I like to think of myself as a modern-thinking guy when it comes to gender roles in our household. I'm fine if Karen wants to have a career or doesn't want to have a career. I do my share of the housework. I don't feel the need to be the driver every time we go somewhere in the car. I will watch the occasional Oprah. (But not The View! That's the kind of show that keeps me going back to the office every day.)
Of course, there is a tradeoff with all of this. I will not also fill all of the traditional duties that my father's generation took care of. I don't want to nor do I feel compelled to manage our budget. A woman can handle a snowblower just as well as a guy can. And you'd better have low expectations when it comes to household repair and home improvement. My dad can't cook a pork chop but he can single-handedly put on an entire addition to a house. Sadly, these particular genes didn't roll downhill to me, and there's nothing in my liberal arts schooling or years of office-based employment to counteract this. As my grandfather once pointed out, "I was never very good at home improvement stuff but your dad is really good. That skill must skip generations in our family." And just like that he threw himself and his grandson under the bus.
This non-skill was never more evident than in a recent incident involving a leak in our daughter's bathroom. I'm not completely useless around the house -- I can do a few minor things without blowing up the place. But if you want something complicated done then we're going to have to call in the experts. It was in this vein that I tried to pin down the source of the leak in Jenna's tub spout, thinking it was low-risk for household destruction and insurance adjuster visits.
My Holmesian detection skills eventually determined that the source of the slow drip-drip from the spout probably originated in the faucet where water flow and temperature were governed. I started looking for a way to get at a washer in the assembly which I figured was the real culprit. In the back of my mind I had a whisper of a thought that maybe I should turn off the water but figured I wasn't going to go that far into plumbing innards. (<sniff> <sniff> Yes, this has the faint aroma of foreshadowing.)
After some superficial poking around I found a way to unscrew the faucet handle cover. Or what I thought was the faucet handle cover. After a couple of twists it came loose and an immediate geyser of water burst from where I had just removed the cover, which we all know now wasn't just the cover but the entire assembly. If the fire department ever has to show up to extinguish roaring flames in our house, I would be happy if their hoses produced half the water pressure flying out of Jenna's shower right now.
My brain now operated on two levels. At a superficial level I immediately attempted to put the faucet assembly back on while this torrent of water began to fill the tub. At a lower level I felt like I was in a classic sitcom situation. With all of the water pressure there was no way I was getting that faucet back on. But I made a game attempt anyway, completely drenching myself in a futile effort while also mentally running through my catalog of Seinfeld and Three's Company episodes to recall if any applied here.
After about 10 seconds of that aquatic insanity I realized the clock was ticking before the house would be flooded. The pressure was such that the water stream bursting from the pipe reached the opposite wall of the tiled shower/tub area in a straight line. I finally dropped the faucet assembly and flew down two flights of stairs to the basement to find the water shutoff valve. Along the way I tried to confidently convey to my daughter, in a .8 second window as I passed her on the couch, that I had 1) encountered a minor problem in her bathroom, 2) was going to shut off the water in the house, and 3) Don't be alarmed! Everything's under control! Your dad knows what to do!
As luck would have it I found the shutoff valve fairly quickly. One of the arrows in my meager quiver of household usefulness is knowing where to shut off the water to our lawn sprinkler system. I found a similar-looking valve lower in the copper piping, turned it off, and listened as water gradually stopped moving through our pipes. Now, back upstairs to assess the damage.
There was a fair bit of standing water but nothing cataclysmic. More concerning were the faucet parts strewn about the tub. They had come flying out with the explosion of water and I had no idea how they went back together. This was like putting together a puzzle with no picture on the cover of the box. The one guiding principle I kept in mind was, "Having parts left over is not good."
I'm sure you will be shocked -- SHOCKED -- to learn that I was not able to successfully put the faucet back together myself. Much later I learned that two small key parts had slipped down the drain in the torrent of water. So I was NEVER going to get this thing together without help. At that point I initiated my "break glass in case of emergency" option of last resort: call Dad.
When I'm out of my league around the house -- which is often -- my dad can usually restore order. I feel bad that if Jenna is in a similar situation in her house later on in life she's going to call me and I'll come over, wander around earnestly but cluelessly, and then help her look up a plumber on the Googlenet. My dad did some hemming and hawing, figured out the puzzle without the cover picture, spear-headed a quick trip to Home Depot, and got the thing working again. The faucet was restored, the water was turned on, and people could pee again.
Most of the couples in my generation that I know have an overlap of skills: both can do laundry, both can cook, both can hold down a corporate job. But many of us have gaps in these skills that require outside help that older generations handled themselves. Maybe my dad can't do a load of laundry but he can do a bunch of other stuff I've never gotten the hang of which is his contribution to a balanced household. That night I retreated into my comfort zone of known skills and made dinner to compensate for my particular shortcomings that day.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Camping Trip to End All (My) Camping Trips
When I was 13 I went on a camping trip that simultaneously ended my desire to be a Boy Scout and permanently quenched any thirst to go camping at all. What kind of outdoor outing will do that to a young lad? Well lemme tell ya.
My scout troop signed up for Okpic High Adventure camping in Ely, MN. Okpic apparently means "pointless suffering" in Lakota. Upon arrival at the camp site we were issued military-caliber cold weather survival clothing, which was my third sign I was in deep trouble. The first two signs were, 1) I was outdoors in Minnesota in February, and 2) although it was plenty cold at home already, that wasn't good enough for us and we drove 6 hours straight north to get to this place. The fact that we were not technically in the Arctic Circle was merely semantics for geography geeks.
Perhaps in other cultures I would have been considered a man at age 13. But I was nowhere near that in my own suburb-based culture, and neither were my scout pals. The only reason we're still alive is due to the military clothing and the dads that were with us. We geared up like gangly, unsure Michelin men and camped the first night in large tents, the kids in one and the dads in another.
The next morning the dads yelled at us to get going. As is typical in youth camping trips the adults were super organized, already well fed, coffee in hand and gear packed up in spite of temperatures somewhere near 0. That's Fahrenheit for my Euro metric friends. Us kids were stumbling around in the dark, most afraid to emerge from their sleeping bags due to the bitter cold even inside the tent. Going outside was utterly unthinkable. We were completely useless until one of the dads pulled back the flap of the tent and enough sunlight came in for us to find our asses with both hands and get moving.
Moving, because we weren't at the real campsite yet. That was MUCH farther into the woods, as if the night in the tent wasn't high adventure enough. Would we and our gear be transported there by snowmobile? 4-wheel all terrain vehicle? Oh goodness gracious no. We're hiking it and pulling our gear on sleds. With dubious expressions we were yoked up like oxen to plastic sleds toting food, sleeping bags, cooking gear, and other necessities. We slogged through thick snow, deep woods, up hills, down hills, to grandmothers Arctic refuge we go. Finally the dads found a snowy clearing that suited our simple needs and we collapsed on the spot.
The windchill was well below zero and it was only mid-day. I didn't know it at the time but the Boy Scouts give out a badge if you go camping when the wind chill is 50 below or colder. Oh yeah, I got one of those.
We ate some gruel for lunch. We had two kinds of food on this trip: swill for breakfast and gruel for everything else. I don't think there was any difference in the meals -- it just felt appropriate to name the morning version of the campfire-cooked, squeeze-bottle-butter-covered glop something different.
The primary afternoon activity was igloo making. I'm going to share with you the complex, high-tech steps for making an igloo: You shovel a bunch of snow in a pile. You wait for it to pack down a bit. Then you dig out the inside part. A revelation, I'm sure. Nonetheless, we were not trusted to sleep in an igloo of our own making. The guides directed us to use "pre-owned" igloos.
Before we got the privilege of spending any time in our new homes we had "free time." Fleeing back to civilization was not listed as an option so a handful of us decided to try snowshoeing. My main memory of this revolves around an event that can only occur when a handful of teenage boys are engaging in age/gender-appropriate group(stupid)think.
Kid #1: "Hey, I heard that snow tastes like peanut butter the closer you are to Canada."
Me (utterly incredulous): "No way. I'm trying some."
I used a ski pole to bring some of this allegedly flavorful snow to my mouth. I licked some snow and tasted some snow. And I tasted some metal ski pole. And continued to taste it. Yep, my tongue was stuck. It wasn't a complete whiff since I got some of the snow but that didn't lessen this demonstration of idiocy. I quickly assessed the situation: my tongue was stuck, there was no hot water for 5 miles, and I was not surrounded by medical geniuses. So I rolled the ski pole off my tongue, noting the pinkish residue left behind on the pole. My next free time activity was spitting blood for the ensuing 2 hours.
As soon as the sun went down we went to bed. We were utterly exhausted, the wind was howling in sub-zero conditions, and there was no light to do anything. Three of us could just fit in one igloo. We were asleep in no time.
I learned a couple things about igloo camping. One is: they're a lot warmer than a tent in cold weather conditions. By morning our body heat had warmed up the inside to the point where we couldn't see our breath anymore. The combination of our exhaustion and the increasing warmth allowed us to sleep twelve straight hours.
The second thing, and this is a bit more of a negative, is the ease with which one can brush the inside of the igloo and experience snow cascading down onto one's face. This was not the McMansion of igloos, so my head and feet were right up against the walls. Every time I shifted my head I brushed against the inside wall of snow causing flaky ice to fall onto face. I probably could have slept 16 hours if it wasn't for this constant annoyance.
We had another helping of swill and hiked back. I have no recollection of the return trek probably because all I could think about it was the warm conversion van that would transport me home to normal life. Even homework looked appealing at this point.
Shortly after that I decided I'd had enough of the Boy Scouts. Growing older was part of it. A greatly diminished desire to ever camp again was a bigger part of it. It was a mixture of "I'll never top that" and "I have no desire to do anything like that again." I've only been camping once since then and it could barely be called camping because it was for my friend's bachelor party. The event could more accurately be described as "drinking Jack Daniel's outdoors and passing out in temporary nylon structures called 'tents.'"
My scout troop signed up for Okpic High Adventure camping in Ely, MN. Okpic apparently means "pointless suffering" in Lakota. Upon arrival at the camp site we were issued military-caliber cold weather survival clothing, which was my third sign I was in deep trouble. The first two signs were, 1) I was outdoors in Minnesota in February, and 2) although it was plenty cold at home already, that wasn't good enough for us and we drove 6 hours straight north to get to this place. The fact that we were not technically in the Arctic Circle was merely semantics for geography geeks.
Perhaps in other cultures I would have been considered a man at age 13. But I was nowhere near that in my own suburb-based culture, and neither were my scout pals. The only reason we're still alive is due to the military clothing and the dads that were with us. We geared up like gangly, unsure Michelin men and camped the first night in large tents, the kids in one and the dads in another.
The next morning the dads yelled at us to get going. As is typical in youth camping trips the adults were super organized, already well fed, coffee in hand and gear packed up in spite of temperatures somewhere near 0. That's Fahrenheit for my Euro metric friends. Us kids were stumbling around in the dark, most afraid to emerge from their sleeping bags due to the bitter cold even inside the tent. Going outside was utterly unthinkable. We were completely useless until one of the dads pulled back the flap of the tent and enough sunlight came in for us to find our asses with both hands and get moving.
Moving, because we weren't at the real campsite yet. That was MUCH farther into the woods, as if the night in the tent wasn't high adventure enough. Would we and our gear be transported there by snowmobile? 4-wheel all terrain vehicle? Oh goodness gracious no. We're hiking it and pulling our gear on sleds. With dubious expressions we were yoked up like oxen to plastic sleds toting food, sleeping bags, cooking gear, and other necessities. We slogged through thick snow, deep woods, up hills, down hills, to grandmothers Arctic refuge we go. Finally the dads found a snowy clearing that suited our simple needs and we collapsed on the spot.
The windchill was well below zero and it was only mid-day. I didn't know it at the time but the Boy Scouts give out a badge if you go camping when the wind chill is 50 below or colder. Oh yeah, I got one of those.
We ate some gruel for lunch. We had two kinds of food on this trip: swill for breakfast and gruel for everything else. I don't think there was any difference in the meals -- it just felt appropriate to name the morning version of the campfire-cooked, squeeze-bottle-butter-covered glop something different.
The primary afternoon activity was igloo making. I'm going to share with you the complex, high-tech steps for making an igloo: You shovel a bunch of snow in a pile. You wait for it to pack down a bit. Then you dig out the inside part. A revelation, I'm sure. Nonetheless, we were not trusted to sleep in an igloo of our own making. The guides directed us to use "pre-owned" igloos.
Before we got the privilege of spending any time in our new homes we had "free time." Fleeing back to civilization was not listed as an option so a handful of us decided to try snowshoeing. My main memory of this revolves around an event that can only occur when a handful of teenage boys are engaging in age/gender-appropriate group(stupid)think.
Kid #1: "Hey, I heard that snow tastes like peanut butter the closer you are to Canada."
Me (utterly incredulous): "No way. I'm trying some."
I used a ski pole to bring some of this allegedly flavorful snow to my mouth. I licked some snow and tasted some snow. And I tasted some metal ski pole. And continued to taste it. Yep, my tongue was stuck. It wasn't a complete whiff since I got some of the snow but that didn't lessen this demonstration of idiocy. I quickly assessed the situation: my tongue was stuck, there was no hot water for 5 miles, and I was not surrounded by medical geniuses. So I rolled the ski pole off my tongue, noting the pinkish residue left behind on the pole. My next free time activity was spitting blood for the ensuing 2 hours.
As soon as the sun went down we went to bed. We were utterly exhausted, the wind was howling in sub-zero conditions, and there was no light to do anything. Three of us could just fit in one igloo. We were asleep in no time.
I learned a couple things about igloo camping. One is: they're a lot warmer than a tent in cold weather conditions. By morning our body heat had warmed up the inside to the point where we couldn't see our breath anymore. The combination of our exhaustion and the increasing warmth allowed us to sleep twelve straight hours.
The second thing, and this is a bit more of a negative, is the ease with which one can brush the inside of the igloo and experience snow cascading down onto one's face. This was not the McMansion of igloos, so my head and feet were right up against the walls. Every time I shifted my head I brushed against the inside wall of snow causing flaky ice to fall onto face. I probably could have slept 16 hours if it wasn't for this constant annoyance.
We had another helping of swill and hiked back. I have no recollection of the return trek probably because all I could think about it was the warm conversion van that would transport me home to normal life. Even homework looked appealing at this point.
Shortly after that I decided I'd had enough of the Boy Scouts. Growing older was part of it. A greatly diminished desire to ever camp again was a bigger part of it. It was a mixture of "I'll never top that" and "I have no desire to do anything like that again." I've only been camping once since then and it could barely be called camping because it was for my friend's bachelor party. The event could more accurately be described as "drinking Jack Daniel's outdoors and passing out in temporary nylon structures called 'tents.'"
Monday, November 22, 2010
My "I'm Not a Predator" Shirt
Many people have equated managing IT people to herding cats. That's catchy, but a more accurate phrase for exercising futile leadership over mass chaos is "coaching soccer for primary-school age girls." I have never actually herded cats, but I have managed IT people and I have coached young girls in soccer. Managing IT people is significantly easier.
I've never coached young boys, but coaching young girls in soccer is an act of humility and awkwardness. First of all, you're standing in an open field, a 30- or 40-something male with girls half your height and one quarter your age littered around you. Wearing your city-league logo'ed coach's shirt is imperative so that you're not confused with a deviant predator who has one eye peeled for Chris Hanson and his Dateline film crew. I call it my "I'm Not a Predator" shirt which gives me societal approval to hang around with young girls not related to me.
Second of all, prepare to be ignored. I could be offering free candy like a Dateline fugitive and they'd still quibble with your request to perform a drill, assuming they heard you at all. "Do we have to?" "Why would we do that?" "Can I be goalie?" This is a passing drill with no goalie. "Can I be goalie?" Any nanosecond of inactivity in a drill and you lose their attention to chit-chat or grass-picking. Young girls soccer is the scourge of grass activists.
As a result, my favorite part of coaching girls' soccer was the games. I can now better appreciate NBA star Allan Iverson's infamous rebuttal to the media when asked why he skipped a practice, "Practice? We talkin' 'bout practice!" The game is the thing. Right on, Allan.
Games were simple. You assign positions, rotate every 5 minutes, and yell if they go in the wrong direction. Unlike practice, the game provides the built-in structure that keeps them from picking grass (for the most part). Even a soccer dimwit like myself can coach a game and utter safe bromides like, "Pass!" and "Our goal is THAT way!" With coaches yelling and all of the parents shouting all the girls heard anyway was, "BLAHHHHHHHHHHH!" as if someone had given the adult voice in the Peanuts TV specials a bullhorn. Eventually some enterprising girl with determination and persistence, the key attributes for soccer success at that age rather than ability, would break free and score. At those age levels we weren't supposed to keep score, so of course everyone kept score.
I gave up coaching when it became apparent that the quality of practices was becoming much more important to the girls' development. When my daughter graduated to traveling soccer (St. Michael during rush hour? Really?) and the ratio of practices to games went from 1:10 to 3:1, my complete lack of soccer knowledge and I bid adieu to the coaching ranks. I will return to my comfort zone of herding cats at the office.
I've never coached young boys, but coaching young girls in soccer is an act of humility and awkwardness. First of all, you're standing in an open field, a 30- or 40-something male with girls half your height and one quarter your age littered around you. Wearing your city-league logo'ed coach's shirt is imperative so that you're not confused with a deviant predator who has one eye peeled for Chris Hanson and his Dateline film crew. I call it my "I'm Not a Predator" shirt which gives me societal approval to hang around with young girls not related to me.
Second of all, prepare to be ignored. I could be offering free candy like a Dateline fugitive and they'd still quibble with your request to perform a drill, assuming they heard you at all. "Do we have to?" "Why would we do that?" "Can I be goalie?" This is a passing drill with no goalie. "Can I be goalie?" Any nanosecond of inactivity in a drill and you lose their attention to chit-chat or grass-picking. Young girls soccer is the scourge of grass activists.
As a result, my favorite part of coaching girls' soccer was the games. I can now better appreciate NBA star Allan Iverson's infamous rebuttal to the media when asked why he skipped a practice, "Practice? We talkin' 'bout practice!" The game is the thing. Right on, Allan.
Games were simple. You assign positions, rotate every 5 minutes, and yell if they go in the wrong direction. Unlike practice, the game provides the built-in structure that keeps them from picking grass (for the most part). Even a soccer dimwit like myself can coach a game and utter safe bromides like, "Pass!" and "Our goal is THAT way!" With coaches yelling and all of the parents shouting all the girls heard anyway was, "BLAHHHHHHHHHHH!" as if someone had given the adult voice in the Peanuts TV specials a bullhorn. Eventually some enterprising girl with determination and persistence, the key attributes for soccer success at that age rather than ability, would break free and score. At those age levels we weren't supposed to keep score, so of course everyone kept score.
I gave up coaching when it became apparent that the quality of practices was becoming much more important to the girls' development. When my daughter graduated to traveling soccer (St. Michael during rush hour? Really?) and the ratio of practices to games went from 1:10 to 3:1, my complete lack of soccer knowledge and I bid adieu to the coaching ranks. I will return to my comfort zone of herding cats at the office.
William, Kate, and Getting Jenna Out of the House By Age 35
Once again the world is agog with fresh news about Prince William and Kate and the royal family. Generally I look upon the British monarchy with detached bemusement. I don't get too worked up about them one way or the other, and if the English and most of the western world want to go bananas over them that's fine as long as they have no real political power.
But as I assess their potential impact on my daughter I'll need to engage in some mass stereotyping AND armchair sociology here which should be fun for all and dangerous for some. I know the Cinderella theme is alive and well in most women across the world. The belief that, no matter my background, deep inside I'm special...I'm royalty -- and it's only a matter of time before I'm discovered and then my dreams will come true. Guys have this too but it's more along the lines of "it's only a matter of time before an NBA scout sees the talent inside me and signs me to a contract." Heave another 3 pointer at the driveway hoop. Clang.
I feel bad for poor Kate Middleton, although she opted in for this, unlike William and Harry who were born into the frenzy. Sure, you get to be Princess and someday Queen, assuming the current queen ever decides to call it a reign. You get to live in a big-ass house and you get footmen named Nigel and Clive to iron your clothes and fetch a pint. You get to attend fancy balls where you'll smile pretty for the cameras and shake hands with the Agricultural Minister of Upper Bushwackistan. You can forget worrying that your 401k is underfunded. You can walk into your health club and have the following conversation with your fellow exercisers: "That's right ladies, it's the friggin' Princess. Now make way while I work on the Royal Abs." That is, assuming you ever go out in public again like a normal person.
On the downside, you are now the most scrutinized woman in the world. You step outside, you make the evening news. You change clothes, you make headlines. Vegas bookmakers now have you as the new favorite to surpass Jennifer Aniston as the US Weekly cover photo career titleholder, and this with Ms. Aniston currently holding a 2,214 cover lead. God forbid you step outside with a wedgie, because 30 seconds later some rain farmer in Bangladesh who's standing in 2 feet of water will look at your picture on his iPhone and mutter, "That skirt is all wrong for her."
Now that I have a daughter I'm worried that I need to pay more attention to the William and Kate franchise and what it means for young girls everywhere, or at least mine. Amid all of the hullabaloo lurks the human existence-old theme that a woman's most important career goal is to marry well. Just when you think you've nearly killed off that old patriarchal axiom here come the Windsors and People Magazine to pull out the paddles and yell, "Clear!" in 72 point font.
Jenna grew up smack dab in the middle of the Disney Princess marketing machine and we've got the DVDs and the costume dresses to prove it. Really, it's no different than boys putting on a Favre jersey and one day hoping to grow up and throw interceptions for a living. But will the relentless media hype about the royals subconsciously influence my daughter's relationship and career behavior? When she is finally of marrying age, will all of this lead to Jenna holding out for Prince Charming to come along? If this means she doesn't move out of the house until Mr. Unrealistically Perfect comes along then we're going to have a problem. Will I have to be the realist that pushes her toward the good-enough local candidate? Is this where "settling" comes from? "Jenna, what's wrong with good ol' Chester here? He's got a good job, he's never been to prison, and he has most of his fingers. Plus, I want to convert your room into a sauna."
William and Kate, I'll be keeping my eye on you. Along with 2 billion other people.
But as I assess their potential impact on my daughter I'll need to engage in some mass stereotyping AND armchair sociology here which should be fun for all and dangerous for some. I know the Cinderella theme is alive and well in most women across the world. The belief that, no matter my background, deep inside I'm special...I'm royalty -- and it's only a matter of time before I'm discovered and then my dreams will come true. Guys have this too but it's more along the lines of "it's only a matter of time before an NBA scout sees the talent inside me and signs me to a contract." Heave another 3 pointer at the driveway hoop. Clang.
I feel bad for poor Kate Middleton, although she opted in for this, unlike William and Harry who were born into the frenzy. Sure, you get to be Princess and someday Queen, assuming the current queen ever decides to call it a reign. You get to live in a big-ass house and you get footmen named Nigel and Clive to iron your clothes and fetch a pint. You get to attend fancy balls where you'll smile pretty for the cameras and shake hands with the Agricultural Minister of Upper Bushwackistan. You can forget worrying that your 401k is underfunded. You can walk into your health club and have the following conversation with your fellow exercisers: "That's right ladies, it's the friggin' Princess. Now make way while I work on the Royal Abs." That is, assuming you ever go out in public again like a normal person.
On the downside, you are now the most scrutinized woman in the world. You step outside, you make the evening news. You change clothes, you make headlines. Vegas bookmakers now have you as the new favorite to surpass Jennifer Aniston as the US Weekly cover photo career titleholder, and this with Ms. Aniston currently holding a 2,214 cover lead. God forbid you step outside with a wedgie, because 30 seconds later some rain farmer in Bangladesh who's standing in 2 feet of water will look at your picture on his iPhone and mutter, "That skirt is all wrong for her."
Now that I have a daughter I'm worried that I need to pay more attention to the William and Kate franchise and what it means for young girls everywhere, or at least mine. Amid all of the hullabaloo lurks the human existence-old theme that a woman's most important career goal is to marry well. Just when you think you've nearly killed off that old patriarchal axiom here come the Windsors and People Magazine to pull out the paddles and yell, "Clear!" in 72 point font.
Jenna grew up smack dab in the middle of the Disney Princess marketing machine and we've got the DVDs and the costume dresses to prove it. Really, it's no different than boys putting on a Favre jersey and one day hoping to grow up and throw interceptions for a living. But will the relentless media hype about the royals subconsciously influence my daughter's relationship and career behavior? When she is finally of marrying age, will all of this lead to Jenna holding out for Prince Charming to come along? If this means she doesn't move out of the house until Mr. Unrealistically Perfect comes along then we're going to have a problem. Will I have to be the realist that pushes her toward the good-enough local candidate? Is this where "settling" comes from? "Jenna, what's wrong with good ol' Chester here? He's got a good job, he's never been to prison, and he has most of his fingers. Plus, I want to convert your room into a sauna."
William and Kate, I'll be keeping my eye on you. Along with 2 billion other people.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Apocalypse of Boredom
I've been to diversity training. Multiple times. I sit through day-long meetings frequently. I survived 8th grade geography with "Borin'" Gaughran. I've been to the middle of North Dakota. But on the boredom scale all of those pale in comparison to the week I spent in traction a week before my 13th birthday.
That would be the summer of '82. I had my first real job: a paper route so I could save money for a Panasonic boombox. Little League was in full swing, so to speak. At the end of that June, near the conclusion of a week of confirmation camp for my church that was dominated more by hormones and puberty than the bible, I felt a twinge in my hip. To make a long blog short, within days my hip was in excruciating pain, my spine was curved, I could barely move, and the doctor prescribed traction in the hospital. This was the initial onset of my rheumatoid arthritis, except the doctors didn't know that yet but that story is for another day.
For those who don't know what traction is, think of it as an HMO-approved torture device. You lie on your back and they attach weights to booties which go on your feet. It's not a heavy weight, so the real pain is that you can't move. For days. The doctors couldn't tell if my hip was screwing up my back or vice versa, so I think they flipped a coin and it came up "back."
So let's review the bidding: it's the summer of '82. No internet. No iPods. Walkmans existed but I didn't have one. Cable TV existed but it was not ubiquitous in institutional settings. So what electronic entertainment did I have? Channels 2, 4, 5, 9, and 11. That, and books. Even the utter boredom of the hospital couldn't drive me to watch soap operas, and I was well past Sesame Street age for channel 2, so that left time-tested reruns on local channel 9. I watched more Laverne and Shirley that week than I care to discuss. Squiggy, c'mon man. Daytime TV still gives me the willies and is the best thing for getting me back in the office when I'm ill.
Imagine being on your back for a week with almost nothing to do. Diversity training starts to look good about now, right? It's not like my hospital room cohabitants were providing any witty repartee. The first kid had given himself 3rd degree burns trying to clean his matchbox cars with gasoline and, apparently, an open flame. He wasn't horribly disfigured so I can now get away with saying he was probably my first encounter with a future Darwin Award winner. And I don't think his folks got Parents of the Year that year, either. Just guessin.' The second kid had some kind of fetal-position-inducing (in me) procedure done on his (little) man region that his dad had to explain in a serious monotone. That kid never said much of anything, nor would I if I thought opening my mouth might have invited inquiries into my predicament.
There were only two episodes of notable excitement that week. The first was when they wheeled me downstairs for something called an arthrogram. ("Ooooh! I'm getting out of the room!") A medical textbook will tell you that an arthrogram is a procedure where a physician can look inside a joint with an inserted camera. I will tell you that it is an ordeal where the doctor sticks three giant needles right into your hip and digs around like he's looking for his Audi keys. For 30 minutes. Without anesthetic. "Maybe I left them here. Or here. Or here." I still consider that more painful than any of the kidney stones I've had. (I'm a medical marvel, ain't I?)
The second incident of note was the day when a nurse burst in and declared loud enough to be heard all the way in Hopkins, "Mr. Carl, we note that you haven't had a bowel movement in several days. I'll need to give you this suppository." At the tender age of nearly-13 I was wise enough to know where a suppository ends up. Right at that moment I needed an Ed McMahon-type sidekick to provide a "Heyyyy-ohhhhhh!" I announced confidently that I could produce some war materiel right then and there (ok, I didn't use that phrase at the time but it fits), shucked the traction booties in nanoseconds, hobbled to the bathroom before the nurse could offer a rebuttal, and set to work like my life depended on it. Which, at that age, it seemed like it did since dying of embarrassment is a real pre-teen affliction. Fortunately my intestinal tract came through for me.
Other than those heart-stopping moments it was an endless cycle of cheesy re-runs, staring out the window at summer going by, reading books ("The Bourne Identity" was one, then I had to wait 20 years for the movie), and hospital food. I remember my mom gamely trying to raise my spirits before arriving at the hospital by telling me that hospital food was great and they let you pick what you want from a menu! I later learned what every adult knew: everything tasted the same regardless of what color it was. Nice try, though, Mom.
After exactly one week to the minute from my arrival I was discharged from the Big House in a wheelchair. I bid farewell to Nurse Suppository and Gasoline Boy and Unspeakable Procedure Boy and 3-Needles of Death Doctor and Laverne and Shirley and Lenny and Squiggy and an electrically adjustable bed that gets much less interesting after 30 minutes, much less 7 days. Now when I'm stuck doing something horrifically dull I can look back with a smirk and think, "Dull? I set the bar on dull pretty high back in the day. You young'uns haven't even seen dull."
That would be the summer of '82. I had my first real job: a paper route so I could save money for a Panasonic boombox. Little League was in full swing, so to speak. At the end of that June, near the conclusion of a week of confirmation camp for my church that was dominated more by hormones and puberty than the bible, I felt a twinge in my hip. To make a long blog short, within days my hip was in excruciating pain, my spine was curved, I could barely move, and the doctor prescribed traction in the hospital. This was the initial onset of my rheumatoid arthritis, except the doctors didn't know that yet but that story is for another day.
For those who don't know what traction is, think of it as an HMO-approved torture device. You lie on your back and they attach weights to booties which go on your feet. It's not a heavy weight, so the real pain is that you can't move. For days. The doctors couldn't tell if my hip was screwing up my back or vice versa, so I think they flipped a coin and it came up "back."
So let's review the bidding: it's the summer of '82. No internet. No iPods. Walkmans existed but I didn't have one. Cable TV existed but it was not ubiquitous in institutional settings. So what electronic entertainment did I have? Channels 2, 4, 5, 9, and 11. That, and books. Even the utter boredom of the hospital couldn't drive me to watch soap operas, and I was well past Sesame Street age for channel 2, so that left time-tested reruns on local channel 9. I watched more Laverne and Shirley that week than I care to discuss. Squiggy, c'mon man. Daytime TV still gives me the willies and is the best thing for getting me back in the office when I'm ill.
Imagine being on your back for a week with almost nothing to do. Diversity training starts to look good about now, right? It's not like my hospital room cohabitants were providing any witty repartee. The first kid had given himself 3rd degree burns trying to clean his matchbox cars with gasoline and, apparently, an open flame. He wasn't horribly disfigured so I can now get away with saying he was probably my first encounter with a future Darwin Award winner. And I don't think his folks got Parents of the Year that year, either. Just guessin.' The second kid had some kind of fetal-position-inducing (in me) procedure done on his (little) man region that his dad had to explain in a serious monotone. That kid never said much of anything, nor would I if I thought opening my mouth might have invited inquiries into my predicament.
There were only two episodes of notable excitement that week. The first was when they wheeled me downstairs for something called an arthrogram. ("Ooooh! I'm getting out of the room!") A medical textbook will tell you that an arthrogram is a procedure where a physician can look inside a joint with an inserted camera. I will tell you that it is an ordeal where the doctor sticks three giant needles right into your hip and digs around like he's looking for his Audi keys. For 30 minutes. Without anesthetic. "Maybe I left them here. Or here. Or here." I still consider that more painful than any of the kidney stones I've had. (I'm a medical marvel, ain't I?)
The second incident of note was the day when a nurse burst in and declared loud enough to be heard all the way in Hopkins, "Mr. Carl, we note that you haven't had a bowel movement in several days. I'll need to give you this suppository." At the tender age of nearly-13 I was wise enough to know where a suppository ends up. Right at that moment I needed an Ed McMahon-type sidekick to provide a "Heyyyy-ohhhhhh!" I announced confidently that I could produce some war materiel right then and there (ok, I didn't use that phrase at the time but it fits), shucked the traction booties in nanoseconds, hobbled to the bathroom before the nurse could offer a rebuttal, and set to work like my life depended on it. Which, at that age, it seemed like it did since dying of embarrassment is a real pre-teen affliction. Fortunately my intestinal tract came through for me.
Other than those heart-stopping moments it was an endless cycle of cheesy re-runs, staring out the window at summer going by, reading books ("The Bourne Identity" was one, then I had to wait 20 years for the movie), and hospital food. I remember my mom gamely trying to raise my spirits before arriving at the hospital by telling me that hospital food was great and they let you pick what you want from a menu! I later learned what every adult knew: everything tasted the same regardless of what color it was. Nice try, though, Mom.
After exactly one week to the minute from my arrival I was discharged from the Big House in a wheelchair. I bid farewell to Nurse Suppository and Gasoline Boy and Unspeakable Procedure Boy and 3-Needles of Death Doctor and Laverne and Shirley and Lenny and Squiggy and an electrically adjustable bed that gets much less interesting after 30 minutes, much less 7 days. Now when I'm stuck doing something horrifically dull I can look back with a smirk and think, "Dull? I set the bar on dull pretty high back in the day. You young'uns haven't even seen dull."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Blogtacular Blogtacular
Does the world need another blog? No. Does the world need another vanity-satisfying soapbox for an insufferable wise-ass? Certainly not. But I may need these things. I have always had a creative writing bent that I have needed to funnel through brief Facebook posts, absurd out-of-office messages, and unusual spins on dry topics at the office. I prefer complete sentences so I'm not going to Twitter. So I'm going to try this.
My topics will likely center around "corporate suburban dad observing life, job, family, sports, and pop culture." That should cover just about anything as I have a tendency in my life to keep my career options open. It would be nice if a couple people read this as I prefer to write for an audience, even if it's an audience of one.
If no one cares about this then my backup plan is to use this as a compendium of drivel for Jenna to analyze for some sort of family analysis retrospective for a college sociology assignment, where her concluding statement will inevitably be, "I got 50% of my genes from this dufus?"
Please keep in mind that "creative writing bent" does not equal "artistic style." It may be a while before this site is distinguishable from what goes in Josie's dog dish.
And we're off...
My topics will likely center around "corporate suburban dad observing life, job, family, sports, and pop culture." That should cover just about anything as I have a tendency in my life to keep my career options open. It would be nice if a couple people read this as I prefer to write for an audience, even if it's an audience of one.
If no one cares about this then my backup plan is to use this as a compendium of drivel for Jenna to analyze for some sort of family analysis retrospective for a college sociology assignment, where her concluding statement will inevitably be, "I got 50% of my genes from this dufus?"
Please keep in mind that "creative writing bent" does not equal "artistic style." It may be a while before this site is distinguishable from what goes in Josie's dog dish.
And we're off...
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