by Richard Timothy | Jan 28, 2011 | Adolescent Shenanigans, I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
I saw a bag of marbles at the grocery store yesterday and it got me thinking about my life, filling me with amazement that I’m still here after all these years. Not that I ever tried to ends things early… well not intentionally, but I think that’s the thing about the adolescent and teenage years, we all sort of try without really thinking we’re trying… meaning we don’t really make a lot of educated guesses at that age about what we’re doing and if it’s safe. Actually we might, it’s just that we don’t have a lot of education on what we want to try, and usually when something is cool, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s smart. I don’t know about you, but when it came to doing something cool verses doing something safe, 9.9 times out of 10 I was going to be doing something cool.
Yep, marbles are responsible for today’s reminiscent Smirk about life, but more than that, about surviving life. I grew up about three blocks from the high school, and two and a half block from the high school wood shop, which was in its own building close to the high school. Starting in grade school up until I left town, I would spend a lot of time at the shop, thanks to my dad being the shop teacher. Next to the high school shop was the big field that all the school buses lived in during the summer months. Now, when I was in grade school, the bus field wasn’t always the bus field.
At that period in my life the field was the schools dump. It collected piles if random waste, broken desks, old books, retired chalk boards, etc. However, the field did have one additional thing that made it one of the most magical places in town. It had a huge enclosed outdoor fire pit. The whole thing was made out of sheets of ½ think steel welded together. Three walls were around five feet high and the forth wall, the mouth of the pit, was between two to three feet high. That way the janitors could easily feed it whatever they wanted to, and at the same time once the fire was well under way, they could keep piling things on. It looked a bit like an outdoor fireplace for the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk.
On this particular day, all of the boys were at the shop, and it turned out dad needed some help spray painting a few things. I always wanted to help out when I could, but when you have little fingers attached to little hands, getting a good hold on a spray paint can, while trying with all your might to push that damn nozzle piece down far enough to get some paint to come out, took a lot more effort than I expected it would. About five minutes later my spray finger had more paint on it than the wood I was trying to paint, so I stopped helping and started playing instead. I do remember being fascinated by the rattling noise each spray paint would make when I shook them up, it was like I had my own set of metal maracas. I’d shake them up and do a little cha-cha-cha dance around the shop. It was my oldest brother Dave who unraveled the rattle mystery when he showed me that very day a spray paint can marble. It was a marble making all that noise… who knew?
I wanted one, but my dad said it was too dangerous to try to get marbles from a pressurized empty can of spray paint and that he’d get me some marbles sometime soon. As an adolescent “sometime soon” equates to about one minute shy of forever. If he wasn’t going to help, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.
As I walked outside of the shop I noticed that there was a faint stream of smoke coming from the pit, and started heading that way. The closer I got I noticed that the pits guardian, the janitor, was gone. Apparently, he had finished burning the piles of trash he was assigned to and had disappeared while the hot coals continued their journey into cool ash. That is when I had a brilliant idea… I could melt the cans and get the marbles out of them once they’d melted. How easy and safe was that? I ran back to the shop and started filling my arms with the empty spray paint cans sitting in the trash. Realizing that I could be more efficient with the number of cans I could take with me, I got my “go to” partner in crime Mike, my brother who is just a year older than me. He liked the idea of free marbles too and together with our arms full of empty cans we headed toward the giant’s fireplace full of smoldering ashes.
Having no idea what to expect, we opted to do a test run and threw only throw one can in to see what would happen. For a few minutes there was nothing. Mike even grabbed a stick and started poking at the can. Shortly after that the entire pit started to hiss. In looking back it was probably the plastic nozzle melting and letting out the left over compressed air, but at the time it was the sound of an awakened fire snake hissing as the foolish adventurers that had wandered into its pit, ready to strike its magma filled fangs into whoever it was that woke it up. We ran from the noise as fast as we could. Then, half way between the pit and the shop, we heard a loud bang.
We skidded to a stop, well Mike did, I inadvertently chose to drop to my butt, and then skidded to a halt. We turned and looked back at the pit… had someone just blown up the fire serpent? Then, out of what must have been sheer dumb luck because it couldn’t really have been anything but, a marble fell past my head and thudded to the ground about three feet away. It was mostly gold, the same color as the paint in the can we had tossed into the ashes. I picked up the marble, it was lingering between warm and hot, and some of the paint came off and stuck to my fingers. “It’s the marble from the can,” I yelled, as we both started running toward the pit. When we got there, we peeked over the edge and looked in. Sure enough, the bottom of the can was gone leaving the remains completely empty.
The prospect of having more cans explode for our amusement while marbles fell from heaven got us a little excited. Soon three cans were in the pit, cooking up a little “boom” where a marble would pop out to let us know it was done. At least we had enough sense to not stand in front of the mouth of the pit while we waited for the cans to pop. With three explosions in the making, we knew we needed to take cover. When the first can blew we were hiding behind a few old broken desk tops, we heard a ping and then a shattering sound. The marble had failed to escape. It shot against the inside wall of the pit and disappeared into a cloud of tiny glass shard snowflakes… and I bet no two glass flakes were the same.
The second and third blew at almost the same time. One shattered and one shot out of the open top. We both lost it in the sun, but as I started walking back to the pit Mike yelled, “Don’t move.” I stopped, though not sure why.
“But…”
“Shhhh,” Mike insisted, listening with the same intensity as a hungry baby watching Baywatch.
Then I heard it, a thud about twenty feet behind the pit. We raced towards the noise and began searching fervently for the little glass ball that had just hit the ground. Ten minutes of crawling through the grass resulted in two little boys empty handed and heading a back to the pit for another go. We only had three more cans, and I didn’t want to share my marble. So the last three cans were thrown in one at a time so we could focus on finding only one marble after each can popped.
The first one… “boom, shatter”. Damn. The second one… “boom, ping”… that was new. We waited for sound of the thud, once it hit we ran toward the sound. Surprisingly, this one was just lying on a small mound of dirt. Turned out the noise was the marble skinning against the edge of the pit wall on its way to freedom, it knocked out a small sliver of glass, but it was still whole and counted as one for Mike. The last one sounded a lot like the first one, but when we walked back to the pit we noticed that half of a marble was sitting just outside of it. Mike called dibs. His logic was since he had two pieces that were both missing bits then he should get the two damaged marbles to make up for the one whole one that I had. I wanted to argue his logic, but at the time I really could find no flaw in it.
With the cans all gone and each of us with a trophy, we headed back to the shop to see if there was anything else we could throw in the “still very active and ready to burn” pit. There were no more spray paint cans left in the trash, but we did manage to find one can of WD-40. The spray nozzle had broken off sending the can to the trash way before its time was up. The best part, the can was almost completely full. I felt a little like the first time I fed my dog Peanuts peanut butter, he had no idea what it was, but he sure enjoyed the hell out it. Since the can was almost full, this meant only one thing… run as fast as possible once we threw it in the pit. We had even set up some cardboard boxes to hide under with eye holes cut out so we could watch what happened in safety.
It took about five minutes for the magic to take place, which, when hiding in a cardboard box, waiting patiently is equivalent of spending three hours looking at a spreadsheet on an Apple IIe full of someone else’s tax receipts from the 1970’s. Three minutes in, we were talking about it being a dud, suggesting to the other to go check it out. It wasn’t until we had gotten out of our cardboard fortress of protection and took a step toward the pit that the can’s hard metal shell breached and its contents blew.
A fireball filled the entire pit and shot about fifteen feet out of the open top. It wasn’t terribly loud, but the flame and cloud of black smoke that billowed out was anything but stealthy. It was time to get back to the shop and hang out with an adult that would vouch for us being good kids in the event anyone showed up asking questions, because someone was bound to show up. In fact, in less than a minute of us getting back to the shop door we saw a the janitor, the one that always scared the bejesus out of me by just looking at me, walking toward the pit with a very angry look on his face.
As he stood next to the pit, his hands on his hips, he looked around for some evil doer to come out and fess up. This was our cue to walk back in the shop and find something else to do… like clean the paint off our new round shiny treasure. As we were drying off our hands and marbles with the course brown paper towels that all wood shops at every high school is required by law to use, we both agreed that the day had held the coolest thing either of us had ever seen, and made a pact not to ever tell mom or dad about it, and we haven’t to this day… well, unless they just read this Smirk, in which case… Mom, Dad… it was all Mike idea, I swear!
Sadly, ever since that “marble in a can” day the pit always had supervision whenever we would go check it out during “burn days”. It was like the trying to get past the Black Gate to get to Mount Doom. In truth it probably saved us from at least a handful or eyebrow grow-back sessions, and possibly the loss of a digit or two. So to the scary janitor that was assigned to keep an eye on the burning trash, thanks for keeping us safe… from ourselves. Eventually, they took out the old burning station and converted the school dump into the bus storage field… but the buses had all sorts of treasures in them, so it was a pretty good trade off. Of course, that’s an entirely different story.
This was one of many bad for the sake of “cool” experiences I’ve had during my life, and I’ll admit, when I look back, I’m impressed I’m still here… and thankful as well. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a thing.
I’m convinced everyone has at least one, “… and I’m still here” stories from their youth, I’d love to hear one of yours.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: marbles, spray paint can marbles, kid searching in grass, burning trash, kids in cardboard box, and the Black Gate.
by Richard Timothy | Jan 21, 2011 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Now I hear people talk all the time about how bad judging others is, and to that I say, “I don’t care, we all do it.” I even wrote a Smirk dedicated to the topic of how judging is an everyday occurrence. In short I look at them as observations that become opinion, sometimes I judge people nicely, and sometimes I don’t. However, today I realized that there are things that get me to involuntarily judge people in a rather negative light.
So here’s what happened, I was at work taking a short break to assist the tea I had ingested this morning to continue its journey toward freedom and who knows, possible self awareness… it had the word Zen in its title, so you never know. As I was finishing the tea passing process I heard a toilet flush in one of the stalls and then from that stall emerged some chap who walked right past every single sink and walked right out the door. EWE! Who does that!?!! The first thing that came to mind, “Nastiest person ever!” And that’s exactly what I’m going to think about this guy every time I see him in the halls at work. I just hope I’m never placed in a situation where I have to shake this man’s hand… because I won’t. Not unless I’m wearing a rubber glove.
I washed my hands, twice, just to make sure before leaving the rest room, and then I grabbed an extra paper towel and used it to open the door on my way out. When I got back to my office I was still so disgusted by the whole thing that I experienced two uncontrollable shivers just thinking about it. It did get me thinking though… what are some of the other things people do that get me to involuntarily judge them using a flurry of negative connotations about their character? Apparently not washing your hands after using the bathroom is one of them.
This next one has personally happened far too often. Imagine going to a movie. Let’s make it an R-rated movie… a late (past 9PM) R-rated movie. Now picture yourself sitting in your cushy rocking enabled stadium seat, with your sweetie on one side and a hot tub sized bucked on popcorn on the other. As the lights start to go down in walks “the” couple. The man is carrying a theater’s signature hot tub sized bucked of popcorn and a drink the size of hefty six month old baby… and the girl, you guessed it, is carrying a hefty sized six month old baby.
Before I can even say a word, a sigh of sheer disgust comes out of me, while I roll my eyes at the same time. The first thing that pops in my mind is, “I hate them and I want them to go home”, which is really not like me. I mean ok so maybe the little thing is asleep, but once the first car crash happens, or gun is fired, or explosion fills the screen, that sleeping baby is awake, afraid, pissed as hell, and making damn sure everyone in the theater know it.
I even discovered a new one just a few days ago on my way home from work. I was listening to my latest commute book on CD, Artemis Fowl, and enjoying it. That’s the thing about listening to a good book during your commute; you actually look forward to getting stuck at a stop light because it allows you to listen to more of it before you get home. Luck was with me that day because, due to traffic, I had managed to stay at the same stop light twice in a row. As the cars were filling the space next to me that is when I saw it. A truck pulled up next to me in the turning lane, and as he slowly pulled past there they were… a shiny pair of brass balls hanging from the trucks tow hitch. I guess the owner wanted to make sure everyone knew it was a boy truck… the dumb ass.
They were even shaped like testicles, swinging away with every stop and start the truck made. All I could do was drop my head and shake it in shame. Yes I was ashamed that I share the same DNA structure as this man, and the first thing that came to mind, “It’s people like that that always get abducted by aliens and convince the aliens that the human race is not worth saving.” At least it would have been if I had been watching a six hour Sci-Fi movie marathon. What I actually thought though, was, “I’ll bet he’s perplexed why he’s still single,” followed by, “I’d hate to see how he’s decorated his parent’s basement,” and finished the whole thing up with, “I hope he never reproduces.”
I’m not saying I’m proud of this; it’s just something I’ve noticed I do occasionally. However, there are things that people do that automatically causes me to judge them in a positive light as well. Like people walking across a parking lot and instead of walking by a piece of trash… that’s another one! People who litter! When I see someone littering I am filled with this intense hoping that the person has a very hot liquid poured… or spilled, on their crotch sometime in the next five minutes. I just can’t help it.
Sorry, I got a little off track on that last one, so yeah, when I see someone walking by a piece of trash and instead of just walking past it they bend over, pick it up and drop it in the trash can next to the building they are walking to, I can’t help but appreciate their existence, and I genuinely hope someday they win the lottery, because I like them… even though I have no idea who they are.
How about you? What are some of the things that cause you to involuntarily judge other? Good or bad… I just hope I’m not alone on this one. Naw, I can’t be, I know of at least twenty people that will cringe at that “not washing their hands” bit. Still, I’d love to hear some of your examples. Cheers.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: judging, baby at movie, and picking up litter.
by Richard Timothy | Jan 12, 2011 | Confessed Confidentially, I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Just like no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, no one really expects to find themselves in the middle of a Facebook stalking session until, “whala”, there you are. Here is my latest “accidental stalking” moment thanks to Facebook. Someone sent me a nice little message concerning my birthday. I was touched and flattered that this person, who had been reading my Smirks, took the time to send me a birthday message. Being that the message came via Facebook, there was a little link sitting there, taunting me to learn more about this person. So I took the plunge…
They were from the UK, in a relationship, and I was able to learn the names of all their siblings… I learned were they worked and soon I was clicking though photo’s of some birthday party they went to earlier this past year… it was like I was there. I even thought about commenting or liking some of the pictures… and that’s when it hit me… was I cyber stalking? I think I might have been, although I’m not exactly 100% sure what that means. So instead I opted to send them a message back and actually strike up a real conversation with them, instead of going around the middle person to obtain a bunch of information about, well, the middle person. Searching someone’s Facebook page to learn something about them sometimes seems a little like rummaging through someone’s garbage to learn things about them. Either way, they have no idea you are checking up on them.
This has happened more than once, on the rummaging through someone’s garbage, but the searching someone’s Facebook profile to learn about them without taking the time to connect with them so I can learn about them from them. Each time this happens I find myself thinking that Facebook is the Google of stalking, usually accidental stalking, but stalking none the less. I’m sure I’m not the only one and I’d bet most people never intended for any stalking to happen in the first place. I think it’s a bit inevitable though when your social media tool asks for certain information that is then displayed for all the world to see.
And they just keep coming up with tools and apps that make it easier and easier for people to accidentally find themselves participating in stalking activities, without realizing it until it’s too late… too late in the sense that when it happens you go, “Ohh, ick, I’m stalking.” Resulting in you running to the bathroom to take a shower and wash off that “suddenly stalking” feeling. So, I’ve taken a look at Facebook, and here are three steps that people do that can lead to unintentional Facebook stalking:
Step 1: Thinking “Interested In” means Anything
The “Interested In” information seems to confuse more people and give an overall wrong impression. It appears a lot of people use this as a sexuality meter. I’ve seen so many men who are married that will specify to the world that they are, in fact, interest in women, and vice versa with married women interested in only men.
If they really wanted to clear things up, why not make the options more specific about your interests in other people. What about “Interested In” options like:
- Friendships with only people I already know
- Friendships with strangers
- Networking
- Shagging with strangers
- Shagging with people I wanted to shag in high school but never did
- Swinging (and not in a playground kind of way)
- Swinging (in the playground kind of way)
I think that would clear up a lot of confusion instead of simply giving you the option of men or women.
Step 2: Using the “Poke” Button
I have no idea what this button is for or why it exists. Does anyone know the point of this button? I mean apart from making adolescent teenage boys giggle every time they click on it. I will state that for the record, and to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never been a poker or pokie on Facebook.
Take away the adolescent giggly suggestive connotations associated with the word and let’s look at it from a literal perspective. When someone walks up to you and pokes you on the shoulder to get your attention. Does that bug you? It does me. I don’t like it and I don’t know anyone who does. I associate it with little kids trying to get my attention and they just keep poking me into annoyance. I mean it worked for me when I wanted attention as a little kid, it’s just that it turned out to be the wrong kind of attention.
Step 3: Blindly Clicking on the “(so and so) added new photos” Link from the News Feed
Statistically speaking, posting photos will get more views than anything else you can post on your wall, and thanks to the friendly little news feed, it tells all your friends every time you post a new photo. So how is this related to stalking?
Ok, so here’s what happened, I have an old college friend from years ago who is a Facebook friend, who I don’t think I’ve actually talked to yet since becoming friends on Facebook. Anyway, she went to the UK on holiday, which I had no idea of until I got a little news feed notice that she had posted photos of her trip. I’ve been to London and loved it, so I was a touch curious to see where she had gone. So, I clicked on the photos on my news feed… there were a few shots of her and her friends at Piccadilly Circus, a shot of her by the London Eye and one next to Big Ben. Now I don’t know about you, but I know that after visiting a place and returning home, when I see shows or photos of those places I always get excited and tell the person closest to me, “I’ve been there!” even if I don’t know that person.
I was saying that a lot to myself, since no one else was around. Eventually I went back to the friend’s page and noticed some new photos had been posted from the same trip. The first photo I clicked on turned out to be a “night out with the friends” picture. As the photos progressed so did the number of drinks on their table, but their smiles kept getting bigger even if their eyes began to disappear more and more behind closed lids. Then, as I clicked next, a picture came up of one of her friends on a beach in Spain. A few more clicks and I realized my friend was not in any of the Spain photos. That realization accompanied with the fact I was not terribly interested in seeing any more photos of men in Speedos on a beach in Spain moved me to click out of the photo album and back to the profile.
That is when I realized that the set of photos I was looking at was a result of her friend tagging her in her friends set of “Trip to Europe” photos she had just posted. I had been perusing through the photo album of some lady I had never met and was not even friends with… and that was when I had that, “Eww, I’m stalking on Facebook” moment again. I didn’t mean too, it just sort of happened… stupid Facebook and its ploy (that I just made up) to turn the world into a race of virtual stalkers.
My (Not So) Honorable Mention: The Stalking Apps
Now this is not an app that allows you to tack up stalkings along a virtual fireplace… but I’m sure there is some kind of fireplace stalking decoration app for the iPhone somewhere in their store… and if there isn’t, there will be soon. No, what I am referring to is an app that a friend of mine showed me on his iPhone where you enter your location and it goes on Facebook and gives an update as to where you are and who is with you… allowing people to cross that line from accidental virtual stalker into an active real life stalker where you actually get out of the house, drive across town, and see the stalkie in person and you can even get a map to the stalking location simply by clicking on the link of the location that the app automatically puts on your Facebook page.
On the plus side, whenever I see a post like this on Facebook, I never have the urge to run out of the house and head to the location my friend is at so I can stage a surprise chance meeting. So, at least I have that going for me. I suppose the most important aspect of all of this is that it remains accidental. The concern begins when you go out of your way to stalk on purpose. Even if someone is in the limelight I think there is a very small yet distinct step between a fan and a stalker… I believe it’s called a restraining order.
I’d like to hear your thoughts on this. Have you noticed any additional accidental stalking options that Facebook recommends to its users? Please feel free to share.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: Facebook stalking, interested in Facebook option, Facebook poke, Facebook news feed.
by Richard Timothy | Jan 3, 2011 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, Working Observations
I do enjoy the ongoing and amusing observations about life, either of my own devising, or from others. Occasionally, someone will point out something about me that I’ve personally never thought about before. It’s usually something telling, but at the same time so obvious to me I never took any notice until it was pointed out. So here’s what happened…
It was a typical Tuesday morning, where I begrudgingly got out of bed for two key reasons; first, I needed to pee, and second, I had one of those things to get to… “a job” I believe most people call it. So, when I got out of the shower I was smelling of cucumbers and mint… clearly I’m not the one who purchases the body soap in our house, but I’ve got to say thanks to my sweetie-baby-cutie-pie-wifey-pooh for her affinity for smelly soap. My aroma has never been lovelier.
Soon I was robe wrapped and staring at my open closet wondering what to wear for work. All of my normal work clothes were waving to me from the dirty clothes hamper, and I have a rule about the dirty clothes hamper… once clothes go in they are not allowed out, unless, of course, it’s to take a bubble bath in the washing machine. That’s the thing about hampers… it’s that dark dirty place in the corner were foul odors go to mate.
Now I’m a firm believer that under average circumstances I can get at two to three wearing out of a shirt. That is if I don’t do anything in the shirt that turns it into a perspiration sponge, like going to the gym, shoveling out the driveway, chasing my niece around the house for an hour playing tag, I see no reason to condemn the shirt to the hamper. However, once an article of clothing touches the hamper it almost instantly becomes a playground for all the other smells already play in there. Smells like socks that have spend the day marinating in my old leather shoes, tee shirts ripe with the fragrance of days were I forgot to add deodorant to my pitters, well used sweat pants, and knickers… yep just knickers. We all know they smell; let’s just leave it at that. All those odors and more violate any clothing you add to the mix, making it entirely unwearable, unless of course you have a part time job as a homeless person and you feel it’s important to smell the part.
The point is when I arrived at work I was wearing a mostly wrinkleless burgundy colored polo shirt with some black dress pants, which I usually only wear when performing weddings, or some other occasion where Angela tells me I need to dress nice. When I got to work my office mate (yes the one in the ghost story) looked at my outfit and asked, “You going to a job interview today, Rich?”
“No, I just ran out of clean clothes.”
He started laughing and said, “You are the only person I know that dresses up when he’s out of clean clothes.”
I try to make a habit out of not arguing things that are irrevocably and universally true, so I just nodded in agreement. He was absolutely right; well, except for the random and rare event that our client is visiting, then I make sure I’m wearing my “out of clean clothes” outfit. However, I don’t think I’m the only one that does this. I’m just one of the supervisors that does this more often than all of the other supervisors at work. Besides, they all end up dressing like me on Friday anyway.
The whole thing got me thinking about the phrase, “Dress for Success.” I hear people talk about that all the time, but what does that mean? A successful what? If you’re a tattoo artist dressing for success you are going to dress entirely different than a banker who is dressing for success, or a professional wrestler who is dressing for success for that matter. I mean Gandhi was a success and look what he wore. Which bring me to this; I don’t think it’s the clothes that makes a person a success, it’s the person themselves.
Sure, in some instances you have to make sure the packaging looks good, and there are definitely times where you need to dress for the occasion. For example, no one wants to see you wearing a tuxedo at an 80’s themed party, unless, of course, it’s a tuxedo tee shirt. Also, if you are being knighted, you don’t show up in a long pajama shirt and matching hat. You wear that to your midnight book signing of your latest best seller… see Terry knows.
I guess the point is… just be you, and dress for the occasion. Oh yeah, and one last thing… for god’s sake please make sure you put on some pants before answering the door… because it’s the right thing to do, that’s why. Unless it’s a religious person proselytizing and you want a quick and easy way to get out of talking to them. Trust me, it works like a charm… they haven’t comeback in over a year now. I’m not saying I’m proud of what I did; I’m just saying it works.
So, what are your thoughts on this whole “dress for success” concept? I’d love to hear them.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: hobo, hamper, no pants, and Terry Pratchett.
by Richard Timothy | Dec 20, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Over the years Hollywood has definitely played a role in how main stream society looks at the state of Utah and specifically the inhabitants therein. This is largely imparted by television shows like Big Love and Sister Wives. Shows all about the rampant and yet highly taboo and hush, hush topic of polygamy, which is really not that hush, hush anymore thanks to having two highly watched and successful shows about that specific subject. Now perhaps it was a result of my cutie-baby-sweetie-pie-wifey-pooh’s obsession and occasional discussion about the show Big Love that is to blame, but something came to mind while I was in DC that made me wonder if I, in a rather unintentional way, was contributing to this media hyped stereotype of Utahans.
As it happened, there were four of us from Utah that went to this four day conference in DC. My first polygamy giggle happened when all four of us climbed into a taxi and headed to our hotel. It is important to point out that the other two people/friends from Utah, going to the conference, were women. Yes, one man and three women from Utah, getting off the plane and all heading to the same hotel for the week. I did wonder if our taxi driver was curious about us and our relationship to one another when we told him we had just arrived from Utah. Of course, considering the taxi driver was mostly just cursing at the other drivers on the road, I soon dismissed that he had given it any thought at all.
My second unintentional moment of giving strangers an “I wonder” about polygamy in Utah, or more precisely if I was a polygamist from Utah, happened when we checked into the hotel. As it turned out Angela and I were on the sixth floor. Our two friends, however, were not. When we discovered this we tried a little finagling to get them on the same floor we were on. The first thing we checked was is to see is if they could get into a room right next to ours. When that didn’t work we tried to get them on the same floor. And when that failed, we were at least able to get them a few floors closer, moving from the second floor to the fourth floor.
It was about an hour later, as Angela and I were unpacking, that I realized our little attempt to get our rooms closer may have come across a bit Big Loveish, especially since I was some guy from Utah and Angela and her friends were three ladies from Utah, all trying to get their rooms as close together as possible. I could see how one might wonder about this. I told Angela about my observation… she laughed and then told the others, who join her in snickering about the possible confusion we may have unintentionally caused, which in turn got me smirking about the whole thing.
Had I been from anywhere else, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but because we were all from Utah, I was curious how many people started to wonder in that direction. Now I admit I’m reading way too much into this, but there was one reoccurring question that kept coming up that seemed like it could be designed to “out” people from Utah that may possibly be a part of the Sister Wives school of matrimony.
The question was, “Do you have any kids?” When we answered no, the topic quickly changed, which could be for a number of reasons really. Still, if there were any polygamist meanderings going on in their minds, telling them that we had no kids was the universal clarifier. Seriously, a polygamist without children is like a zombie who only wants to eat salad, or a pimp who doesn’t like to share, or a baconless BLT. It goes against the foundation of what it is you claim to be.
Of course, I’m sure some of you are now wondering if, since I’m currently living in Utah, I know any polygamists. No, but I have seen some, they love places like Costco and Sam’s Club and any food outlet place that enables them to purchase a bundle of 48 count packages of hot dogs and enough buns for all those dogs, and a gallon bucket of mayonnaise. Granted, that just might be the family I saw a few months ago and not all of them in general. I have no idea why anyone would need that much mayo, let alone four containers of it, but I guess if it makes them hap… no, I still don’t get it, but apparently they do.
Anyway, I am 99.9826% sure that the Big Lovin’ in DC was all a mental fabrication of my own device, but… if there was a .0174% of a person out there wondering, I sure hope this cleared things up. Oh and I do need to say, if you’ve never been to DC, go. It really is quite an amazing experience and well worth it.
So, have any of you ever been on holiday were you own imagination leads to the ongoing and eternal question, “I wonder what others are thinking about me?”
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: big love, taxi, wondering, and big jar of mayo.
by Richard Timothy | Dec 15, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
Have you ever been to a function… conference, congressional hearing, family reunion, any gathering really where copious amounts of people meet up and the only way to tell who’s who is by the little “Hello, my name is…” sticker that everyone has been assigned to wear. The convention I was at in DC was one such event.
Now when it comes to name badges there are a number of different styles, and even though I’d love you educate you on all the ways to get out of wearing these different badges, my current experience is really only in one specific genre… the condom name badge. Ok so maybe that’s not the official name for it, but the principle is the same. You have a clear plastic protective shell, which is an envelope-like container that opens at the top and allows you to place your printed name tag inside. Usually there is a clip attached to it so you can clip it to your outfit, or you can clip it to a string and use it as a necklace.
As I learned in DC, there is one way to properly dispose of these contraptions of protective name badge bling, and it’s called “daily hygiene.” It happened on the last day at the conference. I was in my room, dressed and ready to go, wearing my name tag around my neck, and the only thing keeping me from leaving my room was my morning purification ritual of brushing my teeth. It was during the “gargle, spit, get another mouthful of water’ repeat cycle that it happened. I had finished my first mouth rinsing and was swishing around the water in my mouth for one last spit into the sink before heading out the door.
It was the bending down to spit motion that was the badge’s undoing. As I bent down to expel the toothpaste enriched water into the sink, my name badge followed the natural gravity of this movement. The problem is that it was on a string, so when I stopped the badge kept swinging on its line and right into the line of fire… well, spit. Sure I could have just wiped it off, but because the opening was at the top of badge, I ended up catching a lot more of the toothpaste water that I expected. When I looked down my lovely printed name was smeared, warped, and wading in half an inch of liquid. There was no bringing that tag back. So I bid my name farewell and went commando the rest of the event… without a name badge I mean. The only difference from the day before was that if people wanted to know my name I had to remind them what it was. I was quite impressed that more people than not actually remembered who I was, and I don’t just mean the name, “Angela’s husband.”
There is another bathroom related oops that there is no recovering from. It’s when you are using the clip-on functionality and you accidentally knock off your name badge by putting on your coat, or straightening your tie, or for women, simply putting your purse strap over your shoulder. The next thing you know, you’ve flushed away your name, or at least you will, because I know I’m not fishing that thing out.
As for the other name badge types out there, I know the sticky ones can be disposed of pretty easily, all it takes is a little OCD moment where you keep putting it on and pulling it off over and over again in an attempt to get it perfectly lined up. Soon a sudden step to your left, shaking someone’s hand, or even a sneeze from across a room will cause enough friction for the name badge to peel away all by itself and gently fall to the ground where it will inevitably find a new home on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
Those are the only ones I’ve had experience with so far, but I’ll keep my eyes open and if I run into any new and fancy name badges I’ll be sure to let you know the best ways to accidentally dispose of them in a well researched and documented manner. For now though, if you are conferencing somewhere and are a little motivational about losing the name badge, the tooth paste bit works pretty well, and if anyone asks, you can always tell them you took your name out to have it spit shined before it’s time to go home.
Have any of you encountered clever little “oops, there goes my name badge” experiences of your own? I’m always willing to learn from others.
Image Sources:
Google Images, keywords: conference, man brushing teeth, and wet name badge.
As I walked outside of the shop I noticed that there was a faint stream of smoke coming from the pit, and started heading that way. The closer I got I noticed that the pits guardian, the janitor, was gone. Apparently, he had finished burning the piles of trash he was assigned to and had disappeared while the hot coals continued their journey into cool ash. That is when I had a brilliant idea… I could melt the cans and get the marbles out of them once they’d melted. How easy and safe was that? I ran back to the shop and started filling my arms with the empty spray paint cans sitting in the trash. Realizing that I could be more efficient with the number of cans I could take with me, I got my “go to” partner in crime Mike, my brother who is just a year older than me. He liked the idea of free marbles too and together with our arms full of empty cans we headed toward the giant’s fireplace full of smoldering ashes.
Sadly, ever since that “marble in a can” day the pit always had supervision whenever we would go check it out during “burn days”. It was like the trying to get past the Black Gate to get to Mount Doom. In truth it probably saved us from at least a handful or eyebrow grow-back sessions, and possibly the loss of a digit or two. So to the scary janitor that was assigned to keep an eye on the burning trash, thanks for keeping us safe… from ourselves. Eventually, they took out the old burning station and converted the school dump into the bus storage field… but the buses had all sorts of treasures in them, so it was a pretty good trade off. Of course, that’s an entirely different story. 
