Dave Has Changed Venues . . . So Long and Thanks for All the Comments!
First off, I'd like to thank all the folks that visited this blog over the years-- eleven to be exact; that's over four thousand posts . . . and I couldn't have done it without the comments, so thanks Zman and Whit and Lecky and Rob and Marls and everyone else who contributed thoughts and criticism to my drivel . . . lately, writing the daily sentence has become a chore and I've wanted to expand my horizons as far as a website goes, so I'm starting a new blog called Park the Bus . . . I've got one post up, which connects back to my very first Sentence of Dave post-- both Ur-posts are dedicated to my wife . . . the new venue is powered by Wordpress.org software, which seems vast and incredibly customizable and quite complicated, so who the hell knows what the site will look like in the end, but I'm excited to screw around with all the stuff; I might occasionally still use this blog for notes and ideas (and because it's a great resource for remembering when things happened) but I'm really going to dedicate my energy to slowing down, parking the bus if you will, and writing some longer pieces . . . so if you've got some time to kill, check out my first post, and thanks for all the visits and support.
Dave Has Changed Venues . . . So Long and Thanks for All the Comments!
First off, I'd like to thank all the folks that visited this blog over the years-- eleven to be exact; that's over four thousand posts . . . and I couldn't have done it without the comments, so thanks Zman and Whit and Lecky and Rob and Marls and everyone else who contributed thoughts and criticism to my drivel . . . lately, writing the daily sentence has become a chore and I've wanted to expand my horizons as far as a website goes, so I'm starting a new blog called Park the Bus . . . I've got one post up, which connects back to my very first Sentence of Dave post-- both Ur-posts are dedicated to my wife . . . the new venue is powered by Wordpress.org software, which seems vast and incredibly customizable and quite complicated, so who the hell knows what the site will look like in the end, but I'm excited to screw around with all the stuff; I might occasionally still use this blog for notes and ideas (and because it's a great resource for remembering when things happened) but I'm really going to dedicate my energy to slowing down, parking the bus if you will, and writing some longer pieces . . . so if you've got some time to kill, check out my first post, and thanks for all the visits and support.
Here We Are . . . In the Congo
I've explained what kind of woman my wife is, and now it's only fair that I turn my laser-like logic and self-reflective acumen upon myself.
What kind of man am I? Who's there?
To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?"
What kind of man am I? Who's there?
To unravel this eternal question of character, I will rely on the classic Bud Dry commercial "Why is a good man hard to find?"
I'd like to thank my buddy Whitney over at Gheorghe:The Blog for recently reminding me how much I love this piece of our pop-culture past.
Before I get down to brass tacks, I would like to point out that this commercial is "classic" only in the modern sense of the word. Which isn't saying all that much. It contains one of my favorite bits of dialogue, ever . . . a piece of dialogue so good there should be a t-shirt for it (there isn't). Something far wittier than "WHERE'S THE BEEF?" A piece of dialogue that resonates deep within my (rather shallow) soul. But I'm certainly lowering the bar . . . because I'm stupid. Corrupted by modern times.
I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.
A page of Eliot's Middlemarch
There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.
And so she could produce sentences like this one:
I say this because I'm in the middle of a true classic right now, George Eliot's Middlemarch, and it's hard to compare a thirty second Bud Dry spot to a novel of this caliber. Middlemarch is incredibly well-written, and-- inconceivably--it was written by hand. You can see some of the manuscript here.
A page of Eliot's Middlemarch
There's some revision of course, a few cross-outs and some inserted lines, but I think when Mary Anne Evans-- the woman behind the pen name-- began writing a sentence, she knew exactly where it was going, in terms of thought, rhythm, structure, and syntax.
And so she could produce sentences like this one:
But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
Classic stuff. Most modern sentences just don't measure up. Part of the problem might be that many writers-- including myself-- compose with word processing software. And so instead of concentrating on thoughtful sentences and paragraphs, which translate into thoughtful thought-out thoughts, we often get consumed with "presentational elements."
This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"
Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?
Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?
Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?
It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.
There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum. Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.
Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.
I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.
I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.
There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:
Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).
Currently, there is no question that my wife is much better looking than me. The hair on my head has migrated to my back, ears, and shoulders. So any connection I once had with this guy is long dead. That Dave is gone.
Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.
This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.
I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . . in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.
I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).
This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.
I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.
At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.
I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:
That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . . maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?
"Are you going to finish that?
No?"
Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!
I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:
And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.
It's her version of the Congo.
This phenomenon is occurring right now, as I fiddle with the text in the link, experiment with different image layouts, and use a Wordpress feature called "Blockquote" to emphasize the Eliot sentence. I'm also occasionally Googling things like "how do you take a screenshot on a Mac" and " what is the effect of word processors on writing?"
Does anyone not succumb to these sort of temptations while they are writing?
Despite the distractions, I will try my best to return to original question: what kind of man am I?
Certainly a digressive one . . . but aren't all modern technologically embedded men more digressive than we once were? The internet itself shoulders some of the blame for this, but the problem also might be baked in to the nature of a typical male. Men and easy access to infinite information might be a poisonous combination. My wife doesn't get up from the dinner table to use our desktop computer to Google the population of Peru or what year the Oklahoma Land Rush occurred. But I do this kind of thing all the time (despite family rules prohibiting this behavior). And not just at the dinner table. This happens when I'm teaching class, talking to my friends, sitting on the toilet. I want a piece of information NOW. And it's usually nothing life changing. Perhaps male hunter-gatherers were always wandering off mid-meal to seek a different grub or tuber than the one being served?
It's incredibly hard to maintain a steady stream of thought when there's always the temptation to follow some other niggling idea, an idea that's probably dumber and more trivial than the one you're actually trying to think about. And the internet constantly affords this luxury, so when you have access, it's harder to write long, beautifully constructed sentences like those in Middlemarch.
There's some hard data on this, but you're going to have to wade through a long comment thread on this English Language & Usage Stack Exchange forum. Or I can save you the trouble: some smart people have come to the conclusion that as time has passed, sentences in literature have gotten shorter and shorter. I've read my fair share of literature and I can confirm that the sentences in Tristram Shandy are generally longer than the sentences in Freaky Deaky. And Hemingway? That guy could barely type a seven or eight word sentence before he had to take a break and grab a scotch and soda.
Anyway, I have been told that when you're writing for the internet, you should keep your sentences short and sweet. Though I ignored this advice for eleven years, I've come to acknowledge that it's true. It's tiring to read on a screen. Short sentences, plenty of paragraph breaks, and white space are an internet writer's best friend.
I really wish that my Kindle Paperwhite had a better browser, so I could read internet articles and posts on a non-glare screen . . . but apparently, no one else wants to do this. The populous demands to see their algorithmically chosen ads in vibrant, persuasive color. The internet would be a totally different experience if it were in matte black and white. Less intense, more about the words, less invasive.
I have lost the thread. Enough digression. Let's get back to using this classic Bud Dry commercial to decipher my riddle-inside-an-enigma personality.
There are five archetypal men presented by the commercial:
Guy # 1
A lot of women find my looks intimidating? Do you?
Once upon a time, I believed I was better looking than my wife. Whether or not this was true is a matter of opinion, but it's debatable. Look at the picture below, and you can be the judge. (Note: this photo is just before young Dave and Cat left on a "just hair-do it" themed bar crawl . . . this was NOT our normal hair).
Guy #2
My mother makes the best brisket . . .
Once in a while, I run across a dude who has a really tight relationship with his mother. While I find Woody Allen movies humorous, I don't want anything to do with this guy in real life. Creepy.
Guy #3
There I was, there I was, there I was . . . in the Congo.
This is the guy. This is the dialogue. Brilliant. Classic. Moving. Though I recognize that he comes off as a total douche, I still feel a strong connection with him. He's got an interesting story to tell. He demands your undivided attention. He's probably not going to consider what you have to say, but at least you're in for an interesting ride. He's self-centered, he makes weird gestures with his hands, and he's got his chair turned backward . . . but on the plus side, he's passionate and he's traveled the world.
I've taken my share of shit for being this guy. My wife and I taught in Syria for three years and I have a lot of stories that begin, "There I was . . . there I was . . . in Damascus." It's insufferable, but I love those memories. I think as I've gotten older, I've gotten more aware about how self-congratulatory those stories are, and I rarely dust them off . . . but when I do: watch out. That guy is me.
I first saw that commercial in the early '90's, long before I had traveled the world, and I felt an instant connection to that weird bit of dialogue. He presented me with my destiny . . . to become that vociferously annoying little man. Luckily, my wife accompanied me on all those adventures, so she never had to endure me telling those stories to her (but she does have to listen to me tell them to other people).
Guy #4
Just a minute . . . okay!
This guy is '90's Donald Trump. He's buying high, selling low, and using his dad's money to get rich (or go bankrupt). I've got none of this guy in me. Zero point zero. I can't stand spending money on clothes, I constantly pass up opportunities to make more money (so I can engage in hobbies like noodling on my guitar, writing this blog, and coaching soccer). But I think it's important to recognize that this is a type of guy, and while I don't really know or hang out with this guy, I've got to acknowledge that guys like this probably control the government and the economy and how the Giants will do next season, and I've passed up my chance to be one of them.
I'll never have a larger sphere of influence. I'll never be that guy.
Guy #5
You gonna finish that?
At least that's what I think this guy says-- his mouth is full and he's also got a thick New York accent. I appreciate this guy's turned up collar, rolled up sleeves, weight-lifter physique, and forward nature. Plus, he's doing a good deed: he's keeping his girlfriend slender by eating some of her food.
I've definitely got some of this guy in me, though I try to corral him. I've learned to let my wife and kids finish eating before I swoop in and grab the remains . . . but this guy is always lurking in the back of my brain. I may look composed on the outside, but my inner voice is running this monologue:
That's a big pile of fries . . . doesn't look like she can finish . . . and Ian looks full too . . . I think there's still a piece of bacon on that burger . . . patience . . . play it cool . . . patience . . . he's pushing his plate away . . . don't look at it . . . maintain eye contact with the wife . . . okay, you've counted to ten . . . time to pounce . . . you've got to beat Alex to it . . . maybe you shouldn't have gotten the side salad . . . can they see the saliva is pooling in your mouth?
"Are you going to finish that?
No?"
Yes! It's mine! All mine! My cunning and patience has paid off! Now if I keep it cool, I can parlay this into even more food . . . even more food!
I'm ten percent guy #1, eighty percent guy #2, and ten percent guy #3 . . . and I'm fine with that. In the end, though, the lesson is another sentence from Eliot's Middlemarch:
For a long time, I never understood why my wife wasn't more impressed with my snowboarding and soccer skills, why she didn't take more interest in my progress on the guitar. But then I realized, these are the things I admire about myself. She just wants me to help out around the house, do some of the cooking, and listen to her stories . . . which usually begin, "You're not going to believe what happened at work/the garden/the grocery store today!"“Confound you handsome young fellows! You think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't understand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves.”
And then she names seven people I've never met and places them in an interconnected web of insult and indignation.
It's her version of the Congo.
Analysis of The Ur Post (Dedicated to My Beloved Wife)
Eleven years ago, I started writing a blog called Sentence of Dave. The premise was simple: rain or shine, I would write one sentence per day. The sentence might be short and sweet or it might run on and on. And while I didn't initially recognize the pun in the title, I soon realized that I had committed myself to a weird sort of imprisonment of chronology and structure. I generally embraced and enjoyed my self-imposed sentence-writing experiment (and I was always inspired by my fans, commenters, and critics).
Recently, however, writing the sentence became onerous, another chore. And I felt limited and rushed. So I'm trying something new. I'm going to take it slow and write some longer posts. I'm going to revise, ruminate, and procrastinate. Move at my own pace. Stall. Use periods. Park the bus.
The first post I wrote over at Sentence of Dave was dedicated to my loving wife. Here it is, in its entirety:
For good luck, I am once again dedicating this first post at Park the Bus to my wife. She is a wonderful woman: beautiful, loyal, smart, funny, and adventurous. I am lucky to have her. Unfortunately, she is also reckless and irresponsible, something of a menace. I need this longer format to truly explain what I mean.
To all appearances, my wife seems to be a diligent and dedicated elementary school teacher and mother. She helps run the community garden. She's a great cook with a green thumb. She eats healthy, works out, dresses sharp, and donates her time to charitable causes. But she's also the kind of person who will leave you a car with an empty gas tank. Below the line. No fuel at all. Not because she doesn't care about you-- I think most people would agree that she's a caring person. She will leave you the car on empty because she drives it around on empty. She's too busy running important errands for our family and the gardening club and her students and the elderly to stop for gas. And if you switch cars with her, and nearly run out of gas on the way to work ( while you are sitting in traffic because of construction) and call her-- your tone a little perturbed-- and give her a piece of your mind, and later on, text her some information, some completely innocuous and objective information about the consequences of using an internal combustion engine with very little gas in the tank, information about burnt out fuel pumps and kicking up sediment, then, oddly, you're the one who's going to be in trouble.
I'm a high school English teacher and my students-- despite the fact that they don't always read the assigned texts-- are often wise beyond their years in the ways of relationships. They vehemently advised me against sending those texts about sediment and fuel pumps to my wife. They told me it wasn't worth it. I explained to them that our Honda CRV was the second most expensive item our family-owned (a distant second behind our house) and it was my responsibility to inform my wife about these sorts of things. Because she was reckless. Not that she was alone in this manner of recklessness . . . I did an informal poll and though my evidence is anecdotal, I'm fairly sure that the world is equally divided into two kinds of people: sane folks who gas up when their tank gets down to 1/4 full and lunatics who drive around on fumes until their anxiety finally gets the better of them . . . or they actually run out of gas.
I could go on and on. My wife fills her coffee up far beyond what is normal or necessary. She walks around the kitchen with a meniscus of steaming hot liquid sloshing above the rim of the mug. Drinking coffee is supposed to be relaxing, a morning treat. A warm and tasty pick-me-up. Not an invitation for second-degree burns.
She does something similar (but less dangerous) with the dog's water bowl: she fills it up until the water is hovering above the brim and then cavalierly carries it across the room. She fills up the recycling bin in our kitchen so far above the rim that it's impossible to pull out the garbage/recycling drawer. For many years, she put large knives in the sink amongst all the dirty dishes (because she likes a clean counter). I actually broke her of this habit (but it took some bloodshed). Why does she do these things? Because she's got an incorrigibly reckless soul.
A quick mathematical aside: the relationship between a person's sanity and the amount of coffee they pour into their cup is the same as the relationship between a person's insanity and the amount of gas they have in their tank. I know formulas can be off-putting, but I think these equations are fairly simple and common-sensical.
Running on fumes? Mathematically, you are 1% sane. Coffee cup filled to the absolute maximum? You are 100% insane.
The camera on the roof of the car; the empty gas tank; the overly full coffee cup, the overly full dog bowl, and the overly full recycling bin: these should all be entered as background evidence. What I really want to discuss is something that happened a few days ago. I was about to start teaching class, when my phone buzzed. There was a text from my wife and an accompanying photo. The text explained that our dog Lola had chewed up a bunch of papers that she had in her school bag. Student papers. Graded student papers. Essentially, the teacher's dog had eaten the students' homework. Damn close to Alfred Harmsmith's dream headline: "man bites dog."
I informed my class of the bad news . . . which was especially bad for me because I am in charge of training our new dog and if she behaves badly then the responsibility is mine. This is not particularly fair-- I'm no dog whisperer-- but my wife does take on a lot of responsibility in the house, so I can't complain. If Lola screws up, I'm to bear the brunt of it. And my wife is still partial to our old dog, Sirius, who shuffled off this mortal coil last March. So there was no winning this one. Lola had screwed the pooch, and I was to take the heat for it.
The first text message my wife sent me about the paper-eating incident was light: she recognized and enjoyed the whole "our dog ate the students' homework!" aspect of the scene. But then she instructed me that if I left the house when everyone was still sleeping, as I did on Wednesday, then I should bring the dog back upstairs and close the gate so she couldn't roam the house and chew on things. She made it clear who was culpable for the chewing. Me.
The final reckless thing I'd like to discuss about my wonderful and loving wife is that she does not zip her bags. She does not zip her purse. She does not zip her school bag. She doesn't zip her laptop case. She doesn't believe in zipping. She likes the convenience of easy entry. (Insert filthy joke here).
I'm constantly zipping my wife's purse shut. Sometimes because it's hanging by a thread on a hook with seven other jackets. Or it's teetering over the center console in the car. She should have zipped her school bag shut. We have a young Rhodesian/lab rescue in the house, and she likes to chew things. When I noticed the unzipped bag in the photo, I asked my class if I should bring this to my wife's attention. This wasn't my fault! This could have been prevented! If she had taken precautions, if she had zipped her bag shut, if she had utilized Whitcomb L. Judson's marvelously pragmatic invention, then the dog wouldn't have chewed up her papers. I presented this argument. My students' answer was still a resounding "NO!" I should NOT text her about the unzipped bag.
I explained to them about the purse and the gas tank and the recycling bin and the coffee. They didn't care. It's not worth it, they informed me. Even my sophomores understood this. They were so adamant that I sort of followed their advice.
I am proud that I did not text my wife about the unzipped bag. I patiently waited to bring it up until later in the afternoon. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and once we had imbibed a bit, I pounced, the same way our dog Lola pounces on her rubber bone when you toss it across the room. It was a much better method than texting. My students were right. You can't text about something as delicate as this (I learned that during the whole gas tank incident). But I wasn't going to completely ignore the situation. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but my voice had to be heard. It's the same reason I sat down and wrote this long-winded post. It feels good to take notes, organize your thoughts, and get it all out. People need to know. My wife needed to know. And I will give her credit: she took it like a champ. She may have called me a few choice names, but then she was over it. We went out to the bar, saw our friends, and I had a story to tell.
I'd like to thank my wife Catherine for the inspiration and the material . . . your irrational behavior makes me love you all the more.
Recently, however, writing the sentence became onerous, another chore. And I felt limited and rushed. So I'm trying something new. I'm going to take it slow and write some longer posts. I'm going to revise, ruminate, and procrastinate. Move at my own pace. Stall. Use periods. Park the bus.
The first post I wrote over at Sentence of Dave was dedicated to my loving wife. Here it is, in its entirety:
I am shopping for a new digital camera because my wife has a habit of leaving things on the roof of our car.
For good luck, I am once again dedicating this first post at Park the Bus to my wife. She is a wonderful woman: beautiful, loyal, smart, funny, and adventurous. I am lucky to have her. Unfortunately, she is also reckless and irresponsible, something of a menace. I need this longer format to truly explain what I mean.
To all appearances, my wife seems to be a diligent and dedicated elementary school teacher and mother. She helps run the community garden. She's a great cook with a green thumb. She eats healthy, works out, dresses sharp, and donates her time to charitable causes. But she's also the kind of person who will leave you a car with an empty gas tank. Below the line. No fuel at all. Not because she doesn't care about you-- I think most people would agree that she's a caring person. She will leave you the car on empty because she drives it around on empty. She's too busy running important errands for our family and the gardening club and her students and the elderly to stop for gas. And if you switch cars with her, and nearly run out of gas on the way to work ( while you are sitting in traffic because of construction) and call her-- your tone a little perturbed-- and give her a piece of your mind, and later on, text her some information, some completely innocuous and objective information about the consequences of using an internal combustion engine with very little gas in the tank, information about burnt out fuel pumps and kicking up sediment, then, oddly, you're the one who's going to be in trouble.
I'm a high school English teacher and my students-- despite the fact that they don't always read the assigned texts-- are often wise beyond their years in the ways of relationships. They vehemently advised me against sending those texts about sediment and fuel pumps to my wife. They told me it wasn't worth it. I explained to them that our Honda CRV was the second most expensive item our family-owned (a distant second behind our house) and it was my responsibility to inform my wife about these sorts of things. Because she was reckless. Not that she was alone in this manner of recklessness . . . I did an informal poll and though my evidence is anecdotal, I'm fairly sure that the world is equally divided into two kinds of people: sane folks who gas up when their tank gets down to 1/4 full and lunatics who drive around on fumes until their anxiety finally gets the better of them . . . or they actually run out of gas.
I could go on and on. My wife fills her coffee up far beyond what is normal or necessary. She walks around the kitchen with a meniscus of steaming hot liquid sloshing above the rim of the mug. Drinking coffee is supposed to be relaxing, a morning treat. A warm and tasty pick-me-up. Not an invitation for second-degree burns.
She does something similar (but less dangerous) with the dog's water bowl: she fills it up until the water is hovering above the brim and then cavalierly carries it across the room. She fills up the recycling bin in our kitchen so far above the rim that it's impossible to pull out the garbage/recycling drawer. For many years, she put large knives in the sink amongst all the dirty dishes (because she likes a clean counter). I actually broke her of this habit (but it took some bloodshed). Why does she do these things? Because she's got an incorrigibly reckless soul.
A quick mathematical aside: the relationship between a person's sanity and the amount of coffee they pour into their cup is the same as the relationship between a person's insanity and the amount of gas they have in their tank. I know formulas can be off-putting, but I think these equations are fairly simple and common-sensical.
the percentage you are sane = amount of gas in tank/full tank of gas
the percentage you are insane = amount coffee in cup/full cup of coffee
Running on fumes? Mathematically, you are 1% sane. Coffee cup filled to the absolute maximum? You are 100% insane.
The camera on the roof of the car; the empty gas tank; the overly full coffee cup, the overly full dog bowl, and the overly full recycling bin: these should all be entered as background evidence. What I really want to discuss is something that happened a few days ago. I was about to start teaching class, when my phone buzzed. There was a text from my wife and an accompanying photo. The text explained that our dog Lola had chewed up a bunch of papers that she had in her school bag. Student papers. Graded student papers. Essentially, the teacher's dog had eaten the students' homework. Damn close to Alfred Harmsmith's dream headline: "man bites dog."
I informed my class of the bad news . . . which was especially bad for me because I am in charge of training our new dog and if she behaves badly then the responsibility is mine. This is not particularly fair-- I'm no dog whisperer-- but my wife does take on a lot of responsibility in the house, so I can't complain. If Lola screws up, I'm to bear the brunt of it. And my wife is still partial to our old dog, Sirius, who shuffled off this mortal coil last March. So there was no winning this one. Lola had screwed the pooch, and I was to take the heat for it.
The first text message my wife sent me about the paper-eating incident was light: she recognized and enjoyed the whole "our dog ate the students' homework!" aspect of the scene. But then she instructed me that if I left the house when everyone was still sleeping, as I did on Wednesday, then I should bring the dog back upstairs and close the gate so she couldn't roam the house and chew on things. She made it clear who was culpable for the chewing. Me.
The final reckless thing I'd like to discuss about my wonderful and loving wife is that she does not zip her bags. She does not zip her purse. She does not zip her school bag. She doesn't zip her laptop case. She doesn't believe in zipping. She likes the convenience of easy entry. (Insert filthy joke here).
I'm constantly zipping my wife's purse shut. Sometimes because it's hanging by a thread on a hook with seven other jackets. Or it's teetering over the center console in the car. She should have zipped her school bag shut. We have a young Rhodesian/lab rescue in the house, and she likes to chew things. When I noticed the unzipped bag in the photo, I asked my class if I should bring this to my wife's attention. This wasn't my fault! This could have been prevented! If she had taken precautions, if she had zipped her bag shut, if she had utilized Whitcomb L. Judson's marvelously pragmatic invention, then the dog wouldn't have chewed up her papers. I presented this argument. My students' answer was still a resounding "NO!" I should NOT text her about the unzipped bag.
I explained to them about the purse and the gas tank and the recycling bin and the coffee. They didn't care. It's not worth it, they informed me. Even my sophomores understood this. They were so adamant that I sort of followed their advice.
I am proud that I did not text my wife about the unzipped bag. I patiently waited to bring it up until later in the afternoon. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and once we had imbibed a bit, I pounced, the same way our dog Lola pounces on her rubber bone when you toss it across the room. It was a much better method than texting. My students were right. You can't text about something as delicate as this (I learned that during the whole gas tank incident). But I wasn't going to completely ignore the situation. I knew it wouldn't change anything, but my voice had to be heard. It's the same reason I sat down and wrote this long-winded post. It feels good to take notes, organize your thoughts, and get it all out. People need to know. My wife needed to know. And I will give her credit: she took it like a champ. She may have called me a few choice names, but then she was over it. We went out to the bar, saw our friends, and I had a story to tell.
I'd like to thank my wife Catherine for the inspiration and the material . . . your irrational behavior makes me love you all the more.
Snow: Good For Shit
If you step in dog poop in the yard (while looking for dog poop in the yard) then old slushy snow piles are a great way to clean your shoes (preferably your neighbor's old slushy snow pile).
Snow: Good For Shit
If you step in dog poop in the yard (while looking for dog poop in the yard) then old slushy snow piles are a great way to clean your shoes (preferably your neighbor's old slushy snow pile).
Pomegranate Justice
This morning, my son Alex skillfully and patiently extracted all the seeds from a pomegranate and put them in a bowl to eat; he then offered me some and as I took the bowl from him I wondered just what sort of crime it would be if I ate the entire bowl . . . I would obviously owe him more than just the price of the pomegranate (and I would never have the patience to extract all the seeds at once the way he did so-- to me-- the bowl of pomegranate seeds with no white gunk was essentially priceless).
Pomegranate Justice
This morning, my son Alex skillfully and patiently extracted all the seeds from a pomegranate and put them in a bowl to eat; he then offered me some and as I took the bowl from him I wondered just what sort of crime it would be if I ate the entire bowl . . . I would obviously owe him more than just the price of the pomegranate (and I would never have the patience to extract all the seeds at once the way he did so-- to me-- the bowl of pomegranate seeds with no white gunk was essentially priceless).
What's in the Box?
I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.
What's in the Box?
I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.
Slick Roads and Broccoli
I'm about to head to happy hour, so I don't have the time to capture the absolute madness of yesterday's snowstorm in New Jersey but the accidents, commute-times, and the road conditions were absolutely epic . . . I got home before the worst of it, but I couldn't get my van back up the hill on the south-side of Highland Park to pick up my kids from school (apparently this was a common problem on hills all over the state) and my wife didn't get home from her school until nearly 7 PM-- she volunteered to stay with the stranded students . . . buses and cars just couldn't make their way to the school-- and this was really stressful for me and the boys, because Catherine had planned on making beef and broccoli stir-fry and we were trying to prep everything so she could finish cooking when she got home but we were out of soy sauce and she kept getting delayed more and more and when we called her about the soy sauce and suggested perhaps she could stop on her way home and pick some up, she didn't take kindly to that suggestion . . . but she finally made it home, improvised with the prepped ingredients and whipped up a delicious dish (though the meat was a little chewy . . . I pounded it some with one of those tenderizing hammers but I guess Catherine packs more of pounding punch than me).
Slick Roads and Broccoli
I'm about to head to happy hour, so I don't have the time to capture the absolute madness of yesterday's snowstorm in New Jersey but the accidents, commute-times, and the road conditions were absolutely epic . . . I got home before the worst of it, but I couldn't get my van back up the hill on the south-side of Highland Park to pick up my kids from school (apparently this was a common problem on hills all over the state) and my wife didn't get home from her school until nearly 7 PM-- she volunteered to stay with the stranded students . . . buses and cars just couldn't make their way to the school-- and this was really stressful for me and the boys, because Catherine had planned on making beef and broccoli stir-fry and we were trying to prep everything so she could finish cooking when she got home but we were out of soy sauce and she kept getting delayed more and more and when we called her about the soy sauce and suggested perhaps she could stop on her way home and pick some up, she didn't take kindly to that suggestion . . . but she finally made it home, improvised with the prepped ingredients and whipped up a delicious dish (though the meat was a little chewy . . . I pounded it some with one of those tenderizing hammers but I guess Catherine packs more of pounding punch than me).
Snow!
I tried dropping some hints with the secretaries in the main office but there were obviously no administrators in earshot-- and I also tried to foment rumors amongst the students and teachers in the hopes of a bottom-up emergent decision-- but despite my efforts, we didn't get an early dismissal . . . and it's still snowing buckets outside so maybe we'll have a delay tomorrow (and I'm not sure if "snowing buckets" is an expression but I'm not going to google it, you know what I mean).
Snow!
I tried dropping some hints with the secretaries in the main office but there were obviously no administrators in earshot-- and I also tried to foment rumors amongst the students and teachers in the hopes of a bottom-up emergent decision-- but despite my efforts, we didn't get an early dismissal . . . and it's still snowing buckets outside so maybe we'll have a delay tomorrow (and I'm not sure if "snowing buckets" is an expression but I'm not going to google it, you know what I mean).
When Do I Get to Buy a Dune-Buggy?
This has been the year of spending money on expensive, sober-minded stuff: a sick dog, braces and a palate expander, a washer/dryer, and now a dishwasher (although we did buy a ping-pong table somewhere amidst the pragmatic purchases).
When Do I Get to Buy a Dune-Buggy?
This has been the year of spending money on expensive, sober-minded stuff: a sick dog, braces and a palate expander, a washer/dryer, and now a dishwasher (although we did buy a ping-pong table somewhere amidst the pragmatic purchases).
Fantasy Football Explained (Using Status and Contract)
I love arming my students with the terms "status" and "contract" and then encouraging them apply these terms to whatever we are reading; there are status/contract motifs in The Merchant of Venice, Death of a Salesman, and The Great Gatsby and I also think the terms apply to the weird relationship between playing fantasy football and having a rooting interest in a professional football team; so allow me to take a page from one of lesson plans and explain: when you root for a particular team, because of where you were born or familial influence or whatever, then you possess the status of being a a fan of this team . . . you really can't change this-- perhaps you could be an ex-Giants fan, just as you can be an ex-wife-- but that status remains forever part of your past; on the other hand, fantasy football is all about temporary contracts that you make with your "team" and its montage of constituent players (and these players don't even have the knowledge that you've made a contract with them . . . nor do they know they are playing for your team) and these theoretical contracts are negotiated and broken from week to week and season to season, with little emotion to bind you to your team and your players; this is in no way similar to how you are bound to your status as a particular fan . . . the brilliance of fantasy football from a marketing standpoint is that it enlarges the purview of the once-casual fan well beyond their limited rooting status, and makes them more of a broker of contracts, a more focused consumer of football, without the emotional ups and downs of the old-time subjective supporter . . . a contract conveys professionalism, a contract is monetized and contains all due diligence, a contract assures rule of law and logic, and this is what fantasy football promises and delivers, you no longer have to suffer the caprices of your fate, you can strategize, formalize, capitalize and fetishize, while the fan is a dilettante, a simpleton, a rube, an amateur, limited who tunes in for the love of the game and the love of his or her team (and also often tunes out for the same reasons).
Fantasy Football Explained (Using Status and Contract)
I love arming my students with the terms "status" and "contract" and then encouraging them apply these terms to whatever we are reading; there are status/contract motifs in The Merchant of Venice, Death of a Salesman, and The Great Gatsby and I also think the terms apply to the weird relationship between playing fantasy football and having a rooting interest in a professional football team; so allow me to take a page from one of lesson plans and explain: when you root for a particular team, because of where you were born or familial influence or whatever, then you possess the status of being a a fan of this team . . . you really can't change this-- perhaps you could be an ex-Giants fan, just as you can be an ex-wife-- but that status remains forever part of your past; on the other hand, fantasy football is all about temporary contracts that you make with your "team" and its montage of constituent players (and these players don't even have the knowledge that you've made a contract with them . . . nor do they know they are playing for your team) and these theoretical contracts are negotiated and broken from week to week and season to season, with little emotion to bind you to your team and your players; this is in no way similar to how you are bound to your status as a particular fan . . . the brilliance of fantasy football from a marketing standpoint is that it enlarges the purview of the once-casual fan well beyond their limited rooting status, and makes them more of a broker of contracts, a more focused consumer of football, without the emotional ups and downs of the old-time subjective supporter . . . a contract conveys professionalism, a contract is monetized and contains all due diligence, a contract assures rule of law and logic, and this is what fantasy football promises and delivers, you no longer have to suffer the caprices of your fate, you can strategize, formalize, capitalize and fetishize, while the fan is a dilettante, a simpleton, a rube, an amateur, limited who tunes in for the love of the game and the love of his or her team (and also often tunes out for the same reasons).
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