Ran across this out on the Net today based on a bit of conversation with my spousal unit:
http://www.thenewblackmagazine.com/view.aspx?index=551
There's progressive thinking, and then there's plain silliness. The problem is that pointing this out will -- somehow, somewhere, with someone -- end up labeling me a racist by some stretch of the imagination.
It's the sort of PC-driven abandon which has, in my opinion, driven America from her throne as the land of tolerance and free-yet-critical thinking into a horrific tailspin which may only end in smoking rubble. The road to Hell is paved ... and all that rot.
It was already tempting Fate a bit when Daniel Craig was named as the next James Bond following the unfortunate stint of Pierce Brosnan; people had a bit of a hissy over the notion of Blond Bond, as it were.
Still, Craig has managed to pull off the role impeccably in my opinion, following in the footsteps of the real Bond, Sean Connery -- the man who owned the role through on-screen portrayal of a character, his ability to simply look like he was really capable of Bond-esque feats. That evaluation stands, as opposed to consideration of Roger Moore who, despite doing his own stunts, was a bit dapper, more smug than cocky. Moore's Bond relied on gadgets rather than bravado and derring-do; Connery's relied on know-how and the strong arm. It's Kirk vs. Picard, loads of fun but really no contest in the end.
Granted, a great deal of that has to do with the writing rather than the actor. By the time Moore took over the role people were more fascinated with the gadgetry provided by Q than with plotlines. Sadly that was the larger portion of what did in the role for Brosnan, aside from his age and penchant for pinching his lips. By the time Brosnan took over the role the writing had gone to utter shite and CGI was more important than the plausible impossibility of Bond stories and the delicious sense of I want to believe they all gave us for a couple of hours.
Other series have jumped the shark; Brosnan's Bond did it, through no fault of his own, in an invisible car.
But I've strayed from the point.
I remember Halle Berry's entry into the series as an American agent. Sure, they were playing off Ms. Berry's popularity at the time, and sure -- it's a tried-and-true ploy which Hollywood has used repeatedly (and via which same industry has, at long last, Shia-LeBouf'ed their way to overindulgence); but it was also touted as a nod to African-Americans rather than viewed as an actress fulfilling a strong character's role, at least here in the States.
And that's where we begin, bit by insidious bit, to fall apart, where the principle comes undone at the seams. You see, it's impossible to strive for an alleged equality if every single performance by an black actor or actress (relax; I use the term "black" because not every black out there is either African or American) is hailed as a landmark success based on their race over the achievement. Ms. Berry may not have done it but our society as a whole certainly did.
That's the current fad; we feel it somehow necessary to recognize race repeatedly, even to the point of specially catering to Race as a concept.
It's like demanding Equality then insisting men open doors for women. Chivalry and Equality cannot coexist, not in a technical sense. By the same token Equality and Special Recognition cannot coexist.
Pierce Brosnan is merely an actor -- not a white actor or a Caucasian actor; Daniel Craig is merely an actor, neither white nor Caucasian. Conversely, Samuel L. Jackson (for example) is a black actor, or an African-American actor -- whether he gives a damn about it or not -- as are dozens of other actors and actresses.
So on the tail of the recent win by Barack Obama in the race for the U.S. Presidency, someone has finally suggested that it's time to what -- remake an established fictional character?
When I wonder about this it's nothing against Colin Salmon, either as a person or an actor. Hell, I've seen him in movies, I like the way he comes across as an individual both strong and cultured, suave and good-looking; for that matter I'd even date the guy, my heterosexuality not withstanding.
It's just that... well, James Bond is white. Maybe he was invented at a time when strong, forward-thinking black characters weren't popular, barely even possible for that matter; still, I have to ask a very serious question:
Is it time for a black Bond? And why has the question even seen the light of day?
Would this sort of talk even be possible were I to suggest taking John Shaft, the creation of Ernest Tidyman, and making him a tough, off-the-beaten-path white boy who was fighting the system? Were I to replace the synthesizer and fast-picked electric guitar of Shaft's theme with a less soulful brass section and some cello, would that still be okay? If Isaac Hayes' vocals were redone ala Jewel, would the majority be fine with that because hey, it's not about an institution, it's about equality and progress?
Would it actually still be Shaft?
There's no better way to put it than in the fashion John Shaft himself would have during the life of his character (for those who haven't read any of the novels, John Shaft is dead):
You damn right, it wouldn't!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Things Which Are Simply Strange...
So...
Lately I've been going back to Burger King in the mornings, simply dealing with the drive-thru. Something I've discovered is that the local store is used for training area managers and workers; apparently if they can make make it here, they'll make it any-weer... (sorry). Thus, the faces I see as I pass through change with the rapidity of diapers (I could draw another parallel there but I'll refrain -- oh, wait; I already didn't refrain).
Anyway, I've noticed that as with any establishment service depends on the expectations put forth and the policies enforced (or not) by a group's leader.
A few days ago I was dealing with a smiling woman who served my my croissandwiches (yes, wholly American and possibly profane) each day with a polite greeting, cordially friendly and entirely appropriate to this sort of business where dealing with the public is the whole point.
Odd thing, however; each day she served my greasy little artery-cloggers with a side-helping of grape jelly.
For those not in the know, the Burger King double croissandwich is a pseudo-croissant sliced in two, the center packed with a layer of cheese, another layer of scrambled egg cooked in flat sheets, a sausage-pattie, two small slices of bacon and another layer of cheese. Most definitely NOT good for me, but filling in a creepy sort of way which makes me realize I need a long, critical look at my dietary habits.
And every day there were two packets of grape jelly accompanying my order.
Then two days ago another woman appeared, also in a manger's uniform. I placed the same order and received my paper bag with the famed amber-and-chartreuse colors and went on to my workplace nearby.
Opening the bag I discovered that while the grape jelly had disappeared I had enough salt packets to fill half a normal salt-shaker for a dinner table.
Eh, wot?
So this is Salt Lady; the other woman was Grape Jelly Lady I thought, shrugging and chalking it up to the American Standard, ie., utter carelessness.
This morning my order was accompanied by pepper packets in direct proportion to yesterday's helping of salt.
I may only imagine what the morrow will bring. Five-gallon bucket of lard with your breakfast order, Mr. Hodges?
Actually, I might be better off eating the lard...
So...
I'd heard for years about folks who put coffee grounds and egg shells around their roses and decided to look up the reason for it. Apparently there are multiple reasons, ranging from the coffee providing a kick to the soil's nitrogen output and the egg shells providing calcium all the way to the caffeine aiding plant growth while repelling slugs while the egg shells themselves act as tiny stakes driven into the ground to repel the slug cavalry.
Further reading uncovered the declaration that coffee grounds were good for more than merely roses, being the perfect "green" solution to the addition of fertilizers in gardens. After all, the majority of any chemical fertilizer is 1/2 nitrogen, the rest potassium and phosphate with some calcium tossed in. Thus, I could, theoretically, remove nearly all need for chemical fertilizers by saving old coffee grounds and egg shells, possibly supplementing with a bit of lime and manure (easily obtained from other local farmers).
Okay, here's where we get to the weird part...
My father is the sort of man who will invariably scold me for spending money on anything which he deems useless. If I purchase a wrench he wants to know why I would waste that money, especially in light of the fact that I could drive for nearly two hours and borrow a wrench from him. Please, no one explain the gas/wrench cost ratio to me, I got it long ago -- but I'll be happy to provide his address, should you care to try that avenue of approach.
Anyway...
I recently discussed the whole deal with coffee and egg shells with my father, the avid gardener in the family. His reaction?
"I don't know why you'd bother with all that, when you could just BUY a bag of fertilizer and do the same thing!"
"Um, Dad? Maybe because this is FREE? I just save the grounds we make at work anyway and the shells from the eggs we use at home -- voila, instant fertilizer I don't have to pay for?"
"Yeah, maybe... but you could just BUY a bag of fertilizer..."
I don't really ask for Life to make sense anymore; I just try to enjoy the ride.
Lately I've been going back to Burger King in the mornings, simply dealing with the drive-thru. Something I've discovered is that the local store is used for training area managers and workers; apparently if they can make make it here, they'll make it any-weer... (sorry). Thus, the faces I see as I pass through change with the rapidity of diapers (I could draw another parallel there but I'll refrain -- oh, wait; I already didn't refrain).
Anyway, I've noticed that as with any establishment service depends on the expectations put forth and the policies enforced (or not) by a group's leader.
A few days ago I was dealing with a smiling woman who served my my croissandwiches (yes, wholly American and possibly profane) each day with a polite greeting, cordially friendly and entirely appropriate to this sort of business where dealing with the public is the whole point.
Odd thing, however; each day she served my greasy little artery-cloggers with a side-helping of grape jelly.
For those not in the know, the Burger King double croissandwich is a pseudo-croissant sliced in two, the center packed with a layer of cheese, another layer of scrambled egg cooked in flat sheets, a sausage-pattie, two small slices of bacon and another layer of cheese. Most definitely NOT good for me, but filling in a creepy sort of way which makes me realize I need a long, critical look at my dietary habits.
And every day there were two packets of grape jelly accompanying my order.
Then two days ago another woman appeared, also in a manger's uniform. I placed the same order and received my paper bag with the famed amber-and-chartreuse colors and went on to my workplace nearby.
Opening the bag I discovered that while the grape jelly had disappeared I had enough salt packets to fill half a normal salt-shaker for a dinner table.
Eh, wot?
So this is Salt Lady; the other woman was Grape Jelly Lady I thought, shrugging and chalking it up to the American Standard, ie., utter carelessness.
This morning my order was accompanied by pepper packets in direct proportion to yesterday's helping of salt.
I may only imagine what the morrow will bring. Five-gallon bucket of lard with your breakfast order, Mr. Hodges?
Actually, I might be better off eating the lard...
So...
I'd heard for years about folks who put coffee grounds and egg shells around their roses and decided to look up the reason for it. Apparently there are multiple reasons, ranging from the coffee providing a kick to the soil's nitrogen output and the egg shells providing calcium all the way to the caffeine aiding plant growth while repelling slugs while the egg shells themselves act as tiny stakes driven into the ground to repel the slug cavalry.
Further reading uncovered the declaration that coffee grounds were good for more than merely roses, being the perfect "green" solution to the addition of fertilizers in gardens. After all, the majority of any chemical fertilizer is 1/2 nitrogen, the rest potassium and phosphate with some calcium tossed in. Thus, I could, theoretically, remove nearly all need for chemical fertilizers by saving old coffee grounds and egg shells, possibly supplementing with a bit of lime and manure (easily obtained from other local farmers).
Okay, here's where we get to the weird part...
My father is the sort of man who will invariably scold me for spending money on anything which he deems useless. If I purchase a wrench he wants to know why I would waste that money, especially in light of the fact that I could drive for nearly two hours and borrow a wrench from him. Please, no one explain the gas/wrench cost ratio to me, I got it long ago -- but I'll be happy to provide his address, should you care to try that avenue of approach.
Anyway...
I recently discussed the whole deal with coffee and egg shells with my father, the avid gardener in the family. His reaction?
"I don't know why you'd bother with all that, when you could just BUY a bag of fertilizer and do the same thing!"
"Um, Dad? Maybe because this is FREE? I just save the grounds we make at work anyway and the shells from the eggs we use at home -- voila, instant fertilizer I don't have to pay for?"
"Yeah, maybe... but you could just BUY a bag of fertilizer..."
I don't really ask for Life to make sense anymore; I just try to enjoy the ride.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Chilled Musings...
The possibility of snow for this weekend has been predicted by the local weather channels. I'm certain my friend Quietsail is bemoaning the onset of colder weather in direct inverse proportion to the degree with which I am anticipating it.
He recently commented at lunch that he didn't understand in the least how I could revel in cold weather, shaking his head in disbelief and dismay.
"Not all of us," I replied, "Are meant to be Vikings."
Perhaps I'm not meant, honestly, to be a Viking either, despite the fact that The 13th Warrior is my favorite movie; although I have a decided predilection for fur hats and grunting I really do enjoy my modern conveniences. Still, winter has always meant something special to me and I adore snow. Part of it is, of a cert, every child's fascination with the white stuff. "Oh, I love snow, too," someone is thinking. Yeah, I'm sure you do; but trust me, this is different. I really love snow, enough so that when it's available I'm known to lay down and roll in the stuff with a kind of feral glee.
My love of the cold always was, however, compounded by my upbringing and the fond memories I associate with winter.
Daily life on the farm consisted of two things: Work, and Screaming. I don't honestly recall ever completing a task to my father's satisfaction and so long as we were working together my ears were filled with his open irritation and derision, anything ranging from my poor performance all the way to placing blame for any mishap.
But then there was Snow.
Because my father's legs weren't very strong he came to rely on my labour as I grew older, especially when conditions turned wintry and hazardous. Rather than accompany me to feed the herd he would give me relentlessly precise instructions on how to:
- Pick up a bale of hay
- How to carry said bale of hay from any given barn
- How far to carry it from said barn
- How to drop it
- How to cut the stupid strings binding it
- How to pull the strings away
- An explanation of why the strings should be pulled away
- How to walk away
- How to return to the barn
- How to pick up another bale of hay with fully reiterated instructions because of my flagging memory of performance since the previous bale of hay...
You get the tedious idea.
But on snow days when the weather was rough I was often sent out on my own, sans truck, which meant a long walk through the elements -- but the walk was mine, the work was laborious but quiet... I was finished when I was finished (and often not for quite a while after). Work which might take the two of us a solid two hours were at first accomplished within one and one half, but quickly turned into as much as three or four hours, including a leisurely walk around parts of the farm where my presence wasn't required in the least. You see, it was peaceful, nothing out there except me and the other animals, the wind and the cold.
With only the *crunch... crunch... crunch* of my plodding steps and the low moan of the boreal winds to accompany me, with no one to talk to but no one to disturb me, I truly was in the budding days of my Sasquatchiness. Every plumed breath took a little of Tame Michael away, every drawn breath which crackled my lungs pulled in something a bit more earthy.
That's part of what I've come to associate with the cold over the years.
There's more; after all, who doesn't enjoy playing outside when the air is chilled, only to come inside and heighten that enjoyment with a cup of cocoa or a nice toddy? Who doesn't like to kick their feet out of cold, wet boots and socks, propping those piggies up beside a roaring fire? Who doesn't become pleasantly drowsy as the warmth drives the winter from one's bones?
I'm not naive enough to pretend that the cold is a friendly creature, kind and benevolent, however. Cold is, make no mistake about it, enough of an enemy to constantly test us. People who don't know how to cope with the cold get sick, even die -- or at the least suffer unduly.
Last year when the furnace went out during the season's only blizzard I was, fortunately, home alone. Kristin and Luke had stayed in the city the night before and were with her parents, which worked out for the best.
I had a fireplace designed for decoration rather than heat -- but it didn't matter because I knew how to cope with the cold.
Using charcoal to bank up my fireplace's heating capacity I built a fire each morning which lasted throughout the day, gradually heating the portion of the house I hadn't walled off. As for walling off the main portion of the house, lacking doors I had tacked spare blankets, thick ones, up to cover each doorway.
I transported ample helpings of wood inside, stacking it beside the fireplace. I shaved kindling in the barn prior to bringing wood inside the house.
Anything I cooked aside from tea was baked, enabling me to leave the oven door open post-baking -- after all, it's heat for which you've already paid!
Every morning the house was anywhere from 37 to 41 degrees, by evening the two front rooms were up to a pleasant 68 degrees. My fashion consisted of long underwear and sweatpants, tucked into double-layered socks at intervals, an undershirt and a sweatshirt. The bed was piled in layers until the coverings were four inches deep because the bedroom was not part of the heated household.
I thought of this last night because as we lay down to sleep my wife informed me about the warning for possibility of snow. True, last year Luke was in the city with her; this year she'll be in the city but Luke will be home with me.
Is disaster likely? Hardly... Still, when a small child is involved that what if always creeps into the rear brain, niggling and nudging so that the conscious self can form tentative plans of a just-in-case nature.
But I'm confident; if Luke is ever forced for any reason to endure harsh, cold conditions I'd prefer that he be in my company rather than anyone else.
After all, not everyone is meant to be a Viking; and some things are meant to pass from Father to Son.
He recently commented at lunch that he didn't understand in the least how I could revel in cold weather, shaking his head in disbelief and dismay.
"Not all of us," I replied, "Are meant to be Vikings."
Perhaps I'm not meant, honestly, to be a Viking either, despite the fact that The 13th Warrior is my favorite movie; although I have a decided predilection for fur hats and grunting I really do enjoy my modern conveniences. Still, winter has always meant something special to me and I adore snow. Part of it is, of a cert, every child's fascination with the white stuff. "Oh, I love snow, too," someone is thinking. Yeah, I'm sure you do; but trust me, this is different. I really love snow, enough so that when it's available I'm known to lay down and roll in the stuff with a kind of feral glee.
My love of the cold always was, however, compounded by my upbringing and the fond memories I associate with winter.
Daily life on the farm consisted of two things: Work, and Screaming. I don't honestly recall ever completing a task to my father's satisfaction and so long as we were working together my ears were filled with his open irritation and derision, anything ranging from my poor performance all the way to placing blame for any mishap.
But then there was Snow.
Because my father's legs weren't very strong he came to rely on my labour as I grew older, especially when conditions turned wintry and hazardous. Rather than accompany me to feed the herd he would give me relentlessly precise instructions on how to:
- Pick up a bale of hay
- How to carry said bale of hay from any given barn
- How far to carry it from said barn
- How to drop it
- How to cut the stupid strings binding it
- How to pull the strings away
- An explanation of why the strings should be pulled away
- How to walk away
- How to return to the barn
- How to pick up another bale of hay with fully reiterated instructions because of my flagging memory of performance since the previous bale of hay...
You get the tedious idea.
But on snow days when the weather was rough I was often sent out on my own, sans truck, which meant a long walk through the elements -- but the walk was mine, the work was laborious but quiet... I was finished when I was finished (and often not for quite a while after). Work which might take the two of us a solid two hours were at first accomplished within one and one half, but quickly turned into as much as three or four hours, including a leisurely walk around parts of the farm where my presence wasn't required in the least. You see, it was peaceful, nothing out there except me and the other animals, the wind and the cold.
With only the *crunch... crunch... crunch* of my plodding steps and the low moan of the boreal winds to accompany me, with no one to talk to but no one to disturb me, I truly was in the budding days of my Sasquatchiness. Every plumed breath took a little of Tame Michael away, every drawn breath which crackled my lungs pulled in something a bit more earthy.
That's part of what I've come to associate with the cold over the years.
There's more; after all, who doesn't enjoy playing outside when the air is chilled, only to come inside and heighten that enjoyment with a cup of cocoa or a nice toddy? Who doesn't like to kick their feet out of cold, wet boots and socks, propping those piggies up beside a roaring fire? Who doesn't become pleasantly drowsy as the warmth drives the winter from one's bones?
I'm not naive enough to pretend that the cold is a friendly creature, kind and benevolent, however. Cold is, make no mistake about it, enough of an enemy to constantly test us. People who don't know how to cope with the cold get sick, even die -- or at the least suffer unduly.
Last year when the furnace went out during the season's only blizzard I was, fortunately, home alone. Kristin and Luke had stayed in the city the night before and were with her parents, which worked out for the best.
I had a fireplace designed for decoration rather than heat -- but it didn't matter because I knew how to cope with the cold.
Using charcoal to bank up my fireplace's heating capacity I built a fire each morning which lasted throughout the day, gradually heating the portion of the house I hadn't walled off. As for walling off the main portion of the house, lacking doors I had tacked spare blankets, thick ones, up to cover each doorway.
I transported ample helpings of wood inside, stacking it beside the fireplace. I shaved kindling in the barn prior to bringing wood inside the house.
Anything I cooked aside from tea was baked, enabling me to leave the oven door open post-baking -- after all, it's heat for which you've already paid!
Every morning the house was anywhere from 37 to 41 degrees, by evening the two front rooms were up to a pleasant 68 degrees. My fashion consisted of long underwear and sweatpants, tucked into double-layered socks at intervals, an undershirt and a sweatshirt. The bed was piled in layers until the coverings were four inches deep because the bedroom was not part of the heated household.
I thought of this last night because as we lay down to sleep my wife informed me about the warning for possibility of snow. True, last year Luke was in the city with her; this year she'll be in the city but Luke will be home with me.
Is disaster likely? Hardly... Still, when a small child is involved that what if always creeps into the rear brain, niggling and nudging so that the conscious self can form tentative plans of a just-in-case nature.
But I'm confident; if Luke is ever forced for any reason to endure harsh, cold conditions I'd prefer that he be in my company rather than anyone else.
After all, not everyone is meant to be a Viking; and some things are meant to pass from Father to Son.
Monday, November 10, 2008
ANTHROPOLOGY 101: In-Laws and Perceptions...
Saw this on MSN today:
http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/articletkt.aspx?cp-documentid=11618162>1=32023
It amuses me in all aspects, as a Son-in-Law, a son and a parent.
As a Son-in-Law it amuses me because I've seen and heard it endlessly since my marriage. If I say yes on any given topic then my in-laws are compelled on some level which is practically mystical in nature to respond in the negative sense -- almost without regard to how ludicrous it may make them look in light of the conversation at hand. They tend to be people of vast contradictions who are willing to say virtually anything which pops into their brains just so long as it is NOT whatever I say or think or do -- particularly my Mother-in-Law.
Don't get me wrong; my MIL is a kind-hearted soul. It's merely that on some level which only she can perceive, I seem to be a right git.
I've literally switched sides in an argument with my Mother-in-Law just to watch her spin her wheels ala Starsky and Hutch, whipping her red and white-striped Logic Vehicle in an abrupt, tires-squealing-until-they-smoke circle in order to maintain her stance opposite me, the old 180-degrees.
Once I actually did this repeatedly in the same conversation, watching and listening in perverse glee as she changed her stance again and again until she finally accused me of merely attempting to aggravate her by switching sides. When I asked why she noticed this and yet continued with her own conversational sleight-of-hand she sniffed, declared the conversation finished and left the room.
When my in-laws came to our home the first time and saw a lightly stocked bar my MIL sniffed (I realize that's the action I usually ascribe to her and I promise, I'd illustrate her differently if she did any differently) and said "Well, I see someone likes his alcohol!"
I casually replied "It's my bar but Kristin is the one who keeps stocking it," [a blatant lie]; and with surprising rapidity the conversation was finished, the matter not only somehow settled but swept neatly beneath some form of social carpet.
Guilt with my in-laws is like alcohol with Baptists: If you're drinking it's Sin; if they're drinking it's invisible.
The point is that I see exhibited in loads of parents the unfathomable preconceived notion that no one, no person out there, is good enough for their child.
It's no wonder that the human race is in this deplorable condition; everyone alive has married down since the dawn of Time!
The real winner, the coup-de-grace, the bit which finally made me realize there was no chance of ever A) getting in with these people or B) making them see reason, was when my wife pointed out how much everyone believes my son looks like me, while my MIL, bless her soul, still insists to this day that she cannot see it. According to her my son looks like everyone else including the pastor of her church, yet doesn't look like me in the very least. The idea that I actually had genetic input is unthinkable; my son is, without a doubt, the product of Immaculate Conception in its purest virginal form.
I once threw her for a serious loop when I insisted my son looked nothing like me; her face actually contorted in pain as she short-circuited and then exited the room without a word...
In the end it is to laugh; there's simply nothing else to do. I'm along for the ride and little else in this particular relationship, occasionally called out to lift heavy items or kill large insects.
As a Son it amuses me because I honestly doubt my parents ever felt this way, or if they did they never allowed me to see in the slightest. In fact, I'd dare to say that my parents experienced a bizarre range of emotions, a gamut so paradoxical as to be confusing; on one hand they were so indifferent to my nuptials that it was more of an inconvenience for them when I actually GOT married than if I'd merely stayed single because they were forced to dress up and travel to a nearby city. Meanwhile, on the other hand, the fact that I actually managed to get married at all was a relief in the "well, at least he might not die alone" sense.
At two different points in time my mother (step-mother, but more my mother than anyone else) both remarked that I was happier than she'd ever seen me AND later remarked that she didn't see what the big deal was.
I don't know if anyone else out there has been through this; probably someone, but I don't know them. You probably don't, either.
Finally, as a Parent it amuses me because quite hypocritically, when people look at my son and giggle about their similarly-aged daughter perhaps dating my wee Jack-the-Lad as they each grow up, I smile accomodatingly and secretly wonder whether said daughter will be good enough for him. After all, he's quite the specimen, at least in my admittedly-biased view.
And that, my friends, really and truly makes me point a self-deprecating finger and laugh uproariously, the deep, abiding and supper-shaking belly laugh, the sort which makes the tears stream and the nose run until one is a helplessly quivering mass of chuckling sobs heaving insensately on the floor.
So maybe, for me at least, there's hope as a future In-Law, eh? My future Daughter-in-Law may prove luckiest of all on some fateful day far off -- because I just might manage to meet the girl and not only see her wedded to an individual whom I love dearly and hope to see become a fine man, but I may have the wherewithall to look back on my own realization of the silliness of In-Law-style condescension and instead merely accept her into the family for who and what she is as a person.
If, that is, she... *sniff*... proves adequate.
http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/articletkt.aspx?cp-documentid=11618162>1=32023
It amuses me in all aspects, as a Son-in-Law, a son and a parent.
As a Son-in-Law it amuses me because I've seen and heard it endlessly since my marriage. If I say yes on any given topic then my in-laws are compelled on some level which is practically mystical in nature to respond in the negative sense -- almost without regard to how ludicrous it may make them look in light of the conversation at hand. They tend to be people of vast contradictions who are willing to say virtually anything which pops into their brains just so long as it is NOT whatever I say or think or do -- particularly my Mother-in-Law.
Don't get me wrong; my MIL is a kind-hearted soul. It's merely that on some level which only she can perceive, I seem to be a right git.
I've literally switched sides in an argument with my Mother-in-Law just to watch her spin her wheels ala Starsky and Hutch, whipping her red and white-striped Logic Vehicle in an abrupt, tires-squealing-until-they-smoke circle in order to maintain her stance opposite me, the old 180-degrees.
Once I actually did this repeatedly in the same conversation, watching and listening in perverse glee as she changed her stance again and again until she finally accused me of merely attempting to aggravate her by switching sides. When I asked why she noticed this and yet continued with her own conversational sleight-of-hand she sniffed, declared the conversation finished and left the room.
When my in-laws came to our home the first time and saw a lightly stocked bar my MIL sniffed (I realize that's the action I usually ascribe to her and I promise, I'd illustrate her differently if she did any differently) and said "Well, I see someone likes his alcohol!"
I casually replied "It's my bar but Kristin is the one who keeps stocking it," [a blatant lie]; and with surprising rapidity the conversation was finished, the matter not only somehow settled but swept neatly beneath some form of social carpet.
Guilt with my in-laws is like alcohol with Baptists: If you're drinking it's Sin; if they're drinking it's invisible.
The point is that I see exhibited in loads of parents the unfathomable preconceived notion that no one, no person out there, is good enough for their child.
It's no wonder that the human race is in this deplorable condition; everyone alive has married down since the dawn of Time!
The real winner, the coup-de-grace, the bit which finally made me realize there was no chance of ever A) getting in with these people or B) making them see reason, was when my wife pointed out how much everyone believes my son looks like me, while my MIL, bless her soul, still insists to this day that she cannot see it. According to her my son looks like everyone else including the pastor of her church, yet doesn't look like me in the very least. The idea that I actually had genetic input is unthinkable; my son is, without a doubt, the product of Immaculate Conception in its purest virginal form.
I once threw her for a serious loop when I insisted my son looked nothing like me; her face actually contorted in pain as she short-circuited and then exited the room without a word...
In the end it is to laugh; there's simply nothing else to do. I'm along for the ride and little else in this particular relationship, occasionally called out to lift heavy items or kill large insects.
As a Son it amuses me because I honestly doubt my parents ever felt this way, or if they did they never allowed me to see in the slightest. In fact, I'd dare to say that my parents experienced a bizarre range of emotions, a gamut so paradoxical as to be confusing; on one hand they were so indifferent to my nuptials that it was more of an inconvenience for them when I actually GOT married than if I'd merely stayed single because they were forced to dress up and travel to a nearby city. Meanwhile, on the other hand, the fact that I actually managed to get married at all was a relief in the "well, at least he might not die alone" sense.
At two different points in time my mother (step-mother, but more my mother than anyone else) both remarked that I was happier than she'd ever seen me AND later remarked that she didn't see what the big deal was.
I don't know if anyone else out there has been through this; probably someone, but I don't know them. You probably don't, either.
Finally, as a Parent it amuses me because quite hypocritically, when people look at my son and giggle about their similarly-aged daughter perhaps dating my wee Jack-the-Lad as they each grow up, I smile accomodatingly and secretly wonder whether said daughter will be good enough for him. After all, he's quite the specimen, at least in my admittedly-biased view.
And that, my friends, really and truly makes me point a self-deprecating finger and laugh uproariously, the deep, abiding and supper-shaking belly laugh, the sort which makes the tears stream and the nose run until one is a helplessly quivering mass of chuckling sobs heaving insensately on the floor.
So maybe, for me at least, there's hope as a future In-Law, eh? My future Daughter-in-Law may prove luckiest of all on some fateful day far off -- because I just might manage to meet the girl and not only see her wedded to an individual whom I love dearly and hope to see become a fine man, but I may have the wherewithall to look back on my own realization of the silliness of In-Law-style condescension and instead merely accept her into the family for who and what she is as a person.
If, that is, she... *sniff*... proves adequate.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
On the Nature of Closure and Cowardice...
There's an aspect of my nature I've been pondering lately, one of which I'm not terribly proud.
Everyone is afraid of something, no matter what else they may face in the course of their lives. When it comes to physical confrontation, even the idea of open battle, I doubt there's a single person who knows me that would refer to me as a coward. Large, dangerous animals, enemies in combat (military or otherwise), inexplicable things bordering on the supernatural -- one and all, it's just in my nature to stare right back with a gimlet eye, unflinching, mouth turned downward or even drawn back in a snarling grimace.
No fear.
Sure, spiders creep me out, especially the large ones; and I'm as leery of snakes as the next guy, especially when startled by something which suddenly moves in the grass at my feet; come on, who doesn't have something which unnerves them at least briefly, a thing which gives them chills even if they bravely force their way past or through any given situation?
But that's not where my question lies; it's not the part of my very being I look at and wonder about my nature as a Man.
Where I really tend to suck is in dealing with people; that's what scares big, strong Me.
Oh, I'm not afraid of any man for illogical reasons; I have no reason to be. It's... well, relationships where I tend to fall apart and be lacking.
I suspect a lot of this has to do with the way I was reared; still, logically, shouldn't I be able to get past my particular shortcomings once I'm able to recognize them? Or perhaps there's more to it than mere recognition. I don't know.
I was raised not to trust anyone overly much. It wasn't as though there were active classes in Distrust, merely that given the kind of family I came from a constant undercurrent of lack of faith became the norm. People not only said things, they said them lightly, they said them with a lack of consideration for the meanings and patterns of the very words they used. "Black" could very well mean black... or white. Virtually nothing could be taken at face value and yet sanity necessitated taking things at face value, because otherwise what rhyme or reason was there to the Universe at large? How could day-to-day interactions be managed at all if every day was, or possibly was NOT "Opposite Day"?
But that's how my life was as a child. Still, it's only the precursor to the problem. You see, with that sort of perpetual distrust comes a defense-mechanism of distancing oneself from others. Growing too trusting inevitably led to disappointment; growing too enamored led to the same sort of thing, only much more cutting.
By the time I left home for the military I was, technically, perfect for Military relationships, fleeting in nature, temporary. Today one person is in charge of you; next week it's someone else. People come and go with unnerving frequency and yet a kind of intensity which is difficult to describe. One, along with one's coworkers and comrades, works in an intense atmosphere, wherein intense work must be done.
That sort of intensity forges, perhaps through nature or perhaps through necessity, quick bonds which are powerful. One comes to either trust or not trust depending on critical performance and feedback; one comes to lean on comrades; and yet somewhere in the back of the mind lies a strange combination of close, intimate hug and arm's length distance...
...because tomorrow this person you actually love in the strange way of close camaraderie will be gone elsewhere, never to be seen again. You'll write for a while, call, but inevitably drift, lose that X-factor which made you so tightly bonded for a while you seemed inseparable.
Some people seem capable of moving past that, able to maintain deep and abiding friendships and a sense of comrade-in-arms across mind-boggling distances and measures of years.
I don't seem to be one of them, perhaps because despite a deep and abiding sense of loyalty I wasn't forged into this loving-yet-solitary creature by the military, but by my entire upbringing.
And I don't understand it, not in the least.
It has affected my relationships, both friendly and romantic, familial and professional throughout my years. I don't understand why people need to be in contact, or why if we are out of contact for extended periods we cannot simply pick up where we left off.
I just know someone is going to try to explain to me that this is not normal for Humans; trust me, I already know this is not normal for Humans. It's the whole point of wondering just what the hell is wrong with ME, trying to figure this thing out.
A few years ago I was dating a woman from Finland. We began as cyber-acquaintances, hit it off smashingly, became good friends (a few ups and downs, but good friends), eventually drifted into the romantic arena. I finally spent time with her in her home and it was wonderful. However, time and distance were factors despite that she was the (not "one of," but THE) kindest, sweetest woman I've ever known. In the early days she was adamant about never wanting children, yet as we grew closer she began to discuss it occasionally. I think somehow I sensed she would be doing it for me, not for herself, and it always bothered me subconsciously. She needed to pursue education, I was already out in the world doing things in distant lands.
I felt a sense of guilt for holding her, felt a sense of relief and wonder for having her.
None of it made sense. It all made perfect sense.
After I returned to the States it all began to bother me. I wondered what would be next, wondered what the future could possibly hold. I broke it off with her romantically but vowed to stick to the friendship. Then, out of nowhere, I had a couple of busy, busy weeks when I wasn't able to get to the computer or phone.
She wrote to me, accusing me of simply breaking all contact off; it wasn't true, but she was feeling hurt and anxious.
Rather than call or write back and reassure her, I took the coward's way and opted out. It made no sense for me to do this, made no sense in any manner; further, she absolutely did not deserve it in any fashion -- and yet in my weird, stupid mind it was the perfect time and circumstance by which to distance myself, retreating once more into the reptile portion of my brain; self-preservation.
That is the very worst of the examples, but I've lost other acquaintances and friendships over the years because of this. It's not a thing I understand, try as I might, this tendency to simply let go; but there it is, nonetheless.
Perhaps it's something I'll never fully comprehend or get over; I don't know.
Everyone is afraid of something, no matter what else they may face in the course of their lives. When it comes to physical confrontation, even the idea of open battle, I doubt there's a single person who knows me that would refer to me as a coward. Large, dangerous animals, enemies in combat (military or otherwise), inexplicable things bordering on the supernatural -- one and all, it's just in my nature to stare right back with a gimlet eye, unflinching, mouth turned downward or even drawn back in a snarling grimace.
No fear.
Sure, spiders creep me out, especially the large ones; and I'm as leery of snakes as the next guy, especially when startled by something which suddenly moves in the grass at my feet; come on, who doesn't have something which unnerves them at least briefly, a thing which gives them chills even if they bravely force their way past or through any given situation?
But that's not where my question lies; it's not the part of my very being I look at and wonder about my nature as a Man.
Where I really tend to suck is in dealing with people; that's what scares big, strong Me.
Oh, I'm not afraid of any man for illogical reasons; I have no reason to be. It's... well, relationships where I tend to fall apart and be lacking.
I suspect a lot of this has to do with the way I was reared; still, logically, shouldn't I be able to get past my particular shortcomings once I'm able to recognize them? Or perhaps there's more to it than mere recognition. I don't know.
I was raised not to trust anyone overly much. It wasn't as though there were active classes in Distrust, merely that given the kind of family I came from a constant undercurrent of lack of faith became the norm. People not only said things, they said them lightly, they said them with a lack of consideration for the meanings and patterns of the very words they used. "Black" could very well mean black... or white. Virtually nothing could be taken at face value and yet sanity necessitated taking things at face value, because otherwise what rhyme or reason was there to the Universe at large? How could day-to-day interactions be managed at all if every day was, or possibly was NOT "Opposite Day"?
But that's how my life was as a child. Still, it's only the precursor to the problem. You see, with that sort of perpetual distrust comes a defense-mechanism of distancing oneself from others. Growing too trusting inevitably led to disappointment; growing too enamored led to the same sort of thing, only much more cutting.
By the time I left home for the military I was, technically, perfect for Military relationships, fleeting in nature, temporary. Today one person is in charge of you; next week it's someone else. People come and go with unnerving frequency and yet a kind of intensity which is difficult to describe. One, along with one's coworkers and comrades, works in an intense atmosphere, wherein intense work must be done.
That sort of intensity forges, perhaps through nature or perhaps through necessity, quick bonds which are powerful. One comes to either trust or not trust depending on critical performance and feedback; one comes to lean on comrades; and yet somewhere in the back of the mind lies a strange combination of close, intimate hug and arm's length distance...
...because tomorrow this person you actually love in the strange way of close camaraderie will be gone elsewhere, never to be seen again. You'll write for a while, call, but inevitably drift, lose that X-factor which made you so tightly bonded for a while you seemed inseparable.
Some people seem capable of moving past that, able to maintain deep and abiding friendships and a sense of comrade-in-arms across mind-boggling distances and measures of years.
I don't seem to be one of them, perhaps because despite a deep and abiding sense of loyalty I wasn't forged into this loving-yet-solitary creature by the military, but by my entire upbringing.
And I don't understand it, not in the least.
It has affected my relationships, both friendly and romantic, familial and professional throughout my years. I don't understand why people need to be in contact, or why if we are out of contact for extended periods we cannot simply pick up where we left off.
I just know someone is going to try to explain to me that this is not normal for Humans; trust me, I already know this is not normal for Humans. It's the whole point of wondering just what the hell is wrong with ME, trying to figure this thing out.
A few years ago I was dating a woman from Finland. We began as cyber-acquaintances, hit it off smashingly, became good friends (a few ups and downs, but good friends), eventually drifted into the romantic arena. I finally spent time with her in her home and it was wonderful. However, time and distance were factors despite that she was the (not "one of," but THE) kindest, sweetest woman I've ever known. In the early days she was adamant about never wanting children, yet as we grew closer she began to discuss it occasionally. I think somehow I sensed she would be doing it for me, not for herself, and it always bothered me subconsciously. She needed to pursue education, I was already out in the world doing things in distant lands.
I felt a sense of guilt for holding her, felt a sense of relief and wonder for having her.
None of it made sense. It all made perfect sense.
After I returned to the States it all began to bother me. I wondered what would be next, wondered what the future could possibly hold. I broke it off with her romantically but vowed to stick to the friendship. Then, out of nowhere, I had a couple of busy, busy weeks when I wasn't able to get to the computer or phone.
She wrote to me, accusing me of simply breaking all contact off; it wasn't true, but she was feeling hurt and anxious.
Rather than call or write back and reassure her, I took the coward's way and opted out. It made no sense for me to do this, made no sense in any manner; further, she absolutely did not deserve it in any fashion -- and yet in my weird, stupid mind it was the perfect time and circumstance by which to distance myself, retreating once more into the reptile portion of my brain; self-preservation.
That is the very worst of the examples, but I've lost other acquaintances and friendships over the years because of this. It's not a thing I understand, try as I might, this tendency to simply let go; but there it is, nonetheless.
Perhaps it's something I'll never fully comprehend or get over; I don't know.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Those Who Don't Get It (the other "it")...
Geeks are a separate specie, self-isolating units generally incapable of real interface with Norms. I'm fortunate enough to be a Hybrid, part of both worlds, belonging wholly to neither.
This morning I overheard a bit of conversation between our top two IT guys, one the head of Programming, the other head of Legacy systems. As I stepped past them to grab a drink of water, the Legacy guy said to the Programming guy "I see it all the time; people are actually unwilling to do things like learn simple programming, or even install new hardware into their PC! It's so easy, it just goes to show you how little people are capable of comprehending!"
"Actually," I mused, sticking my nose into the conversation, "That's normal for people. It's not really that most of them can't or won't comprehend, it's that they are afraid of new stuff, mostly afraid that they will break expensive things which they don't know how to fix, so they don't even risk it."
"I know," Mr. Legacy replied, "But it's like they don't understand, they don't get it!"
"Don't get what?" I asked. "Give me an example."
"They refuse to stick new hardware into a simple PC! Stuff like that! It's not that hard if you know what you're doing..."
"But they don't know what they're doing; that's the whole point."
"But they should. How hard can it be in the days of Plug-n-Play?"
"Look," I tried to explain, drawing an analogy. "Delivering a calf with birthing complications really isn't all that difficult mentally, it only requires a few simple facts and some common sense, some knack for observation. Beyond that it's merely time-consuming, possibly messy."
"That's not the same thing," he said.
"People, especially people who know very little at all about a computer, are afraid they'll mess something up, something expensive, something they won't know how to fix, something they'll be embarrassed about -- that's why they don't do it."
"If they don't know how to do a simple Plug-n-Play they should be embarrassed!"
I tried once more: "Look, years ago I messed up my first computer for a while because I didn't know RAM had to be installed in pairs, and --"
"It doesn't!" he interrupted vehemently, actual dismay in his voice and body language.
"It doesn't anymore. Back when Pentium was a new thing, it still did. Anyway, I screwed up my BIOS when I tried booting with the new, single RAM chip installed, along with a whole bunch of other hardware I installed all at once. I didn't know what to do, and I was afraid I had completely ruined my PC because I didn't know any better. Two thousand dollars down the drain, you know?"
"You didn't ruin your BIOS; you really can't," he admonished.
"I know that now, but that's not the point. The point is I thought I had ruined it, and I had to get someone else to come fix it for me. I was afraid to install things without a watchful eye after that. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"The BIOS is actually a chip. You couldn't ruin that unless you scratched it or something. You didn't ruin your BIOS."
"I know that, I only messed it up. That's not the point."
"Yes, it is! You couldn't mess it up, you only erased some of the data configuration! How do you not get that?!?"
"This isn't about me and an incident from 1994, this is about why people fear their computers, fear the unknown..."
"The BIOS is a small chip located on the --"
"Why are you telling me about the BIOS? I don't CARE about the BIOS. The BIOS is not the point!"
"It's for future reference, in case you do this again! Now, the BIOS is --"
"Sweet Jesus, you are an absolute geek. Just stop!
"But... you won't be able to fix your BIOS now..."
Seriously, reproduction with some of these people would be interspecies breeding, I am utterly certain!
(Now, that's the "other it" and I understand fully why many of them don't get that...)
This morning I overheard a bit of conversation between our top two IT guys, one the head of Programming, the other head of Legacy systems. As I stepped past them to grab a drink of water, the Legacy guy said to the Programming guy "I see it all the time; people are actually unwilling to do things like learn simple programming, or even install new hardware into their PC! It's so easy, it just goes to show you how little people are capable of comprehending!"
"Actually," I mused, sticking my nose into the conversation, "That's normal for people. It's not really that most of them can't or won't comprehend, it's that they are afraid of new stuff, mostly afraid that they will break expensive things which they don't know how to fix, so they don't even risk it."
"I know," Mr. Legacy replied, "But it's like they don't understand, they don't get it!"
"Don't get what?" I asked. "Give me an example."
"They refuse to stick new hardware into a simple PC! Stuff like that! It's not that hard if you know what you're doing..."
"But they don't know what they're doing; that's the whole point."
"But they should. How hard can it be in the days of Plug-n-Play?"
"Look," I tried to explain, drawing an analogy. "Delivering a calf with birthing complications really isn't all that difficult mentally, it only requires a few simple facts and some common sense, some knack for observation. Beyond that it's merely time-consuming, possibly messy."
"That's not the same thing," he said.
"People, especially people who know very little at all about a computer, are afraid they'll mess something up, something expensive, something they won't know how to fix, something they'll be embarrassed about -- that's why they don't do it."
"If they don't know how to do a simple Plug-n-Play they should be embarrassed!"
I tried once more: "Look, years ago I messed up my first computer for a while because I didn't know RAM had to be installed in pairs, and --"
"It doesn't!" he interrupted vehemently, actual dismay in his voice and body language.
"It doesn't anymore. Back when Pentium was a new thing, it still did. Anyway, I screwed up my BIOS when I tried booting with the new, single RAM chip installed, along with a whole bunch of other hardware I installed all at once. I didn't know what to do, and I was afraid I had completely ruined my PC because I didn't know any better. Two thousand dollars down the drain, you know?"
"You didn't ruin your BIOS; you really can't," he admonished.
"I know that now, but that's not the point. The point is I thought I had ruined it, and I had to get someone else to come fix it for me. I was afraid to install things without a watchful eye after that. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"The BIOS is actually a chip. You couldn't ruin that unless you scratched it or something. You didn't ruin your BIOS."
"I know that, I only messed it up. That's not the point."
"Yes, it is! You couldn't mess it up, you only erased some of the data configuration! How do you not get that?!?"
"This isn't about me and an incident from 1994, this is about why people fear their computers, fear the unknown..."
"The BIOS is a small chip located on the --"
"Why are you telling me about the BIOS? I don't CARE about the BIOS. The BIOS is not the point!"
"It's for future reference, in case you do this again! Now, the BIOS is --"
"Sweet Jesus, you are an absolute geek. Just stop!
"But... you won't be able to fix your BIOS now..."
Seriously, reproduction with some of these people would be interspecies breeding, I am utterly certain!
(Now, that's the "other it" and I understand fully why many of them don't get that...)
And Then There Are Those OTHER Mornings...
There are a couple of seemingly-unrelated facts to consider here:
1. Luke is getting to be a BIG boy now, and that's important, because it means he's tall enough to stand up in his crib and -- get this -- REACH HIS LIGHT SWITCH.
2. Anytime the local crops are harvested lots of mice are unhoused. Don't think Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, think Willard. Okay, maybe not that bad but we get several mice in the house for about a month after harvest.
So...
This morning I was brushing my teeth again (apparently my schedule coincides with my wife's movement into my son's room) when I heard the following:
"Luke, stop it! Stop it!"
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Luke, QUIT IT! Stop!"
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Figuring I'd better help Mommy out of whatever her predicament was, I came around the corner just in time for Luke to wave gleefully at me from his still-pajama'd position in the crib and then reach up to demonstrate for me that as a Big Boy, he's perfectly capable of turning out his light no matter how many times Mommy turns it on. It's dandy fun, yeah? Yeah!!!
My wife, tactician that she is, was frantically searching for a mouse she'd seen run into the boy's closet, yet every time she reached over to turn on the light, she'd step away and the boy would giggle loudly and turn the light off once more.
Apparently this had already gone on for quite some time when I first opened the bathroom door and heard the commotion. I'd give most anything to have a score sheet of some sort...
"What's going on in here?" I asked.
"I saw a mouse," she told me. "It ran into Luke's closet."
"And what's the problem with the boy?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"I keep turning the light on so I can see and he keeps turning it back off!" she insisted frantically. At that instant Luke casually reached up and turned the light off in order to help corroborate her story, smiling happily at me as he did so.
"A-a-aa-and you can't win this?" I asked slowly. "An eighteen-month-old child has bested you?"
"I didn't want the mouse to get away," she said in irritation.
"You mean, like, while the light was off and you were over here in the dark trying to turn it back on?"
She looked at me. She looked volumes at me, and they weren't volumes with happy endings where everyone wins; it was more like graphic depictions of Poe and Lovecraft. The parts which make even fans wince a bit and grimace in distaste.
"Take the boy into the kitchen," I said, "I'll get the mouse if he's still here."
She left and I reached atop one of our cabinets and retrieved a pair of mouse traps to set. Maybe the mouse was still in the closet, maybe not. Me, I'm betting in all the commotion he made his way out with a parting Hey, thanks kid! Maybe I'll have a mouse when I get home, maybe not (and by that I mean in a trap, not as a guest).
Still, every day is kind of a new adventure.
1. Luke is getting to be a BIG boy now, and that's important, because it means he's tall enough to stand up in his crib and -- get this -- REACH HIS LIGHT SWITCH.
2. Anytime the local crops are harvested lots of mice are unhoused. Don't think Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, think Willard. Okay, maybe not that bad but we get several mice in the house for about a month after harvest.
So...
This morning I was brushing my teeth again (apparently my schedule coincides with my wife's movement into my son's room) when I heard the following:
"Luke, stop it! Stop it!"
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Luke, QUIT IT! Stop!"
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Figuring I'd better help Mommy out of whatever her predicament was, I came around the corner just in time for Luke to wave gleefully at me from his still-pajama'd position in the crib and then reach up to demonstrate for me that as a Big Boy, he's perfectly capable of turning out his light no matter how many times Mommy turns it on. It's dandy fun, yeah? Yeah!!!
My wife, tactician that she is, was frantically searching for a mouse she'd seen run into the boy's closet, yet every time she reached over to turn on the light, she'd step away and the boy would giggle loudly and turn the light off once more.
Apparently this had already gone on for quite some time when I first opened the bathroom door and heard the commotion. I'd give most anything to have a score sheet of some sort...
"What's going on in here?" I asked.
"I saw a mouse," she told me. "It ran into Luke's closet."
"And what's the problem with the boy?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"I keep turning the light on so I can see and he keeps turning it back off!" she insisted frantically. At that instant Luke casually reached up and turned the light off in order to help corroborate her story, smiling happily at me as he did so.
"A-a-aa-and you can't win this?" I asked slowly. "An eighteen-month-old child has bested you?"
"I didn't want the mouse to get away," she said in irritation.
"You mean, like, while the light was off and you were over here in the dark trying to turn it back on?"
She looked at me. She looked volumes at me, and they weren't volumes with happy endings where everyone wins; it was more like graphic depictions of Poe and Lovecraft. The parts which make even fans wince a bit and grimace in distaste.
"Take the boy into the kitchen," I said, "I'll get the mouse if he's still here."
She left and I reached atop one of our cabinets and retrieved a pair of mouse traps to set. Maybe the mouse was still in the closet, maybe not. Me, I'm betting in all the commotion he made his way out with a parting Hey, thanks kid! Maybe I'll have a mouse when I get home, maybe not (and by that I mean in a trap, not as a guest).
Still, every day is kind of a new adventure.
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