More fun from 2 years ago.
Day 1
I've decided to answer "Yes" to every question I'm asked this week. It sounds simple enough, but I hoped to fly under the radar for a few days at home.
Otherwise, I fear seven days of housework and healthy eating once my wife finds out.
I was safe through the middle part of the first day, even though I had to share my potato chips at lunch with Linda when she asked, "Is it okay if I have some?"
Now, I consider myself to be a generous guy; if someone asks me for something, I can share, no problem.
Except when it comes to my junk food--then, it's every man for himself. There can be no sharing when it comes french fries, chips, ice cream, cookies, and the like.
The problem is, Linda is a Communist with food. What's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine, and if we all share, there will be enough for everyone. What a Pinko!
I, however, am a Junk Food Dictator. What's mine is mine, what's yours is mine, and I may even take some from the kid, too, if I feel like it.
I've gotten upset if Linda eats more than two of my french fries, because, well, they're mine and I had plans for them! I was going to eat them! And they're mine! So clearly, one of us has a problem.
The potato chip debacle aside, I was still safe until dinner, when 7-year-old Daniel asked what I was doing this week.
I walked quickly toward him, intending to answer him quietly, and hoping Linda hadn't heard. No such luck.
"Yeah, what are you doing?" she asked. And now, the troubles begin, I thought to myself, bracing for a week of manual labor--washing, ironing, dusting, cleaning--will it ever end?
When I told them, Daniel nearly fell off his chair in excitement because he immediately realized it would benefit him.
"I think I'm going to like this thing," he said. "This is going to be awesome!"
And then he laughed like an evil mad scientist for a few seconds before stopping himself, and saying, "No, it's not that funny."
The brain of a 7-year-old is the eighth wonder of the world.
"Can I stay up late tonight?" Daniel immediately asked. "Can I stay home from school tomorrow?"
Good thing Linda was there to answer, or this would quickly have become Daniel's dream week.
Linda offered a surprisingly tepid reaction to my plans; she worried that by answering yes to whatever she asked, I'd simply be humoring her.
When she asked if that was the case, of course I had to say yes. "So you won't be telling me the truth about how you really feel?" she asked.
Yes again--she wasn't picking up on how this conversation was going to go.
That's when I realized I'm in big trouble if she tries on an outfit this week and asks, "Does this make me look fat?"
Day 2
Linda and Daniel initially took different approaches with their newfound power.
Linda is like a person dipping her toe in the pool, testing it little by little, wondering if there's something lurking in the water she can't see.
I can see her working out the concept: After eight years of marriage, he finally has to listen to me and do whatever I say? What's the catch?
I think for her it's more unnerving than having a college roommate nicknamed Psycho.
Her requests have been minimal. She asked me to sweep the house, but it's not as if she's forcing chores on me like I'm her personal Cinderfella.
Once, just to test me, she asked me to stand and wait while she worked on her computer. So I stood there, waiting, watching, hovering .... "Oh, will you please go somewhere else?" Yes!
If Linda was slow getting into the water, Daniel was doing cannonballs off the high dive.
I asked if he wanted to play a game and he decided he did. "And, Daddy, can you set it up and clean it up when we're done?"
Before dinner, he asked, "Daddy, can you not have any chips all week?" and laughed himself silly.
Dinner brought their two approaches together like a rain cloud over me. Smiling so hard he could barely get out the words, Daniel asked, "Daddy, can I watch TV after dinner?"
Linda, noticing I'd shoved some vegetables aside, said, "Can you please eat more celery?" She followed up with, "Could you please not eat any butter?" as I went to butter my bread.
Now I know how Coca-Cola executives felt after seeing New Coke bomb: What was I thinking when I came up with this idea?
For an instant, the power trippers tripped up each other.
As soon as Linda asked me to bypass the butter, Daniel jumped in: "Daddy, can you please eat more butter?" "Could you not eat any more?" Linda retorted. "No, don't listen to her," Daniel shrieked, "Can you eat more?"
I'm Frankenstein's monster and they're playing Ping Pong with my brain.
Daniel ended the day still reveling in his almighty power. "Daddy, can I have dessert?" As I trudged off to get it, I heard him say to Linda, "Mommy, we are living the life!"
Day 3
What's the first word most babies learn? No. It makes sense, since that's what they hear much of the day.
"No, don't touch the oven." Or, "No, don't eat that," or maybe, as was the case with our son, "No, Daniel, don't lick the cat."
It's amazing what kids learn when we're not teaching them. When Caitlin was 3, she and I were playing together while I watched college football on three or four different channels all afternoon.
As we moved around the room at her dolls' tea party, I kept saying, "Please hand me the remote," or simply, "Remote, please," so I could flip back and forth to the different games.
After a while, she asked for some ice cream. We were still trying to teach her manners, so I said, "Okay, but first, what's the magic word?"
She paused, thought for an instant, and said questioningly, "Remote?"
I'm reminded of that because it took Daniel just two days during my Yes week to learn when it's best to ask me questions: when Mom's not around to say no.
Last night, as soon as Linda left the room, Daniel turned to me quickly and said, "Can I have dessert again tonight?"
We try not to let him eat dessert every night, so he knows this week is his chance to bend the rules. He's cashing in like a politician spending other people's money.
Of course, he probably learned his tricks from me when I didn't even know I was teaching him.
For example, we ate dinner at our friend Katy's house last night, and she got a laugh out of my Yes week. "Oh, we can have fun with this," she said to Linda.
I knew I had to derail the conversation before the two animal lovers had me saying yes to owning four dogs, three cats, two pandas, and an emu.
Being the thoughtful guest, I preyed upon their weakness. "Wow, Katy, that's a great picture of your dog. That's so long ago--how old was she then?"
To quote legendary wordsmith Emeril, "Bam!" The conversation went off in another direction, and I escaped unscathed and emu-free.
I may not be able to say no, but there are plenty of ways to avoid saying yes.
Days 4 & 5
I was a little worried heading into poker night with the guys. It's not good to provide ammunition to a group that would mock the Dalai Lama.
I'll be like a wounded animal in the wild having to answer, "Yes," to whatever they ask.
It started when Phil e-mailed to say what time he'd pick me up. "You'll sit in the back--yes?" he wrote. I was just glad he didn't ask if I'd like to be tied to the back bumper.
I arrived and Brian's 8-year-old son Robert quickly ran to get something. I knew that was a bad sign.
He returned holding a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap and I was handed a Dallas Cowboys mug that was mine for the night.
Prodded on by his Dallas-loving dad, Robert asked, "Mr. Roach, do you like the Cowboys?" I mustered a weak, "Yes."
"Do you want to wear this hat?" An even weaker, "Yes." I guess this proves something has to be wrong with you to be a Cowboys fan.
Fortunately, that was as bad as things got. Maybe the guys are getting soft as they age and get softer around the middle.
Or maybe they're getting forgetful. Or maybe they realized admitting to be a Cowboys fan is punishment enough.
Day 6
Linda got a taste of the Yes life today. As Daniel was getting ready for bed, he decided he wanted to give her a homework assignment.
He told her she had to write a three-part essay on what a Lego pirate ship should have, what a Lego Space Police ship needs, and what a Lego Power Miner should have.
And her essay had to be finished before he woke up the next morning.
"Unlike me, you could have said no," I reminded her when she told me of her task.
"When your son asks you to write an essay, you do it," she said.
Sure enough, Linda wrote her assignment in detail, explaining what was needed and why. She completed it more diligently than probably most of her homework in college.
I asked Daniel in the morning if he saw all of Mommy's work. Was he proud of what she did for him?
"I read it already," he said, picking up the paper, looking at it dismissively, then dumping it back on the table. "B-minus."
Turns out, he was nicer to Linda than it appeared to me. He awarded Linda a Lego badge, though he also threw out a challenge.
"I like the blast-off shoes in the Space Police section, but you can get a better grade by re-doing the pirate and Power Miner sections," he said.
And he didn't let her forget her chance for improvement. "Mommmmm," he said, chasing her all morning. "You can do better."
Sometimes "No" is a beautiful word.
Day 7
As anyone with kids knows, you spend an inordinate amount of your time with them answering questions.
That's not a bad thing, but it's frustrating when you say no, and the question gets asked again four minutes later, then again 12 minutes later, then once again just because the kid hopes to wear you down from a no, to a maybe, to a yes.
They know how to manipulate the system better than an Enron executive. Once, I overheard Daniel say to a friend, "When my Dad says, 'Maybe,' it means yes."
So it was a nice break for one week to be relieved of my behavior-monitoring duties as a dad.
And I know Daniel enjoyed Yes Week, too, considering all the times he asked me to have dessert, to stay up late, and to watch TV. He controlled me like I was a Wii remote.
However, he's not a fan of trying the idea himself.
As he was got ready to start making cookies with Linda Sunday, I told him to just say yes to whatever Mom says and to learn what she's doing. "You can do what I've been doing all week," I said.
"A kid could never do that all week," Daniel said. "It's impossible, dude."
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
King for a Week
Two years ago, I ruled my own little world as King.
Day 1
Daniel's eyes opened wide and he smiled for just an instant after I told him my plan for the week. Then he slowly started frowning. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Why don't you like my idea?"
"Because you'll be in charge of everyone," he said.
Exactly! Smart boy.
I have declared myself King For A Week, the ruler of all I survey, and even those people and places I can't quite survey.
Those around The King shall call me Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, or simply King John.
When I told Daniel's young friends Emma and Abby they could call me King John if they wished, Daniel took the opportunity to say, "I think we should call you King Ding Dong." And so began the "King Ding Dong" chant by my three young servants.
The young prince has much to learn, but since I am a benevolent ruler, I have yet to banish him to the tower/his bedroom.
To learn what it takes to be a king, I typed the phrase "king for a day" into a search engine and lucked out. "Fantasy Island," the Mr. Rourke- and Tattoo-driven 1970s TV show featured a first-season episode with exactly that title, which I immediately watched.
It featured Bosley from "Charlie's Angels" as a Kansas plumber who wished to be treated like royalty. He got his own country, his own flag, servants, and a cool red sash.
Since I'm King of all I survey, I don't need a country, but a flag, servants, and most importantly, a wardrobe upgrade would be nice.
I started with the clothes, and I changed into casual king wear. I donned a shirt with the royal crest of the Avalon Regatta, then I found a red, white, and blue ribbon and a medal I'd won in a 5K.
Next, I wrapped a red-and-blue tie over my shoulder and taped the ends together to make a royal sash. I found a metallic paintbrush extender in the basement to use as a scepter.
The final piece of my wardrobe meant a trip with the prince to a regal destination: Burger King. I like to associate with other kings, plus I needed a crown for my sovereign noggin. Voila--my royal look was complete!
My ensemble obviously conveyed my importance. Three times during the day my wife, Queen Linda--I've given her limited powers--said something to the effect of, "You're the king, whatever you want."
That made The King think. Perhaps The King is not too bright if it took him all of these many weeks before The King finally came up with the golden idea that gets him whatever he wants.
The King doesn't want to think about that right now. Where's my court jester?
Day 2
"Kings are not born: they are made by artificial hallucination," said George Bernard Shaw.
In my case, truer words were never spoken. Still, my family's ancestry does
include brushes with royalty.
My great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather was the curator of the Royal Gallery of Paintings under France's King Louis XVI, and his son went on to become the first Mayor of Paris in 1789 during the French Revolution.
However, I haven't learned much from my family's French dip into royalty because I initially acted too much like a commoner to start the week.
I was still doing household chores, still cleaning up, even still answering the phone and talking with the hoi polloi.
I was emptying the clothes dryer Monday night when Queen Linda pointed out the obvious. "A king wouldn't do that," she said.
God save the Queen, she was right. I need less Martin Luther King and more Don King. I shouldn't be helping my fellow man, but looking down from a lofty perch at the peons below.
As I started to empty the dishwasher mid-day Tuesday, I stopped as I grabbed the first glass. Manual labor is beneath The King, I realized.
I put the glass back in the dishwasher; the servants can empty the dishwasher and fill it with the dirty dishes in the sink.
The King has more important endeavors. I retired to my throne and channel-surfed--or would it be channel-serfed?--knowing there had to be a "Cheers" re-run airing somewhere.
My friend Tim called and asked about the state of the kingdom. I told him of The King's new anti-menial labor revelation.
Of all people, I figured he'd empathize with my newfound royal arrogance since he calls me Movie Snob. I accept that nickname proudly, having earned it because I refuse to watch any cookie-cutter bro-mantic "comedies," especially ones starring Ben Stiller or Vince Vaughn.
"You're not going to do anything around the house?" Tim asked. "Good luck with that, King. I give you til Friday, but I hope that lasts for you."
Hmmm, I hadn't considered the possibility of a coup. Again, I haven't learned from my family's history. My ancestor who was the Mayor of Paris, Jean-Sylvain Bailly, was beheaded in 1793 as the revolution turned on its leaders.
"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Indeed, even if it is just a Burger King crown.
Day 3
I got a healthy sampling of how younger people will treat me and my odd ideas when I'm in my 90s and living in my retirement villa in Hawaii. (That seems like a good place for a king to retire.)
I told Caitlin that I was King for a week, and she reacted like I said I wanted to wear my shoes as earmuffs: "Oooo-kay. That's nice. Good for you."
Similarly, as I prepared to take Prince Daniel and two of his friends to see, fittingly, "The Princess and the Frog," the girls' mom, Coleen, called with a concern.
Her kids feared that King John might dress in full regalia--including the Burger King crown--on the trip to the movies. "They're seriously worried," Coleen laughed.
I told her I'd tone it down and wear just the royal sash and the medal. This was yet another one of my King Solomon-like judgments this week.
Unlike Solomon, however, I use a special method for particularly thorny questions: Rock-Paper-Scissors.
This technique is especially helpful when I'm challenged by Daniel, who always puts down Rock as I Paper him into defeat.
Maybe one day I'll wear my shoes as earmuffs, but for now I'm still smart enough to out-wit a 7-year-old. It's good to be King.
Days 4 & 5
The King and the royal family visited with several of our loyal subjects on New Year's Eve. As Tom Petty sang, "It's good to be king/Of your own little town."
On one visit, I named my Court Jester, Phil--it takes a great fool to know one--and met my most knowledgeable subject on the topic of kings. Gray had read about European royal traditions and quickly got me up to speed.
For example, when subjects enter a room with a king, they should bow three times: first, upon entering, secondly, halfway to the king, and finally once again in front of the king.
Gray bowed to me in demonstration, but the Queen and Court Jester refused.
I think I need a Royal Enforcer.
Gray also informed us that subjects should never turn their back on the King--because we Kings would stab them???--and that no one should speak to the King unless spoken to.
Oh, does the Queen have much to learn.
I was on the verge of creating a high-ranking position in my court for Gray, Royal Vizier perhaps, or Royal Scholar. But moments later, she eyed me in my royal sash, medal, and holding my scepter, and laughed, "You look ridiculous."
I definitely gotta find my own Andre the Giant from The Princess Bride. I wonder what kind of replies I'd get if I placed an ad on Craig's List: "Wanted: my own personal Giant?
Later, even the royal princess pushed my regal limits. Weeks ago, Daniel made up a word that was a mash-up of chubby and plump: chumpy. I won't say when he uses the word "chumpy," but it certainly motivates me to go for a run.
Now, Caitlin took the word a step further. "You're K.O.C., Dad," she said with a smile. I smiled back, thinking there was a compliment there somewhere, and asked what it meant.
"King of Chumpies," she said, and wisely took off running with the King in pursuit and ready to crown her with the royal scepter.
Fortunately, my subjects were more loyal by night's end as we approached the start of a new year. At Tim and Coleen's house, our friend Debbie bowed in my presence, and 4-year-old Maureen sported a tiny comb in her hair shaped like a tiara in my honor.
Now that's how the King should be treated. Maybe I'll hold off for now on hiring a tough guy and just collect some resumes in case.
Days 6 & 7
I chose to wear the full formal royal regalia for the weekend, breaking out a suit jacket and pants to go along with my crown, medal, sash, and scepter.
I felt regal, though I had my critics. "Is this the first time you've worn a suit in 10 years?" Caitlin asked.
The Queen had her own concerns, too, perhaps centered around preserving her royal status. "Why are you dressed up--are you about to be deposed?" she asked.
They just don't realize the sacrifices required of a King. Like how uncomfortable a suit jacket is when you haven't worn one two days in a row in more than 10 years.
Growing up, I attended Catholic high school so I wore a suit jacket every day. I remember two that stand out in my mind and make me wonder why anyone got within 10 feet of me.
The first was a purple-plaid thing--yes, purple-plaid--that was topped only by my other favorite, a green-and-brown plaid jacket colored to resemble Thanksgiving leftovers of lima beans and turkey gravy.
I thought both jackets made me look cool and hot at the same time, which explains why I wore them more than Cosby wore sweaters.
Both were my brother's hand-me-downs from the 1970s, the decade that delivered disco and bell bottoms. Not surprisingly, my jackets were as cool as Barry Manilow.
But that was then and this is now. Once again, I thought I looked cool and hot in my regalia and people took notice.
I dropped Daniel off at a friend's house, and, after sizing me up with a "What now?" glance, the mom offered a helpful tip as I left. "Don't lose your crown in the wind."
Caitlin, Daniel and I went to the store for ice cream after Sunday dinner, and as we pulled into the parking lot, we noticed a police car. "Maybe you'll get arrested for weirdness," Daniel said.
As often happens when I wear odd outfits, no one said a word, though I caught the cashier looking at my crown and medal enviously.
Caitlin later said she saw two people she knew in the store, but she didn't introduce me to them. Imagine that.
My reign as King Of All I Survey may have been short but I believe I'll go down in history as one of the better recent kings.
Not quite Stephen King or Larry King, but slightly better than bankrupt clothing retailer Chess King.
Day 1
Daniel's eyes opened wide and he smiled for just an instant after I told him my plan for the week. Then he slowly started frowning. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Why don't you like my idea?"
"Because you'll be in charge of everyone," he said.
Exactly! Smart boy.
I have declared myself King For A Week, the ruler of all I survey, and even those people and places I can't quite survey.
Those around The King shall call me Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, or simply King John.
When I told Daniel's young friends Emma and Abby they could call me King John if they wished, Daniel took the opportunity to say, "I think we should call you King Ding Dong." And so began the "King Ding Dong" chant by my three young servants.
The young prince has much to learn, but since I am a benevolent ruler, I have yet to banish him to the tower/his bedroom.
To learn what it takes to be a king, I typed the phrase "king for a day" into a search engine and lucked out. "Fantasy Island," the Mr. Rourke- and Tattoo-driven 1970s TV show featured a first-season episode with exactly that title, which I immediately watched.
It featured Bosley from "Charlie's Angels" as a Kansas plumber who wished to be treated like royalty. He got his own country, his own flag, servants, and a cool red sash.
Since I'm King of all I survey, I don't need a country, but a flag, servants, and most importantly, a wardrobe upgrade would be nice.
I started with the clothes, and I changed into casual king wear. I donned a shirt with the royal crest of the Avalon Regatta, then I found a red, white, and blue ribbon and a medal I'd won in a 5K.
Next, I wrapped a red-and-blue tie over my shoulder and taped the ends together to make a royal sash. I found a metallic paintbrush extender in the basement to use as a scepter.
The final piece of my wardrobe meant a trip with the prince to a regal destination: Burger King. I like to associate with other kings, plus I needed a crown for my sovereign noggin. Voila--my royal look was complete!
My ensemble obviously conveyed my importance. Three times during the day my wife, Queen Linda--I've given her limited powers--said something to the effect of, "You're the king, whatever you want."
That made The King think. Perhaps The King is not too bright if it took him all of these many weeks before The King finally came up with the golden idea that gets him whatever he wants.
The King doesn't want to think about that right now. Where's my court jester?
Day 2
"Kings are not born: they are made by artificial hallucination," said George Bernard Shaw.
In my case, truer words were never spoken. Still, my family's ancestry does
include brushes with royalty.My great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather was the curator of the Royal Gallery of Paintings under France's King Louis XVI, and his son went on to become the first Mayor of Paris in 1789 during the French Revolution.
However, I haven't learned much from my family's French dip into royalty because I initially acted too much like a commoner to start the week.
I was still doing household chores, still cleaning up, even still answering the phone and talking with the hoi polloi.
I was emptying the clothes dryer Monday night when Queen Linda pointed out the obvious. "A king wouldn't do that," she said.
God save the Queen, she was right. I need less Martin Luther King and more Don King. I shouldn't be helping my fellow man, but looking down from a lofty perch at the peons below.
As I started to empty the dishwasher mid-day Tuesday, I stopped as I grabbed the first glass. Manual labor is beneath The King, I realized.
I put the glass back in the dishwasher; the servants can empty the dishwasher and fill it with the dirty dishes in the sink.
The King has more important endeavors. I retired to my throne and channel-surfed--or would it be channel-serfed?--knowing there had to be a "Cheers" re-run airing somewhere.
My friend Tim called and asked about the state of the kingdom. I told him of The King's new anti-menial labor revelation.
Of all people, I figured he'd empathize with my newfound royal arrogance since he calls me Movie Snob. I accept that nickname proudly, having earned it because I refuse to watch any cookie-cutter bro-mantic "comedies," especially ones starring Ben Stiller or Vince Vaughn.
"You're not going to do anything around the house?" Tim asked. "Good luck with that, King. I give you til Friday, but I hope that lasts for you."
Hmmm, I hadn't considered the possibility of a coup. Again, I haven't learned from my family's history. My ancestor who was the Mayor of Paris, Jean-Sylvain Bailly, was beheaded in 1793 as the revolution turned on its leaders.
"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Indeed, even if it is just a Burger King crown.
Day 3
I got a healthy sampling of how younger people will treat me and my odd ideas when I'm in my 90s and living in my retirement villa in Hawaii. (That seems like a good place for a king to retire.)
I told Caitlin that I was King for a week, and she reacted like I said I wanted to wear my shoes as earmuffs: "Oooo-kay. That's nice. Good for you."
Similarly, as I prepared to take Prince Daniel and two of his friends to see, fittingly, "The Princess and the Frog," the girls' mom, Coleen, called with a concern.
Her kids feared that King John might dress in full regalia--including the Burger King crown--on the trip to the movies. "They're seriously worried," Coleen laughed.
I told her I'd tone it down and wear just the royal sash and the medal. This was yet another one of my King Solomon-like judgments this week.
Unlike Solomon, however, I use a special method for particularly thorny questions: Rock-Paper-Scissors.
This technique is especially helpful when I'm challenged by Daniel, who always puts down Rock as I Paper him into defeat.
Maybe one day I'll wear my shoes as earmuffs, but for now I'm still smart enough to out-wit a 7-year-old. It's good to be King.
Days 4 & 5
The King and the royal family visited with several of our loyal subjects on New Year's Eve. As Tom Petty sang, "It's good to be king/Of your own little town."
On one visit, I named my Court Jester, Phil--it takes a great fool to know one--and met my most knowledgeable subject on the topic of kings. Gray had read about European royal traditions and quickly got me up to speed.
For example, when subjects enter a room with a king, they should bow three times: first, upon entering, secondly, halfway to the king, and finally once again in front of the king.
Gray bowed to me in demonstration, but the Queen and Court Jester refused.
I think I need a Royal Enforcer.
Gray also informed us that subjects should never turn their back on the King--because we Kings would stab them???--and that no one should speak to the King unless spoken to.
Oh, does the Queen have much to learn.
I was on the verge of creating a high-ranking position in my court for Gray, Royal Vizier perhaps, or Royal Scholar. But moments later, she eyed me in my royal sash, medal, and holding my scepter, and laughed, "You look ridiculous."
I definitely gotta find my own Andre the Giant from The Princess Bride. I wonder what kind of replies I'd get if I placed an ad on Craig's List: "Wanted: my own personal Giant?
Later, even the royal princess pushed my regal limits. Weeks ago, Daniel made up a word that was a mash-up of chubby and plump: chumpy. I won't say when he uses the word "chumpy," but it certainly motivates me to go for a run.
Now, Caitlin took the word a step further. "You're K.O.C., Dad," she said with a smile. I smiled back, thinking there was a compliment there somewhere, and asked what it meant.
"King of Chumpies," she said, and wisely took off running with the King in pursuit and ready to crown her with the royal scepter.
Fortunately, my subjects were more loyal by night's end as we approached the start of a new year. At Tim and Coleen's house, our friend Debbie bowed in my presence, and 4-year-old Maureen sported a tiny comb in her hair shaped like a tiara in my honor.
Now that's how the King should be treated. Maybe I'll hold off for now on hiring a tough guy and just collect some resumes in case.
Days 6 & 7
I chose to wear the full formal royal regalia for the weekend, breaking out a suit jacket and pants to go along with my crown, medal, sash, and scepter.
I felt regal, though I had my critics. "Is this the first time you've worn a suit in 10 years?" Caitlin asked.
The Queen had her own concerns, too, perhaps centered around preserving her royal status. "Why are you dressed up--are you about to be deposed?" she asked.
They just don't realize the sacrifices required of a King. Like how uncomfortable a suit jacket is when you haven't worn one two days in a row in more than 10 years.
Growing up, I attended Catholic high school so I wore a suit jacket every day. I remember two that stand out in my mind and make me wonder why anyone got within 10 feet of me.
The first was a purple-plaid thing--yes, purple-plaid--that was topped only by my other favorite, a green-and-brown plaid jacket colored to resemble Thanksgiving leftovers of lima beans and turkey gravy.
I thought both jackets made me look cool and hot at the same time, which explains why I wore them more than Cosby wore sweaters.
Both were my brother's hand-me-downs from the 1970s, the decade that delivered disco and bell bottoms. Not surprisingly, my jackets were as cool as Barry Manilow.
But that was then and this is now. Once again, I thought I looked cool and hot in my regalia and people took notice.
I dropped Daniel off at a friend's house, and, after sizing me up with a "What now?" glance, the mom offered a helpful tip as I left. "Don't lose your crown in the wind."
Caitlin, Daniel and I went to the store for ice cream after Sunday dinner, and as we pulled into the parking lot, we noticed a police car. "Maybe you'll get arrested for weirdness," Daniel said.
As often happens when I wear odd outfits, no one said a word, though I caught the cashier looking at my crown and medal enviously.
Caitlin later said she saw two people she knew in the store, but she didn't introduce me to them. Imagine that.
My reign as King Of All I Survey may have been short but I believe I'll go down in history as one of the better recent kings.
Not quite Stephen King or Larry King, but slightly better than bankrupt clothing retailer Chess King.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Be Super Superstitious
10:45 a.m. entry
It dawned on me after I'd looked through a pile of my son's old stuffed animals last night. I was searching for a stuffed rabbit. To give to my son?
No, of course, not. So I could cut off its foot for good luck.
That's when I realized I'm in for one weird day today.
Motivated initially by hearing Stevie Wonder's "Superstitious" on the radio the other day, I was spurred on to be Super Superstitious for a day when I asked my Facebook friends for suggestions.
Knock on wood, I hope I soon forget the odd, unlikely list of superstitions they rattled off.
No new shoes on the table. Dropping a utensil means company is coming.
If a black cat crosses the road in front of you when you're driving, spit on your finger and make an X on the windshield.
I'd say that's particularly weird, but I probably shouldn't point spit-laden fingers: I'm planning to perform a superstition-inspired rain dance in front of Philadelphia's City Hall at 1:30 today.
I'll update the blog throughout the day to track how lucky my super superstitious behavior has made me.
12 noon entry:
I started my day by saying, "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" when I awoke, even though it wasn't the first day of the month. I figured that following all of my new superstitions would make the day feel like a month.
I didn't want to break my mother's back, so I tried not to step on the cracks in our house. The ones in the bathroom and the kitchen were avoidable, but we have thin-strip hardwood floors elsewhere.
I'd have to fly to avoid all the cracks. Or I could ask Linda to carry me around piggyback.
I wondered if she'd mind me waking her with that request.
I knocked on wood and hoped my mom's back would be alright. If my carefree teenage years didn't break her spirit, then a few cracks shouldn't break her back.
12:45 p.m. entry:
Nine-year-old Daniel tried to help out as I was pulling out of the driveway this morning. Bending down near our front door, he said he'd found a four-leaf clover.
Holding it in his outstretched hands, he walked over to the car, then said, "Wait, I lost it." He looked, but couldn't find it again.
Losing a four-leaf clover can't be good luck.
But actually, Daniel is the one who lost it. Lucky me!
On the drive to the train station, I went out of my way to drive across train tracks so I could lift my feet and touch the car's ceiling. Then I doubled back and did it again.
That's a weird superstition, but I guess it's lucky a train wasn't coming.
1:05 p.m. entry:
I'm off to perform a Rain Dance in front of Philadelphia's City Hall. I could do it outside my office building, the Comcast Center, but performing in front of City Hall somehow makes it more official.
In North America, a typical Rain Dance would involve feathers and turquoise. Unless I run into some odd characters along the way who'll lend me feathers and turquoise, I'll have to settle for khakis and a button-down shirt.
It's a shame how our modern ways are ruining good superstitions.
2:30 p.m. entry:
It's official: I'm a Rainmaker!
If the sight of me doing a Rain Dance in a City Hall courtyard wasn't strange enough, what happened next sure was.
A bright sunny day quickly changed into a torrential thunderstorm. I'm not kidding. The superstition worked.
Well, kind of. I actually did a No Rain Dance--why would I want it to rain on a beautifully sunny day?
So after I'd looked up instructions on how to perform a Rain Dance, I planned to follow the instructions for how to get rid of rain that were also noted.
But when it was show time at City Hall, and the camera was on, and the crowd was watching, I caved to the pressure.
I forgot to dance counter-clockwise, and I forgot to say my chosen chant backwards: "No rain. No rain."
Which means I kind of asked for the opposite of a No Rain Dance. And kind of not.
I'm calling it a win.
3:30 p.m. entry:
Before I worked my voodoo magic to make it rain, I first had to find a videographer for the event. I needed a stranger trustworthy enough to hand over my camera.
I crossed my fingers and hoped the person wouldn't take off with it.
As I wandered around the City Hall courtyard, I noticed an honest-looking woman under a tree. By "honest-looking" I mean I honestly thought I could catch her if she ran away with my camera.
We seemed to be sizing each other up. I was wondering if she'd be my videographer. I don't think she was wondering, "Is this idiot going to make it rain?"
She had a book on her lap, though I couldn't see the title. I suspected it was, "How to Get Rich by Stealing Cameras," so I decided to look for someone else.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the name of the woman I finally asked, but she seemed to do a fine job. Since I don't know how to review my own camera, I'll have to check tonight when I download it.
My tech wizardry is limited to the On/Off button.
I Rain Danced in and around several columns in the courtyard, chanting, "No rain, no rain." I was surprised others didn't join me.
A man with a child glanced up, then down, but I think he was smiling. A pair of guys walked by as I danced, and I think they'll be in the footage.
All in all, I'm sure the untalented extras didn't block my standout performance, so fortunately I won't have to dock their pay. How lucky for them.
4:45 p.m. entry:
I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my superstitions.
I went looking for a few lucky talismen but surprisingly they don't sell horseshoes or a rabbit's foot in the Center City Hallmark store.
Earlier, while I was eating lunch, some salt spilled, so I threw salt over my left shoulder (aiming for the devil's eye, of course).
My co-worker later sneezed--unrelated to my salt throw--and I said, "God bless you," knowing that the acknowledgment began as a superstition.
According to my entirely lazy research, during the Black Plague, when sneezing meant the person would eventually die of the plague, people were required to bless the sneezer.
Wow, talk about a jinx-double jinx.
7:30 p.m. entry:
The official City Hall Rain Dance. I can't tell whether the family in the background is trying to avert their eyes or pick the right spot to jump in.
10 p.m. entry:
I gave Daniel a wallet to end the day--with a dollar inside. Otherwise, he'd never have money in his life. Um, yeah.
I've learned if you're Super Superstitious, avoidance is the key. I realized this as I tap-danced around the cracks in Suburban Station on the way to my train, just as I'd done in the morning.
Looking down as I walked, I avoided the cracks but barely avoided the people looking at the crackpot. I haven't heard from my mom, but I'm feeling lucky that I didn't break her back.
I should feel luckier than a lottery winner after a day of DodgeFlaw. No black cats, no ladders, no new shoes on desks.
No dropped utensils, itchy palms, ringing ears, broken mirrors, indoor-opened umbrellas.
No birds or bats in the house (signs of death), chills up my spine (someone walking on my future grave), or Richard Simmons sightings (just a bad sign in general).
I'm a little worried my knowledge of these new superstitions will join my stockpile of odd quirks. My oddities actually scare Richard Simmons.
But after all of this, should I feel luckier? How do I know I've been lucky today?
Well, no one sent me a chain letter, which for once I'd have had to forward on to my friends.
I guess that makes me lucky. Or does it make my friends lucky?
It dawned on me after I'd looked through a pile of my son's old stuffed animals last night. I was searching for a stuffed rabbit. To give to my son?
No, of course, not. So I could cut off its foot for good luck.
That's when I realized I'm in for one weird day today.
Motivated initially by hearing Stevie Wonder's "Superstitious" on the radio the other day, I was spurred on to be Super Superstitious for a day when I asked my Facebook friends for suggestions.
Knock on wood, I hope I soon forget the odd, unlikely list of superstitions they rattled off.
No new shoes on the table. Dropping a utensil means company is coming.
If a black cat crosses the road in front of you when you're driving, spit on your finger and make an X on the windshield.
I'd say that's particularly weird, but I probably shouldn't point spit-laden fingers: I'm planning to perform a superstition-inspired rain dance in front of Philadelphia's City Hall at 1:30 today.
I'll update the blog throughout the day to track how lucky my super superstitious behavior has made me.
12 noon entry:
I started my day by saying, "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" when I awoke, even though it wasn't the first day of the month. I figured that following all of my new superstitions would make the day feel like a month.
I didn't want to break my mother's back, so I tried not to step on the cracks in our house. The ones in the bathroom and the kitchen were avoidable, but we have thin-strip hardwood floors elsewhere.
I'd have to fly to avoid all the cracks. Or I could ask Linda to carry me around piggyback.
I wondered if she'd mind me waking her with that request.
I knocked on wood and hoped my mom's back would be alright. If my carefree teenage years didn't break her spirit, then a few cracks shouldn't break her back.
12:45 p.m. entry:
Nine-year-old Daniel tried to help out as I was pulling out of the driveway this morning. Bending down near our front door, he said he'd found a four-leaf clover.
Holding it in his outstretched hands, he walked over to the car, then said, "Wait, I lost it." He looked, but couldn't find it again.
Losing a four-leaf clover can't be good luck.
But actually, Daniel is the one who lost it. Lucky me!
On the drive to the train station, I went out of my way to drive across train tracks so I could lift my feet and touch the car's ceiling. Then I doubled back and did it again.
That's a weird superstition, but I guess it's lucky a train wasn't coming.
1:05 p.m. entry:
I'm off to perform a Rain Dance in front of Philadelphia's City Hall. I could do it outside my office building, the Comcast Center, but performing in front of City Hall somehow makes it more official.
In North America, a typical Rain Dance would involve feathers and turquoise. Unless I run into some odd characters along the way who'll lend me feathers and turquoise, I'll have to settle for khakis and a button-down shirt.
It's a shame how our modern ways are ruining good superstitions.
2:30 p.m. entry:
It's official: I'm a Rainmaker!
If the sight of me doing a Rain Dance in a City Hall courtyard wasn't strange enough, what happened next sure was.
A bright sunny day quickly changed into a torrential thunderstorm. I'm not kidding. The superstition worked.
Well, kind of. I actually did a No Rain Dance--why would I want it to rain on a beautifully sunny day?
So after I'd looked up instructions on how to perform a Rain Dance, I planned to follow the instructions for how to get rid of rain that were also noted.
But when it was show time at City Hall, and the camera was on, and the crowd was watching, I caved to the pressure.
I forgot to dance counter-clockwise, and I forgot to say my chosen chant backwards: "No rain. No rain."
Which means I kind of asked for the opposite of a No Rain Dance. And kind of not.
I'm calling it a win.
3:30 p.m. entry:
Before I worked my voodoo magic to make it rain, I first had to find a videographer for the event. I needed a stranger trustworthy enough to hand over my camera.
I crossed my fingers and hoped the person wouldn't take off with it.
As I wandered around the City Hall courtyard, I noticed an honest-looking woman under a tree. By "honest-looking" I mean I honestly thought I could catch her if she ran away with my camera.
We seemed to be sizing each other up. I was wondering if she'd be my videographer. I don't think she was wondering, "Is this idiot going to make it rain?"
She had a book on her lap, though I couldn't see the title. I suspected it was, "How to Get Rich by Stealing Cameras," so I decided to look for someone else.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the name of the woman I finally asked, but she seemed to do a fine job. Since I don't know how to review my own camera, I'll have to check tonight when I download it.
My tech wizardry is limited to the On/Off button.
I Rain Danced in and around several columns in the courtyard, chanting, "No rain, no rain." I was surprised others didn't join me.
A man with a child glanced up, then down, but I think he was smiling. A pair of guys walked by as I danced, and I think they'll be in the footage.
All in all, I'm sure the untalented extras didn't block my standout performance, so fortunately I won't have to dock their pay. How lucky for them.
4:45 p.m. entry:
I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my superstitions.
I went looking for a few lucky talismen but surprisingly they don't sell horseshoes or a rabbit's foot in the Center City Hallmark store.
Earlier, while I was eating lunch, some salt spilled, so I threw salt over my left shoulder (aiming for the devil's eye, of course).
My co-worker later sneezed--unrelated to my salt throw--and I said, "God bless you," knowing that the acknowledgment began as a superstition.
According to my entirely lazy research, during the Black Plague, when sneezing meant the person would eventually die of the plague, people were required to bless the sneezer.
Wow, talk about a jinx-double jinx.
7:30 p.m. entry:
The official City Hall Rain Dance. I can't tell whether the family in the background is trying to avert their eyes or pick the right spot to jump in.
10 p.m. entry:
I gave Daniel a wallet to end the day--with a dollar inside. Otherwise, he'd never have money in his life. Um, yeah.
I've learned if you're Super Superstitious, avoidance is the key. I realized this as I tap-danced around the cracks in Suburban Station on the way to my train, just as I'd done in the morning.
Looking down as I walked, I avoided the cracks but barely avoided the people looking at the crackpot. I haven't heard from my mom, but I'm feeling lucky that I didn't break her back.
I should feel luckier than a lottery winner after a day of DodgeFlaw. No black cats, no ladders, no new shoes on desks.
No dropped utensils, itchy palms, ringing ears, broken mirrors, indoor-opened umbrellas.
No birds or bats in the house (signs of death), chills up my spine (someone walking on my future grave), or Richard Simmons sightings (just a bad sign in general).
I'm a little worried my knowledge of these new superstitions will join my stockpile of odd quirks. My oddities actually scare Richard Simmons.
But after all of this, should I feel luckier? How do I know I've been lucky today?
Well, no one sent me a chain letter, which for once I'd have had to forward on to my friends.
I guess that makes me lucky. Or does it make my friends lucky?
Monday, May 21, 2012
No clocks
Here's a week from two years ago as I tried not to look at the time.
Day 1
How many times a day do you think you check the time? On 15, maybe 20 occasions?
You can probably multiply that number by 10, if my first day attempting to be out of touch with time is any indication.
And I don’t even wear a watch; who wants to be handcuffed to time? I’ve always figured the very few times a day I need to know what time it is, I’ll find the time somewhere.
Boy, was I wrong—about how often I check the time. And, I was also right—there’s always, always a clock somewhere.
Without looking, I mentally counted 10 places where I could find the time on the first floor of my house alone. Aside from our clocks, the time is displayed on our microwave, radio, oven, TV set, and handheld phones.
Time gets our attention more than a phone call from the principal.
I got off to a bad start and it only got worse. I failed in the first waking seconds of the morning, though, in my defense, who doesn’t check the time when they wake up?
I followed that failure with two more time-checks in the day’s first 15 minutes. I’m worse at this than Hermey the Dentist was as an elf.
I checked the clock so often as Daniel got ready for school you’d think it was a winning lottery ticket. And I was trying hard not to look.
To rationalize my early failures, I tried something I knew would make me feel worse. Math.
I used my fingers and toes to estimate how often the average person might notice the time during a day. Roughly six times an hour—believe it!—multiplied by 17 waking hours. That’s more than 100 times a day, or half as often as ESPN promotes itself.
My biggest nemesis is the kitchen clock positioned on a wall so I’m face to face with it as I approach the kitchen. Linda suggested I cover the clocks, but that seems like cheating.
I’m also not going to ask people what time it is, or trick Daniel into giving me updates. Though if you can't trick your kids, what fun are they?
Rather, I’ll rely on the rhythms of the natural world, as our caveman ancestors did. The sun. The moon. The stars. The neighborhood dog-walkers who circle the block like clockwork at their usual time of day.
Since my office overlooks our road, I also know I can rely on other predictable street traffic. Lanky Cellphone-Talking Guy, who probably works in the office around the corner, circles our neighborhood shortly after noon.
Our mail carrier arrives between 3:30 and 4, the junior high school bus passes by at 3:40, and after-work traffic picks up starting at 5:15.
Even armed with that knowledge, I was still Custer in my battle against time, since I checked the time inadvertently probably 40 to 50 times today.
That’s why after a day out of time, and out of sorts, I know this: Time is not on our side. It’s attacking us.
I’m trying to fight back, to regain my freedom from time's grip, though for now time’s got me in a Sergeant Slaughter Cobra Clutch and it’s starting to count me out. 1…2…3…
Day 2
I woke up yesterday and it was dark, so I deduced it was somewhere between midnight and 6:30. See how I've mastered interpreting the earth's clues?
My dilemma, though: Do I try to go back to sleep because it's the middle of the night, or do I get up because it's the morning?
One thing was certain--I wasn't going to check the time. And with that, I finally had a victory over time! I needed a win after a first day filled with more slip-ups than a first-grade skating party.
Turns out it was 6 a.m. When I turned on the TV--and avoided looking at the time displayed--the local news was just starting. (I guess it also could have been 11 p.m. the night before; good thing I didn't think of that then.)
My morning victory was tempered by the realization that over the years, I've probably made 7-year-old Daniel a time hostage worse than me.
We have a regular morning routine, during which he eats his breakfast and gets ready for school, and once he's finished, if there's time left, he can play with his Legos until it's time to leave.
How do I know I've corrupted him? After a slow, meandering morning, I asked if he wanted breakfast. He looked at the clock and whined, "Awwww, I'm supposed to be finished breakfast by 7:27 and now I'm only starting it."
Wow, I need this week more than I imagined. I guess that's why I'm struggling worse than Shaq trying to fly coach.
I decided to count the number of times I peeked at the time all day, and the result was depressing. I looked at a clock six times before 8 a.m. Six times in two hours!
And I probably stopped myself on a dozen other occasions. Fortunately, the pace slowed slightly--I considered taking a nap to help the cause--and for the day I checked a total of 31 times.
That's still almost two time checks every waking hour for someone who's not supposed to be looking at all.
Sadly, that's progress compared to the first day. How much time until this week is over?
Day 3
I’ve identified why I check the time so often during the day. Every time I enter a room in our house, I instantly look to where the time is displayed. It’s like I’m timing myself doing laps around the house.
To break the habit, I need to sit quietly in one room all day and not look around. Make the room padded, put me in a straitjacket, and all of my problems are solved.
I could probably trace my habit back to high school and college, where I’d rush to make classes on time, and then check the wall clock as soon I entered the classroom. It’s the same thing with work, where I’d check the time whenever I entered my office.
In most cases, my bosses weren’t as concerned about time as I was. At one magazine, writers notoriously abused the concept of getting to work on time—for them, showing up at all was a nice change of pace.
One writer showed up hours late one day dressed head to toe in an Arab dishdasha and shumagg and was treated like a king. Showing up on time in khakis was so passé.
However, I also worked at a place where time was regulated better than the stock market. Timesheets had to be filled out in 15-minute intervals, and the entire office was forced to take lunch at exactly 11:45 and return promptly at 12:45.
You were warned, then docked for any lateness. All the place was missing was bars on the windows.
My management style has been less restrictive: Either you get the job done or you don’t. I think that’s another reason I check the time so frequently. I’m measuring my day's success by how much I accomplish.
Again, Daniel reminded me that I need to ease up a little. He also showed me that you never know what habits your kids will pick up.
While he and Linda were playing yesterday morning before he'd gotten ready for school, Daniel abruptly stopped and said, “I’ve gotta go, Mommy. My personal goal is to be finished everything by 7:30.”
At age 7, his “personal goal” should be to see if he can squeeze 20 Cheetos into his cheeks. Something tells me one day he’s going to work for my former time-crazed company—and wonder why they’re so laid back.
Day 4
I wasn't the only one awake in the early hours at Linda's mom's house, which we’re visiting for a few days. I was, however, the only one trying to go back to sleep.
"Hi, Uncle John," my 8-year-old nephew Luis said too eagerly. He was sitting on a chair staring at me as I stretched out on the couch trying not to think about what time it was. Through one half-opened eye I guessed it was between 2 and 5 a.m.
The moon tap-tap-tapped on the window and asked Luis to keep it down. Luis, ignoring the moon, wanted to play.
It was hard to resist the little guy; before our arrival last night, he had advanced every clock in the house six hours to trick me in case I looked. (Too bad 8-year-olds can’t keep secrets.)
When I suggested he go back to sleep, Luis said, “I can’t. I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks—I’m too excited!”
Too cute, and if I could get my other eye to open or my face to move, I’d smile.
The great thing about visiting with family this week is that my time is not my own, so I don’t need to break it down like a chemist.
I wake up when someone wakes me, I eat when someone feeds me, I go where someone takes me. I’m a giant 2-year-old—and I assumed the role frighteningly easily. I just need someone to burp me.
Days 5 & 6
Mornings are the most disorienting time of day without clocks, especially when I wake up too early. At my mother-in-law Joan's house, I was up before the sun both days and wiped out by nighttime.
I sleep better in my own bed. Or maybe I awoke so early because Joan made me sleep outside in the pouring rain, howling wind, and surrounded by dogs. Or did I dream that during my measly two hours of sleep?
Not knowing the time is also confusing Linda, who, for at least the tenth time this week, asked me what time it was early Friday morning.
Joan isn't as time-obsessed as I've discovered I am, so she has fewer clocks in her house. I've caught myself checking the one in the kitchen, so I tried to stand with my back to it, even if it meant turning my back to someone who was talking. Especially if that someone was Linda.
After we'd left and arrived home, I made a deal with 7-year-old Daniel that night. He seemingly takes pride in being the first kid awake in the neighborhood and kindly includes us in his triumph.
But I needed a long night's sleep, so, using my best parenting skills to keep him away in the morning, I bribed him.
The next morning, one very happy little boy came to wake one very well-rested adult at the appointed hour. "Daddy, it's 9:30," said Daniel, smiling like he'd won a week's stay at Legoland. "Remember our deal?"
I said he could eat whatever he wanted for breakfast, so Daniel got pancakes, bacon, and sausages. And, he was allowed to eat in front of the TV--a paradise for Daniel, and comparable for adults to a two-hour massage (as long as it's not given by Carrot Top).
As Daniel enjoyed his breakfast, my friend Kevin stopped by with his son for a playdate. He saw the meal, purchased at a local restaurant, and said, "You know, you can actually make pancakes yourself. Oh wait, I forgot, you'd have to do more than open a can."
I'd be offended if it wasn't true, and if I hadn't just enjoyed my longest sleep in months. The sleep was so good, I want another night like it, but I need to come up with a new bribe.
If only there was a book with tips for the best ways to bribe your kid. Maybe I should write one. I'd call it Bribe Your Babies: 101 Offers Your Kid Can't Refuse. I sense a best-seller.
Day 7
How badly am I in time's grasp? You can't spell "time" without "me."
With one day left in the week, I cut my time checks to 14 occasions on Saturday--still almost once every waking hour. If that's a victory, so is finishing second in a presidential election.
Desperate times call for ... me to take my wife's advice. That's true desperation, I know, but Linda may have been right at the beginning. My willpower isn't enough, so I decided to cover the clocks in our house.
The main culprits are the clock on the family room TV box, the kitchen clock, and the clock over the oven. Combined, I turned to them for 11 of my 14 time checks on Saturday.
Linda watched time disappear as I draped towels over my enemies as if they were hoods. I felt like asking if the clocks had any last words.
Linda chimed in. "I need to wear a watch today" she said. She may be powerless against time, but I still had a day to prove myself.
Creature of habit that I am, I still looked at the towel-covered clocks several times throughout the day. Happily, though, I was oblivious to the time, and I missed an hour of the early NFL games.
I didn't eat lunch until around 2:30--I know that's roughly when halftime occurs--and I even avoided looking at the game clock while I watched.
I was winning for the first time all week! Not everyone was so happy, though, as the afternoon wore on.
Daniel was eager to go to his friends' house at 4--except the towels kept him from knowing the time.
After checking two covered clocks, Daniel whined, "Oh, come on! What time is it already?" What's wrong, I asked. "I just want to know how long til we leave," he said.
I couldn't help him, and I remained useless for the rest of the evening. We finished dinner with Phil and Gray, the four kids played, and we sat time-clueless on the back porch.
It was pitch black; because of my newly learned, highly developed sense of nature's rhythms, I narrowed the time to somewhere after 7 but before 6:30 in the morning.
I had two slip-ups for the day: I saw the time on the car radio during the ride over, and I checked their kitchen clock once. But those were my only time checks for the day.
I'd finally broken free from the hands of time. Well, sort of. When I awoke Monday, I immediately checked the time, but only because I know it missed me.
Day 1
How many times a day do you think you check the time? On 15, maybe 20 occasions?
You can probably multiply that number by 10, if my first day attempting to be out of touch with time is any indication.
And I don’t even wear a watch; who wants to be handcuffed to time? I’ve always figured the very few times a day I need to know what time it is, I’ll find the time somewhere.
Boy, was I wrong—about how often I check the time. And, I was also right—there’s always, always a clock somewhere.
Without looking, I mentally counted 10 places where I could find the time on the first floor of my house alone. Aside from our clocks, the time is displayed on our microwave, radio, oven, TV set, and handheld phones.
Time gets our attention more than a phone call from the principal.
I got off to a bad start and it only got worse. I failed in the first waking seconds of the morning, though, in my defense, who doesn’t check the time when they wake up?
I followed that failure with two more time-checks in the day’s first 15 minutes. I’m worse at this than Hermey the Dentist was as an elf.
I checked the clock so often as Daniel got ready for school you’d think it was a winning lottery ticket. And I was trying hard not to look.
To rationalize my early failures, I tried something I knew would make me feel worse. Math.
I used my fingers and toes to estimate how often the average person might notice the time during a day. Roughly six times an hour—believe it!—multiplied by 17 waking hours. That’s more than 100 times a day, or half as often as ESPN promotes itself.
My biggest nemesis is the kitchen clock positioned on a wall so I’m face to face with it as I approach the kitchen. Linda suggested I cover the clocks, but that seems like cheating.
I’m also not going to ask people what time it is, or trick Daniel into giving me updates. Though if you can't trick your kids, what fun are they?
Rather, I’ll rely on the rhythms of the natural world, as our caveman ancestors did. The sun. The moon. The stars. The neighborhood dog-walkers who circle the block like clockwork at their usual time of day.
Since my office overlooks our road, I also know I can rely on other predictable street traffic. Lanky Cellphone-Talking Guy, who probably works in the office around the corner, circles our neighborhood shortly after noon.
Our mail carrier arrives between 3:30 and 4, the junior high school bus passes by at 3:40, and after-work traffic picks up starting at 5:15.
Even armed with that knowledge, I was still Custer in my battle against time, since I checked the time inadvertently probably 40 to 50 times today.
That’s why after a day out of time, and out of sorts, I know this: Time is not on our side. It’s attacking us.
I’m trying to fight back, to regain my freedom from time's grip, though for now time’s got me in a Sergeant Slaughter Cobra Clutch and it’s starting to count me out. 1…2…3…
Day 2
I woke up yesterday and it was dark, so I deduced it was somewhere between midnight and 6:30. See how I've mastered interpreting the earth's clues?
My dilemma, though: Do I try to go back to sleep because it's the middle of the night, or do I get up because it's the morning?
One thing was certain--I wasn't going to check the time. And with that, I finally had a victory over time! I needed a win after a first day filled with more slip-ups than a first-grade skating party.
Turns out it was 6 a.m. When I turned on the TV--and avoided looking at the time displayed--the local news was just starting. (I guess it also could have been 11 p.m. the night before; good thing I didn't think of that then.)
My morning victory was tempered by the realization that over the years, I've probably made 7-year-old Daniel a time hostage worse than me.
We have a regular morning routine, during which he eats his breakfast and gets ready for school, and once he's finished, if there's time left, he can play with his Legos until it's time to leave.
How do I know I've corrupted him? After a slow, meandering morning, I asked if he wanted breakfast. He looked at the clock and whined, "Awwww, I'm supposed to be finished breakfast by 7:27 and now I'm only starting it."
Wow, I need this week more than I imagined. I guess that's why I'm struggling worse than Shaq trying to fly coach.
I decided to count the number of times I peeked at the time all day, and the result was depressing. I looked at a clock six times before 8 a.m. Six times in two hours!
And I probably stopped myself on a dozen other occasions. Fortunately, the pace slowed slightly--I considered taking a nap to help the cause--and for the day I checked a total of 31 times.
That's still almost two time checks every waking hour for someone who's not supposed to be looking at all.
Sadly, that's progress compared to the first day. How much time until this week is over?
Day 3
I’ve identified why I check the time so often during the day. Every time I enter a room in our house, I instantly look to where the time is displayed. It’s like I’m timing myself doing laps around the house.
To break the habit, I need to sit quietly in one room all day and not look around. Make the room padded, put me in a straitjacket, and all of my problems are solved.
I could probably trace my habit back to high school and college, where I’d rush to make classes on time, and then check the wall clock as soon I entered the classroom. It’s the same thing with work, where I’d check the time whenever I entered my office.
In most cases, my bosses weren’t as concerned about time as I was. At one magazine, writers notoriously abused the concept of getting to work on time—for them, showing up at all was a nice change of pace.
One writer showed up hours late one day dressed head to toe in an Arab dishdasha and shumagg and was treated like a king. Showing up on time in khakis was so passé.
However, I also worked at a place where time was regulated better than the stock market. Timesheets had to be filled out in 15-minute intervals, and the entire office was forced to take lunch at exactly 11:45 and return promptly at 12:45.
You were warned, then docked for any lateness. All the place was missing was bars on the windows.
My management style has been less restrictive: Either you get the job done or you don’t. I think that’s another reason I check the time so frequently. I’m measuring my day's success by how much I accomplish.
Again, Daniel reminded me that I need to ease up a little. He also showed me that you never know what habits your kids will pick up.
While he and Linda were playing yesterday morning before he'd gotten ready for school, Daniel abruptly stopped and said, “I’ve gotta go, Mommy. My personal goal is to be finished everything by 7:30.”
At age 7, his “personal goal” should be to see if he can squeeze 20 Cheetos into his cheeks. Something tells me one day he’s going to work for my former time-crazed company—and wonder why they’re so laid back.
Day 4
I wasn't the only one awake in the early hours at Linda's mom's house, which we’re visiting for a few days. I was, however, the only one trying to go back to sleep.
"Hi, Uncle John," my 8-year-old nephew Luis said too eagerly. He was sitting on a chair staring at me as I stretched out on the couch trying not to think about what time it was. Through one half-opened eye I guessed it was between 2 and 5 a.m.
The moon tap-tap-tapped on the window and asked Luis to keep it down. Luis, ignoring the moon, wanted to play.
It was hard to resist the little guy; before our arrival last night, he had advanced every clock in the house six hours to trick me in case I looked. (Too bad 8-year-olds can’t keep secrets.)
When I suggested he go back to sleep, Luis said, “I can’t. I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks—I’m too excited!”
Too cute, and if I could get my other eye to open or my face to move, I’d smile.
The great thing about visiting with family this week is that my time is not my own, so I don’t need to break it down like a chemist.
I wake up when someone wakes me, I eat when someone feeds me, I go where someone takes me. I’m a giant 2-year-old—and I assumed the role frighteningly easily. I just need someone to burp me.
Days 5 & 6
Mornings are the most disorienting time of day without clocks, especially when I wake up too early. At my mother-in-law Joan's house, I was up before the sun both days and wiped out by nighttime.
I sleep better in my own bed. Or maybe I awoke so early because Joan made me sleep outside in the pouring rain, howling wind, and surrounded by dogs. Or did I dream that during my measly two hours of sleep?
Not knowing the time is also confusing Linda, who, for at least the tenth time this week, asked me what time it was early Friday morning.
Joan isn't as time-obsessed as I've discovered I am, so she has fewer clocks in her house. I've caught myself checking the one in the kitchen, so I tried to stand with my back to it, even if it meant turning my back to someone who was talking. Especially if that someone was Linda.
After we'd left and arrived home, I made a deal with 7-year-old Daniel that night. He seemingly takes pride in being the first kid awake in the neighborhood and kindly includes us in his triumph.
But I needed a long night's sleep, so, using my best parenting skills to keep him away in the morning, I bribed him.
The next morning, one very happy little boy came to wake one very well-rested adult at the appointed hour. "Daddy, it's 9:30," said Daniel, smiling like he'd won a week's stay at Legoland. "Remember our deal?"
I said he could eat whatever he wanted for breakfast, so Daniel got pancakes, bacon, and sausages. And, he was allowed to eat in front of the TV--a paradise for Daniel, and comparable for adults to a two-hour massage (as long as it's not given by Carrot Top).
As Daniel enjoyed his breakfast, my friend Kevin stopped by with his son for a playdate. He saw the meal, purchased at a local restaurant, and said, "You know, you can actually make pancakes yourself. Oh wait, I forgot, you'd have to do more than open a can."
I'd be offended if it wasn't true, and if I hadn't just enjoyed my longest sleep in months. The sleep was so good, I want another night like it, but I need to come up with a new bribe.
If only there was a book with tips for the best ways to bribe your kid. Maybe I should write one. I'd call it Bribe Your Babies: 101 Offers Your Kid Can't Refuse. I sense a best-seller.
Day 7
How badly am I in time's grasp? You can't spell "time" without "me."
With one day left in the week, I cut my time checks to 14 occasions on Saturday--still almost once every waking hour. If that's a victory, so is finishing second in a presidential election.
Desperate times call for ... me to take my wife's advice. That's true desperation, I know, but Linda may have been right at the beginning. My willpower isn't enough, so I decided to cover the clocks in our house.
The main culprits are the clock on the family room TV box, the kitchen clock, and the clock over the oven. Combined, I turned to them for 11 of my 14 time checks on Saturday.
Linda watched time disappear as I draped towels over my enemies as if they were hoods. I felt like asking if the clocks had any last words.
Linda chimed in. "I need to wear a watch today" she said. She may be powerless against time, but I still had a day to prove myself.
Creature of habit that I am, I still looked at the towel-covered clocks several times throughout the day. Happily, though, I was oblivious to the time, and I missed an hour of the early NFL games.
I didn't eat lunch until around 2:30--I know that's roughly when halftime occurs--and I even avoided looking at the game clock while I watched.
I was winning for the first time all week! Not everyone was so happy, though, as the afternoon wore on.
Daniel was eager to go to his friends' house at 4--except the towels kept him from knowing the time.
After checking two covered clocks, Daniel whined, "Oh, come on! What time is it already?" What's wrong, I asked. "I just want to know how long til we leave," he said.
I couldn't help him, and I remained useless for the rest of the evening. We finished dinner with Phil and Gray, the four kids played, and we sat time-clueless on the back porch.
It was pitch black; because of my newly learned, highly developed sense of nature's rhythms, I narrowed the time to somewhere after 7 but before 6:30 in the morning.
I had two slip-ups for the day: I saw the time on the car radio during the ride over, and I checked their kitchen clock once. But those were my only time checks for the day.
I'd finally broken free from the hands of time. Well, sort of. When I awoke Monday, I immediately checked the time, but only because I know it missed me.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Eat Like A Seal
Another classic from 2 years ago, and this week featured some of my best videos, the DanceWalk aside.
Day 1
Linda and I try to teach 7-year-old Daniel good manners but it's possible we may be sending mixed signals.
For example, last night at dinner, at the exact moment Linda was gently reminding him, "Elbows off the table, honey," I was flipping a handful of buttered baked potato bits two feet into the air and catching it in my mouth.
A minute later, Linda was trying to make me laugh by arf-arffing like a seal and clapping her hands in front of her, while I was tossing a morsel of pork chop skyward, then almost falling from my chair trying to catch it.
I'm eating like a seal this week--meaning all of my food has to be tossed into my mouth--so it may not be the best week for me to teach Daniel about polite behavior.
Especially when I'm wearing my food on my face.
I got the idea the other day when I casually flipped a cookie bit to myself and remembered how gifted I used to be at catching food.
In college, my friends and I would toss Jell-O cubes across the table to each other after dinner in the cafeteria. (When you go to a college in a cornfield you find new ways to entertain yourself.)
We were so good, we started flipping them across two tables, then three tables--a good 18 to 20 feet. One friend was ridiculously skilled; he'd sit 35 to 40 feet away and catch almost every Jell-O cube thrown in his direction.
He was so far away, it was hard to throw the cubes that distance without having them dissolve.
I wasn't as seal-like, but I got good enough to impress the ladies. If the ladies were impressed by a Jell-O-catching, mullet-haired, Journey fan.
However, as I discovered at breakfast yesterday, I haven't worked at my craft since Cyndi Lauper and the girls just wanted to have fun. The diced orange was hitting the floor like hail.
Then, as if a switch flipped, I got into a rhythm. After needing 14 tries to catch just five orange slices, I caught eight in a row.
The trick is to let the food roll off your fingers so that when it's released, it arcs in a gentle parabola back toward your face.
I may not be an expert on manners, but I'm the Stephen Hawking of flipping food.
Daniel tossed a few orange wedges to me, but didn't like it much, or to quote him, "This is boring and disgusting." This from a boy who'll play in mud for two hours in the summer.
I coaxed 17-year-old Caitlin into lobbing some of my lunch to me: a ketchup-covered bacon cheeseburger and fries. (Hey, I can't let my seal-ness interfere with my regular diet.)
I needed to squeeze the burger tightly before tossing it, otherwise it splintered in the air like a broken bat.
Ketchup ended up on the floor, on my shirt, and of course on my face, leaving me with so many red splotches it looked as if I'd shaved blindfolded.
I poked myself in the eye twice with the fries, before I finally cut them in half for better flip-ability. I finished with a soft chocolate chip cookie broken into pieces and sent airborne by Caitlin.
We were standing three feet apart, then four feet, and finally 10 feet and still connecting. She was as determined as I was, altering her technique for better results. "I need to step into it," she said, bending her knees and swinging her arm like a bowler.
She was impressed: "This is only your first day? Why are you so good?"
Still, she grasped the reality of what it means to be talented at catching food like a seal, saying with a laugh, "What a wasted skill."
A skill nonetheless, as I proved when I caught peas and mushy baked potato bits for dinner. Linda forgot I was a seal this week and made a meal most seals would have turned up their noses at.
I forged on, however, but it wasn't easy. "You have potato in your hair," Linda pointed out. And Daniel said, "Can I sit somewhere else? I don't want to be hit in the eyeball with food."
Been there, Daniel. After dinner, the floor was littered with misfired olives, pork chop pieces, and baked potato bits, turning it into what Daniel called an "obstacle course."
I definitely need to stick to toss-friendly food. Otherwise, as Linda said to Daniel while I flipped my sauteed onions, "I think this is the last dinner we eat this week with Daddy."
Day 2
I may set a personal weekly record for the number of times I cause my wife to say, "You're kidding me, right?"
After Linda twice said it Monday while watching me launch my food, she said it again today as I cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwich into bite-size missiles.
"This is what I have to do," I explained. I can't flip half of a sandwich. I mean, that'd be such a strange way to eat.
I caught the sandwich bits with ease, though the jelly sometimes stuck to my fingers. That's what my Dirty Shirty is for.
I wiped my fingers on the orange shirt I wear every time I eat this week. I'm not going to wash it, so I hope by Sunday I'll have stained remnants of all my meals. One can only dream.
Anyway, the hard part of lunch was the potato chips. I'd bought Lay's Classic, the thin, wispy kind that simply don't follow the laws of gravity.
I'd throw them in the air, and they'd float sideways, they'd drift backwards, they'd tumble end-over-end. They were as unpredictable as jazz.
I'd missed several attempts with one particular chip before Linda started counting my drops. She got to 25 before I finally caught the thing.
That chip fluttered better than a butterfly, and I was a little lightheaded after flipping my head back and forth more than AC/DC's Angus Young on guitar.
I was back in the groove for an easy dinner of bowtie pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread, though the crowd had its doubts. "Mommy, get ready for the food rain," said Daniel.
The meatballs and bread weren't even a challenge, and the only wrinkles with the pasta were the sauce, which would stick to my fingers.
That's where my Dirty Shirty helped; I wiped my fingers on the shirt, and it also absorbed the flying flecks of parmesan cheese when I'd lob the pasta.
Linda pretends not to even watch now, but I know what she's thinking: "You're kidding me, right?"
Day 3
Wednesday night's dinner was bound to happen sometime this week. Two words sum it up, which Daniel yelled to start the festivities: "Food fight!"
When your 7-year-old channels John Belushi from Animal House should you be proud or worried?
It was actually a tame dinner until the end, with me flipping cut-up chicken and potato pieces skyward and into my mouth.
I had nothing left on my plate except two russet potato morsels Linda wanted me to try because they're high in antioxidants. They tasted like it.
So I told Daniel I'd toss them over his head to eat them. I flipped one, and as he lost sight of it, I hid it up my sleeve, but pretended to chew it so Daniel would think I was doing as I was told.
Linda was horrified that I wasn't going to eat something healthy. Imagine that.
"I'm going to rat you out," Linda mouthed, before turning to Daniel. "Daniel..."
I jumped in. "Watch, Daniel, I'll do it again."
"Watch the whole time," Linda emphasized to him. This time I flipped it, caught it, and ate it.
But I still had my hidden first one remaining. I got ready to suffer and eat the antioxidant-flavored potato when Daniel, dejected that no food had landed on his head as it sailed over him, said, "Throw it at me."
He smiled. His face looked so innocent, so happy ... so I did. The potato wedge hit him gently on his cheek.
I rebounded the potato off the table and threw it again, but this time he lowered his head and it bounced off his noggin. Another rebound, another shot, but this time he stood up and dodged my toss, and the wedge hit the wall behind him.
That's when he pulled a Belushi and the fight was on. I cleared the drinks so I wouldn't have an even bigger mess to clean up, Linda ran from the room, and Daniel and I took up our positions.
I stood facing the windows, underhanding chicken skins and tiny chicken bits at him as he tucked his little body under the table.
He returned fire by quickly standing, throwing red peppers, chicken, and potatoes before ducking hurriedly back under the table.
The battle raged a good three minutes, with several of his shots landing on my chest, adding to the array of stains on my Dirty Shirty.
It ended when Daniel launched the last decent-sized morsel into soapy kitchen sink water.
Afterwards, I was never so happy to clean the kitchen floor. And counters and walls and windows and cabinets. "That was awesome!" said Daniel. "Can we do it again?"
There are still four days left in the week--I'd count on it.
Day 4
For the first time all week I actually ate something a real seal might eat. The SeaWorld website lists a harbor seal's diet as squid, crustaceans, molluscs and a variety of fish, including flounder and salmon.
I had tunafish for lunch, so I'm feeling more sympatico with my aquatic mammal brethren, though seals don't mix in olives, mayo, potato chips, and Coke.
I've also learned to move fluidly like a seal as I make a catch. It's all in the head-and-shoulder shake, like break-dancing from the waist up.
You see, there's more to snagging food in your mouth then simply flipping the food and awaiting its arrival. Sometimes the throw goes to one side or the other, or carries a little long, so a good seal needs to react and respond.
Especially when the clump of food breaks apart in mid-flight, which is what the tunafish did, and you have to decide which clump to catch. (Now I see why Daniel moves away from me at the table when we eat.)
It probably doesn't help that when I flip my food, I typically aim for substantial hang-time. It's no fun merely shooting food into my mouth from a short distance like it's popcorn when I can skyrocket it like an NFL punter's kicks.
Hang-time and graceful adjustments to the throw separate the truly great seals from the merely average ones.
Speaking of football, our friend Gray dropped by and decided she wanted to snap a pretzel to me as if she were hiking a football in shotgun formation.
From a distance of about six feet, I caught the third one. That's not bad for a rookie long-snapper and a hands-free quarterback, especially compared to another recruit I brought in to hike the pretzels.
She'll remain nameless, but her line-drive throws shattered numerous pretzel bites against our kitchen wall before she eased up and I finally caught one without chipping any teeth.
Days 5 & 6
I love hoagies, but I'd never made one until Friday. And even that was by accident, as in, I threw a hoagie bite into the air, didn't catch it, and had to piece together the scattered remnants.
Who knew there were more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle?
I was horrified to find the secret ingredients in a hoagie--vegetables!!! Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, some green thing, another green thing.
I don't look closely at the food I eat, but I thought hoagies contained layers of meat on top of meat, with a gentle sprinkling of meat. And pickles, an acceptable green thing.
Fortunately, I caught most of my lunchtime hoagie launches so I didn't have to dwell on the healthy stuff I was eating. I was happily sidetracked by knowing my misses--and my finger-cleansing wipes--were further ruining the Dirty Shirty.
My hoagie lunch forced me to confront a cold reality, though: Flipping my meals is ruining my food mojo.
As unhealthy as it may be, I like eating junk food. Potato chips, pizza, hoagies, more potato chips, nachos, cheese dip, more chips. Mmmm ... chips ... I'm drooling thinking about them.
My theory: If my food doesn't contain preservatives, how will I be preserved until a ripe old age?
But as the week has progressed, my junk food intake has decreased to normal human levels because I'm less patient than a 3 year 0ld.
It typically takes me at least six tries to catch each potato chip--and it's hard to enjoy a chip after 10 or more flips--so I've started eating bananas and apples because they're easier to catch.
What's wrong with me?
I even ruined the fun of Friday night pizza. It's no fun to cut pizza into tiny morsels like I'm a 2 year old so I can toss it more easily. I miss the fun of a biting into a slice and having the cheese stretch like an Arizona highway.
However, I enjoyed a guilty pleasure during my pizza pity party. Because my meals are longer than Crime and Punishment, my family left the table before I'd even started my second slice.
For the record, I missed just 5 of 23 tosses--but two of my throws hit the ceiling.
Impatient, and tired of cleaning up after myself all week, I looked up at the tomato splotches and bargained with them. We agreed that I wouldn't clean them if they didn't tell on me.
So far, so good. I know I've eaten too many vegetables when tomato sauce starts making sense.
Day 7
I capped off my week by rallying the neighborhood kids to our backyard to watch the trained seal perform.
We'd have a long toss, like in the old college days, except I substituted marshmallows for Jell-O since I can’t cook—you cook Jell-O right?
I opened three bags of the fluffy white goodies, and handed a few to each of the 11 kids standing in my backyard trying to figure out exactly what Mr. Roach was up to now.
I wanted to see how long of a toss I could catch in my mouth. I lined up the kid
s on my back patio, marched six feet away, and kicked off the Hungry Games!
To start, I snagged a six-footer from 9-year-old Emma with ease, backed up a few steps and continued down the line, moving backward with each catch.
I went through the group three times before I realized I was out of room.
I was standing next to my back fence more than 20 feet away from the kids, who were now winding up and throwing the marshmallows as far as they could.
We switched directions to gain a few more feet since my yard is wider than it is long. I ended up more than 25 feet away from 11-year-old Calvin, who completed the last throw before we tried a new plan.
And that’s when organized chaos broke out.
I had them all throw their marshmallows to me at once—I only caught one. Some of the kids began tossing the marshmallows to themselves.
And I noticed the kids had been helping themselves to the bags, though not always throwing all the marshmallows they took, as 9-year-old Eli made abundantly clear.
“Mr. Roach,” said Eli, holding up a marshmallow and smiling, “look, I’m all out of marshmallows.”
At which point, he quickly popped the goodie in his mouth. “See? I need another one,” and he walked over to get/eat more. Crazy kids.
Since we were out of backyard space, I suggested the kids walk to the front of our Cape Cod house and try to throw them over the roof and I’d catch them on the back porch.
The eight boys raced around to the front as if the ice cream man was giving away Chipwiches.
Emma and Abby decided that was the perfect time to decorate a tree by sticking several marshmallows on the bare branches. “That’s the difference between boys and girls,” my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin accurately observed.
I didn’t actually think the kids would be strong enough to clear the house with their throws.
But I was proven wrong when, an instant after I heard them count down “3, 2, 1,” a marshmallow drifted from the sky toward me.
I was so surprised that I missed a gimme. What can I say: It’s not often you see a marshmallow fly over your roof.
Several more throws managed to clear the house, and though I got close to catching them, the first toss was my best shot.
I did knock a few kids out of the way trying, though, which is a good lesson for kids to learn: Never stand near a man trying to catch marshmallows thrown over his house.
That little life lesson should certainly be useful over the years.
All in all, my week of eating like a seal paid off during the Hungry Games. I caught a 25-foot throw, completed tosses from 8 of the 11 kids, and even almost snagged one launched over my house.
On the downside, I also ate more marshmallows than the 11 kids combined. I’m sure that’s how real seals get their blubber, too.
Day 1
Linda and I try to teach 7-year-old Daniel good manners but it's possible we may be sending mixed signals.
For example, last night at dinner, at the exact moment Linda was gently reminding him, "Elbows off the table, honey," I was flipping a handful of buttered baked potato bits two feet into the air and catching it in my mouth.
A minute later, Linda was trying to make me laugh by arf-arffing like a seal and clapping her hands in front of her, while I was tossing a morsel of pork chop skyward, then almost falling from my chair trying to catch it.
I'm eating like a seal this week--meaning all of my food has to be tossed into my mouth--so it may not be the best week for me to teach Daniel about polite behavior.
Especially when I'm wearing my food on my face.
I got the idea the other day when I casually flipped a cookie bit to myself and remembered how gifted I used to be at catching food.
In college, my friends and I would toss Jell-O cubes across the table to each other after dinner in the cafeteria. (When you go to a college in a cornfield you find new ways to entertain yourself.)
We were so good, we started flipping them across two tables, then three tables--a good 18 to 20 feet. One friend was ridiculously skilled; he'd sit 35 to 40 feet away and catch almost every Jell-O cube thrown in his direction.
He was so far away, it was hard to throw the cubes that distance without having them dissolve.
I wasn't as seal-like, but I got good enough to impress the ladies. If the ladies were impressed by a Jell-O-catching, mullet-haired, Journey fan.
However, as I discovered at breakfast yesterday, I haven't worked at my craft since Cyndi Lauper and the girls just wanted to have fun. The diced orange was hitting the floor like hail.
Then, as if a switch flipped, I got into a rhythm. After needing 14 tries to catch just five orange slices, I caught eight in a row.
The trick is to let the food roll off your fingers so that when it's released, it arcs in a gentle parabola back toward your face.
I may not be an expert on manners, but I'm the Stephen Hawking of flipping food.
Daniel tossed a few orange wedges to me, but didn't like it much, or to quote him, "This is boring and disgusting." This from a boy who'll play in mud for two hours in the summer.
I coaxed 17-year-old Caitlin into lobbing some of my lunch to me: a ketchup-covered bacon cheeseburger and fries. (Hey, I can't let my seal-ness interfere with my regular diet.)
I needed to squeeze the burger tightly before tossing it, otherwise it splintered in the air like a broken bat.
Ketchup ended up on the floor, on my shirt, and of course on my face, leaving me with so many red splotches it looked as if I'd shaved blindfolded.
I poked myself in the eye twice with the fries, before I finally cut them in half for better flip-ability. I finished with a soft chocolate chip cookie broken into pieces and sent airborne by Caitlin.
We were standing three feet apart, then four feet, and finally 10 feet and still connecting. She was as determined as I was, altering her technique for better results. "I need to step into it," she said, bending her knees and swinging her arm like a bowler.
She was impressed: "This is only your first day? Why are you so good?"
Still, she grasped the reality of what it means to be talented at catching food like a seal, saying with a laugh, "What a wasted skill."
A skill nonetheless, as I proved when I caught peas and mushy baked potato bits for dinner. Linda forgot I was a seal this week and made a meal most seals would have turned up their noses at.
I forged on, however, but it wasn't easy. "You have potato in your hair," Linda pointed out. And Daniel said, "Can I sit somewhere else? I don't want to be hit in the eyeball with food."
Been there, Daniel. After dinner, the floor was littered with misfired olives, pork chop pieces, and baked potato bits, turning it into what Daniel called an "obstacle course."
I definitely need to stick to toss-friendly food. Otherwise, as Linda said to Daniel while I flipped my sauteed onions, "I think this is the last dinner we eat this week with Daddy."
Day 2
I may set a personal weekly record for the number of times I cause my wife to say, "You're kidding me, right?"
After Linda twice said it Monday while watching me launch my food, she said it again today as I cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwich into bite-size missiles.
"This is what I have to do," I explained. I can't flip half of a sandwich. I mean, that'd be such a strange way to eat.
I caught the sandwich bits with ease, though the jelly sometimes stuck to my fingers. That's what my Dirty Shirty is for.
I wiped my fingers on the orange shirt I wear every time I eat this week. I'm not going to wash it, so I hope by Sunday I'll have stained remnants of all my meals. One can only dream.
Anyway, the hard part of lunch was the potato chips. I'd bought Lay's Classic, the thin, wispy kind that simply don't follow the laws of gravity.
I'd throw them in the air, and they'd float sideways, they'd drift backwards, they'd tumble end-over-end. They were as unpredictable as jazz.
I'd missed several attempts with one particular chip before Linda started counting my drops. She got to 25 before I finally caught the thing.
That chip fluttered better than a butterfly, and I was a little lightheaded after flipping my head back and forth more than AC/DC's Angus Young on guitar.
I was back in the groove for an easy dinner of bowtie pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread, though the crowd had its doubts. "Mommy, get ready for the food rain," said Daniel.
The meatballs and bread weren't even a challenge, and the only wrinkles with the pasta were the sauce, which would stick to my fingers.
That's where my Dirty Shirty helped; I wiped my fingers on the shirt, and it also absorbed the flying flecks of parmesan cheese when I'd lob the pasta.
Linda pretends not to even watch now, but I know what she's thinking: "You're kidding me, right?"
Day 3
Wednesday night's dinner was bound to happen sometime this week. Two words sum it up, which Daniel yelled to start the festivities: "Food fight!"
When your 7-year-old channels John Belushi from Animal House should you be proud or worried?
It was actually a tame dinner until the end, with me flipping cut-up chicken and potato pieces skyward and into my mouth.
I had nothing left on my plate except two russet potato morsels Linda wanted me to try because they're high in antioxidants. They tasted like it.
So I told Daniel I'd toss them over his head to eat them. I flipped one, and as he lost sight of it, I hid it up my sleeve, but pretended to chew it so Daniel would think I was doing as I was told.
Linda was horrified that I wasn't going to eat something healthy. Imagine that.
"I'm going to rat you out," Linda mouthed, before turning to Daniel. "Daniel..."
I jumped in. "Watch, Daniel, I'll do it again."
"Watch the whole time," Linda emphasized to him. This time I flipped it, caught it, and ate it.
But I still had my hidden first one remaining. I got ready to suffer and eat the antioxidant-flavored potato when Daniel, dejected that no food had landed on his head as it sailed over him, said, "Throw it at me."
He smiled. His face looked so innocent, so happy ... so I did. The potato wedge hit him gently on his cheek.
I rebounded the potato off the table and threw it again, but this time he lowered his head and it bounced off his noggin. Another rebound, another shot, but this time he stood up and dodged my toss, and the wedge hit the wall behind him.
That's when he pulled a Belushi and the fight was on. I cleared the drinks so I wouldn't have an even bigger mess to clean up, Linda ran from the room, and Daniel and I took up our positions.
I stood facing the windows, underhanding chicken skins and tiny chicken bits at him as he tucked his little body under the table.
He returned fire by quickly standing, throwing red peppers, chicken, and potatoes before ducking hurriedly back under the table.
The battle raged a good three minutes, with several of his shots landing on my chest, adding to the array of stains on my Dirty Shirty.
It ended when Daniel launched the last decent-sized morsel into soapy kitchen sink water.
Afterwards, I was never so happy to clean the kitchen floor. And counters and walls and windows and cabinets. "That was awesome!" said Daniel. "Can we do it again?"
There are still four days left in the week--I'd count on it.
Day 4
For the first time all week I actually ate something a real seal might eat. The SeaWorld website lists a harbor seal's diet as squid, crustaceans, molluscs and a variety of fish, including flounder and salmon.
I had tunafish for lunch, so I'm feeling more sympatico with my aquatic mammal brethren, though seals don't mix in olives, mayo, potato chips, and Coke.
I've also learned to move fluidly like a seal as I make a catch. It's all in the head-and-shoulder shake, like break-dancing from the waist up.
You see, there's more to snagging food in your mouth then simply flipping the food and awaiting its arrival. Sometimes the throw goes to one side or the other, or carries a little long, so a good seal needs to react and respond.
Especially when the clump of food breaks apart in mid-flight, which is what the tunafish did, and you have to decide which clump to catch. (Now I see why Daniel moves away from me at the table when we eat.)
It probably doesn't help that when I flip my food, I typically aim for substantial hang-time. It's no fun merely shooting food into my mouth from a short distance like it's popcorn when I can skyrocket it like an NFL punter's kicks.
Hang-time and graceful adjustments to the throw separate the truly great seals from the merely average ones.
Speaking of football, our friend Gray dropped by and decided she wanted to snap a pretzel to me as if she were hiking a football in shotgun formation.
From a distance of about six feet, I caught the third one. That's not bad for a rookie long-snapper and a hands-free quarterback, especially compared to another recruit I brought in to hike the pretzels.
She'll remain nameless, but her line-drive throws shattered numerous pretzel bites against our kitchen wall before she eased up and I finally caught one without chipping any teeth.
Days 5 & 6
I love hoagies, but I'd never made one until Friday. And even that was by accident, as in, I threw a hoagie bite into the air, didn't catch it, and had to piece together the scattered remnants.
Who knew there were more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle?
I was horrified to find the secret ingredients in a hoagie--vegetables!!! Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, some green thing, another green thing.
I don't look closely at the food I eat, but I thought hoagies contained layers of meat on top of meat, with a gentle sprinkling of meat. And pickles, an acceptable green thing.
Fortunately, I caught most of my lunchtime hoagie launches so I didn't have to dwell on the healthy stuff I was eating. I was happily sidetracked by knowing my misses--and my finger-cleansing wipes--were further ruining the Dirty Shirty.
My hoagie lunch forced me to confront a cold reality, though: Flipping my meals is ruining my food mojo.
As unhealthy as it may be, I like eating junk food. Potato chips, pizza, hoagies, more potato chips, nachos, cheese dip, more chips. Mmmm ... chips ... I'm drooling thinking about them.
My theory: If my food doesn't contain preservatives, how will I be preserved until a ripe old age?
But as the week has progressed, my junk food intake has decreased to normal human levels because I'm less patient than a 3 year 0ld.
It typically takes me at least six tries to catch each potato chip--and it's hard to enjoy a chip after 10 or more flips--so I've started eating bananas and apples because they're easier to catch.
What's wrong with me?
I even ruined the fun of Friday night pizza. It's no fun to cut pizza into tiny morsels like I'm a 2 year old so I can toss it more easily. I miss the fun of a biting into a slice and having the cheese stretch like an Arizona highway.
However, I enjoyed a guilty pleasure during my pizza pity party. Because my meals are longer than Crime and Punishment, my family left the table before I'd even started my second slice.
For the record, I missed just 5 of 23 tosses--but two of my throws hit the ceiling.
Impatient, and tired of cleaning up after myself all week, I looked up at the tomato splotches and bargained with them. We agreed that I wouldn't clean them if they didn't tell on me.
So far, so good. I know I've eaten too many vegetables when tomato sauce starts making sense.
Day 7
I capped off my week by rallying the neighborhood kids to our backyard to watch the trained seal perform.
We'd have a long toss, like in the old college days, except I substituted marshmallows for Jell-O since I can’t cook—you cook Jell-O right?
I opened three bags of the fluffy white goodies, and handed a few to each of the 11 kids standing in my backyard trying to figure out exactly what Mr. Roach was up to now.
I wanted to see how long of a toss I could catch in my mouth. I lined up the kid
s on my back patio, marched six feet away, and kicked off the Hungry Games!To start, I snagged a six-footer from 9-year-old Emma with ease, backed up a few steps and continued down the line, moving backward with each catch.
I went through the group three times before I realized I was out of room.
I was standing next to my back fence more than 20 feet away from the kids, who were now winding up and throwing the marshmallows as far as they could.
We switched directions to gain a few more feet since my yard is wider than it is long. I ended up more than 25 feet away from 11-year-old Calvin, who completed the last throw before we tried a new plan.
And that’s when organized chaos broke out.
I had them all throw their marshmallows to me at once—I only caught one. Some of the kids began tossing the marshmallows to themselves.
And I noticed the kids had been helping themselves to the bags, though not always throwing all the marshmallows they took, as 9-year-old Eli made abundantly clear.
“Mr. Roach,” said Eli, holding up a marshmallow and smiling, “look, I’m all out of marshmallows.”
At which point, he quickly popped the goodie in his mouth. “See? I need another one,” and he walked over to get/eat more. Crazy kids.
Since we were out of backyard space, I suggested the kids walk to the front of our Cape Cod house and try to throw them over the roof and I’d catch them on the back porch.
The eight boys raced around to the front as if the ice cream man was giving away Chipwiches.
Emma and Abby decided that was the perfect time to decorate a tree by sticking several marshmallows on the bare branches. “That’s the difference between boys and girls,” my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin accurately observed.
I didn’t actually think the kids would be strong enough to clear the house with their throws.
But I was proven wrong when, an instant after I heard them count down “3, 2, 1,” a marshmallow drifted from the sky toward me.
I was so surprised that I missed a gimme. What can I say: It’s not often you see a marshmallow fly over your roof.
Several more throws managed to clear the house, and though I got close to catching them, the first toss was my best shot.
I did knock a few kids out of the way trying, though, which is a good lesson for kids to learn: Never stand near a man trying to catch marshmallows thrown over his house.
That little life lesson should certainly be useful over the years.
All in all, my week of eating like a seal paid off during the Hungry Games. I caught a 25-foot throw, completed tosses from 8 of the 11 kids, and even almost snagged one launched over my house.
On the downside, I also ate more marshmallows than the 11 kids combined. I’m sure that’s how real seals get their blubber, too.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
No Thumbs
Here's another oldie from 2 years ago while I plan for more new ones.
Day 1
This week's challenge takes me back to first grade and the scribblings I
considered good handwriting. Not that my penmanship has improved much--my signature looks like a heart monitor gone haywire.
I'm not using my thumbs all week, which makes it hard to hold a pen. My to-do list took three times as long to write and is barely legible.
My observations for the day look like lie-detector scratchings, and I definitely should have paid the bills before I started this.
I can imagine someone receiving my check and asking, "Is that a six or a letter from the Chinese alphabet?"
Most species do not have opposable thumbs, which is what separates humans and primates from lower classes of animals, such as ants and Wall Street traders.
As I quickly discovered, opposable thumbs also come in handy for everything from buttoning a shirt to opening a candy wrapper, both of which I needed Linda to do for me.
Hey, just when I thought I couldn't be less productive, I've found a new low!
On the plus side, I discovered it's helpful to grab everything with two hands since I can't grip anything with one.
However, I appeared to be dancing with a new two-liter bottle of Coke when I tried to twist off the lid with my palms, fingers, and forearms.
I was going to tape my thumbs to my hand, but Linda was gone and I couldn't rip off a piece of tape.
Then the phone rang and I dropped it as I went to talk. Who knew my thumbs were the only thing helping me keep my act together?
Day 2
My 17-year-old daughter Caitlin said yesterday that she wouldn't be able to handle this week's challenge.
Why? Essentially, no thumbs would mean no texting, which would mean no social life, which would make her as lame as ... well, her dad.
Talk about a generational divide: I hadn't even thought about texting. I use the index-finger hunt-and-peck method on the rare occasions I text.
When I need to contact someone, I use a new invention called the phone.
At the other end of the kid spectrum, my 7-year-old son Daniel wouldn't make it without his thumbs for a more low-tech reason: thumb wrestling.
He and his friends have discovered Thumb Wrestling Federation.com, a website that spoofs pro wrestling. It features games and printable thumb coverings of bizarre characters, such as Vini Vidi Victory, Hometown Huck, and Danny Kaboom.
Each thumb wrestling match starts with the shouted chant: "Four, three, two, one/Who will be the strongest thumb?"--which I think is my son's favorite part of the whole thing.
The fact is, I could probably still thumb-wrestle with him this week, because in our matches, the thumb is rarely in play. He cheats and uses both hands, he wriggles his shoulders, he dances, he squirms--his thumb seems to be the last thing on his mind.
For now, my thumb is always on my mind. It's also a concern for my friend Phil, who asked how I'm driving if I can't grip the wheel with my thumb.
"I'm learning as I go," I happily told him. Phil not-so-happily gave my approach a thumb's down. What's the problem? I mean, I steered clear of his kids, kind of.
Cleaning up after dinner, I realized Phil was right when he said my hands probably look a lot like Mork's Orkan greeting when I try to pick things up. It's true, they do, though isn't it the same as Mr. Spock's Vulcan greeting?
Nothing says generational divide like holding up an Orkan greeting to your kids and saying, "Nanoo, nanoo."
Day 3
I lost a thumb war with a McDonald's chocolate milk container yesterday. The "Lift 'n' Peel" tab on top is not made for the thumb-less among us.
Using only my fingers, I could "Lift"--the "'n' Peel" part was 'n'-possible.
Granted, I was also driving without my thumbs at the time, it was dark, and traffic was heavier than usual.
And there were no good songs on the radio, hard as I tried to find one. Did I mention I was trying to put on my seatbelt, too? And playing the oboe.
Well, that's the rationale I'm sticking with for using my thumbs. "You cheated, Dad!" said Daniel from the backseat.
I wondered how he'd look with chocolate milk on his head. He's lucky I couldn't grip it without my thumbs.
My un-Happy Meal aside, without my thumbs I'm getting pretty good at tying my shoes and buttoning my shirt. If I learn to count past 30, I can graduate from kindergarten.
Day 4
I had a business meeting in the city yesterday and saw a use for thumbs that I'd forgotten. Some people--particularly those in taxi backseats who must feel invisible to pedestrians only a few feet away--use their thumbs to dig for the truth.
And that truth can only be discovered deep inside their nose.
I saw such thumb-using truth-seekers twice in a short 20-minute walk. Now I'm worried about future cab rides, since, after these people found the truth, they certainly left it somewhere in the backseat for others to discover.
On a cleaner note, I've found that man was not made to shower using soap without his thumbs. I don't think woman was either; that's why woman invented a loofah. Man is not that evolved yet.
Some things I thought would be difficult have proven not to be. I can grip utensils with a caveman grip, so while I'd continue to be a lousy dinner guest, I can eat easily enough. Same thing with shaving, brushing my teeth, and zipping zippers.
The thumb may think it's all important and whatnot, separating itself from the other fingers, kinda looking down on them, basking in its unique opposability.
The thumb is a little Simon Cowell. But my fingers are getting along just fine without my thumb. I'd even give my fingers a thumb's up for the week, but I don't want to give my thumb the extra attention.
Days 5 & 6
I had to change a basement light bulb without my thumbs and was reminded of a joke that reflects my approach to fixing things around the house.
Q: How many procrastinators does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: One, but he has to wait until the lighting gets better.
We had friends over for dinner, which is another way of saying we cleaned our house this weekend. Our place was spotless and Lego-less--for a few hours anyway--and now won't be cleaned again until we have more guests. Clearly I'm not the only procrastinator in the house.
While eating, I showcased my thumb-less skills with a fork, scooping up the peas...then scooping them up from where I spilled them on the table....and finally picking them up off the floor.
It wasn't that bad, but I certainly lack style, and I threw more elbows than Hulk Hogan.
The peas gave me an appreciation for my thumb; the last time I was so reliant on it was in high school when I'd hitch rides home from school when my last class was an open period.
Rather than wait for the bus, I'd stand on the road in front of the school and work the thumb.
The trick was to face traffic and look sincere but desperate. It was one of the few times it was good to be wearing the school-uniform tie and jacket.
And you never wanted to walk with your back to the road--drivers needed to see the pity face. I've got a good pity face, as Linda discovered when I proposed.
Speaking of Linda, she's holding a battery-powered game, saying, "This needs batteries; I think he'd like playing it."
"Okay, I'll put some in," I say.
"That's going to require you to use a screwdriver," she says, smiling.
"Oh well," I say, "I guess that means the game is broken."
Chalk up another household task completed!
Day 7
The week ended with a sporty day and a touch of karmic intervention. Seven-year-old Daniel and I wrestled and somehow I lost again, though I can't blame the lack of thumbs.
We rode our bikes around town--pretty simple without thumbs, actually, though I felt slightly off-balance.
I wonder if losing a thumb would have a similar effect on your coordination as losing a pinky toe affects your balance. It's not just for slamming into coffee tables, you know; the pinky toe provides a counter to the big toe.
The middle ones are useless, which is also a line mean older brothers routinely tell their middle siblings.
From my observation, a loss of thumbs would greatly affect hand-eye coordination based on the Wiffle ball catch Daniel and I had. It was more like a Wiffle ball drop, since his throws ricocheted off my hands like pinballs off flippers.
Next up: kickball. Now, according to soccer fans, America needs a pro soccer league because all kids grow up loving soccer.
My retaliatory argument: Should there be a pro kickball league as well? Pro soccer will take off in America when Pro Kickball does.
In the meantime, Linda and I played against Daniel in a display that set back the American Pro Kickball movement even farther.
Bad baserunning, bad umpiring, and one teammate's unwillingness to move when she was a fielder--not mentioning any names--made for a marathon game.
Toward the end, I lined a shot at Daniel and--with the fates against me for comparing thumbs to Simon Cowell earlier in the week--it jammed his little thumb.
He wailed as I took a look at it. Finally calming down, he caught his breath and said, "Let's keep playing. It's okay. It's only my thumb."
"Only" his thumb? Now he's tempting the fates.
Still, you gotta love his spirit. Proud of the boy, but not being able to use my own thumb, I gave him a High Four.
Day 1
This week's challenge takes me back to first grade and the scribblings I
considered good handwriting. Not that my penmanship has improved much--my signature looks like a heart monitor gone haywire.I'm not using my thumbs all week, which makes it hard to hold a pen. My to-do list took three times as long to write and is barely legible.
My observations for the day look like lie-detector scratchings, and I definitely should have paid the bills before I started this.
I can imagine someone receiving my check and asking, "Is that a six or a letter from the Chinese alphabet?"
Most species do not have opposable thumbs, which is what separates humans and primates from lower classes of animals, such as ants and Wall Street traders.
As I quickly discovered, opposable thumbs also come in handy for everything from buttoning a shirt to opening a candy wrapper, both of which I needed Linda to do for me.
Hey, just when I thought I couldn't be less productive, I've found a new low!
On the plus side, I discovered it's helpful to grab everything with two hands since I can't grip anything with one.
However, I appeared to be dancing with a new two-liter bottle of Coke when I tried to twist off the lid with my palms, fingers, and forearms.
I was going to tape my thumbs to my hand, but Linda was gone and I couldn't rip off a piece of tape.
Then the phone rang and I dropped it as I went to talk. Who knew my thumbs were the only thing helping me keep my act together?
Day 2
My 17-year-old daughter Caitlin said yesterday that she wouldn't be able to handle this week's challenge.
Why? Essentially, no thumbs would mean no texting, which would mean no social life, which would make her as lame as ... well, her dad.
Talk about a generational divide: I hadn't even thought about texting. I use the index-finger hunt-and-peck method on the rare occasions I text.
When I need to contact someone, I use a new invention called the phone.
At the other end of the kid spectrum, my 7-year-old son Daniel wouldn't make it without his thumbs for a more low-tech reason: thumb wrestling.
He and his friends have discovered Thumb Wrestling Federation.com, a website that spoofs pro wrestling. It features games and printable thumb coverings of bizarre characters, such as Vini Vidi Victory, Hometown Huck, and Danny Kaboom.
Each thumb wrestling match starts with the shouted chant: "Four, three, two, one/Who will be the strongest thumb?"--which I think is my son's favorite part of the whole thing.
The fact is, I could probably still thumb-wrestle with him this week, because in our matches, the thumb is rarely in play. He cheats and uses both hands, he wriggles his shoulders, he dances, he squirms--his thumb seems to be the last thing on his mind.
For now, my thumb is always on my mind. It's also a concern for my friend Phil, who asked how I'm driving if I can't grip the wheel with my thumb.
"I'm learning as I go," I happily told him. Phil not-so-happily gave my approach a thumb's down. What's the problem? I mean, I steered clear of his kids, kind of.
Cleaning up after dinner, I realized Phil was right when he said my hands probably look a lot like Mork's Orkan greeting when I try to pick things up. It's true, they do, though isn't it the same as Mr. Spock's Vulcan greeting?
Nothing says generational divide like holding up an Orkan greeting to your kids and saying, "Nanoo, nanoo."
Day 3
I lost a thumb war with a McDonald's chocolate milk container yesterday. The "Lift 'n' Peel" tab on top is not made for the thumb-less among us.
Using only my fingers, I could "Lift"--the "'n' Peel" part was 'n'-possible.
Granted, I was also driving without my thumbs at the time, it was dark, and traffic was heavier than usual.
And there were no good songs on the radio, hard as I tried to find one. Did I mention I was trying to put on my seatbelt, too? And playing the oboe.
Well, that's the rationale I'm sticking with for using my thumbs. "You cheated, Dad!" said Daniel from the backseat.
I wondered how he'd look with chocolate milk on his head. He's lucky I couldn't grip it without my thumbs.
My un-Happy Meal aside, without my thumbs I'm getting pretty good at tying my shoes and buttoning my shirt. If I learn to count past 30, I can graduate from kindergarten.
Day 4
I had a business meeting in the city yesterday and saw a use for thumbs that I'd forgotten. Some people--particularly those in taxi backseats who must feel invisible to pedestrians only a few feet away--use their thumbs to dig for the truth.
And that truth can only be discovered deep inside their nose.
I saw such thumb-using truth-seekers twice in a short 20-minute walk. Now I'm worried about future cab rides, since, after these people found the truth, they certainly left it somewhere in the backseat for others to discover.
On a cleaner note, I've found that man was not made to shower using soap without his thumbs. I don't think woman was either; that's why woman invented a loofah. Man is not that evolved yet.
Some things I thought would be difficult have proven not to be. I can grip utensils with a caveman grip, so while I'd continue to be a lousy dinner guest, I can eat easily enough. Same thing with shaving, brushing my teeth, and zipping zippers.
The thumb may think it's all important and whatnot, separating itself from the other fingers, kinda looking down on them, basking in its unique opposability.
The thumb is a little Simon Cowell. But my fingers are getting along just fine without my thumb. I'd even give my fingers a thumb's up for the week, but I don't want to give my thumb the extra attention.
Days 5 & 6
I had to change a basement light bulb without my thumbs and was reminded of a joke that reflects my approach to fixing things around the house.
Q: How many procrastinators does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: One, but he has to wait until the lighting gets better.
We had friends over for dinner, which is another way of saying we cleaned our house this weekend. Our place was spotless and Lego-less--for a few hours anyway--and now won't be cleaned again until we have more guests. Clearly I'm not the only procrastinator in the house.
While eating, I showcased my thumb-less skills with a fork, scooping up the peas...then scooping them up from where I spilled them on the table....and finally picking them up off the floor.
It wasn't that bad, but I certainly lack style, and I threw more elbows than Hulk Hogan.
The peas gave me an appreciation for my thumb; the last time I was so reliant on it was in high school when I'd hitch rides home from school when my last class was an open period.
Rather than wait for the bus, I'd stand on the road in front of the school and work the thumb.The trick was to face traffic and look sincere but desperate. It was one of the few times it was good to be wearing the school-uniform tie and jacket.
And you never wanted to walk with your back to the road--drivers needed to see the pity face. I've got a good pity face, as Linda discovered when I proposed.
Speaking of Linda, she's holding a battery-powered game, saying, "This needs batteries; I think he'd like playing it."
"Okay, I'll put some in," I say.
"That's going to require you to use a screwdriver," she says, smiling.
"Oh well," I say, "I guess that means the game is broken."
Chalk up another household task completed!
Day 7
The week ended with a sporty day and a touch of karmic intervention. Seven-year-old Daniel and I wrestled and somehow I lost again, though I can't blame the lack of thumbs.
We rode our bikes around town--pretty simple without thumbs, actually, though I felt slightly off-balance.
I wonder if losing a thumb would have a similar effect on your coordination as losing a pinky toe affects your balance. It's not just for slamming into coffee tables, you know; the pinky toe provides a counter to the big toe.
The middle ones are useless, which is also a line mean older brothers routinely tell their middle siblings.
From my observation, a loss of thumbs would greatly affect hand-eye coordination based on the Wiffle ball catch Daniel and I had. It was more like a Wiffle ball drop, since his throws ricocheted off my hands like pinballs off flippers.
Next up: kickball. Now, according to soccer fans, America needs a pro soccer league because all kids grow up loving soccer.
My retaliatory argument: Should there be a pro kickball league as well? Pro soccer will take off in America when Pro Kickball does.
In the meantime, Linda and I played against Daniel in a display that set back the American Pro Kickball movement even farther.
Bad baserunning, bad umpiring, and one teammate's unwillingness to move when she was a fielder--not mentioning any names--made for a marathon game.
Toward the end, I lined a shot at Daniel and--with the fates against me for comparing thumbs to Simon Cowell earlier in the week--it jammed his little thumb.
He wailed as I took a look at it. Finally calming down, he caught his breath and said, "Let's keep playing. It's okay. It's only my thumb."
"Only" his thumb? Now he's tempting the fates.
Still, you gotta love his spirit. Proud of the boy, but not being able to use my own thumb, I gave him a High Four.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Celebrate "Opposite Week"
My mother-in-law is visiting for the weekend, so of course that means she'll be a part of some new adventure over the next few days. I'm sure she'd like me as an Oompa-Loompa...In the meantime, I'm revisiting another oldie but a goodie from 2 years ago.
Day 1
This week started out wrong and it's only going to get ... wronger. Or something. I had to turn down leftover pizza for breakfast and that's so foreign to me that I'm off my game.
You see, breakfast, lunch, dinner--to me, pizza is good anytime. It's the food world's duct tape.
But as of Monday morning, I'm embracing the first of seven straight Opposite Days. So my first instinct to eat pizza had to be rejected, and I had to try Linda's healthy stuff.
Sometimes I swear she's eating rocks and dirt from our garden, but she says it's granola.
I opened the cereal closet and discovered something called Heart to Heart. Never heard of it,
didn't even know we had it in the house, but I remember liking it as a 1980s TV show.
"Nothing artificial," the box proclaims, and my insides groan in disappointment.
Phil Handwerk, a loyal reader, came up with the idea of Opposite Week as an homage to the Seinfeld episode where George says, "every decision I've ever made in my entire life has been wrong," and he attempts to fix things by going against his first instinct.
As Jerry tells him, "If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right."
Long before Seinfeld, kids loved Opposite Day, especially when they want something. For example, Daniel breaks it out when he's negotiating to have ice cream for lunch.
"You said I can't have ice cream now, but it's Opposite Day, so I can." That trick never works on me, as far as Linda knows.
Anyway, after I finished grinding my teeth on breakfast, I put on a flannel shirt and jeans. Oops. That had to be replaced on Opposite Day by a suit jacket buried so deeply in my closet that moths were renting townhouses in the pockets.
I put on the jacket, a tie, dress pants, and shoes, and--with a 4-day stubble and gravity-defying hair--I looked like a college kid who'd stolen his dad's suit. A very, very old college kid.
I soon found the rhythm of Opposite Day, though, as I paused before every action to consider its opposite.
I shaved for once, I skipped my usual mid-morning soda, I tuned to a hip-hop/rap radio station in the car instead of rock, and I tried to remember to answer phone calls with nonsense phrases, such as "Scooby-scooby dooooo!"
I needed to find an opposite for my daily workout. I've read recently how more runners are going barefoot, so I ditched my Nikes for my run in the community park.
Walk a mile in someone else's shoes--ha! I ran a mile in no one's shoes.
And it hurt. What are these people thinking? I made it about 100 yards on the concrete before I hoofed it onto the grass for the rest of the way.
After cleaning up post-run, I found my jacket-and-tie look raised eyebrows at the bus stop. Even worse, another parent offered suggestions for my week.
"Does that mean you'll make dinner for the family all week? And you'll go to bed early?"
"Thanks, those are great ideas. I'll have to try them," I told her, happily aware of what I was saying on Opposite Day.
Day 2
It's dangerous how quickly Linda and I have become comfortable with Opposite Week. When absurd is the norm, you tend to overlook the obvious.
That's how I ended up standing at a deli counter last night with all of my clothes inside out. The two guys behind the counter didn't question the moron in the room, but when a woman came out from the back, she was more direct.
"Why are your pants inside out?" she asked.
Not your standard icebreaker, but a good question nonetheless.
Since I'd been wearing my clothes that way all day, Linda and I no longer
thought it odd.
If so, maybe she would have gone to the deli for bread, and I wouldn't have been standing in front of three strangers with my inside-out pockets flapping like Dumbo's ears.
I explained, of course, that it was Opposite Week--which made even less sense--took my bread, and drove home.
When I got there, I asked Linda if anything about me seemed unusual. She said no. An instant later she realized: "Oh geez, you went out like that?"
Actually, I'd already made an appearance with my inside-out look. I went to the bus stop after school, and I'd gotten a similar initial reaction from the neighborhood moms.
They said nothing for the first minute, until Linda drove by, rolled down her window, and yelled, "Sorry you have to be seen in public with him."
One mom laughed, relieved. "I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was afraid to ask."
They know me better than the deli guys, so Opposite Week made perfect sense--in a "I'm glad he's not my husband" sort of way.
I bet they'll be really jealous of Linda when they see me wearing women's clothes tomorrow.
Day 3
It's hard to remember to do the opposite of the little things every day. Sure, I can wear my clothes inside out, but it's tricky remembering to answer the phone by saying "Good-bye" and then ending the conversation with "Hello."
It's especially difficult when my first meal of the day has to be strawberries or a banana instead of my standard breakfast brain food of nachos or pizza.
The other day, Linda looked at me funnier than usual and asked, "Are you going to change your part?"
To see how it would look, she reached over to touch my hair--doesn't she know better yet?--and I pulled away. "I'll do it, but it has to be tomorrow," I said. "The hair's working right now."
I haven't listened to my regular radio stations since Sunday. I experiment with a different radio format each time I'm in the car; once, I stumbled across a college station--that or the DJ was moaning in agony while being slow-roasted over a fire.
I understand alternative music wants to be "different," but a singer shouldn't sound like a wounded cat unless his name is Bob Dylan.
Another little thing I found myself needing to change was my desire to clean up the kitchen. I don't cook, but I take my kitchen clean-up job seriously.
In that way, Linda and I play to our strengths since she's a good cook but takes a laissez-faire approach to post-meal clean-up.
I entered the kitchen yesterday after Hurricane Linda had blown through for lunch.
The milk had escaped and was bolting for the back door, plates were everywhere, cabinet doors were open as the soup cans prepared to sky-dive, and I don't know how a peanut butter-covered knife got stuck to the plant on the windowsill.
Unfortunately, it was only after I'd cleaned up that I realized I shouldn't have.
So when I saw Linda later, I told her of my new hands-off approach, knowing she'd be proud that I'm sticking to the literal definition of Opposite Week.
"Wait--you can't not help out!" she said, with a panicked look as if I'd told her we were going to a baseball doubleheader. "That's totally unacceptable. And you can quote me on that."
I guess if I'm not going to clean up, then the opposite would mean I'd have to cook. Or we can eat out!
Except I'd want to go to Burger King and we'd have to do the opposite and go somewhere healthy. Is there such a place as Broccoli King?
Day 4
My to-do list is a magical place. Aside from being where I keep my days organized, it's also where I write the honey-do jobs I get from Linda.
And by merely saying I'm writing her request on my to-do list, I imply the job will be finished soon. Hey, it's on the list.
In fact, it's more likely to be months and months before I even consider thinking about possibly asking Linda exactly what it was she wanted me to do.
Ahhh, but along came Opposite Week to ruin my perfect system. So, this week, when Linda has made a request, I stop what I'm doing and do whatever she wants right away.
I moved some items from the shed to the basement. I did the laundry. I moved chairs from one spot to another (and I'm sure I'll have to move them back at some point).
It's funny, but I never realized how often I procrastinated on her requests. Or how many requests she makes.
The error I made the other night was asking Linda if she noticed what I had been doing. That's a rookie mistake a guy eight years into the marriage game just shouldn't make.
Because while she appreciated my new effort, she also decided to capitalize on it immediately.
After I was already tucked into bed and ready to read, she asked me to get her glasses from another room. I got back, and then she realized she needed water.
I was tempted to set my alarm for two in the morning and wake her then to see if she needed anything else.
Days 5 & 6
I started Friday morning talking and acting like Patrick Star, SpongeBob Squarepants' dim-witted friend who's a combination of Homer Simpson and a pink eraser.
Here's a typical Patrick quote: "I can't see my forehead!" Patrick seems pretty opposite of me.
Patrick's voice and thought process came so easily that I had Daniel snorting milk out of his nose in no time. But there was a reason I picked it up so quickly.
"Is acting like Patrick really all that opposite for you?" Linda asked.
My next behavior was also easy to do: Instead of getting dressed after waking up, I stayed in my pajamas all day.
It was contagious--or my family is a little lazy--but everyone else stayed in their pajamas until the early afternoon. Daniel and I even played kickball in our pajamas.
I pitched with my opposite hand, kicked with my opposite foot, and ran the bases in reverse, going third-second-first-home.
Once, I ran the wrong way on a home run, and Daniel caught me: "Do-over!"
It's amazing how often kids call for do-overs when something goes against them. I'd like to be able to do that in life.
A cop would pull me over for speeding: "I'm gonna take a do-over if that's alright."
If my stocks tank, "Do-over! And while I'm at it, time-travel me back to 1986 so I can buy enough Microsoft stock to buy myself more do-overs."
Anyway, that's about when I realized I shouldn't even be playing kickball with Daniel. Because I wanted to play, then I should have done the opposite and not played, which is what I explained to him. "Oh, no! So you have to go inside?" he said. "I don't want you to!"
In this case, I caved and continued playing. I was simply following the lead of the Tooth Fairy, who visited Daniel this week after he lost his third tooth.
During Opposite Week, the Tooth Fairy shouldn't have shown up, but the Tooth Fairy had mercy on Linda and me.
In my pajamas, slippers, and bathrobe, I drove Daniel to a friend's house to play. Later we had our friends Tim and Colleen over for "dinner with the creepy guy in pajamas," as Colleen called it.
I hope that nickname doesn't stick as I get older. I'd hate to take Hugh Hefner's title.
Day 7
When a toddler takes his first tentative steps, it's cute, there's a soft pitter-patter of tiny feet, and people stop what they're doing to watch. "Isn't that cute?"
When a grown man runs from room to room for the silliest of reasons, it's like a rhino is on the loose.
Linda looked at me with horror, and my 7-year-old stuck out his foot to pretend to trip me. Only 17-year-old Caitlin was on my side: "I'm impressed you're still running, Dad," she said after watching and hearing 45 minutes of it.
I decided the opposite of casually walking around the house, would be to sprint from place to place, much the way boys aged 4 to 7 do. It was kind of fun while it lasted.
"Are you going to do that all day?" Linda eventually asked when I ran into the office and it sounded like waves crashing.
Yep, I answered. "Do you have to CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP?" she wondered.
I'm past my athletic prime--and more likely to pick up a Butterfingers than a basketball--so yes, it's fair to say clumping and running go together for me now.
However, since Linda was working on a sewing project, she vetoed my running plan.
It was time anyway to take our annual picture of the kids, or as I now think of it: The Height of Opposite Week. I came to that conclusion when Linda said to a 7-year-old with ants in his pants, "Stay still, Daniel."
He was already doing the exact opposite before she finished saying it. Daniel wouldn't stay still if I promised him a week's worth of candy, the apex of little kid bribery. I know, I've tried it before.
I finished Opposite Week by foregoing watching the NFL so I could perform a long-delayed household chore: removing wet leaves from our gutters.
Rain-soaked dogs who've rolled in manure smell like roses compared to the gunk I found. It'll be days before I shake the smell of years-old, drenched, decaying leaves sitting in gutters.
So, of course, when I was finished I went in to give Linda a great big, wet hug. Wow, she can move quickly--talk about seeing a person do some serious CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMPING.
Day 1
This week started out wrong and it's only going to get ... wronger. Or something. I had to turn down leftover pizza for breakfast and that's so foreign to me that I'm off my game.
You see, breakfast, lunch, dinner--to me, pizza is good anytime. It's the food world's duct tape.
But as of Monday morning, I'm embracing the first of seven straight Opposite Days. So my first instinct to eat pizza had to be rejected, and I had to try Linda's healthy stuff.
Sometimes I swear she's eating rocks and dirt from our garden, but she says it's granola.
I opened the cereal closet and discovered something called Heart to Heart. Never heard of it,
didn't even know we had it in the house, but I remember liking it as a 1980s TV show."Nothing artificial," the box proclaims, and my insides groan in disappointment.
Phil Handwerk, a loyal reader, came up with the idea of Opposite Week as an homage to the Seinfeld episode where George says, "every decision I've ever made in my entire life has been wrong," and he attempts to fix things by going against his first instinct.
As Jerry tells him, "If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right."
Long before Seinfeld, kids loved Opposite Day, especially when they want something. For example, Daniel breaks it out when he's negotiating to have ice cream for lunch.
"You said I can't have ice cream now, but it's Opposite Day, so I can." That trick never works on me, as far as Linda knows.
Anyway, after I finished grinding my teeth on breakfast, I put on a flannel shirt and jeans. Oops. That had to be replaced on Opposite Day by a suit jacket buried so deeply in my closet that moths were renting townhouses in the pockets.
I put on the jacket, a tie, dress pants, and shoes, and--with a 4-day stubble and gravity-defying hair--I looked like a college kid who'd stolen his dad's suit. A very, very old college kid.
I soon found the rhythm of Opposite Day, though, as I paused before every action to consider its opposite.
I shaved for once, I skipped my usual mid-morning soda, I tuned to a hip-hop/rap radio station in the car instead of rock, and I tried to remember to answer phone calls with nonsense phrases, such as "Scooby-scooby dooooo!"
I needed to find an opposite for my daily workout. I've read recently how more runners are going barefoot, so I ditched my Nikes for my run in the community park.
Walk a mile in someone else's shoes--ha! I ran a mile in no one's shoes.
And it hurt. What are these people thinking? I made it about 100 yards on the concrete before I hoofed it onto the grass for the rest of the way.
After cleaning up post-run, I found my jacket-and-tie look raised eyebrows at the bus stop. Even worse, another parent offered suggestions for my week.
"Does that mean you'll make dinner for the family all week? And you'll go to bed early?"
"Thanks, those are great ideas. I'll have to try them," I told her, happily aware of what I was saying on Opposite Day.
Day 2
It's dangerous how quickly Linda and I have become comfortable with Opposite Week. When absurd is the norm, you tend to overlook the obvious.
That's how I ended up standing at a deli counter last night with all of my clothes inside out. The two guys behind the counter didn't question the moron in the room, but when a woman came out from the back, she was more direct.
"Why are your pants inside out?" she asked.
Not your standard icebreaker, but a good question nonetheless.
Since I'd been wearing my clothes that way all day, Linda and I no longer
thought it odd.If so, maybe she would have gone to the deli for bread, and I wouldn't have been standing in front of three strangers with my inside-out pockets flapping like Dumbo's ears.
I explained, of course, that it was Opposite Week--which made even less sense--took my bread, and drove home.
When I got there, I asked Linda if anything about me seemed unusual. She said no. An instant later she realized: "Oh geez, you went out like that?"
Actually, I'd already made an appearance with my inside-out look. I went to the bus stop after school, and I'd gotten a similar initial reaction from the neighborhood moms.
They said nothing for the first minute, until Linda drove by, rolled down her window, and yelled, "Sorry you have to be seen in public with him."
One mom laughed, relieved. "I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was afraid to ask."
They know me better than the deli guys, so Opposite Week made perfect sense--in a "I'm glad he's not my husband" sort of way.
I bet they'll be really jealous of Linda when they see me wearing women's clothes tomorrow.
Day 3
It's hard to remember to do the opposite of the little things every day. Sure, I can wear my clothes inside out, but it's tricky remembering to answer the phone by saying "Good-bye" and then ending the conversation with "Hello."
It's especially difficult when my first meal of the day has to be strawberries or a banana instead of my standard breakfast brain food of nachos or pizza.
The other day, Linda looked at me funnier than usual and asked, "Are you going to change your part?"
To see how it would look, she reached over to touch my hair--doesn't she know better yet?--and I pulled away. "I'll do it, but it has to be tomorrow," I said. "The hair's working right now."
I haven't listened to my regular radio stations since Sunday. I experiment with a different radio format each time I'm in the car; once, I stumbled across a college station--that or the DJ was moaning in agony while being slow-roasted over a fire.
I understand alternative music wants to be "different," but a singer shouldn't sound like a wounded cat unless his name is Bob Dylan.
Another little thing I found myself needing to change was my desire to clean up the kitchen. I don't cook, but I take my kitchen clean-up job seriously.
In that way, Linda and I play to our strengths since she's a good cook but takes a laissez-faire approach to post-meal clean-up.
I entered the kitchen yesterday after Hurricane Linda had blown through for lunch.
The milk had escaped and was bolting for the back door, plates were everywhere, cabinet doors were open as the soup cans prepared to sky-dive, and I don't know how a peanut butter-covered knife got stuck to the plant on the windowsill.
Unfortunately, it was only after I'd cleaned up that I realized I shouldn't have.
So when I saw Linda later, I told her of my new hands-off approach, knowing she'd be proud that I'm sticking to the literal definition of Opposite Week.
"Wait--you can't not help out!" she said, with a panicked look as if I'd told her we were going to a baseball doubleheader. "That's totally unacceptable. And you can quote me on that."
I guess if I'm not going to clean up, then the opposite would mean I'd have to cook. Or we can eat out!
Except I'd want to go to Burger King and we'd have to do the opposite and go somewhere healthy. Is there such a place as Broccoli King?
Day 4
My to-do list is a magical place. Aside from being where I keep my days organized, it's also where I write the honey-do jobs I get from Linda.
And by merely saying I'm writing her request on my to-do list, I imply the job will be finished soon. Hey, it's on the list.
In fact, it's more likely to be months and months before I even consider thinking about possibly asking Linda exactly what it was she wanted me to do.
Ahhh, but along came Opposite Week to ruin my perfect system. So, this week, when Linda has made a request, I stop what I'm doing and do whatever she wants right away.
I moved some items from the shed to the basement. I did the laundry. I moved chairs from one spot to another (and I'm sure I'll have to move them back at some point).
It's funny, but I never realized how often I procrastinated on her requests. Or how many requests she makes.
The error I made the other night was asking Linda if she noticed what I had been doing. That's a rookie mistake a guy eight years into the marriage game just shouldn't make.
Because while she appreciated my new effort, she also decided to capitalize on it immediately.
After I was already tucked into bed and ready to read, she asked me to get her glasses from another room. I got back, and then she realized she needed water.
I was tempted to set my alarm for two in the morning and wake her then to see if she needed anything else.
Days 5 & 6
I started Friday morning talking and acting like Patrick Star, SpongeBob Squarepants' dim-witted friend who's a combination of Homer Simpson and a pink eraser.
Here's a typical Patrick quote: "I can't see my forehead!" Patrick seems pretty opposite of me.
Patrick's voice and thought process came so easily that I had Daniel snorting milk out of his nose in no time. But there was a reason I picked it up so quickly.
"Is acting like Patrick really all that opposite for you?" Linda asked.
My next behavior was also easy to do: Instead of getting dressed after waking up, I stayed in my pajamas all day.
It was contagious--or my family is a little lazy--but everyone else stayed in their pajamas until the early afternoon. Daniel and I even played kickball in our pajamas.
I pitched with my opposite hand, kicked with my opposite foot, and ran the bases in reverse, going third-second-first-home.
Once, I ran the wrong way on a home run, and Daniel caught me: "Do-over!"
It's amazing how often kids call for do-overs when something goes against them. I'd like to be able to do that in life.
A cop would pull me over for speeding: "I'm gonna take a do-over if that's alright."
If my stocks tank, "Do-over! And while I'm at it, time-travel me back to 1986 so I can buy enough Microsoft stock to buy myself more do-overs."
Anyway, that's about when I realized I shouldn't even be playing kickball with Daniel. Because I wanted to play, then I should have done the opposite and not played, which is what I explained to him. "Oh, no! So you have to go inside?" he said. "I don't want you to!"
In this case, I caved and continued playing. I was simply following the lead of the Tooth Fairy, who visited Daniel this week after he lost his third tooth.
During Opposite Week, the Tooth Fairy shouldn't have shown up, but the Tooth Fairy had mercy on Linda and me.
In my pajamas, slippers, and bathrobe, I drove Daniel to a friend's house to play. Later we had our friends Tim and Colleen over for "dinner with the creepy guy in pajamas," as Colleen called it.
I hope that nickname doesn't stick as I get older. I'd hate to take Hugh Hefner's title.
Day 7
When a toddler takes his first tentative steps, it's cute, there's a soft pitter-patter of tiny feet, and people stop what they're doing to watch. "Isn't that cute?"
When a grown man runs from room to room for the silliest of reasons, it's like a rhino is on the loose.
Linda looked at me with horror, and my 7-year-old stuck out his foot to pretend to trip me. Only 17-year-old Caitlin was on my side: "I'm impressed you're still running, Dad," she said after watching and hearing 45 minutes of it.
I decided the opposite of casually walking around the house, would be to sprint from place to place, much the way boys aged 4 to 7 do. It was kind of fun while it lasted.
"Are you going to do that all day?" Linda eventually asked when I ran into the office and it sounded like waves crashing.
Yep, I answered. "Do you have to CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMP?" she wondered.
I'm past my athletic prime--and more likely to pick up a Butterfingers than a basketball--so yes, it's fair to say clumping and running go together for me now.
However, since Linda was working on a sewing project, she vetoed my running plan.
It was time anyway to take our annual picture of the kids, or as I now think of it: The Height of Opposite Week. I came to that conclusion when Linda said to a 7-year-old with ants in his pants, "Stay still, Daniel."
He was already doing the exact opposite before she finished saying it. Daniel wouldn't stay still if I promised him a week's worth of candy, the apex of little kid bribery. I know, I've tried it before.
I finished Opposite Week by foregoing watching the NFL so I could perform a long-delayed household chore: removing wet leaves from our gutters.
Rain-soaked dogs who've rolled in manure smell like roses compared to the gunk I found. It'll be days before I shake the smell of years-old, drenched, decaying leaves sitting in gutters.
So, of course, when I was finished I went in to give Linda a great big, wet hug. Wow, she can move quickly--talk about seeing a person do some serious CLUMP-CLUMP-CLUMPING.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
No Mirrors
Day 1
When I tell people I'm not looking in a mirror for a week, it's like I've walked into open-mic night at the Improv.
"You're lucky you don't have to see what we do," said my brother. "If I looked like you, I'd never want to look in a mirror," said a friend. "If only I didn't have to look at you for a week," said my wife.
Okay, Linda didn't say that last one, though maybe she was thinking it after all of my singing last week.
While my friends mock me, I've discovered a new friend: my hat. Since I can't see what my hair looks like, my hat is now my safety net.
At my age, I don't brush my hair as much as I strategically place it to cover the growing gaps. Without a mirror--or my hat--coverage would be worse than my health plan.
I'm allowing myself to use just two mirrors this week--the rearview and side-view mirrors in my car, though I'm not allowed to use them to look at myself.
Which, of course, I did as soon as I climbed into the car. It's amazing how often I'm tempted to look in the mirror while I'm driving. And why do I expect to hear "You're So Vain" on the radio any minute?
I had one other car-related problem: As I approached my car, I caught my reflection in the driver's side window as I unlocked the door. To avoid this, I'll have to sneak up on my car and, at the last instant, pop up like a Whack-A-Mole.
Or, I guess I could close my eyes as I walk toward the car, but crossing the street with my eyes closed could result in cars playing Whack-A-Roach. Especially if the drivers are busy looking at themselves in their rearview mirror while they drive.
Day 2
This is the perfect week for people to mess with me and say things about my appearance that I can't confirm. As Linda did last night, observing, "You're getting a lot grayer around your temples--did you notice?"
Certain she was toying with the man who can't see himself--she was kidding, right??--I had no need to check a mirror. None whatsoever.
Or to walk past a reflective surface and accidentally see myself. Or to get down on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor to unintentionally see my reflection in our aluminum trash can. Nope, no worries.
Years ago, my family visited Hawaii and, after one week in Maui, we traveled to Lanai. On the trip from the airport to our resort, we were amazed by the tropical beauty all around us and couldn't stop pointing out one object or another.
My dad, however, had gotten sunscreen in his eyes that morning and couldn't see a thing. He thought we were just trying to provoke him. Of course, we weren't--that was just an added bonus.
Daniel, who knows not to do such things to his wonderful dad for fear of a life without Legos, doesn't really understand this week's challenge.
Seven-year-old boys aren't a self-conscious group, as you may have noticed if you've seen one wipe his nose with his sleeve, or lick a coffee table spot that looks like chocolate.
Boys could go until they're 13 before they'd need a mirror--and then they'll look at nothing else. Well, they'll look at a mirror and the other thing they discover at 13. Cars.
I don't think Daniel has looked in a mirror in weeks. For example, he has worn a temporary tattoo on his left cheek since Saturday. He doesn't even know it's there anymore, until we try to wash it off.
And bed-head appears to be a status symbol for 7-year-old boys; he'd go to school cluelessly sporting a Flock of Seagulls hairstyle every day. I'm tempted sometimes to let him.
Is it bad parenting to want to draw a smiley face on his cheek while he's sleeping and see how long it takes him to notice? It would be in the name of science, after all.
Wait, what if I just gave Linda an idea for me. Or has she already done it?
Days 3 & 4
I knew at some point this week I'd have to shave, considering I don't need a mirror to know that if I don't, I look like Jeff Foxworthy. Still, the idea of using a sharp blade against my neck with my eyes closed strikes me as crazier than a senior center toga party.
However, I had nothing to worry about, at least nothing I could see. If I cut myself or missed whole sections of my face, no one said anything. Maybe they just laughed behind my back.
Which got me thinking: There are significant parts of your body you can't see without a mirror. If you're a guy, you can't see your hair without a mirror unless you were in Whitesnake.
You can't see your neck, most of your back, or your shoulder blades--and therefore the beauty behind "Kick Me!" signs.
You can't see your whole head, except for the smallest parts of your nose, tongue, lips, and cheeks. I know because I tested this theory by sticking out my tongue and lips, scrunching my cheeks, and rolling my eyes like a crazy chameleon.
I should have worked out my theory elsewhere judging from the looks of my fellow passengers on the train.
One thing you can see is your feet, and I stared at mine like a grunge-band lead singer Thursday. I had just entered a hotel with enough mirrors to satisfy Trump's ego.
Mirrors engulfed the downstairs lobby, encased the elevator, lined the 11th-floor lobby, surrounded me in the hotel room, and even covered a whole wall in the bathroom. Hotels are an egomaniac's funhouse.
I'd traveled two hours to visit my brother Paul, who was in a city hotel on business. When he wasn't looking, I was tempted to hit the mini-bar for a puny bag of 11 potato chips that costs $4.25, but the thing was guarded by attack mirrors.
We walked the city, hitting a few tourist sites, and Paul particularly enjoyed pointing out every reflective surface imaginable.
Shop windows, restaurant mirrors, even a handheld mirror he picked up and tried to hold up to my face. It was a whole new way not to see a city.
I crashed in his room and when I left Friday morning I somehow had Don King's hair by mistake.
If I didn't know better, I'd say Paul rubbed my head with a sweater sometime in the night. I probably have a "Kick Me!" sign on my back, too.
Wait until the people on the train see me now.
Day 5
I asked Linda how I looked and she laughed at me. That can't be good.
I shaved for the second time this week without a mirror and I wondered if I missed any spots. I also asked if my hair looked alright. She was still giggling.
"Something not right?" I asked.
"I'm just laughing because you're making me laugh. I forgot how weird you are about your hair," she said.
It's sad, but true for a graying, hair-losing father of 2 who should have bigger worries. (Like making sure my food doesn't touch, but that's for another week.)
I have a problem with people touching my head.
I didn't realize how odd it was until I saw the same behavior in my son. He freaks out when I pat him on his head or try to comb his hair. How bizarre, I said to Linda.
How so much like you, she replied. Heredity makes your own quirks stand out like an F on a report card.
Linda stopped laughing, but started up again as she fixed my hair. She tried to smooth it down and I squirmed like she was stabbing me. It was harder to take than the time I ate broccoli for Daniel's sake.
Finally, my hair was fixed and I walked away relieved. Then Linda snuck up behind me, messed it all up again, and ran away laughing.
I don't know which is worse--that she touched my hair and messed it up, or that she's going to have to touch it again to fix it.
I need new quirks.
Days 6 & 7
For the most part, I've been able to avoid mirrors--they're not exactly chasing me around the house, after all. But I've caught glimpses of myself in so many common items all week.
A car window, our glass front door, the windows at night when it's dark outside, store windows, even glass picture frames. I'm doing my best to avoid my reflection, but clearly I'd make a lousy vampire.
In grade school, I didn't like to look in the mirror in the morning because my face grew acne forests overnight.
One considerate friend thought a small tree on my face looked like a sprout shooting from a mountainside and nicknamed me Cliff Branch, an NFL star at the time. My acne went away before the nickname did.
I spent Sunday at a football game where it was easy to avoid my reflection. I saw some questionable clothing choices, so I guess some people have no problem not using a mirror.
I watched the game with an old high school friend, who noted that my hair was getting much grayer these days. I wanted to check a mirror to see what he was talking about. I'm sure it was just the lighting.
I finally got to look at myself again Monday morning and was happy to see I looked the same as I did a week ago.
I'm more aware of my own vanity now, though, so I didn't linger at the mirror long--just enough to check what my friend was talking about. Yeah, the lighting, it must have been the lighting....
When I tell people I'm not looking in a mirror for a week, it's like I've walked into open-mic night at the Improv.
"You're lucky you don't have to see what we do," said my brother. "If I looked like you, I'd never want to look in a mirror," said a friend. "If only I didn't have to look at you for a week," said my wife.
Okay, Linda didn't say that last one, though maybe she was thinking it after all of my singing last week.
While my friends mock me, I've discovered a new friend: my hat. Since I can't see what my hair looks like, my hat is now my safety net.
At my age, I don't brush my hair as much as I strategically place it to cover the growing gaps. Without a mirror--or my hat--coverage would be worse than my health plan.
I'm allowing myself to use just two mirrors this week--the rearview and side-view mirrors in my car, though I'm not allowed to use them to look at myself.
Which, of course, I did as soon as I climbed into the car. It's amazing how often I'm tempted to look in the mirror while I'm driving. And why do I expect to hear "You're So Vain" on the radio any minute?
I had one other car-related problem: As I approached my car, I caught my reflection in the driver's side window as I unlocked the door. To avoid this, I'll have to sneak up on my car and, at the last instant, pop up like a Whack-A-Mole.
Or, I guess I could close my eyes as I walk toward the car, but crossing the street with my eyes closed could result in cars playing Whack-A-Roach. Especially if the drivers are busy looking at themselves in their rearview mirror while they drive.
Day 2
This is the perfect week for people to mess with me and say things about my appearance that I can't confirm. As Linda did last night, observing, "You're getting a lot grayer around your temples--did you notice?"
Certain she was toying with the man who can't see himself--she was kidding, right??--I had no need to check a mirror. None whatsoever.
Or to walk past a reflective surface and accidentally see myself. Or to get down on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor to unintentionally see my reflection in our aluminum trash can. Nope, no worries.
Years ago, my family visited Hawaii and, after one week in Maui, we traveled to Lanai. On the trip from the airport to our resort, we were amazed by the tropical beauty all around us and couldn't stop pointing out one object or another.
My dad, however, had gotten sunscreen in his eyes that morning and couldn't see a thing. He thought we were just trying to provoke him. Of course, we weren't--that was just an added bonus.
Daniel, who knows not to do such things to his wonderful dad for fear of a life without Legos, doesn't really understand this week's challenge.
Seven-year-old boys aren't a self-conscious group, as you may have noticed if you've seen one wipe his nose with his sleeve, or lick a coffee table spot that looks like chocolate.
Boys could go until they're 13 before they'd need a mirror--and then they'll look at nothing else. Well, they'll look at a mirror and the other thing they discover at 13. Cars.
I don't think Daniel has looked in a mirror in weeks. For example, he has worn a temporary tattoo on his left cheek since Saturday. He doesn't even know it's there anymore, until we try to wash it off.
And bed-head appears to be a status symbol for 7-year-old boys; he'd go to school cluelessly sporting a Flock of Seagulls hairstyle every day. I'm tempted sometimes to let him.
Is it bad parenting to want to draw a smiley face on his cheek while he's sleeping and see how long it takes him to notice? It would be in the name of science, after all.
Wait, what if I just gave Linda an idea for me. Or has she already done it?
Days 3 & 4
I knew at some point this week I'd have to shave, considering I don't need a mirror to know that if I don't, I look like Jeff Foxworthy. Still, the idea of using a sharp blade against my neck with my eyes closed strikes me as crazier than a senior center toga party.
However, I had nothing to worry about, at least nothing I could see. If I cut myself or missed whole sections of my face, no one said anything. Maybe they just laughed behind my back.
Which got me thinking: There are significant parts of your body you can't see without a mirror. If you're a guy, you can't see your hair without a mirror unless you were in Whitesnake.
You can't see your neck, most of your back, or your shoulder blades--and therefore the beauty behind "Kick Me!" signs.
You can't see your whole head, except for the smallest parts of your nose, tongue, lips, and cheeks. I know because I tested this theory by sticking out my tongue and lips, scrunching my cheeks, and rolling my eyes like a crazy chameleon.
I should have worked out my theory elsewhere judging from the looks of my fellow passengers on the train.
One thing you can see is your feet, and I stared at mine like a grunge-band lead singer Thursday. I had just entered a hotel with enough mirrors to satisfy Trump's ego.
Mirrors engulfed the downstairs lobby, encased the elevator, lined the 11th-floor lobby, surrounded me in the hotel room, and even covered a whole wall in the bathroom. Hotels are an egomaniac's funhouse.
I'd traveled two hours to visit my brother Paul, who was in a city hotel on business. When he wasn't looking, I was tempted to hit the mini-bar for a puny bag of 11 potato chips that costs $4.25, but the thing was guarded by attack mirrors.
We walked the city, hitting a few tourist sites, and Paul particularly enjoyed pointing out every reflective surface imaginable.
Shop windows, restaurant mirrors, even a handheld mirror he picked up and tried to hold up to my face. It was a whole new way not to see a city.
I crashed in his room and when I left Friday morning I somehow had Don King's hair by mistake.
If I didn't know better, I'd say Paul rubbed my head with a sweater sometime in the night. I probably have a "Kick Me!" sign on my back, too.
Wait until the people on the train see me now.
Day 5
I asked Linda how I looked and she laughed at me. That can't be good.
I shaved for the second time this week without a mirror and I wondered if I missed any spots. I also asked if my hair looked alright. She was still giggling.
"Something not right?" I asked.
"I'm just laughing because you're making me laugh. I forgot how weird you are about your hair," she said.
It's sad, but true for a graying, hair-losing father of 2 who should have bigger worries. (Like making sure my food doesn't touch, but that's for another week.)
I have a problem with people touching my head.
I didn't realize how odd it was until I saw the same behavior in my son. He freaks out when I pat him on his head or try to comb his hair. How bizarre, I said to Linda.
How so much like you, she replied. Heredity makes your own quirks stand out like an F on a report card.
Linda stopped laughing, but started up again as she fixed my hair. She tried to smooth it down and I squirmed like she was stabbing me. It was harder to take than the time I ate broccoli for Daniel's sake.
Finally, my hair was fixed and I walked away relieved. Then Linda snuck up behind me, messed it all up again, and ran away laughing.
I don't know which is worse--that she touched my hair and messed it up, or that she's going to have to touch it again to fix it.
I need new quirks.
Days 6 & 7
For the most part, I've been able to avoid mirrors--they're not exactly chasing me around the house, after all. But I've caught glimpses of myself in so many common items all week.
A car window, our glass front door, the windows at night when it's dark outside, store windows, even glass picture frames. I'm doing my best to avoid my reflection, but clearly I'd make a lousy vampire.
In grade school, I didn't like to look in the mirror in the morning because my face grew acne forests overnight.
One considerate friend thought a small tree on my face looked like a sprout shooting from a mountainside and nicknamed me Cliff Branch, an NFL star at the time. My acne went away before the nickname did.
I spent Sunday at a football game where it was easy to avoid my reflection. I saw some questionable clothing choices, so I guess some people have no problem not using a mirror.
I watched the game with an old high school friend, who noted that my hair was getting much grayer these days. I wanted to check a mirror to see what he was talking about. I'm sure it was just the lighting.
I finally got to look at myself again Monday morning and was happy to see I looked the same as I did a week ago.
I'm more aware of my own vanity now, though, so I didn't linger at the mirror long--just enough to check what my friend was talking about. Yeah, the lighting, it must have been the lighting....
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