Point Taken
Lately, and with more frequency, I have been finding myself in the middle of arguments when I suddenly realize that the person I am arguing with has a point. A warning bell goes off that I may just not be right.
When this first started happening I resisted. I’d cling to some rapidly diminishing point, my tone getting more agitated and my argument getting, even to my ears, more irrational and outlandish. Inevitably, I’d storm out of the room, only to come crawling back a few hours later to admit, with lots of qualifications, that their argument might possess some merit.
Now, I’m making the transition much more quickly. I can go from stating my point, hearing the rebuttal, and acknowledging the merits of their case, while sidestepping the yelling and the angry exit altogether.
I have positions I feel are harder to dislodge, but these are things I’ve thought about for years, conclusions based on my core liberal ideology and logical reasoning. But so many other things I say aren’t subject to much thought or scrutiny. These are the things that people most often take issue with, and while it’s easier and still, I admit, my first inclination to get belligerent and trounce off, I’m working on it. While it might seem like a contradiction in terms, I am learning to stand my ground and stay flexible.
Thoughts On My Colonoscopy
1. BAD IDEA: My attempt to run to the grocery store after taking the prescribed laxative drink. The hankering for Italian ice and ginger ale turned out to be not nearly so critical as proximity to a toilet.
2. SIMPLE TRUTH: On the information sheet the gastroenterologist provided, he wrote that “loose stools” would occur as a result of taking the aforementioned laxative drink. This is what we in the writing biz call an understatement. The truth is, you will feel as if you are peeing out your butt. There is no point in being coy about this. The day already holds enough unpleasant surprises.
3. THE BEST PART OF THE ENTIRE EXPERIENCE: Without a doubt, the anesthesia!! The operating room nurse compared it to “two glasses of wine at a cocktail party.” Well, maybe- if those two glasses of wine accompanied a handful of Xanax. It’s hours later and I’m wobbling around like a Bowery bum. And trust me, I’m not complaining.
I feel I have learned a lot over the past two days about myself and my limitations. For instance, I hate Jello, but I really like Tootsie Pops. The term “full of crap” has taken on a new relevance. And best of all, my colon has been carefully inspected and designated good to go until 2018.
Our Sectional: The Sunset Years
I just want to get take a sentimental moment to say goodbye to our old sectional couch. I guess it’s not technically goodbye, because we are just relocating it to the basement. I’ll tell you this; a more normal family would be tossing it out.
Yes, it is a total, appalling wreck. Even new, it was not attractive. But we loved it because it could easily accommodate eight people and was made of a something synthetic that didn’t feel too slick or too scratchy. Try as we might, none of us could create a stain that was unable to settle undetectably into its mottled brown-gray-beige motif.
As time went on- five years, to be exact- we imprinted ourselves into that couch, like a foot hundreds of miles into a favorite running shoe. Our cats clawed away the corners. Nelly slept on it, as the lingering scent of wet dog attests. Mice families sought shelter in its underbelly. Every one of my kids has fought to occupy the chaise lounge part of it, which had a two-cheeked hollow in the middle which cradles the butt to perfection.
It’s not goodbye, then; it’s a send-off down a flight of stairs to a well-earned retirement. Old sectional, your sage microfiber replacement has an impossibly tough-yet comfy-act to follow.
Snap!
I was in the check-out aisle at the grocery store yesterday, and I caught a glimpse of this month’s issue of Allure magazine. Mariah Carey was on the cover, and while I don’t know much about her, from the little I do know she strikes me as someone who might possibly be completely out of her mind.
Anyway, the cover featured a quote from Ms. Carey: “Everyone has a story. I have a mini-series.”
This is a pretty weird thing to say, and I’m not even sure I understand it. Does she consider her mini-series a step up from the simple story that rest of us have? Because in my mind, the term mini-series is synonymous with painfully melodramatic performances by washed-up has-beens.
I just now realized that this quote is exactly perfect.
Wimbledon
I just finished watching the Wimbledon men’s finals, and my God, am I exhausted! I know that sounds odd, since I’ve just spent the past four hours parked on my butt, but here’s the deal: as I was watching, I kept putting myself in their position. For some reason, I could not stop imagining myself as the player receiving serve. For example, if Nadal was serving, I was Federer, and vice-versa. The big problem was I didn’t possess their remarkable tennis skills. What I had were my own personal tennis skills, which are quite modest. I kept imagining me in their shoes, flailing at balls and missing them entirely or lobbing them softly back only to have them slammed down my throat. I imagined John McEnroe in the booth saying things like, “I’ve never seen anything like it…what’s happening to Roger? He’s falling apart!” or “Rafael is simply imploding. He can’t take the pressure- he’s playing like a friggin’ old lady.”
The only way I was able to force myself to watch until the end was to devise an exit strategy. If I in fact found myself occupying the body of either Federer or Nadal on Center Court, I would immediately clutch at my chest and go down in a heap. Then I would pretend to be unconsciousness. There would be a spectacularly dramatic default, which would gain me the sympathy of legions of tennis fans. Knowing I could get out of playing Wimbledon definitely calmed me down.
Nadal served victoriously for the match, so I was still imagining myself as Federer. Frankly, I was happy it was over because I was getting pretty tired. I have to say, though, I’m not impressed with that cheap silver tray they gave me as a consolation prize. I’m also thinking of dumping my girlfriend. I know I’m only the runner-up, but still, I’m pretty sure I can do better.
Car Talk
My girls run on local streets and are frequently beset by that bewildering breed of Neanderthal who guns his engine, then peels past them. This maneuver is often accompanied by a frenzy of horn blasting.
What could possibly make these guys think that women might find this appealing? They might also want to consider that runners in particular are going to be less than thrilled by the close and unexpected rev of an engine and/or earsplitting blare of a car horn. Add to all that the wave of noxious exhaust fumes that they can’t avoid inhaling, and trust me, the net impression is anything but positive.
My theory is that these jerks somehow imagine their cars are shouting, “Look at me!” but they are leaving off the full and accurate translation, which is: “Look at me! I’m an enormous asshole.”
Associative Properties
This week, Turkey Hill ice cream was on sale, so I bought two cartons.
While this might sound like no big deal, I had to struggle against my instinctive aversion to what I feel is a horribly unfortunate brand name. It boggles the mind that they could not come up with more appropriate- not to mention more appetizing- appellation.
Am I the only one who feels this way? It’s not merely that turkeys and ice cream are unrelated entities; each possesses attributes that you seriously do not want to associate with the other. Turkeys are loose wattles, sharp claws and pecking beaks, not to mention bones and feathers and little beady eyes. These are not images you want occupying your brain while contemplating ice cream. I had this crazy thought that the dairy industry might be pulling some tit-for-tat with the Butterball folks, but after some research I know that Turkey Hill is a real place, more real than, say, Nature Valley or Seven Seas. This explains the name, but doesn’t alter the distasteful association between a creamy, sweet dessert and a feathered fowl that is typically sold shrink-wrapped with its giblets shoved into its body cavity.
I realize Turkey Hill is a well established brand, and my opinion is a day late and millions of dollars short. But if someone living on, say, Chicken Mountain, is thinking about taking Mama’s pudding recipe national, he or she might want to consider the product and the people who will be buying it, instead of the source.
Basic Instinct II
Just now, I was listening to a psychologist on NPR. The subject was self-destructive habitual behavior, and she was saying that human beings crave established patterns, even if repetition is not serving them well. Something that once worked but has now ceased to be effective is revisited out of the intense comfort we take in the familiar.
It occurs to me that by coupling this basic and irrational human instinct with insatiable corporate greed, you arrive at the guiding principle behind movie sequels.
Problem Solved
When Micah turned fourteen, I started doing everything wrong. I don’t know why, because prior to that, I had been pretty normal. Suddenly I started wearing stupid clothes. My voice got really loud and squeaky and I couldn’t say anything that wasn’t embarrassing or that I hadn’t told him, like, a million times already. I chewed loudly and I made weird gulping noises when I drank. My hair became heinously puffy and I developed breath so foul that I was not allowed to kiss him, even on the cheek. I’ve struggled to turn it around, but it seems there is no stopping my descent into the vortex of revulsion.
Last night I was watching some stupid reality television show about a mother who was hooked on prescription pain meds. Her family had moved her out to the garage, where she was now free to gulp down pills by the handful, chain-smoke, rant nonsensically, and then pass out without bothering anyone. She had an eleven-year-old son and every time the camera was on him his face would bunch up and his chest would start heaving. “Please, Mom, please, I miss you. Don’t choose the pills over me, Mom. I don’t want to lose you,” he’d snuffle, tears streaming down his face.
Oh, my God! I was so freaking jealous! It occurred to me that Addict Mom was playing the maternal equivalent of hard to get. While I was obsessing over my countless repulsive shortcomings, Addict Mom didn’t give a crap, because she was comatose. When her kid needed her, Addict Mom wasn’t very effective because she had nodded off in a puddle of drool on her lawn chair in the garage, but when Micah needed me, or more accurately, when I thought there was a remote possibility that he might tolerate my presence, I was all over him like a frantic lapdog. I saw the brilliance of Addict Mom’s strategy, though it had to be difficult to savor the magic of the mother/son relationship while unconscious. I thought about faking a drug-induced stupor but I worried that Micah would waste no time scheduling a quickie intervention, after which I would be carted off to Texas for a six month stint in rehab.
Anyway, it turns out that the show wasn’t so stupid after all, because it contained some useful information. I actually devised a plan that even Micah is enthusiastic about. In fact, he told me it’s the first good idea I’ve had in over a year.
I’m moving into the garage!