Saturday, December 31, 2011
Odd Days: Confession
I have a character flaw. It might have cost me my first marriage. In fact, it was during said marriage that the flaw became apparent to me, although it's conceivable that it was apparent to others long before.
Early in our marriage, H#1 and I took a recreational trip to Reno during one of the winter months. Lots of ice and snow. We exited a casino late one night and were walking to our car, when all of a sudden H#1's feet flew out from under him and he did a flying plank, landing on his back on the sidewalk, with his skull hitting the pavement a nanosecond later.
I did what seems to come naturally to me in these situations, I burst into peals of laughter. Mind you, he was not moving. And yes, it was possible that he had died on impact. Like I said, it's a character flaw. And like I said, we are now divorced.
Flash forward 40 years. Day before yesterday, I went out to get the mail. It was windy, but not atypical. With mail in hand, I turned to go back toward the house when a mighty -- and I mean MIGHTY -- gust of wind blew me right out of my shoes. I am not exaggerating. I went up, my shoes came off and miraculously I landed on my feet again although there was a stone under one foot which made me howl. Meanwhile, my shoes were blowing toward hell or highwater across the great plain that is our front yard, so off I went in pursuit -- through the stones, the prickles, the broken branches, the rabbit poop.
Some time later, I caught up with my shoes and gingerly made my way back to the house. I opened the front door, and what do you think I found in the foyer? I'll tell you. It was Durf, doubled over in laughter.
This particular flaw must be contagious. Either that or Durf wants a divorce.
Early in our marriage, H#1 and I took a recreational trip to Reno during one of the winter months. Lots of ice and snow. We exited a casino late one night and were walking to our car, when all of a sudden H#1's feet flew out from under him and he did a flying plank, landing on his back on the sidewalk, with his skull hitting the pavement a nanosecond later.
I did what seems to come naturally to me in these situations, I burst into peals of laughter. Mind you, he was not moving. And yes, it was possible that he had died on impact. Like I said, it's a character flaw. And like I said, we are now divorced.
Flash forward 40 years. Day before yesterday, I went out to get the mail. It was windy, but not atypical. With mail in hand, I turned to go back toward the house when a mighty -- and I mean MIGHTY -- gust of wind blew me right out of my shoes. I am not exaggerating. I went up, my shoes came off and miraculously I landed on my feet again although there was a stone under one foot which made me howl. Meanwhile, my shoes were blowing toward hell or highwater across the great plain that is our front yard, so off I went in pursuit -- through the stones, the prickles, the broken branches, the rabbit poop.
Some time later, I caught up with my shoes and gingerly made my way back to the house. I opened the front door, and what do you think I found in the foyer? I'll tell you. It was Durf, doubled over in laughter.
This particular flaw must be contagious. Either that or Durf wants a divorce.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Odd Days: Statistics, love 'em or ignore 'em
If you are wondering why my voice has not been heard here recently, it's because I came down with a sound-stifling case of laryngitis.
This wouldn't be the first time I've lost my voice. It used to be a regular affliction. I remember one terrible two week period during which I could not emit a squeak, and yet I insisted on continuing to frequent bridge clubs and tournaments, forcing opponents to read my lips. When there was a dispute, I was unable to make my usual witheringly snide remarks and had to resort to glaring, which was totally unsatisfying because nobody would look at me.
But I digress. My belief is that I have a genetic predisposition to laryngitis. Of course now that I've submitted my spit for genotyping, I am suddenly of the opinion that all of my personality traits are genetic. I have in my possession predictions about me (based on statistics for my genotype) that run the gamut from eye color to likelihood of coming down (up?) with Parkinson's Disease. I carry the report around with me so that I can understand my behavior at any given moment.
Some of the results are downright insulting (I'm an "unlikely sprinter"). Others are flattering. Take pain tolerance, for example. I have spent the first 61 years of my life warning doctors that I have a low threshold of pain. I've always been annoyed when they take issue with that statement. But my genotype report indicates that I am likely to have a higher than average threshold of pain. (Never mind that there were only 5 people in the one study that came up with this result. Never mind that I could well have a terribly low threshold of pain in spite of the "likelihood.") On the face of it, I should be flattered. But the more I think about it, the less sure I am that pain tolerance is a good thing. Take an apocalyptic scenario, for example, where there is a limited supply of pain meds, I'd probably be one of the last to get the goods.
I don't like the sound of that.
This wouldn't be the first time I've lost my voice. It used to be a regular affliction. I remember one terrible two week period during which I could not emit a squeak, and yet I insisted on continuing to frequent bridge clubs and tournaments, forcing opponents to read my lips. When there was a dispute, I was unable to make my usual witheringly snide remarks and had to resort to glaring, which was totally unsatisfying because nobody would look at me.
But I digress. My belief is that I have a genetic predisposition to laryngitis. Of course now that I've submitted my spit for genotyping, I am suddenly of the opinion that all of my personality traits are genetic. I have in my possession predictions about me (based on statistics for my genotype) that run the gamut from eye color to likelihood of coming down (up?) with Parkinson's Disease. I carry the report around with me so that I can understand my behavior at any given moment.
Some of the results are downright insulting (I'm an "unlikely sprinter"). Others are flattering. Take pain tolerance, for example. I have spent the first 61 years of my life warning doctors that I have a low threshold of pain. I've always been annoyed when they take issue with that statement. But my genotype report indicates that I am likely to have a higher than average threshold of pain. (Never mind that there were only 5 people in the one study that came up with this result. Never mind that I could well have a terribly low threshold of pain in spite of the "likelihood.") On the face of it, I should be flattered. But the more I think about it, the less sure I am that pain tolerance is a good thing. Take an apocalyptic scenario, for example, where there is a limited supply of pain meds, I'd probably be one of the last to get the goods.
I don't like the sound of that.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Odd Days: And then there was Skype
Perhaps I haven't given it a long enough trial, but so far skype has limited appeal for me. I can tell you straight off the bat that skyping with a client is something I'm pretty sure I will never do. After years of building up a mystique, I can imagine it all dissolving in one quick video chat during which a cowlick sits at attention on my head, mocking my sobriety, or worse...some body part comes untucked. You know what I mean?
But what about skyping with a friend. If you use a phone instead, at least you can wander around, clean the house, make yourself a cup of tea or put him/her on speaker and continue to work. (Be sure to put the phone far enough away that your friend can't hear the clacking of the keys.) Nope, not skyping with friends, either.
Here's what skype is for:
1. Talking to your honey when he is 8,000 miles away. It will remind him that you are keeping an eye on him.
2. Looking at a friend's new and drastically different haircut, so you can see him/her squirm and blush.
3. Facilitating a conversation between grandma or grandpa and the rugrats. Better than sending a DVD. This way grandma and grandpa can see that the rugrats really have no interest at all in sitting in front of the "TV" talking to grandma and grandpa. So grandma and grandpa need not feel guilty for not making the trip to rugrat-land.
4. Pranks. No details, but I advise you to remain on the qui vive...at all times.
But what about skyping with a friend. If you use a phone instead, at least you can wander around, clean the house, make yourself a cup of tea or put him/her on speaker and continue to work. (Be sure to put the phone far enough away that your friend can't hear the clacking of the keys.) Nope, not skyping with friends, either.
Here's what skype is for:
1. Talking to your honey when he is 8,000 miles away. It will remind him that you are keeping an eye on him.
2. Looking at a friend's new and drastically different haircut, so you can see him/her squirm and blush.
3. Facilitating a conversation between grandma or grandpa and the rugrats. Better than sending a DVD. This way grandma and grandpa can see that the rugrats really have no interest at all in sitting in front of the "TV" talking to grandma and grandpa. So grandma and grandpa need not feel guilty for not making the trip to rugrat-land.
4. Pranks. No details, but I advise you to remain on the qui vive...at all times.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Odd Days: email
From phone calls to email is a step up, wouldn't you say? We love sending email, for obvious reasons. And for the most part, we love receiving email. Or at least we love receiving email from the right people. As long as it says the right things. Or at least doesn't say the wrong things. Hmmmm. Let's just say email is generally better than the alternative.
But consider this:
I read recently in the formerly-esteemed-but-now-suspect Wall Street Journal that the speed with which people respond to your email is a reliable measure of their feelings about you. In other words, people respond more quickly to people they care about.
Whoa talk about a punch in the gut! I started making a list of all the people I had written to this week and not heard from. That went into the hate pile (they must hate me). Then I arranged the rest of this week's mail in order from longest to shortest response time. When I looked at some of the people on the long end of the spectrum, I nodded my head and thought, "Well sure, that makes sense."
As for the rest of you on the "long" list, to be honest, I had no idea you felt that way about me. It certainly does cast our relationship in a new light. On the plus side, I guess I can keep that box of candy I was going to send you for the holidays.
But consider this:
I read recently in the formerly-esteemed-but-now-suspect Wall Street Journal that the speed with which people respond to your email is a reliable measure of their feelings about you. In other words, people respond more quickly to people they care about.
Whoa talk about a punch in the gut! I started making a list of all the people I had written to this week and not heard from. That went into the hate pile (they must hate me). Then I arranged the rest of this week's mail in order from longest to shortest response time. When I looked at some of the people on the long end of the spectrum, I nodded my head and thought, "Well sure, that makes sense."
As for the rest of you on the "long" list, to be honest, I had no idea you felt that way about me. It certainly does cast our relationship in a new light. On the plus side, I guess I can keep that box of candy I was going to send you for the holidays.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Odd Days: Phone Sex?
Geez, Anonymouse, I was going to put phone sex on my list of reasons to *like* phones. Oh wait, you did that. You just don't want to pay for it!
Ok, enough trash talk. Back to item #1 of my earlier post. In all honesty, I believe most adults feel pretty much the same way about making and receiving calls. Of course there will be a few outliers, but for most people, picking up the phone is like preparing to jump into an outdoor swimming pool in the dead of winter. (Right, T3?)
What are we afraid of? Well, we are afraid of exactly what we should be afraid of:
1) That the person on the other end doesn't feel like talking;
2) That the person on the other end doesn't feel like talking to *you*;
3) That the person on the other end will talk for two hours about their little rug rats' poop;
4) That the person on the other end will ask you to do something you don't want to do;
5) That the person on the other end will speak in mandarin-studded mumble-speak and you will have to pretend you understand so as not to hurt his feelings;
6) That the person on the other end of the phone will put his 5 year old on the phone for a chat.
That sort of thing.
But most of us continue to make phone calls, because 9 times out of 10 when you call someone you care about and actually hear her voice and have a decent conversation, you come away with a warm glow that lasts at least...well, it lasts until the next time the phone rings.
Ok, enough trash talk. Back to item #1 of my earlier post. In all honesty, I believe most adults feel pretty much the same way about making and receiving calls. Of course there will be a few outliers, but for most people, picking up the phone is like preparing to jump into an outdoor swimming pool in the dead of winter. (Right, T3?)
What are we afraid of? Well, we are afraid of exactly what we should be afraid of:
1) That the person on the other end doesn't feel like talking;
2) That the person on the other end doesn't feel like talking to *you*;
3) That the person on the other end will talk for two hours about their little rug rats' poop;
4) That the person on the other end will ask you to do something you don't want to do;
5) That the person on the other end will speak in mandarin-studded mumble-speak and you will have to pretend you understand so as not to hurt his feelings;
6) That the person on the other end of the phone will put his 5 year old on the phone for a chat.
That sort of thing.
But most of us continue to make phone calls, because 9 times out of 10 when you call someone you care about and actually hear her voice and have a decent conversation, you come away with a warm glow that lasts at least...well, it lasts until the next time the phone rings.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Odd Days: Phones
As I have aged, I have gradually become aware that many, if not most, adults have an incredibly neurotic relationship with the phone. In fact, I suspect we could mark entry into adulthood as the period before which you loved your phone more than anything else in your possession, and after which you have a love-hate relationship with the phone. Maybe mostly hate.
And why is that? In my particular case, several reasons come to mind:
1. [Ok, I wrote this first one, meditated on it, and then censored it. Although it was true for me and probably everyone else on the planet, if I spoke it aloud, I would almost certainly lose the last of my friends. So I will suffer in silence. Trust me, though, #1 for me is the same as #1 for you.]
2. Way too often, the person on the other end of the phone is a client. Mind you, I love my clients. But when they *call* me (as opposed to sending me email), it means trouble. When there's trouble, I like to *read* about it first and think it through carefully *without* the panicky heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. So I try to train my clients to send me email *before* they call. I do that by letting voicemail take the call. Then I listen and send the client an email. Of course, I have to wait a suitable amount of time after listening to the message before sending out that email. Otherwise the client will call and say, "I just got your email, so I know you're there. Hello?"
3. And then there's the IRS. The IRS doesn't do email. Fax yes, email no. Frequently, and I really mean frequently, I call, wait 45 minutes for a connection, explain the issue and am promptly disconnected. On the days I have to call the IRS, it is *very* hard for me to get out of bed.
The problem with the phone is it robs you of control -- whether you are making or receiving the call. I mean, when I want to reach someone on the phone, I want to reach them *now*!
And why is that? In my particular case, several reasons come to mind:
1. [Ok, I wrote this first one, meditated on it, and then censored it. Although it was true for me and probably everyone else on the planet, if I spoke it aloud, I would almost certainly lose the last of my friends. So I will suffer in silence. Trust me, though, #1 for me is the same as #1 for you.]
2. Way too often, the person on the other end of the phone is a client. Mind you, I love my clients. But when they *call* me (as opposed to sending me email), it means trouble. When there's trouble, I like to *read* about it first and think it through carefully *without* the panicky heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. So I try to train my clients to send me email *before* they call. I do that by letting voicemail take the call. Then I listen and send the client an email. Of course, I have to wait a suitable amount of time after listening to the message before sending out that email. Otherwise the client will call and say, "I just got your email, so I know you're there. Hello?"
3. And then there's the IRS. The IRS doesn't do email. Fax yes, email no. Frequently, and I really mean frequently, I call, wait 45 minutes for a connection, explain the issue and am promptly disconnected. On the days I have to call the IRS, it is *very* hard for me to get out of bed.
The problem with the phone is it robs you of control -- whether you are making or receiving the call. I mean, when I want to reach someone on the phone, I want to reach them *now*!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Odd Days: Dough Boy
I enlisted Durf and his creative genius to help decorate cookies this year.
Ready...set...go! (Be careful with that club!)
At 5 minutes: "Check out my artistic detail."
At 10 minutes: "Ummmm tastes good too!"
At 12 minutes: "I'm concentrating, I'm concentrating."
At 15 minutes: "You gotta do one sprinkle at a time, or it will look crappy."
At 20 minutes: "Done with my cookie!"
At 40 minutes: Twila finishes the rest of the cookies...
Ready...set...go! (Be careful with that club!)
At 5 minutes: "Check out my artistic detail."
At 10 minutes: "Ummmm tastes good too!"
At 12 minutes: "I'm concentrating, I'm concentrating."
At 15 minutes: "You gotta do one sprinkle at a time, or it will look crappy."
At 20 minutes: "Done with my cookie!"
At 40 minutes: Twila finishes the rest of the cookies...
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