Autoanthropology Update

In case some of you were wondering...and it sounds odd to say that when two people read my blog...my horoscope for yesterday read:

"You could use a day of relaxation, but it may not happen just yet. There is too much going on for you to consider taking a day off. Things are happening now in waves of opposite forces. You want to go faster but you know that you should slow down. You want to learn more but you don't have the time to study. The simple truth is that you need to explore strategies to add more balance into your life. "

Wow. Something to it, or lucky infinite monkey? You make the call.

This Ain't Harper Valley

I've mentioned in past entries that I am the PTSA president for my daughter's school. PTSA stands for Parent-Teacher-Student Association...it's what the PTA becomes when it gets to high school.

Now, I joined the PTSA for two reasons:

1) To be involved with my daughter's education, and

2) To get laid.*

I have news for you Imaginary Internet Single Dads out there: Single mothers don't have time for the PTA. They're too busy actually being mothers, which these days means four nights a week and one day per weekend of sports, scouts, dance lessons and church activities. One of my executive board members suggested that I reach out to the single parents at the school by forming an SPTSA (SINGLE Parent-Teacher-Student Association), and I'm not sure she was entirely joking.

But I digress. (Me? No!)

Over the last two days, I've received about three dozen e-mails on the subject of a dispute between our principal and the two unions at our school. As PTSA president, I have to remain neutral and make sure that the PTSA remains neutral. As a parent, I am more than a little bit freaked out. The only analogy I can come up with for how this feels is the way it must feel to be at a dinner party when, in the middle of the main course, your best friend's wife accuses him of screwing around on her.** You had no idea any of this was going on, you have no idea who to believe, and you have nothing to go on but what you hear. Until everyone dropped their forks, you were perfectly secure in your belief that your friend and his wife were both wonderful people whom you could trust with your children.

So, I was up until 11:30 last night writing e-mails to all the people I'm supposed to write e-mails to, and thinking about how this is all going to play out. Honestly, is it so much to ask that my kid receive an education that prepares her for college and for life?

Of course, that's the reason for the dispute: two groups of professionals who are passionate about educating my daughter have opposing views of how best to accomplish the task.

So, like a stunned dinner guest with his fork lying handle-in-the-gravy on a chipped dinner plate, all I can really do is silently watch in horror as events unfold.

But now I know: Reality ain't nothin' like a country song.

* This has not happened.

** Disclaimer: I have never personally been to a dinner party (or anywhere else) where this has happened. I'm just saying that it's like that.

Ooops, I'm Not The Chief Anymore

I gotta be more careful. Really. I could get me fired.

So here's the deal...I woke up this morning, back still spasming, unable to stand without pain. Once I get moving around a little, I'm fine...but did I mention that I'm still in pain?

So, I've got work to do today, and unfortunately, the other guy in the office who could cover for me is on travel. I call the office to walk someone else through it and he tells me that there's a problem. None of our networked machines are able to talk to each other, and it has something to do with the BORG...I mean...NMCI. This is a big problem, and as one of the system engineers, I am sure I will be needed to troubleshoot.

I drag myself into the shower, throw on some decent clothes, head for the office. I am in pain, and I'm pissed. This should not have happened without some warning. Especially since the command was not supposed to be connected to NMCI...a transition that big would not occur suddenly and with no warning, right?

So, when I get into the lab, there are IT contractors busily troubleshooting, and I (attitude in full force) ask when we can expect to be reconnected. They don't know. What happened? NMCI cut us off because our IP addresses were not in their contract. Why didn't anyone tell us we were switching to NMCI? We didn't switch to NMCI. What? So what you're telling me is that an entity we're not beholden to can cut off our communications because we're not paying them, preventing the entire command from doing its job? The IT guy glares at me and says, "Do you want to think that through?" He knows exactly what I'm driving at.

If the IP addresses had actually been cut off, the problem would have been solved yesterday with a single phone call.

Since the problem still exists, the explanation must be missing some key details.

In other words, someone is lying.

A couple years ago, I could (and would) have read the riot act in its entirety to the IT perfeshunnals, and I started to...then realized that no, I am not the chief any more. I can't put The Fear Of God into an incompetent tech for screwing so many people over. I am a lowly contractor, a scum-sucking bottom-dweller who feeds off the Navy's discarded green stuff. (Then again, so is he.)

What tool is in my toolbox for dealing with these situations, you ask?

I went to my boss and told him that he might have to field a complaint about my conduct. He smiled and said, "Don't worry. That's what I do. Why are you still here? Your back is still bothering you, so go home. Let the military handle it."

So home I am. And I am desperately, passionately loyal to my boss. He's a rare guy.

I May Never Leave The House Again

So, here I am, wallowing in my pain (though I'm happy to report that the shooting pains in my legs have stopped), and lamenting the fact that Keebler has officially discontinued Cheez-Its, when I realized that:

1) We are out of substantive food

2) I am in no shape to go to the grocery store

3) I have no cash with which to send my daughter to the grocery store in my stead

And then I remembered: The one piece of junk mail I have kept in the last six months is a booklet from Expressly Gourmet, which is a delivery service that will bring you food from any one of no less than fifty-two restaurants in San Diego.

While I am debating about what to order, I see the URL at the bottom of the page...go to the website and...

I CAN ORDER ONLINE!

Finally, a truly useful function for the Internet: bringing me food.

Now, lest you think that you'll be seeing me in a year or two on Oprah, as they cut through a wall to crane me off the couch so that I can get to a doctor's appointment (where they will, no doubt, offer me more ineffectual Vicadin for my sciatica), fear not. I shall not be overindulging.

This, my imaginary friends, is what is known as an emergency. And Expressly Gourmet is my savior.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Home Early

Ow.

I am in the throes of a sciatica attack. I have a compressed disk between the 4th and 5th lumbar vertebrae, and every couple of years, it sucker-punches my spinal cord.

I'd go lay on the couch, but that's no less painful than sitting here at my computer, which is no less painful than sitting at my computer at work. The reason I'm not at work, forging through the pain, is that I can't think clearly, even without pain killers. (I screwed up at work yesterday afternoon because of this, and had to go in this morning to fix the problem...something simple that would never have happened, except my brain is apparently not working.)

Ow.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

I'm trying to think of something funny about this, but there doesn't seem to be anything.

Ow.

Return Of An Old Friend

Jennifer may very well be back in my life. It's difficult to tell with her, because she so often holds people at a distance.

It would not be entirely accurate to say that she has been absent from my life for the past year. We had stopped seeing each other; we had almost no contact, but she was still everywhere. Everything made me think of her.

We felt a connection before we met, I think. I remember I brought flowers for our first date. She gave me two books she said would change how I view fatherhood: "Odd Girl Out" by Rachel Simmons and "The Wonder of Girls" by Michael Gurian. (She was right. They also changed how I view manhood.)

That's Jen: stunningly compassionate and sensitive, able to read a person's thoughts from the way they breathe.

I am more self-confident in her presence than at any other time; I am also terrified of myself, of her, and of what I could be when she's around. Terrified of good things, I should add. She challenges me to grow, to reevaluate who I am, what I stand for, what I care about. Maybe that's what scares me: the possibility that she'll show me I've been wrong to be comfortable in some ways. She's certainly taught me I was wrong about some things I was uncomfortable with. It's for these reasons (and more) that I treasure our friendship.

I remember my first glimpse of her: She wore a blue and black striped top with a long black skirt. She had tied a black satin ribbon around her neck, in a bow. She smiled at me and for a minute, I could only speak in monosyllables: "Uh. Hi. Wow. Yeah. Wow. Hi."

I still tend to think in monosyllables when I look at her.

Over dinner at the bar, she got a little misty-eyed and said she has just about resigned herself to becoming an old cat lady in a muumuu. I wanted to say, "Not if I have anything to say about it," but I didn't.

I know that I can leave a great deal unsaid when I am with her. She more or less knows what I'm going to say before I say it, anyway. And she says I "get" her.

So, Jennifer may very well be back in my life, even though she never really left.

I sure hope so.

New Neighbor

My new neighbor has lived here for all of two weeks and is already moving. Now, I could go on about the transience we've come to accept in our society these days, and lament a little about missing my previous neighbors (who were great neighbors, by the way), but that's not the thought that brought me to the computer this morning.

No, what brought me here was the reason she's moving: Her five year old's stomping around on those hardwood floors. Anybody who has ever owned a young child can relate to how much noise they can make...I can't imagine anyone with a five year old choosing to live in an upstairs apartment, for just that reason. She has already driven the couple living downstairs to complain to the landlord.

The couple downstairs are terrific. Friendly, helpful, considerate. Not the "complain to the management" sort.

They probably wouldn't say a word, except that the five year old continues her incessant stomping until nearly 11pm, every night. And really, it's only a problem because the downstairs guy goes to work at 5 am every morning.

And that's why I'm writing this morning. I don't understand why anyone would choose moving over sending their child to bed at a reasonable hour.

Can anyone explain this to me?

Autoanthropology 101

Are there times when you look at yourself the same way that, say, a student-with-an-undeclared-major with a Monday morning Anthropology 101 class looks at an Amazonian shaman?*

I do. Here are some observations:

1. I read yesterday's horoscope and compare it with how my day went. Sometimes, if I’m eager to know how my day should have gone, I’ll read today’s horoscope in the evening.

2. I sometimes avoid daydreaming in public places on the off chance that someone there can read my thoughts and will laugh at me. This is not paranoia, it’s just quiet dorkiness. (I really try to avoid the kind of internal dialogue that MUNI muser Kristy Sammis seems to revel in.)

3. I will look up to identify an airplane flying overhead, even at night. Sometimes, I’ll try to identify it by sound first, then look up to see if I was right, but I almost never am. I also like trains.

4. I sometimes speak in strange accents for absolutely no reason. Scottish seems to come out most often. When I was still in the Navy, I’d motivate my troops by saying, “Well, alr-r-right, git goin’, ye tosser-r-rs! Quit cr-r-ryin’ like a packa wee geerls, ye fairies!” No one is ever amused by this a second time. (Except the people in my family, which probably explains a few things.)

5. I fantasize about picking women up at Starbucks by sneaking a peek at the name on their cup and greeting them like we knew each other years ago. (I have never tried this, mainly because I am not quite ready to make that big a fool of myself, but partly because I’ve always suspected that women use fake names when they order their coffee…to thwart dorks like me who sneak peeks at the name on their cup.)

6. A woman can get me to do anything for her by playing with the hair on my chin or on my chest. And I do mean anything. I would paint Impressionist murals on every surface of her home. This offer only lasts while her fingers are actually in contact with my chest hair or goatee.

7. I like to listen to orchestral film scores. As I write this, I am listening to the soundtrack to "Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge Of The Sith".

10. No, there is no missing 8 or 9. I tend to like things in tidy packages, and 10 is tidy.

* "Like, ew. I sort of get you, and all, but you're still, like, eww!!"

The Choices We Make

Two of my (male) coworkers actually had this conversation:

K: "Ya know what I want for my seventy-fifth birthday?" (He's in his late thirties.)

M: "What?"

K: "I want to give a blowjob."

M (stunned): "What??"

K: "Yep. And if I like it, I'm going to be really pissed."

I Don't Get The Whole Rubber Wristband Thing

Okay, so I finally snapped myself onto the bandwagon by getting one of those rubber wristbands. You know the ones. You must know the ones, because apparently, I was The Last Person On Earth Not Wearing A Rubber Wristband.

My daughter wears no less than four of the things, none of which is yellow and says "LIVESTRONG".

(If I had a digital camera, here's where I'd insert a picture of her wrist for illustration purposes. Please feel free to use your imagination instead.)

She has a red, white, and blue band that says, "FREEDOM". This makes me think of Mel Gibson's last line in "Braveheart", as he's being disemboweled before a cheering crowd. So I could never wear one of those.

She has a brown-and-green faux camouflage band that says, "SUPPORT OUR TROOPS." I really appreciate the sentiment, but I wore a uniform (that, when you get right down to it, sort of said the same thing in a Much Less Subtle Way) for 23 years, so that particular wristband would feel redundant. So I could never wear one of those.

She has two black ones. Of those two, the one whose meaning I can remember is a backstage pass for Unwritten Law, which strikes me as a "single use" rubber band, but apparently, I am Tragically Unhip. Being Tragically Unhip, I am unqualified to wear Rubber Wristband Backstage Passes of any kind without looking like a poser. Or is that "poseur"? (Don't worry about it. You can't change me.) (Didja get the Unwritten Law lyric reference there? I am such a cool dad.*)

As PTSA President at my daughter's high school, I feel a certain obligation to support student activities on campus, and lately, the ASB has been selling blue wristbands to raise money for Make-a-Wish. I have a soft spot in my rather crusty heart for MAW, since my dad used to be president of the Wyoming chapter, and I had the opportunity to help coordinate a wish about four and a half years ago. (Happily, the boy who got his wish survived his ordeal and is growing up healthy and active.)

I bought a blue wristband. I am wearing it right now. It says, "SHARE THE POWER OF A WISH". It also pulls the hair on my arm, which constantly reminds me that its there. It's distracting. I obviously support the cause, but I don't like the damn wristband. I'm not sure how much longer I'll wear it.

On the other hand, if someone asks me about it...I'll get to tell the story of how I helped turn a six year old into a Marine helicopter pilot for a day.

And then, maybe I'll give THEM the damn wristband.

* Not. So, so not. I am one step away from black socks and sandals. Apparently, everything's my fault. And no, you can't save me.

"Listen To This, Dad"

My daughter frequently offers me music to listen to and movies to watch. She is a great kid, and remarkably insightful and intelligent young woman, and when it comes to getting me to listen to or watch something she likes, she is RELENTLESS.

Even more annoying, she thinks she has me pegged: "Here, Dad...listen to Jimmy Eat World! Put the CD in your car, but don't bother listening to tracks 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 10 or 11, because those are, like, really rocky, but not Old School rocky like the stuff you like..."

In her defense, she often exposes me to things I would otherwise dismiss without much thought, and my musical tastes continue to grow because of it. Take for example, Kaki King. My daughter took the trouble to record and cue up the video, "Playing With Pink Noise"...then she ambushed me with it.

Heidi: "Check this out, Dad!"

Me: "Holy CRAP! That girl is GOOD! Who is she?"

Heidi: "Kaki King, Dad. I knew you'd like her. She's sort of like that Preston-y guy you like to listen to, isn't she?"

Me: "Preston-y guy?"

"That Preston-y guy" is Preston Reed, another masterful accoustic guitarist who uses the entire instrument and not just the strings. I've been listening to his music for almost 20 years.

So, I head for the computer and iTunes...lo and behold, Kaki King has two CDs out. I bought both.

Since then, my daughter thinks it's her responsibility to bring my musical tastes into the 21st Century.

I don't mind, really. I used to do the same thing to my mom. I remember bringing home a cassette of Elton John's latest album (yes, I am dating myself there...this would have been about 1982), and ambushing my mom with it.

Me: "Check this out, Mom!"

Mom (unimpressed): "Oh. That's very baroque."

My mom has her PhD in Music Education, and while she is one of the smartest, sweetest, funniest women I have ever met, there was a time in her life when she lost sight of all but the most technical aspects of music. (Remember the scene in "Mr. Holland's Opus" where he shows the class that a popular song was originally written by Johann Sebastian Bach? I GOT THAT AT HOME ALL THE TIME.)

Now, when I was about 10, and still playing the violin, I used to watch Barbara Mandrell's old TV show, and one night, I saw her sister Louise come out and play "Orange Blossom Special". It was the greatest thing I ever heard...and I was ON FIRE to play that song for my recital the following year. My teacher was all for it, but my mom wouldn't hear of it. You'd think I'd asked to be allowed to go around killing chickens by bashing them over the head with my violin. "No Bluegrass. Not in MY house," she said.

That touched off a battle between my mom and me that went on for more than a year, and ended with me quitting the violin. Six months after that, I picked up the guitar, and because I was in charge of my music then, I learned a little Bluegrass, a little Blues, and a lot about how music is richer and fuller when you make it your own.

When my parents retired, they joined a Bluegrass fiddle club and eventually formed a Bluegrass band. My mom plays the fiddle in the band, and was Wyoming State Senior Division Bluegrass Fiddle Champion for something like four years. Even better, she's back to having fun with music.

I'm sure this will come across as more than a little passive-aggressive, but fuck it. I tell this story because it's sort of funny, more than sort of ironic, and because by living it, I learned that you can't impose limits on someone's creativity without their permission.

So, when my daughter says, "Listen to this," I know she's really trying to connect with me, and to get me to validate what she likes. She wants me to reassure her that it's okay for her creativity to be answered in ways that differ from mine. I try to remember that, because as I said, it helps me to grow, too.

I Just Realized Why I Haven't Shaved My Head

The last time I saw my hairdresser, she suggested that I consider shaving my head.

Now, I reconciled myself to the inevitability of my baldness years ago, but it still came as a shock to hear that particular piece of advice come from my young, cute, heterosexual female hairdresser.

I really don't want to ask her to do it. It just doesn't feel right. Sort of like breaking up with a girlfriend and asking her, "So, before I go, how about one last..."

C walked into the cubicle this morning and said, "It was ELEVEN O'CLOCK."

I am busy answering e-mails and don't turn around right away. This is not an unusual way for us to start our workday.

B says, "WHOA! What happened to you?"

To hell with e-mails. I turn. C is sporting a freshly shaved head.

C: "I'm going to tell you this in the STRICTEST CONFIDENCE." He is being sarcastic, of course.

Me: "I won't tell a soul." Except the three people who read my blog.

C: "I have cut my own hair for the last ten years." I believe him. He continues, "My wife usually helps clean up the back of my neck, but I basically do it myself. I've used everything from dog clippers to those fancy Vidal Sassoon things."

Me: "Dog clippers?"

C: "Yeah. They're the same thing. Basically, it's mechanically the same."

Me: "...as Vidal Sassoon..."

C: "Yes. So, last night, I start to cut my hair. I do one swipe, a second swipe, and on the third swipe..." He makes a sound effect: nnneeeEEEEeerrrT! He pantomimes the clippers stopping suddenly. In mid-swipe. A third of the way back, two-thirds of the way up the side of his head.

Me: "The dog clippers?"

C: "Vidal Sassoon!"

Me: "Wow." I am afraid to ask what happened to the dog clippers.

C: "I tell my wife that she's gotta run to Walgreen's to buy a new set so I can finish, but she's laughing too hard and says she can't go. So I had to sleep like that. Half my head was cold, and it felt funny when I rolled over. I did not get a good night's sleep."

C's wife got up early and went to Walgreen's, but not until after she'd made him turn from side to side a few more times, so she could get in a good laugh.

And I realized, right then, why I have not shaved my head yet.

It's because I don't have anyone who will run to Walgreen's for me, and if my clippers die in the middle of the job, I'll be forced to make the Walk of Shame, in public, looking like Chingachgook from "Last Of The Mohicans."

Disappointing Wet Dreams

I ran into my old gym teacher last night. In a dream.

No, I did not have a wet dream about Mr. Corso...I'll get to that part later.

It was a strange dream. I was in a car at a stop light, not driving, turned around and looked out the back window, and there was Mr. Corso, driving the car behind us. He looked exactly the same as he did when I was 12, and I remember thinking how weird that was. I couldn't think of his name, but I looked down at the license plate on his car, and read "CORSO". (He did actually have vanity plates on his car, but they said, "YOU BET" which was his favorite thing to shout whenever someone did something he considered worthy on the basketball court.)

So, I'm sitting there, thinking that this must be a dream, when I realize that now our cars have merged and Mr. Corso is basically sitting in my back seat. He asks about my friend, and when I turn to look at where he's pointing, I find that I have a girlfriend. I introduce them:

Me: "Uh...This is Mr. Corso, my old gym teacher. (Pause to wave arm expansively at girlfriend) Mr. Corso, this is...uh..."

Mr. Corso: "It's nice to meet you, Uh."

(I swear I am not making that up.)

I had realized, as I was introducing my girlfriend to my gym teacher, that I did not know my girlfriend's name. It wasn't that I'd forgotten it...I just never knew it. Which is logical since I don't have a girlfriend.

My dream girlfriend didn't seem concerned by any of this, but then, she didn't seem to be able to speak.

Mr. Corso waited patiently through a longish uncomfortable lull in the conversation, then politely excused himself in case this should turn out to be a sex dream. "You'll know what to do," he said. "We talked about that, remember?"

"You bet," I said.

I know what to do in theory, at least.

The problem with my sex dreams is that I never seem to get off during any of them.

The women I dream about seem to be enjoying themselves, though, so I don't think that's the problem.

In middle school, when they got all the boys together for "The Class" and Mr. Corso started talking about how wet dreams were natural...I thought, "What the hell is a wet dream?" He told those of us with perplexed expressions not to worry, that we'd have them, too. Well, I'm 43 now, and I still haven't. Not even with Mr. Corso's express permission last night.

So, Mr. Corso, if you still have those old grade books from 1973, go ahead and mark this incomplete, too...right alongside right-handed layups and climbing that damn rope.

Are People Just Getting Dumber, Or Is It Me?

So last night, I'm watching "Rags To Riches" which is a silly show, but I was bored and didn't feel much like going to bed yet. (Ever notice how people make lame excuses about the TV shows they watch? Me, neither.)

I was watching a bit on Naomi Watts and Nicole Kidman. Seems the two have been friends since they were teenagers, and when Tom Cruise moved out, Naomi moved in with her best friend Nicole. (Having been through a divorce, I know how painful it is...and I didn't have the celebrity part to deal with. I think it's pretty cool to have a friend who can move in and be there for you while you rebuild your life.) But, I digress. (Me? No!)

So, here's the part that makes me ask the question about people getting dumber: It's "Rags To Riches" remember, so salaries come into it somewhere. They mentioned that Naomi's paycheck for the upcoming "King Kong" remake was 5 million dollars. Not bad. Then, the announcer goes on to compare that with Nicole's fee for doing "Bewitched".

..."nearly TWICE AS MUCH," he says...while the graphic on the screen says...

wait for it...

"$17.5 Million"

It's not that one writer slipped up, it's that at least one writer, one announcer, any number of production assistants, the sound booth techs, the producers, and the director ALL MISSED IT.

I don't think it's me.

Who SH** In The Bathtub?

These are not words anyone wants to hear when they first wake up.

Especially not the morning after one of those nights.

Now, I should take a moment to say that my blog seems to have lost it sense of humor lately, and inspired (once again) by Imaginary Friend Sherri, I have decided to relate the story of how I came to be asked "Why is there poop in the tub?" Or, words to that effect.

Dramatis Personae:
Kurt, a sailor, only recently arrived in California
Bear, a sailor, former shipmate and lifelong best friend of Kurt
Kim, then-girlfriend and current ex-wife of Kurt

The story begins when Bear arrives unexpectedly at our door. He arrives bearing several large bottles of rum, and though it still early afternoon, the drinking commences almost immediately. I hadn't seen Bear in months, he'd recently survived a motorcycle accident that left him with 65 stitches in his face, and both of us were on leave. We figured we were safe to party.

Little did we know.

When Kim got home from work that afternoon, she joined the celebration, and along with us, consumed a startling amount of alcohol and a dazzling array of unhealthy foods.

Kim now owns a women's fitness center (I won't go into any details at the moment, except to say that I happily refer to the place as a "sweat shop", as in "My ex-wife owns a sweat shop"), and presumably, she eats healthier fare these days...but back then, the woman loved her some Mallomars.

If you are not familiar with mallomars, allow me to quote Wikipedia on the subject. "Mallomars are a cookie in the marshmallow sandwich genre, produced seasonally at Nabisco. A circle of Graham cracker is covered with a puff of extruded marshmallow, then enrobed (not dipped) in a hard dark chocolate shell."

You see, mallomars are a rare treat.

But, I digress. (Me? No!)

After a long while, during which the chief activities were drinking, laughing, and more drinking, Kim announced that she was going to bed. As I recall, it was, in fact, dark, but not so late that the neighbors had cause for complaint. Bear and I found this amusing, and worthy of another good laugh and another round of drinks.

Now, I seem to hold my liquor pretty well. It's true, and I am much more likely to argue that point when I have had copious amounts to drink. Okay, maybe it's not entirely true, but I do tend to be the one pouring friends into bed in the last few moments before they pass out.

That's exactly what happened with Bear. He stood up and slurrily announced that he was headed for bed, and began weaving his way towards the stairs. I caught up with him, and together, we staggered up the steps to the apartment Kim and I shared. I deposited Bear on the couch, where, I swear, he began snoring before he was fully horizontal.

I remember visiting the bathroom then...and I am sure I would have noticed if someone had used the tub for other than its intended purpose. The bathroom was very small, and the toilet was right beside the tub.

When I tottered through the open door into the bedroom, I noticed that Kim had simply peeled off all her clothes and was lying naked, on her stomach, with the bedsheets around her ankles. I stripped as well, and slid in beside her, pulling the sheet and comforter up over us both, and passed out.

There is no way to adequately describe the sound I awoke to. Screeching indignance? Shrieking incredulity? The first time I heard it, I simply recoiled under the covers. It repeated, and then I realized there were words. Words I will never forget:

"WHO SHIT IN THE BATHTUB?"

My future bride stood in the doorway to our bedroom, hands on her hips, glaring alternately at me and into the livingroom, where presumably, Bear was as stunned and unresponsive as I.

"Well, I'm not cleaning it up," she said. "It's disgusting. Whoever did it can clean it up." She then stomped off to the kitchen, which was not nearly distant enough for me and my throbbing head to avoid feeling every plate she clattered and every pan she banged while making breakfast.

The meaning of the words slowly sank in. Someone had shit in the bathtub? Someone had shit in the bathtub! The staggering import of it washed over me, and hangover nearly forgotten, I lurched and teetered out of bed. There was a mystery to be solved! (Where are you, Scoob?)

I made a bleary-eyed examination of the crime scene, and discovered that yes, there appeared to be a dark brown, lumpy, semi-solid substance in the bottom of our other-wise pristine white porcelain tub. I knelt, and careful not to bend over too far, I cleaned the mess out of the tub.

Afterwards, I wobbled into the kitchen and sat down at the dining table, pushing aside a nearly empty package of mallomars. There was coffee, but it was several miles across the kitchen to the pot, and I would need to reach up to get a cup out of the cupboard. Coffee could wait.

Kim was on her soap box. She lectured me until Bear came in, then lectured us both about the evils of drinking. Though she herself had consumed enough to pass out hours before either of us had made our way upstairs, she saw this as evidence of her own good sense and proof positive that Bear and I were little more than Neanderthals.

Her lecture went on all day. She was like a terrier with a rat. The three of us went out for the day, and she took every opportunity to remind us that someone had shit in the tub and she knew it was one of us. She told the story to complete strangers, who were undoubtedly horrified, if not seriously traumatized by the telling. Her strategy, she explained, was to wear us both down until one of us confessed.

At some point, we went home. Kim continued to harp about our bathroom habits. ("I mean, WHO SHITS IN A BATHTUB?" she'd say. "One of you is disgusting.")

Neither of us was interested in having anything alcoholic to drink, so Bear and I decided to drink soda. I went into the kitchen and poured two glasses. One for Bear, and another for me. I spilled a little on the counter, wiped it up with a paper towel, and as I threw the paper towel in the trash, I noticed an empty mallomars wrapper in the trash can.

I looked at the kitchen table, and the mostly-eaten package of mallomars.

I looked in the trash, at the empty mallomars package.

And then it hit me.

The mess I cleaned up from the tub had had a curious odor, not at all like feces.

No, in fact, it smelled like...

Chocolate.

"So, who ate all the mallomars last night?" I asked.

Bear looked bewildered. Kim flared her nostrils indignantly, and lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance.

"I did. I hadn't eaten anything, so I had some before I went to bed."

"Some?" I asked, looking meaningfully at the package on the table.

"Okay, I had a bunch of them. But we didn't have any dinner."

Suddenly, I became Hercule Poirot, without the accent. "Yes," I said, "which would account for the consistency of the mess in the tub this morning."

Yes, the phantom was unmasked (Rooby roo!), done in by her love of Nabisco's delightfully incriminating treat.

Sometimes life presents us with delicious ironies.

Things Have Changed Since I Was In High School

They're into treating kids more like adults now.

No, not really. They just don't make them follow the rules.

For example, look at the way many of the girls dress for school. There is a dress code at my daughter's school that says that bare midriffs are not allowed. I'd like to state for the record that I am not a prude, and considering that the girls of my generation were allowed to wear halter tops to school (something I was not opposed to then, nor am I now), I figure that high school girls showing a little unblemished skin is just part of the milieu. But, a rule is a rule (and we have enough rules about who gets to make the rules that by the time something actually gets to be a rule, it deserves to be respected; there are very few arbitrary rules these days) and that's that. So girls, put some clothes on, please. Before you leave home, preferably.

(And lest anyone think I am picking on the girls: guys, your belt goes above your ass. I do not want to see your boxers, thank you, so please hike up them drawers.)

Anyhow, one of the things that used to be a rule but which is apparently no longer a rule is the one about eating in class. This rule came about because portable foods generally come in a wrapper or in a form that makes noise, and that can be distracting to people who are trying to think. Now that I think about it, when I was in school, thinking was a necessary component of learning, but I digress. (Me? No!)

I haven't looked it up yet, but I would be surprised to find that "no eating in class" is not a rule. And if it is a rule, it makes sense that this rule, too, is not being enforced, because God knows, we don't want to damage our children's fragile little psyches by denying them anything their chubby little hearts desire. Besides, we need to teach them to be good consumers, so that they, like me, can skip their 25th Reunion because they're 150 pounds heavier at 43 than they were at 18. (If you graduated high school before 1995, you should be able to do the math, there.)

Side note: I'm not completely fucked up if I can serve as a bad example.

What prompted this little rant?

My daughter came home from school yesterday pissed off about a number of things, but annoyed in particular with one of classmates for noisily eating Chex Mix during their teacher's lecture. Even if it isn't against the rules, it's rude, she reasoned.

When I got home today, sitting on my computer desk was a ziploc baggie filled with Chex Mix, a gift from my daughter. Written on the baggie was this note: "Try eating these loudly while being questioned by employees." She must really be pissed off. She knows me well enough to know that I already got the point.

For a while, I considered asking for a parent/teacher conference, and bringing the bag of Chex Mix with me, note and all.

Then I realized: it wouldn't do any good. The rules only apply to those who choose to follow them now. That's what they're teaching these days.

Yep. Things have definitely changed since I was in high school.

I Want To Write A Chapter At The Kilns

Nearly everyone has read C.S. Lewis' "The Chronicles of Narnia", and if you haven't...go buy the series (there are seven books), and read, most particularly, "The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe", which is to be released as a full-length feature film in time for Christmas this year.

I had the opportunity this evening to meet Douglas Gresham, who is Lewis' stepson. He's a charming man in his 60s who wore knee-high boots, a white turtleneck and a cross to the reception at our church. He spoke with a deep, resonant voice of his relationship with a writer who meant so much to me as a boy...and then of his friendship with J.R.R. Tolkien, another favorite of mine. When asked what it was like growing up in an environment so steeped in the stories that were the most powerful literature of the 20th Century, and now some of the most popular books ever written, Gresham simply said that what he remembers as a boy of going to meetings of The Inklings, Lewis' writing group (which included Tolkien and several others, and was probably the most influential writer's group ever formed), was how much laughter there was. These were not stodgy, pipe-clenching, robe-wearing Oxford dons; they were lifelong friends who delighted in shredding each other's work in a way that must have been delivered with equal parts harshness and humor, but never with disdain. Anyone who stood up to read his work before that group had to be brave; at the end of a very long evening, his work would be...well...worthy.

Gresham's account of those meetings of The Inklings rings true. When I was a boy, my father's friends would gather weekly to work on model railroads...not the kind of fantasyland you'll find beneath Christmas trees now and then, but genuine works of art. What I remember most about those meetings that happened at our house was that the laughter was almost continuous.

I believe that the spirit of all that seriously good-natured creativity imprints on a place and on the people who live there.

Lewis' home is known as "The Kilns". Twice each summer, the C.S. Lewis Foundation hosts a week-long seminar, in which eight people live for a week in the cottage to study and learn and sometimes write.

I'd like to go there...spend a week in study and thought and discussion, and see what ideas well up. I'd like to stand up in the pub where the Inklings met, the Eagle and Child (or "Bird and Baby" to the locals), and read aloud something I wrote, and have it ring true in that space that still holds the memory of so many wonderful ideas.

Can I Have That Time Back Please?

So I have this big project I'm working on, have been working on for some weeks now, and as I've mentioned before, little progress gets made for all the interruptions.

This week, the interruptions are mostly about how much time I spend doing my job. I work hard and I don't mind saying so, especially when the organization I work for is doing the asking. I'm fully aware that much of what I do is as mysterious to them as a Coke bottle to a Kalahari bushman.

No, I do not mind providing them this information. Once. Through my boss. Who tracks that stuff. And writes two reports a month. That contain the information I'm being interrupted and asked for this week.

And okay, I don't mind spending an hour or so providing this information again, because basically, I like my job and I would like to keep it for a while longer, thank you.

But I do mind being asked for the same thing three times, in three different ways, by three different sets of people. And I especially don't like being asked, "So, if all of the contractors suddenly went away and we had to do your job with military people, how many hours would it take to do each task?"

Is it really paranoid to be concerned about this question? I mean, really?

So this week, I (and the other contractor in my office) have spent a collective 10 hours submitting this information in no less than three different formats, all of which give me the feeling that the originators are hiding something.

Here's an example:

Briefly describe each task you perform. List major tasks first, then any periodic tasks.

How many personnel are required to perform each task?

State the number of occurrences (per period).

Define the period: daily/weekly/monthly/quarterly/yearly

State the average time to perform each task.

Define the units of measure for the average time to perform each task.

So, is the average time to perform a task measured per person or collectively? ("Just fill in the spread sheet. We'll figure it out.")

And why do we need a separate column in the spreadsheet that defines the units of measure? Is someone going to answer in microfortnights?

Apparently, no one else is bothered by this. I must not have gotten the memo.

I Can't Have A Door, But You Can Have A Window

There was an unusually cool breeze blowing through my cubicle a moment ago.

B has a fan under his desk. I've never understood why, but he does. It's a quirk of his, and since he's so frigging good at his job, I figure he's allowed a quirk or two. When he got up from his disk, I surreptitiously* checked to see if he was running said fan.

He was not.

Which meant I had a small-but-annoying mystery on my hands. Where was this breeze coming from? And would I be forced to wear a jacket...indoors...in May...in San Diego?

No, I am not a pussy about cold. I generally don't wear a jacket OUTDOORS in May in San Diego.

It turns out that the guy in the next cubicle had his window open.

I barged in, asking, "Is it so unbearably hot in here that we need a window open?" (This is not the first time.)

He: "Oh, is my window open?" No, not sarcasm. Honest surprise.

B: "Are you cold, Kurt? Didn't you grow up in New England? Aren't you used to the cold?"

B is wearing a jacket. Indoors. In May. In San Diego.

*"Surreptitiously" here means "spun around in chair in disbelief, muttering curses that would curl a sailor's toes."

Geri

Geri passed away last night.

I knew her through the PTSA (Parent Teacher Student Association) at the school our daughters attend. She was some years older than I, with blue eyes and gray hair cut in what I suppose could be called a Pageboy style. She was slender and strong, played tennis with a number of friends, and owned her own business -- a line of athletic clothing. She possessed a single-minded sense of purpose and a unique ability to inspire people to give their best; when she took on a project, she'd build a team to get it done.

One of the most amazing experiences of my life came a little more than a year ago after Geri's spine collapsed, crushed by cancer. She had come home, and brought her hospice nurse with her. It was important, she said, for her daughter to have as normal a life as possible, and spending most evenings in the hospital was not how she wanted her daughter to spend her teens. For herself, and for all of us, Geri steadfastly maintained that she would live on.

The weekend of her return home, Geri asked her friends and family to join her in a healing circle. More than 200 people attended, some of whom came from as far away as South Africa to be with her. The circle of Geri's friends wound around her spacious living room, kitchen and dining room. It extended into her back yard.

Having been told to expect the end in a short few weeks, Geri lived more than a year.

For a time, those of us who lived closest to them helped as we could, bringing dinners or books or flowers or simply visiting. Amidst all that pain, Geri greeted us cheerfully and without a word of complaint, except to say that she wished she could spend more time with us.

The feeling, Geri, was most definitely mutual.

I regret that I did not make more time to spend with her, but I did not want to impose upon her or her family, nor tax her reserves of strength. I did not want to take away from the time she had with those dearest to her. I thought of her often, of course, and I prayed that she'd have strength and peace, things she had in abundance already.

I Am A Bad Technogeek

Apparently, it isn't dating that makes me insane, it's me. I do it to myself.

Some background:

As I've mentioned previously, I own a new BMW. (Okay, I lease a new BMW.) The 2005 5-series comes with Bluetooth technology as standard equipment. For those of you who don't know, Bluetooth technology wirelessly and automatically connects electronic devices such as your cell phone and headset. Bluetooth uses a set of industry standards to allow equipment from different manufacturers to connect, and the process is not seamless...as I learned when I got my BMW.

Now, I am familiar with Bluetooth, because I also have a Blackberry phone, which allows me to get e-mail and phone calls and surf the Internet on one device, wherever I am. For example, I may be out for Sunday brunch with my daughter, and get a phone call from a friend inviting us to a movie. I can use my Blackberry to go to MovieTickets.com, purchase the tickets, and then will receive the e-mail confirmation through my normal e-mail address. All without consulting a newspaper or needing a computer or having to get up from the table.

How often I have done this since I got my Blackberry is immaterial. As with all toys, it's not that I have done it, it's that I can do it. Please, if you are not a technogeek, do not try to understand this. As my mom is fond of saying about my dad, "The difference between men and boys is the price of their toys." (Ben Franklin may also have said that first.)

So, since a Blackberry is obviously a useful tool for high-powered business people, and a BMW is a status symbol for many of those same people, it follows that the BMW and the Blackberry would have compatible Bluetooth connections, doesn't it?

Not so fast.

It turns out that the Blackberry will find and connect to the Bluetooth in the BMW, but will not hold the connection. You can't use the BMW Bluetooth with a Blackberry phone.

Now, I consider the use of a cellular phone the way most people do it (by holding the phone to the side of their head) to be dangerous if it's done while trying to operate a motor vehicle. Let's face it, California drivers are hard enough to deal with when they have your full attention. So, in my view, hands-free is a safety issue. (And again, it's not that I actually use this capability, it's that I can use this capability.)

Long story short: I had to get a second cellular phone for my car. I took great care to ensure that the phone was compatible. And I leave it in the car all the time.

And, rather than have friends and family note the new phone number, I select "auto-forward all incoming calls" on my Blackberry whenever I expect to be in the car for more than five or ten minutes. That way, they only need to call once.

Are you with me so far? I hope so, because this is where I confess to making myself insane.

As I got in the car on Friday night, before my date, I set my Blackberry to auto-forward all calls. And when I got home...I forgot to turn the auto-forward feature off.

Yes. She did return my call.

When I checked the voice mail from my car this morning, she had left two messages: one on Saturday night saying she'd had a good time, too. And another on Sunday night, apologizing for getting home a few minutes late and missing my call. It turns out she figured I'd gone to bed.

We have another date on Friday night. She asked me out, this time.

Apparently, she likes insane technogeeks. It's a shame I'm so bad at the technogeek part.

Final note: Women should not necessarily worry when a guy doesn't call. Sometimes guys trip over their toys and don't even know it.

Addendum: Two minutes after I posted this, I got an e-mail from BMW of North America that began, "Bluetooth Technology Now Available On Most BMW's! Hands-free calling has never been easier in a BMW..." Ach, ja! If only I'd gotten this e-mail sooner.

Dating Makes Me Insane

"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." -- Benjamin Franklin (often attributed to Albert Einstein, who undoubtedly said it too, but when he did, he would have been quoting Ben Franklin.)

Last year, after looking long and hard at all the relationships, attempted relationships and failed relationships in my life...and fruitlessly searching for something they all had in common...I realized that the one thing they all shared was...(drum roll, please)...me.

I took a year off from dating. I examined my behavior, and I adjusted my priorities and all of that other psychobabular stuff that men are supposed to do in the Post-Dr.-Phil world. After all of that, I realized that I didn't do well if I didn't know where I stood with a woman. I was worse if a woman let me know where I stood and then withdrew even a little. Hey, I'd think, what happened? Things were fine yesterday! What changed? And in there, somewhere, I'd start acting all needy and creepy.

The conclusion I came to was that I need to relax. Just relax. It shouldn't matter so much that I don't know where I stand...my life is good WITHOUT a woman in it. Really.

So, I reentered the dating world with that in mind. It doesn't matter...not really...I'm a good man and it'll happen eventually. Unless. I. Force. It.

Friday night, I went on a date. We'd met through Match.com, and exchanged e-mails and phone calls daily for three weeks. It was pretty obvious that we clicked. We're both at a place in our lives where we have weight to lose and are doing something about it, we both have kids, we made each other laugh. She stressed a number of times that she is an old fashioned girl, and I rather like that. When I arrived at her place to pick her up on Friday night, I was pleasantly surprised to find that she's prettier in person than in her pictures. The conversation flowed, we had fun, and neither of us wanted the evening to end. We ended up back at her place, where we talked until around midnight, kissed and hugged good night and I went home, aware of (and hopeful for) the possibilities.

So far, so good, right?

I think so, too.

Here's where I go insane. Aware of her comment that she's an old fashioned girl, I did not make an overt attempt to kiss her while we sat on her couch talking. I did touch her hair, and hold her hand, which she seemed to enjoy, but I didn't press it further. When she kissed me good night, I responded warmly. At least I think I did. I hope she got that impression.

On Friday afternoon, I had read Kristy Sammis' post about men making women crazy by not calling after a date, so I decided to head that one off at the pass...I knew my date had a busy day on Saturday, but I called her anyway and left voice mail. Nothing big, just, "Hey, I had a great time last night and I hope we can get together again soon." She was tired that night, but e-mailed me to say that she had a good time, too. We chatted online briefly and agreed to talk again on Sunday evening.

I called when I said I would. (Okay, I was 5 minutes late.) I got her voice mail. She hasn't called back or e-mailed today...so her behavior has changed since Friday. Or has it? I don't know.

She could just be busy.

I thought about e-mailing her ("Hey, have a great day today!") but decided that e-mailing her today before she's responded to my voice mail might come across as too needy. (Not gonna do it. Wouldn't be prudent. Not at this juncture.)

What's nagging at me is a line from "Kate & Leopold" where Leopold says something to the effect that, "the ball should never be in her court. You must hold the initiative, if you're to win her heart."

So, this is how I get crazy. I think about it too much.

I'm not going to write her...damn it. I'll let it go a couple days, and then write. Or call.

Then again, maybe I won't.

Shit.

Shit.