly grounded, and quick on her toes. Within about three songs, both Mark and I were imagining having her as a friend, "imagining" being the key word. And, by the fourth song, my left eyeball began watering. Kind of profusely, at times. Didn't matter if the song was funny or moving, all my "good-feelings" emotions were being channeled through my left eyeball.
By intermission, that eye was pretty much out of control.
So be it, I say. I don't wear mascara, after all, so it's not like I'm striping my face in this new phase of life. I'm just living a little more emotionally and transparently, that's all.
Besides, if something on me is going to leak unpredictably, I'll take an eyeball any day of the week.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Of Mothers and Mathematics
I woke today thinking of mothers and mathematics. Of the rippling effects of even the smallest pebble tossed against the otherwise calm surface of water. Mathematically, I imagine that each ripple is half the height of the one that preceded it, and yet I can spy even the least of these, bubbling atop the surface, eventually loosing the sand at the shore, where its effects finally come to rest.
I woke thinking of my childhood neighbor, whose daughter's husband died of cancer yesterday. I think of this mother, trying to stand firm at that first ring of ripples, washed over in grief as the pebble of disease makes its presence known. I woke, thinking of my friend whose son died last April, a beautiful, sparkling young man whose stone of sadness shattered his mother's world. And yet, she will awaken today, her tired feet finding the cold floor beneath them.
Wherever those pebbles and stones are tossed, there you will find the mothers of the world, awash in the aching effects of the first ripple's ring.
Growing up, while I knew that my mom loved me, that she was there for me, I seldom thought of how my own pebbles and stones affected her. It probably wasn't until my oldest brother Mike--just days before the first anniversary of my dad's death--told us that he had AIDS that I began to realize the strength that it takes to be a mother of the world. We would make our way to New York 15 months later to bury my brother. And yet, my mom found a way to keep her feet on the ground, even as the crushing weight of this tsunami washed over her.
Men may think they run the world, but mothers know the truth. Most men cannot bear the effects of that first ripple's rings. That is the real reason we send them out each day to busy their hands and minds, while women guard the home front against the next assault of pebbles and stones that fall from the sky.
I woke thinking of my childhood neighbor, whose daughter's husband died of cancer yesterday. I think of this mother, trying to stand firm at that first ring of ripples, washed over in grief as the pebble of disease makes its presence known. I woke, thinking of my friend whose son died last April, a beautiful, sparkling young man whose stone of sadness shattered his mother's world. And yet, she will awaken today, her tired feet finding the cold floor beneath them.
Wherever those pebbles and stones are tossed, there you will find the mothers of the world, awash in the aching effects of the first ripple's ring.
Growing up, while I knew that my mom loved me, that she was there for me, I seldom thought of how my own pebbles and stones affected her. It probably wasn't until my oldest brother Mike--just days before the first anniversary of my dad's death--told us that he had AIDS that I began to realize the strength that it takes to be a mother of the world. We would make our way to New York 15 months later to bury my brother. And yet, my mom found a way to keep her feet on the ground, even as the crushing weight of this tsunami washed over her.
Men may think they run the world, but mothers know the truth. Most men cannot bear the effects of that first ripple's rings. That is the real reason we send them out each day to busy their hands and minds, while women guard the home front against the next assault of pebbles and stones that fall from the sky.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Idling Times
I'm two thirds of the way through my Spring Break and I have been idling my engines much of the time. Seems appropriate, then, to ponder the pluses (and minuses) of idling on this, the Ides of March.
Heading into this Spring Break, I was in a "clinging to the prospect of down time with the nubs of my fingernails" frame of mind. Desperate for time away from school, my focus was strictly on getting to the break, not on what I'd do once I got there. As a result, I have floated rather aimlessly through it, and not always in a state of satisfaction.
That last admission is a sore point for me. I have always considered myself good with down time, so why the long face in the midst of so much of it this past week? Maybe because, like someone sitting in an idling car at a long light, I felt as if I was eventually going to get somewhere. But I didn't.
I tumbled into this break with no goals whatsoever--with no plan, no new book to lose myself in, and no energy to hit the road to discover something new. Instead, I spent my days and nights in half-hearted commitment, broken up with small naps, too much snacking and the occasional bright spot (hot tubbing with family and friends, a meal with extended family, completing the Sunday NY Times crossword in pen, without cheating).
That's the danger of idling--feeling stuck between the "just did" and "heading to," while overlooking the "right now" in the process.
This morning, Finn and I took an extra long walk, stopping frequently to spot a meandering line of geese who most certainly have a plan. I actually had a goal before I set out on the walk--to walk long enough to shake the blahs. No surprise that nature provided the remedy, blanketed in bird song and beautiful clouds, and somewhere in Woods Park, among the melting pools of snow and the bare spots of wet earth, I shed my monkey mind and just...was.
I am always at my best, my most content, when the "right now" is enough, when I am full of this very moment with no concern for the next. That contentedness has nothing to do with idling or twiddling one's thumbs. It comes with showing up and paying attention.
The good news is that I've still got nearly three days of vacation. You can bet I won't waste them in "idle."
Heading into this Spring Break, I was in a "clinging to the prospect of down time with the nubs of my fingernails" frame of mind. Desperate for time away from school, my focus was strictly on getting to the break, not on what I'd do once I got there. As a result, I have floated rather aimlessly through it, and not always in a state of satisfaction.
That last admission is a sore point for me. I have always considered myself good with down time, so why the long face in the midst of so much of it this past week? Maybe because, like someone sitting in an idling car at a long light, I felt as if I was eventually going to get somewhere. But I didn't.
I tumbled into this break with no goals whatsoever--with no plan, no new book to lose myself in, and no energy to hit the road to discover something new. Instead, I spent my days and nights in half-hearted commitment, broken up with small naps, too much snacking and the occasional bright spot (hot tubbing with family and friends, a meal with extended family, completing the Sunday NY Times crossword in pen, without cheating).
That's the danger of idling--feeling stuck between the "just did" and "heading to," while overlooking the "right now" in the process.
This morning, Finn and I took an extra long walk, stopping frequently to spot a meandering line of geese who most certainly have a plan. I actually had a goal before I set out on the walk--to walk long enough to shake the blahs. No surprise that nature provided the remedy, blanketed in bird song and beautiful clouds, and somewhere in Woods Park, among the melting pools of snow and the bare spots of wet earth, I shed my monkey mind and just...was.
I am always at my best, my most content, when the "right now" is enough, when I am full of this very moment with no concern for the next. That contentedness has nothing to do with idling or twiddling one's thumbs. It comes with showing up and paying attention.
The good news is that I've still got nearly three days of vacation. You can bet I won't waste them in "idle."
Saturday, March 9, 2013
CH-CH-CH Changes
I remember being in junior high (that's what we called it back then) when some man came over to our house one night to talk to my parents about funeral planning.
Ewwww, I thought.
I am not quite sure when I woke up to this new age, but I most certainly am there. Oh, I haven't contacted a funeral planner and I have yet to buy a small plot of land (I keep begging Mark to just toss me over the fence some dark night--it's only a three-block walk, after all), but I most certainly have arrived on the other side of that "Ewwww" place of my youth.
Suddenly, these are my friends undergoing the knife, my friends who are announcing their retirements, my friends whose names are appearing in the obituary column.
It seems I no longer have the luxury of vague acquaintances.
But all is not lost. I know this.
In fact, maybe just the opposite is true. Maybe I'm finally at the point where I can take the helm of my middling ship, assuming I've got the nerve. How appropriate that, this morning, a line from t.s. eliot's "Ash Wednesday" comes to mind: "Teach me to care and not to care." Such an undertaking can only come with having lived a bit, I think.
Consider my small revelation of a month ago, when I realized my family would be fine if I made but half the salary I make today. The mere thought had a profound effect on my state of mind, and I felt immediately unburdened by circumstances I had found myself in. Are these circumstances immediately out of my control? Maybe. But it turns out that I still possess some control, after all. And it might be the most important kind of control--I still have the choice to live differently.
Even as I type this, I feel the familiar warmth that comes with the mere possibility of change. It's only 6:30 in the morning, yet I've already been serenaded for an hour by the insistent song of Robins, so full of hope and possibility that they couldn't wait for the sun to begin their singing. Ah, and here comes intercession of Cardinal song.
I welcome these avian flash mobs. The steadiness of nature--its ability to show up, transformed, year after year after year--is a welcomed reality in this new age I find myself in. That this transformation also is a surprise, despite its constancy, is a bonus to me, as well.
And so, despite the gravitational forces that literally are bringing me down, despite the occasionally discouraging news--both personal and global--I manage to wake with hope, knowing that because of my age, rather than despite it, I am not stuck.
Indeed, I am freer than ever.
Ewwww, I thought.
I am not quite sure when I woke up to this new age, but I most certainly am there. Oh, I haven't contacted a funeral planner and I have yet to buy a small plot of land (I keep begging Mark to just toss me over the fence some dark night--it's only a three-block walk, after all), but I most certainly have arrived on the other side of that "Ewwww" place of my youth.
Suddenly, these are my friends undergoing the knife, my friends who are announcing their retirements, my friends whose names are appearing in the obituary column.
It seems I no longer have the luxury of vague acquaintances.
But all is not lost. I know this.
In fact, maybe just the opposite is true. Maybe I'm finally at the point where I can take the helm of my middling ship, assuming I've got the nerve. How appropriate that, this morning, a line from t.s. eliot's "Ash Wednesday" comes to mind: "Teach me to care and not to care." Such an undertaking can only come with having lived a bit, I think.
Consider my small revelation of a month ago, when I realized my family would be fine if I made but half the salary I make today. The mere thought had a profound effect on my state of mind, and I felt immediately unburdened by circumstances I had found myself in. Are these circumstances immediately out of my control? Maybe. But it turns out that I still possess some control, after all. And it might be the most important kind of control--I still have the choice to live differently.
Even as I type this, I feel the familiar warmth that comes with the mere possibility of change. It's only 6:30 in the morning, yet I've already been serenaded for an hour by the insistent song of Robins, so full of hope and possibility that they couldn't wait for the sun to begin their singing. Ah, and here comes intercession of Cardinal song.
I welcome these avian flash mobs. The steadiness of nature--its ability to show up, transformed, year after year after year--is a welcomed reality in this new age I find myself in. That this transformation also is a surprise, despite its constancy, is a bonus to me, as well.
And so, despite the gravitational forces that literally are bringing me down, despite the occasionally discouraging news--both personal and global--I manage to wake with hope, knowing that because of my age, rather than despite it, I am not stuck.
Indeed, I am freer than ever.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Loopy Love
Mark and I bought an '89 Toyota Camry in 1992, amazed to discover that, by then, automatic windows were standard features in a car. Prior to that purchase, neither of us had ever had a car with automatic windows. I remember actually worrying a bit that someone might think us frivolous for the caddy way in which we'd now access fresh air--with a simple move from our cocky, casual fingers, sending electronic signals to the car to please do the hard work for us.
Yeah, I've pretty much been out of the loop my whole life. Lest you feel sorry for me, though, you should know that there is a really great silver lining to my ignorance--namely, I am easy to amaze.
Like President Bush fumbling with the food scanners at the local Hinky Dinky, I've stood, slack jawed and speechless, at similar moments in my life, although I've never held political office, and I know how to sack my own groceries, thank God.
The grocery store still holds mysteries for me, though. Granted, these are mysteries that others have discovered long ago, but their newness to me keeps me coming back. Thanks to my weekly treks to the store, I've seen pig snouts and lutefisk, lingonberries and pumelos. I'm still a bit speechless after having seen brussel sprouts on the stalk (what the what?!). And that sighting was over two months ago.
I can barely read a newspaper without drooling, so full of discoveries are its pages. Just this morning, I learned that the winner of the Iditarod wins $50,400 and that the Vatican now employs a former Fox News reporter (see "Brussel Sprouts on the Stalk"). One thing I already knew about the paper, though, is that it's a lousy idea to send in a photo of someone you love. The "Celebrate" section should be renamed "Celibate," considering how many people sleep alone after it comes out.
My discoveries aren't limited to the realms of newsprint and grocery aisles, though. Last night at a restaurant, I learned that "ouef" means "egg" in French. I still didn't eat it, but now I knew!
I also learn a lot at school. On Friday, I found out from a newly-shorn student that Locks of Love won't accept dyed hair. WHO KNEW?! Also on Friday, I tried my first-ever brussel sprout (off the stalk, alas) and learned that I my farts could replicate a vegetable with amazing accuracy. And two weeks ago, I learned that my school friend, Marcus--a goofball, if ever there was one--actually knows what he's talking about, at least when it comes to weather.
Some days, I long for the smugness of my in-the-know friends. I see how they slink along, all cool and casual, as though there is nothing new under the sun. They are like movie stars, swatting away the paparazzi and the little people, as they download some app that'll point them to the next big thing. Sure, a part of me longs for that coolness, that yawning boredom with it all. But then I go someplace like Rocket Fizz and find a bottle of Leninade Communist Soda and a Whatchamacallit candy bar and I realize how great the world is, all shiny and sweet. Who wants to give that up? Certainly not me.
After all, every cool thing (or person) needs a starry-eyed fan club. I, for one, am up for the task.
Yeah, I've pretty much been out of the loop my whole life. Lest you feel sorry for me, though, you should know that there is a really great silver lining to my ignorance--namely, I am easy to amaze.
Like President Bush fumbling with the food scanners at the local Hinky Dinky, I've stood, slack jawed and speechless, at similar moments in my life, although I've never held political office, and I know how to sack my own groceries, thank God.
The grocery store still holds mysteries for me, though. Granted, these are mysteries that others have discovered long ago, but their newness to me keeps me coming back. Thanks to my weekly treks to the store, I've seen pig snouts and lutefisk, lingonberries and pumelos. I'm still a bit speechless after having seen brussel sprouts on the stalk (what the what?!). And that sighting was over two months ago.
I can barely read a newspaper without drooling, so full of discoveries are its pages. Just this morning, I learned that the winner of the Iditarod wins $50,400 and that the Vatican now employs a former Fox News reporter (see "Brussel Sprouts on the Stalk"). One thing I already knew about the paper, though, is that it's a lousy idea to send in a photo of someone you love. The "Celebrate" section should be renamed "Celibate," considering how many people sleep alone after it comes out.
My discoveries aren't limited to the realms of newsprint and grocery aisles, though. Last night at a restaurant, I learned that "ouef" means "egg" in French. I still didn't eat it, but now I knew!
I also learn a lot at school. On Friday, I found out from a newly-shorn student that Locks of Love won't accept dyed hair. WHO KNEW?! Also on Friday, I tried my first-ever brussel sprout (off the stalk, alas) and learned that I my farts could replicate a vegetable with amazing accuracy. And two weeks ago, I learned that my school friend, Marcus--a goofball, if ever there was one--actually knows what he's talking about, at least when it comes to weather.
Some days, I long for the smugness of my in-the-know friends. I see how they slink along, all cool and casual, as though there is nothing new under the sun. They are like movie stars, swatting away the paparazzi and the little people, as they download some app that'll point them to the next big thing. Sure, a part of me longs for that coolness, that yawning boredom with it all. But then I go someplace like Rocket Fizz and find a bottle of Leninade Communist Soda and a Whatchamacallit candy bar and I realize how great the world is, all shiny and sweet. Who wants to give that up? Certainly not me.
After all, every cool thing (or person) needs a starry-eyed fan club. I, for one, am up for the task.
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