Saturday, June 26, 2010

Two trains leave two stations....

I had to take remedial math in college. Because I suck at math. I became an English major, not necessarily because of my love of Chaucer, but because it was the furthest thing I could find from math. And I get pissed off at math, too. “Solving for X” to me means, “You’ll probably need to hire a professional for this one.” I have no love for X. X isn’t real. If X were real, X would have a name.

Word problems, especially, were my nemesis. Instead of figuring out how to place the word problem into a solvable equation, I always tried to figure out why the hell the people in these problems were in these situations in the first place. For example….

Question 1: “Jim and Sarah, who are hiking in wilderness, decide to leave their tent and walk around a lake. They start going in the opposite directions. Jim hikes at the rate of 3 miles per hour. Sarah hikes at the rate of 2 miles per hour. The perimeter of the lake is 10 miles. How long will it be before they meet?”

My answer: I don’t think that Jim and Sarah really care to meet. Jim and Sarah clearly went their separate ways a while ago, partially because Jim is a selfish bastard who won’t slow down. “I need to get in my workout,” he says to Sarah, “and I don’t really work up a sweat when I walk with you.” Sarah, meanwhile, emotionally disconnected from Jim years ago when she realized that he would never be the toned, fit triathlete she’d always hoped for. He was a guy who walked for exercise. So here, even if Jim and Sarah do eventually meet up, it will be a hollow, empty reunion, full of silent resentment and regret. Sure, they have the house in the suburbs, the adorable Goldendoodle puppy and their group of shared friends that they’ve had since college, but is that really all there is to life? When they meet, it will be a purely physical meeting, an inevitable consequence of their two tiny lives, walking in circles.

Question #2: “Bob has an important presentation to deliver at the meeting and needs to arrive as early as possible. He knows that the train travels at 80 miles per hour, but has a 30 – minute layover halfway through the 156-mile trip. He also knows that his friend cannot depart before 8:00 A.M. and will adamantly refuse to drive any faster than 55 miles per hour. If both methods of transportation leave at the same time (8:00 A.M.), will the train or the car allow him to reach the regional sales meeting sooner?”

My answer: Shouldn’t we really be considering why Bob can’t drive himself to the presentation? He seems to have all kinds of excuses: “My car’s a lease,” being the most frequent. But weren’t there rumors, a couple of months ago, about a DUI and a license suspension? If Bob has a problem with drugs or alcohol, it’s really to his interests to take care of that problem, rather than pretending that nothing’s wrong. And what about Bob’s friend? He seems like a real control freak. Why can he only leave at 8 am, and why does he insist on only driving 55 mph? Is he one of those people who take over the passing lane of the freeway, not letting anyone get anywhere? I think I hate Bob’s friend. Ultimately, this is my advice to Bob: get out of sales. It’s a hard life. As you’ve learned Bob, it can lead to substance abuse problems, and this economy is no place for a salesman. Go back to school, Bob.

Question #3: “Suppose that it takes Tom and Dick 2 hours to do a certain job, it takes Tom and Harry 3 hours to do the same job and it takes Dick and Harry 4 hours to do the same job. How long would it take Tom, Dick and Harry to do the same job if all three men worked together?”

My answer: The answer here is irrelevant, because any good manager would just fire Harry. He is clearly the weak link. I would promote Tom, as he’s the hardest worker. I understand, Harry is totally fun to be around, and you can hardly get two words out of Tom, but fun is for the weekends, people. Time is money. You should ask Tom if he has any friends. I bet they would work hard, too. That way, you would have lots of extra money, and could go out boozing with Bob.

Monday, June 21, 2010

And Chesley Sullenberger will be the mayor!

We are all going to heaven. I know this may be disappointing to a few who really are convinced that their enemies will all burn, but no worries. Everyone’s getting in. But, obviously, if we want everyone to be happy in heaven, and that’s sort of the point, there is a bit of segregation that’s going to have to happen. It’s for everyone’s happiness, really. So, essentially, here’s how I figure it’s going to go: there’s a side of heaven for all of the liberal, gay-loving, bleeding heart, big-government, socialized health care, NPR listening freaks, and then there’s the other side.

On one side of heaven, there will be bars. They will open at 4 in the afternoon (just after yoga!) and they will be run by a couple of gays, a pot-smoking expatriate who spent twenty years in a little town off of Mallorca and a vaguely European couple who don’t seem to do much but lend a really cool vibe to the scene. Drinks are free, and I will be simultaneously dating George Clooney and Mike Mussina. God will drop in, and he will look like Buddha, or Mohammad, or Vishnu, or George Burns. He will occasionally wear a sweater. Atheists are welcome but are usually confused. On this side of heaven, people will love, and fight, and cry, and make mistakes, and be more alive than they were on Earth. It will be better than Earth, though, because no one will be ordering anyone to buy organic or buy Baby Einstein shit for their infants. There will probably be a nacho bar every night with a cheese fountain and a lot of guacamole.

On the other side of heaven there will be rules. All kinds of rules. Because the people on this side of heaven like rules. Or at least they like telling other people what the rules are. There will be rules about the kind of music that can be listened to (Carrie Underwood), and there will be rules about what kind of dancing can be done (square). There will be no gays, no unwed mothers, no one who’s ever had premarital sex or an abortion, no Jews, no foreigners, except those from western Europe, no one who’s ever cracked a hilarious joke about Jesus, no weird food (I’m talking to you, sushi), no Starbuck’s and no Jon Stewart. It will be a quiet, uneventful existence for all. No one will have to worry about jazz (too complicated!), the movies of Tim Burton (too weird!) or the confusing existence of Ru Paul and the feelings she creates. Strom Thurmond will live here, as will Charlton Heston, Jerry Falwell and Anita Bryant (okay, she is technically still alive). And everyone will get what they want: the ability to live free from government interference, without the disgusting specter of mixed-race children, free-thinking or the music of Prince. Of course, there won’t be anyone to hate, anyone to feel superior to, or anything to complain about, so they will probably water the lawn a lot, but there are plenty of churches, so it will be fine. There is also a Cracker Barrel on every corner. God will be there, too, wearing flowing white robes and making sure the rule book is kept up-to-date.

So, there you have it. Everyone has a place in heaven, and everyone should be satisfied. Sound good to you, friends? Sounds good to me.

Monday, June 14, 2010

B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E

I am going to say this once, and then I will never speak of it again: your child probably isn't going to be a professional athlete.

I know, I know, s/he is already in second grade, and that’s a late start for soccer/football/jujitsu mastery, but you feel that, with the two days of private lessons and participation on not one, but two club teams, plus frequent “talks” with your poor child’s beleaguered coach (who is probably not now, nor ever was, a professional athlete him/herself, and is even more likely some accountant who just volunteered for this coaching duty because no one else would) your child has a real shot for the big league. Probably not.

And I am not saying this because I want to crush your dreams, but let’s get one thing really reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally clear: these are YOUR dreams, not the dreams of your seven year old. Do you know what seven year olds are thinking about? Ponies. Possibly candy. Not being the next David Beckham. Your child may say that s/he wants to be a pro athlete when s/he gets older, but your child also thinks that “older” means twelve. Children can no less imagine what it is to be an actual adult with a career than pandas can imagine playing Yahtzee.

And I am certainly not saying that your child is not an awesome athlete. I am sure that s/he is the best one on the team, or at least would be if that fucking coach would just put little Bixby at shortstop, like you’ve been insisting the entire season. You’ve spent time and money nurturing your child’s talent, and I’m certain that you want something, if only the acclaim of the other parents in Pony League, to show for it. But here’s the thing: your kid is seven. There are exactly ZERO seven year olds that are drafted into the majors: that’s a FACT. So somehow, between seven and twenty, your child is going to have concentrate solely on this sport that you have determined is his destiny, s/he cannot get injured, lose interest in the sport, or God forbid, decide that s/he likes interior design more than dribbling a soccer ball for hours a day, and oh, by the way, his or her skills are going to have to get better and better.

“It’s not about becoming a professional athlete, it’s about scholarships,” you say, while your child looks more interested in the planes flying overhead than the tennis racquet in his hands. No. It’s not. It’s about you trying to realize the dreams of a life that seems way more glamorous than the one that you have. It’s about you being able to cast a superior look at the neighbors because your child scored the game-winner. It’s about you honestly thinking that a child’s realization of his or her talents somehow is something entirely of your making. I can tell you this right now: Richard Williams might have pushed his incredibly talented daughters to excel in tennis, but it was their gigantic booties that were on the tennis court, killing that ball, and wanting that ball good and dead. If they didn’t want it themselves, he would just be another crazy parent. And we all know that you can’t make a child want something just because you want it for them.

Last but not least, do me a favor: stop announcing your child’s winning ways on the sports field as if you won. I’m genuinely happy that little McIntosh made the GEU Supersports Team, but you just sound like a bragger who needs some accomplishments of your own. Please stop taking credit for the good things your child does. After all, when you land an account at work, do you think your child tweets, “Hey everyone, my mom landed the Underhill account”? So why would you think it’s okay for you? Geez, I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be proud of your kid; your child is amazing. Just realize, that the amazing child that you have is, in fact, a child: not an adult, not a professional, and not likely ever going to be a professional. Your child has a far greater chance of becoming obese than a professional athlete. So lighten up a little, my friends. Childhood is just a brief moment, for you and for your child, and I don’t want you wrecking it.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Isn't it Ironic?

The ability to spell is a gift, not a skill. Sure, there are things that a person who wasn’t born with the spelling gift can do to become better at it, but essentially, the ability to spell words correctly is the same as the ability to play piano or run fast: some people just have it and some people don’t. And according to my son, “Nobody cares, Mom.” So, keeping this in mind (and keeping in mind that my son’s generation is totally going to be taken over by robots), I am tolerant of bad spellers. I smile and move on when people say, “We have nothing to loose,” or “Therefor, I will take the bus.” In fact, I have fallen deeply in love with one spelling gaffe in particular.

“Noone” is what many people write in place of the words “no one”. Several examples:
1. Noone answered the door
2. Noone is having fun
3. Noone is eating this tapioca pudding

When I think of Noone, I always think of the British band Oasis, comprised of two brothers, Noah and Liam Gallagher. They had the hit songs “Champagne Supernova,” “Wonderwall” and “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, and were almost as well-known for their spectacular fights and bad behavior as their music. In my mind, they have a brother: Noone Gallagher, who is older, a little bit on the dumb side, and amazingly good-natured. Here’s the scene: we’re in the lobby of London’s Savoy Hotel. It’s a typically rainy London afternoon, and there are all sorts of double decker buses and Margaret Thatcher and bad teeth outside, but inside, Noah and Liam Gallagher are engaged in a fistfight with each other and the British press. The boys are swearing and yelling “Wot!” and other typically British things, while Noone Gallagher, sweet, dear Noone, is standing on the sidelines, smiling and quietly eating tapioca pudding. As you may have heard, Noone likes tapioca pudding.

You can take Noone anywhere, and he will have a good time. And Noone will always make you feel good. Think about it: Noone asked your opinion! Noone wants illegal immigrants in this country! Noone appreciates that I spent all day cleaning this hellhole!

Oh my God, I love Noone so much! You simply can’t bring the man down. So I encourage you, dear friends, to keep Noone close to your hearts and minds, but if you can't, don't worry: Noone likes a bad attitude.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

You're Welcome

I was raised in a house where “please” and “thank you” were not options. And even if my parents were not around to catch infractions, my OCD-riddled sister Anne certainly was. “Say ‘thank you’” she would say like a metronome. “Say ‘thank you’”. It got to the point that I would say it, even if the occasion did not call for it just to avoid the grating sound of her voice.

But I think that people these days could use a dose of my sister Anne, because people simply do not say “thanks” anymore.

Case in point: I was walking into Jeni’s Ice Cream with my son Jude on Monday evening. It was crowded, as usual, and congested around the entry. The door opens outward to the sidewalk, and, since I was on the sidewalk, I grabbed the door and held it open. Normal. Common. I’m not asking for a medal here, I’m just trying to set the stage. Out march a group of six people – adults. Stone faced, pregnant (at least one of them) and fully capable of speech, but not one of those little punkass bastards uttered as much as an acknowledgement that there was someone (me!) making their exit from the store possible. I’m no hero, but I will tell you this, I’m not a paid doorman, either. The very least they could have done was open their ice-cream-eating mouths and said, “Thanks.”

The very worst was the last guy out the door. Not only did he not say thank you, but he actually said, “Sorry, it’s just easier for us to come out than for you to come in.” What the hell? Really? That was so much easier for you to do than to prostrate yourself in front of the altar of thankfulness?

When we fail to thank people for the little things, it starts to creep into the big things, too. I’m from a large family, and have my share of nieces and nephews. I’ve spent countless dollars and time on those little shitheads, and you would think that the very least they (and by that, I mean their mother who, see above, practically tortured me into phobia about thank you saying) could do is write a simple, three sentence thank you note: “Thank you for the money. I will use it to fund my underage drinking habit. Thanks again, for thinking of me.” Or, since holding a pencil and finding a stamp seem to be so challenging (despite the fact that two of them are in college), a simple phone call would do. Nope, they want nothing to do with it. Okay, how about just saying the words when you’re standing in front of me? Sorry, that’s too hard, too. I had two nephews and a niece standing IN THE SAME ROOM as me over Christmas, HOLDING THE GIFT CARDS I’D BOUGHT THEM WITH MY OWN MONEY THAT I EARNED in their graspy little hands, and they could not bring themselves to mutter a simple, “Thanks”.

I find it even more egregious when the gift is to someone unrelated. I mean, nieces and nephews are practically an obligation, but recent graduates are not. Over the years, I’ve written countless checks to new grads, contained in cards wishing them well. Number of checks cashed: all of them. Number of thank you cards: zero. Seriously, parents, follow the rule my friend Angela uses: you don’t cash it until a thank you is in the mail. My rule is a little different: I simply find out where they are attending college, find their dorm, and tell everyone in it that they have scabies. It’s a tough world, grads.

In the big scheme of things, it’s about gratitude. Just having gratitude that a person took a moment to hold a door, or let you in during rush hour traffic, or sent you a check that the government did not require them to send. And it’s not just about feeling that gratitude, but expressing it, like a human. And for me, it’s about following my motto: do good things, and then complain until someone acknowledges it.

Thanks, everyone!!!!