Just a Smidge

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Observing a Deficiency

The other day, I stared at my wife as she walked into the room.

Hmm… I think something is different… did her neck get longer? No, it’s her hair. Maybe... Yes, it’s her hair. I think it’s shorter… and possibly blonder.

Uh-oh, she saw me staring at her and now she’s smirking like she knows I see something different, but can’t figure it out… I’d better act fast.

“You did something with your hair,” I mumble. She laughs. “It looks GREAT,” I exclaim, trying to recover.

“It wasn’t today,” she says. “It was two days ago.”

Dammit!

Apparently she had cut about four inches off it, and it was at least three to four shades lighter. (As if I understand the blond shading scale!)

I am the most unobservant person I know. I would be a terrible cop. Actually, I think I would be great at high speed chases, and tackling bad guys, and Taser-ing people, but if the perp got away, my sergeant would probably ask me, “What did he look like?”

“Uh, you know. He was a dude. You know, kinda about this height, sorta thinnish.”

“A dude?”

“Yeah. He was white and had darkish hair. Or maybe he was Mexican. He was either Mexican, or a really tan white guy. Or he could have been Asian.”

“You talked with him for five minutes before he ran, right?”

“Yeah. You know, come to think of it, he kinda looked like a tanner version of my buddy John.”

“OK… Can you describe John?”

“Um, you know. He’s a dude. You know, kinda about this height, sorta thinnish… He was wearing a blue jacket. Or maybe dark grayish. It might not have been a jacket, actually. It might have been a long sleeve shirt…”

I expect that would be about the point where my police career would end.

I think I was just born without the part of the brain responsible for remembering what things look like. And it goes beyond hairstyles and bad guys. You could rearrange all the furniture in my house and I wouldn’t notice until I tried to sit where the chair used to be and hit the floor. And it works for adding and removing familiar things as well. If my wife hangs a new picture on the wall, or removes one that has been there for three years, my brain reacts the same way to that. A month later I will have a vague notion that something is different about that spot on the wall, but I won’t be able to put my finger on it. When she adds things, I have a little bit of an advantage, but when she removes things, I’m almost hopeless. My brain has no stored imagery of what it used to look like at all.

If I came home and my house was painted an entirely different color, I would probably just have a strange notion that something was off, but not what it was. If I did notice that it was a different color, that would be the only thing that I could tell you. It’s different. There is no way I would be able to tell you what color it was before.

I saw a good friend of ours at a gas station a few month ago. I was driving a company car, but it happened to be the exact same make and model as my own car, just gray instead of blue. The first thing she asked me was, “Did you get a new car?” I was amazed by that. She obviously got all of the part of the brain that I am deficient in, because I would be very hard-pressed to tell you what make and model car any of my friends drive, let alone what color they are. They are stored in my head in general categories; Jenna: SUV, Mark: pickup, Bill: small sedan, Jaime: toaster-looking car, etc. As long as they show up in the same class of vehicle, my brain will register no difference at all. The color doesn’t even register with me. I’m not color-blind (although, my wife might argue that point based on some of my clothing choices), I’m just color-impaired.

I think whatever brainpower is responsible for the high level of information gathering and storage required to remember what things look like – the part that I obviously lack -- was re-routed to other functions. I remember events, and text, and speech. I can tell you exactly what someone said years ago, and usually with the same inflection. I remember the lyrics to almost every song I have ever heard, and I know movie lines forward and backward. I am the official keeper of long-ago vacation memories, if someone has a question about what we did or what was said. I just have no idea what color the outside of my house is. Same thing with my wife's hair. I see her every day, and I sleep next to her every night, but if she changes her hair I might notice that it is different, but I would not be able to tell you what it looked like before.

And don’t even get me started on clothes. I am barely aware of what the clothes I own look like. How am I expected to keep track of anyone else’s? Luckily, my wife has learned to live with my deficiencies, for which I am grateful. She just laughs at me when I ask if the jacket that she’s had for six months is new.

She doesn’t laugh when I tell her exactly what she said two years ago, though. I don’t think she likes that very much.

See you soon,

-Smidge

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Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Valentine's Day, Part II

This is a public service announcement. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. Men, you only have a few hours left before all the cards are sold out and all the flowers are gone. You can read this later – Get moving!

Valentine’s Day is a confounding “holiday.” The number of people around the world who actually enjoy Valentine’s Day is very, very small. Most women will probably tell you that they enjoy the day, but they’re lying. They’re only saying that because they don’t want to be seen as “anti-romance.” Truth be told, Valentine’s Day is very stressful for most people, men or women.

Let’s try to figure out who really likes Valentine’s Day. No man in the history of the world has ever liked it, so take out roughly half the population of the earth. Sure, it’s a day dedicated to romance, so if a guy plays his cards (and flowers) right, he might get rewarded for his efforts. However, this is a day where he is expected to be romantic, no matter what. If he happens to forget and go about his business as usual, he will be in deep trouble. Birthdays and anniversaries are one thing, but Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year where every guy in the world can simultaneously get into a special, life-long, still bringing it up 25 years later kind of trouble, just for doing the same thing we did the day before. By the mere act of being yourself, you can be branded for life as an uncaring idiot, if you happen to forget the 14^th of February. Who needs that?

By my (incredibly limited) experience, cards and flowers have a much more positive impact on her emotions (and on your love life) if they are given when she is not expecting them. A specific day of the year when they are mandatory? Far too much pressure. And speaking of pressure, it is entirely one-sided. There has never been a man in the history of the world who’s has had his feelings hurt when his wife or girlfriend didn’t get him a card on Valentine’s Day. The onus is all on the men. Heaven forbid you screw it up, boys. If you do, Valentine’s Night will be pretty lonely. It’ll just be you and your onus.

As I said at the beginning, no man has ever liked Valentine’s Day, but that doesn’t mean they all dislike it. Single men who are not dating have no particular feelings towards it one way or the other. They could care less about it. Single women who are not dating, however, hate Valentine’s Day. This is due to the fact that men and women are polar opposites when it comes to feelings about anything other than food and shelter being good things. Valentine’s Day for the single female is a myriad of emotions, all of them probably serving some sort of anthropological function, but none of them that you want to get anywhere within 40 feet of. Most of these emotions will be doused with wine, which can either have a suppressive effect, much like throwing a bucket of gasoline on a single match, or in most cases, an accelerant effect, much like throwing a bucket of gasoline on a campfire. Either way, it is best to observe the 40-foot perimeter.

Valentine’s Day for the single male means a shorter wait at the pizza place.

For women who are dating or married, Valentine’s Day is stressful. Not as stressful as it is for their men, but some amount of the man’s stress is transferred to the woman. That’s because the women know that we won’t get it right, no matter how hard we try, so they spend the weeks before Valentine’s Day worrying about what we’ll get wrong. Will he screw it completely up like I think he will, or will he surprise me and get it almost right? Never mind perfect. That ain’t happening.

Women who are dating someone casually worry that their significant other will go overboard and try too hard, making Valentine’s Day awkward instead if nice. Women who are dating someone seriously worry about the marriage proposal. If she feels that the proposal is imminent or overdue, she will worry that he won’t ask her to marry him. If she feels like it isn’t proposal time just yet, she will worry that he will ask.

In my estimation, women who are already engaged to be married are the only ones who truly enjoy a stress-free Valentine’s Day. If a lady’s fiancé has a track record of forgetting Valentine’s Day, she probably wouldn’t be engaged to him in the first place, so there is much less of a chance that she’s worried he will forget. (Naïvely, she thinks he will always remember the day once they are married. Boy, is she wrong!) There is no proposal pressure or worry, since that already happened, and since both parties are in constant communication about romantic stuff like wedding plans, chances are the guy will have a pretty good idea of what to do for the gift. Jewelry, flowers, chocolates, just a simple card… He is about as locked in as he’s ever going to be on what she wants. He will never know for sure, however, because reading a woman’s mind is a lot like reading Sanskrit in the dark. You’re never going to get it exactly right.

So, of all the people currently on the planet, the only ones who enjoy a truly worry-free and relaxing Valentine’s Day are most of the engaged women, and a handful of female newlyweds. That probably works out to be far less than one percent of the population.

This leads me to the question of why we still have Valentine’s Day in the first place.

I don’t buy the argument that it’s just a day created by the greeting card, flower, and chocolate industries. It goes deeper than that. We all feel like we have to participate, because the men don’t want to be seen as the Scrooge of February, and the women don’t want to be left out. Truth be told, everyone would be a lot happier and less stressed if the day just went away, but stopping Valentine’s Day is an all or nothing deal. If there is one single solitary guy left on the earth still buying flowers for his fiancé on the 14^th of February, the rest of us are going to hear about it.

Until those engaged guys can stand up and say no, we’re all going to have to keep going with it. Those engaged guys are weak. They are scared to screw anything up, and rightfully so. They don’t know what they’re getting into, and they know they don’t know. They are yes men, just trying to survive. They will never help us.

So, we’re stuck with it. Do your best, and hope for the best. That’s all we can do.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go see if they have any Valentine’s cards left at the gas station mini-mart. My wife loves those cards. I think.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Sleep-peeing

There are probably a ton of helpful books on potty training kids. I’m just assuming this, because I haven’t read any of them. My wife may have read some of them, but I have a more wild west, seat-of-my-pants parenting style where I don’t seek out too much expert advice. It makes it more interesting that way.

Without having read or even seen any of the potty training manuals out there, I can assure you that not one of them has ever offered any helpful advice on sleep-peeing. Now, I’m not talking about peeing in the bed while sleeping. That can be handled with rubber sheets, some wipes, dry jammies, and a washing machine. I’m talking about the dreaded combination of sleepwalking and peeing.

Son Number One is the only one of our three boys that sleep-pees, but believe me, one is enough. My wife and I first noticed this unbecoming behavior a few years ago when he was six. After bedtime, we were downstairs and heard the very familiar – especially to guys – pee hitting the ground noise. I went to investigate and found Son Number One standing at the top of the stairs, adjusting his pajama pants. I asked him what he was doing, and he didn’t answer me. He just turned and walked back into his bedroom. Puzzled, I walked up the stairs and stepped in a puddle on the third stair from the top. This was our first experience with sleep-peeing, so we were a little skeptical and confused, but all the evidence pointed to the fact that our son had just gotten out of bed and peed down the stairs. When I went into their room to question him, he was under the covers, snoring.

Any doubts my wife and I may have had about what actually happened that night were answered a few weeks later when I heard the same noise while I was upstairs, and came out into the hallway to investigate. This time, he hadn’t even made it out of the room. He had simply opened the door, and was standing in the doorway, peeing into the hall. I walked over to him, straddled my legs wide and bent down to his eye level, six inches from his face, and asked, “Whatcha doin’ buddy?” while he peed onto the carpet between my legs. He never said a word. He just stared at me blankly, finished up, shook it off, tucked it back into his jammies, and got back in bed. Totally sleepwalking. Totally peeing on the carpet.

Over the last few years, since we have become aware of the issue, we have decided that Son Number One probably never actually fully wakes up to go pee, but he gets to the toilet 95% of the time, since the bathroom is right next to his bedroom, and he’s on familiar turf. Out the door, two right turns, through the door, toilet is on the right at the end of the bathroom by the tub. Whether or not he empties his bladder entirely into the toilet is another matter.

For a little while prior to this revelation about our son’s strange nighttime urination choices, I had suspected their toilet needed repairs. I kept finding puddles of what could only be pee on the floor around the base of the toilet in their bathroom. I assumed the wax ring under the toilet had gone bad, and the toilet was leaking. I overlooked the now obvious other possibility that one of them was peeing on or near the toilet instead of in the toilet.

Actually, the wet bathroom floor is not solely a nocturnal consciousness issue. Number One has pretty good aim with number one when he’s awake, but the other two boys are wild cards. Son Number Two is constantly in a hurry, and Son Number Three combines a lack of coordination with a propensity to go no-handed. I am trying to instill the belief in them that “on and around the toilet” is not the same as “in the toilet.” I don’t think I’m making any headway.

Since Son Number One is on familiar ground at home, the sleep-peeing usually occurs where it is supposed to, since the bathroom is always right where it’s supposed to be. We have to be on our toes when we travel, though.

“Sorry about our son peeing in your closet. Urine comes out of suede, right?”

Sleepwalking is a strange thing. His eyes are open, and he navigates around obstacles like he’s awake, only a little wobbly, like he’s been drinking beer or cough syrup. He appears to simply be sleepy, but in reality, his brain has only powered up the walk-around functions. The good decision making part of the brain is still out cold. His bladder is the only thing that triggers the events, so unfortunately, we don’t have any cute sleepwalking stories about him drawing a picture or rearranging the furniture. They all end in pee.

The key is the lack of conversation. If you see him out of bed and walking around and he won’t answer you when you say his name, you’d better start moving, because he’s about to pee in the kitchen pantry. The potty training manuals won’t be any help with this one, because there isn’t anything you can do to prevent it. You just have to hope he grows out of it, and resign yourself to the fact that you won’t own nice carpet until he leaves for college. That, and eliminate asparagus from his diet.

I have to go now. I just heard the bathroom door, but no toilet noises. It’s more of a hollow sound… I think he just peed in the tub.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Real Estate Disclosures

I read an article this week about a California woman who moved to Pennsylvania with her two daughters to be closer to her family after her husband had died. She purchased a house, and a few weeks after they had moved in she found out from a neighbor that there had been a murder-suicide in her master bedroom the previous year. She claims that there is no way she would have bought the house having known that, and she is appealing to the state supreme court to get the sale rescinded and her money back, after both the regular court and the appeals court ruled against her.

Here’s the timeline:

February 2006 – Man shoots his wife and then himself in the home

October 2006 – Couple buys the tainted house, knowing about the deaths, for $450,000.

June 2007 – California lady buys the house from the couple, without the deaths being disclosed to her, for $610,000.

She and her lawyer, who are suing the sellers and their real estate agents, maintain that sellers should be required to disclose troubling events "at least for some period of time."

I am sure, given her situation, that she would not have purchased the house if she had known the gory details of its recent past. It is an unfortunate situation for her, but I’m going to have to side with the two court opinions on this one. The logical side of me can’t make an exception in any case, no matter how troubling the event may be. If "troubling events" need to be disclosed, where does that end. How troubling is “troubling,” and how long is “some period of time?”

“Troubling” is completely subjective. I have friends who would hold a four-day candlelight vigil to mourn the loss of a goldfish, and I have other friends who would buy the house and volunteer to help clean up the bodies if it meant a lower purchase price. Pennsylvania may be holding firm, but I live in California, the land of regulations. What if I want to sell my house?

Since I’ve owned it, no one has died in the house, so I might be in the clear, but how far will California take it. I mean, I’ve had relatives die while I owned the house, and I was in the house when I found out, and it was very troubling for me. Does that count?

Our three-year-old son broke his leg in this house. Do we need to disclose that? I can assure you, it was a very troubling event, both for him and his mom!

What if no one died, but 37 family pets met their demise on the property? Still noteworthy? What if no person or animal ever died in the house, but it was used for a nefarious purpose, like slave trafficking, or drug dealing, or headquarters for the Russian mob’s door-to-door candy and magazine subscription sales?

Where will it end once it starts? “The buyer of this real property, commonly known as 123 Main Street, located on Lot 34-A of the Peterson Tract of the Sunshine Estates Subdivision, as shown on Placer County plat map number 882, shall be hereby officially notified that on or about the date of 3 November, 1986, one William “Billy” Johnson, aged eight years old at the time, had his feelings severely hurt in or near the living room.”

Believe me, in California, the slope on that argument is not that slippery. My natural skepticism combined with my logical mind leads me to believe there is more to this story. If she doesn’t like the house any more, she should sell it. One of my favorite old sayings when trying to get to the bottom of a convoluted mess is “follow the money.” That is helpful advice in most mysteries, including this one. Let’s look again at the timeline of the sales:

October 2006 – House sells to couple for $450,000

June 2007 – Couple re-sells house to lady from California for $610,000

So, in the span of eight months the house gained $160,000 in value? I don’t know anything about the Pennsylvania real estate market, but I know that gains of $20,000 per month in value are the stuff of magical dot com stocks, not real estate. I do know a little about the California real estate market, and $610,000 for the relatively modest house I saw pictured in the article seems high even by our inflated west coast standards. The first sale price of $450,000 even seems high.

Again, I’m sure she wouldn’t have bought the house had she known about its creepy history, but let’s be serious. She moved from California, land of overpriced housing, and blindly paid California prices for a Pennsylvania house. Two weeks later, she found out about the murders. My guess is, at that same time, she also found out about the last purchase price. Like I said, if you don’t like it, sell it. And if you can’t sell it for what you paid for it two weeks later, you paid too much.

I like old sayings. I always figured if a saying wasn’t useful or worth its weight, it wouldn’t be an old saying. One of my other favorite old sayings is, “buyer beware.” It is not practical to operate under the rule that the seller of anything is responsible for how the buyer will feel about their purchase. Especially things with a price tag as high as a house.

You should not be finding out about the murders or the home’s actual value two weeks after you buy it. You should be finding out two weeks BEFORE you buy it. Or in her case, before you don’t buy it.

The internet exists everywhere. Even in Pennsylvania. Use it!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

School Holidays

It has become obvious to me that the teacher’s union in this country is even more powerful than I thought. It didn’t occur to me until Monday, which was Martin Luther King Day. I realized Sunday night that the kids didn’t have school on Monday. By realized, of course I mean that my wife told me. Martin Luther King Day is one of those holidays like Columbus Day or Abe Lincoln’s birthday. The only people who take the day off are the schools, the post office, and the government. The rest of us have to work. That got me thinking about school holidays, and how many of them there are, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Ever since I left school and entered the work force, I have wondered about summer vacation. I obviously enjoyed it when I was a student, but now that I’m on the other side of the fence I have questioned why it exists. Why can’t students and teachers work all year just like the rest of us? I never took my thinking on the subject any farther than that until Monday. On Monday I hit upon the real question. The question is not why we have summer vacation. The real question is, if we’re going to have a vacation at all, why is it in the summer? I mean, look at the calendar!

In January we have Martin Luther King Day, but even before that, we had the end of Christmas break. They didn’t start back to school until the second week in January.

In February we have Ground Hog Day, Lincoln’s Birthday, Mardi Gras, Valentine’s Day, and Washington’s Birthday. Most of those are not school holidays, but they might as well be for all the actual school work getting done, what with all the in-class celebrations going on. They scoot Abe and George’s birthdays around to “observe” them on a convenient Friday/Monday combination to create a four day mini holiday called President’s Day Weekend. Did you miss that last year? That’s because you were at work. With only 28 days in the first place, February is a write-off.

In March we have Easter break, now commonly known as Spring Break. There’s a week gone, plus the recent addition of Easter Monday becoming a school holiday. Add in Daylight Savings Time Day and St. Patrick’s Day and you’ve got a lot of clock lessons, leprechaun traps and colored eggs to take the place of math and English.

April has April Fools’ Day, Earth Day, and Administrative Professionals’ Day. While the other two might not take up much class time, Earth Day promises to take up a week. (Come to think of it, April also used to have a day called “Secretary’s Day.” I wonder what happened to that one? Oh, well, never mind.)

In May we have Cinco de Mayo, Mother’s Day, Armed Forces Day, and Memorial Day. Mother’s Day is a big detractor from book learnin’, and Cinco de Mayo burns a day drawing Mexican flags. Memorial Day is an actual holiday that is conveniently always on a Monday. That one doesn’t count, because everyone gets it. (Pipe down, retail and restaurant workers, you can have Flag Day off. Maybe.)

Speaking of Flag Day, that’s in June, along with Father’s Day. Two more days of no homework to grade. Then comes summer and no one is in school. The sum total of holidays in the summer break months of June, July, and August is one: The Fourth of July. That’s it.

School starts back up in late August or early September, just in time to take a day off for Labor Day, the only holiday in September. (Actually, my calendar also lists “Grandparents’ Day” on September 8^th, but let’s face it, every day is Grandparents’ Day. They’re retired. My kids’ grandparents are so retired, none of them ever know what day of the week it is!)

Late September and early October is serious buckle down time, until Columbus Day rolls around; another teacher and mailman-only holiday. Then there’s Halloween, which kills a minimum of two full days of schoolwork with costume contests and candy trading.

Halloween marks the beginning of the “holiday season.” November begins, and we might as well not have school at all. Veterans’ Day is observed on a Monday for another three day weekend, and the rest of November is spent drawing pictures of pilgrims, Indians, and turkeys. They are out of school for the last week of the month for Thanksgiving break and National Shopping Friday. Back to school for a few days in December to play some secret Santa and draw snowmen, then off on Christmas break until the middle of January.

On top of the holidays and breaks there are always a few “staff development” days when the kids stay home, and keep in mind, we live in a part of California that doesn’t see snow more than once every ten years. Add in winter snow days for the folks in the upper two-thirds of the country, and it gets even more ludicrous.

So if you look at the calendar in terms of national holidays and weather, and your goal was to have kids get the absolute most out of the school year, where would you put your three-month break? You would naturally start it at Thanksgiving and come back at the end of February. Actually, if your goal was to maximize the school year, you wouldn’t have a three-month break. You would simply have school all year.

Now, this whole summer break business came about in the first place due to farming. When you lived on a farm, and you were the farm labor, you worked in the summer. No sense keeping the school open if no one will be there to drool on the desks. I think we can safely say that the days of desperately needing our children to sow, cultivate, and pick crops are behind us. So why do we still have summer break at all?

The answer must be the teacher’s union. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Since teachers don’t get paid nearly enough, they must supplement their income by picking crops in the summer, and the powerful teacher’s union has kept the summer break in place to allow them to do so. That must be it.

Although, that still doesn’t explain all the other breaks in the school year. Hmmm.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

The Athletic Cup

Last year when Son Number One moved up out of T-ball into the big leagues, one of the new requirements was a cup. All boys playing in the league were required to wear an athletic cup, to protect all the boys’ boys. Never mind that at seven years old there isn’t much to protect. Rules are rules. As near as I could tell, the cups did three things. They made all the kids walk funny, they made all of them constantly adjust their crotches on the field, and they made it very difficult to strip down in a hurry to pee. As far as if they protected anything, I’m not really sure.

When I was playing little league we were only required to wear a cup if we were playing catcher. The proximity to the fast-moving baseball, either from the pitcher or the bat, combined with the rather exposed position that the catcher’s squat leaves the goods in, makes a cup almost mandatory behind the plate, no matter how old the catcher may be. In my day, the hard plastic cups at the sporting goods store came in three sizes. Small, medium, and large. At nine years old, the small was still five times larger than I needed it to be, but it was my only choice. Then began the conversation that every parent in America who has ever shopped for a cup with their nine-year-old son has had:

“Take that off your face!”

“But, I’m pretending to be a jet pilot. It’s my oxygen mask.”

“It is not a mask! Take it off your face!”

“But, why?”

“Because it’s gross, that’s why.”

“It’s not gross.”

“Yes it is. Just stop it. It just is. Give that to me.”

The small-size cup fit over my nose and mouth just fine. I could have worn the large cup home as a hat.

Back then, the athletic supporter, commonly known as a “jock strap,” was the only means of holding the cup in place. They consisted of a fabric pouch to hold the cup, an elastic waistband, and two elastic bands sewn on either side to keep it in place. The elastic bands were there to go around either side of your butt and hang on to the bottom of the pouch at your crotch, thus alleviating the need for it to be an athletic thong. While the thong would have no doubt been much less comfortable, the two elastic bands still sat in places that no underwear had gone before. This made you, the novice jock strap-wearer, walk like you were trying to shake something loose inside your trousers. You were constantly reaching around, behind, and up trying to grab the straps to reposition them, but you were never able to get a hold of them through the back of your pants. It was impossible to walk in a straight line while wearing your jockstrap and cup.

Fast-forward to today, and the world of crotchal-region protection has improved greatly. Material science technology and common sense sizing have caught up to the cup industry. When we went to buy Son Number One’s first cup last year, I was amazed at the advancements. For starters, the days of the traditional jock strap are over. Actually, I think you could probably still get one if you wanted, but I don’t know why you would. Cups are now held in place with regular cotton briefs and tight-fitting boxer trunks, with the cup pocket built right in. Genius! Was that so hard to think of, cup manufacturers of the 70’s and 80’s? We already had briefs, but you just couldn’t make the connection, huh? Oh, well. No elastic straps in strange places for today’s youth. Good for them.

Also, somewhere along the line, the industry realized that kids between seven and eighteen years old come in more than three sizes, so the cups are now on a graduated, albeit confusing, scale. After figuring out if we were “youth” or “peewee,” and “regular” or “large,” we settled on a peewee large, youth size 6-7. I found it kind of humorous that the manufacturer apparently shied away from the term “small,” but was OK with “peewee.” I guess it’s always going to be a terminology minefield when you’re trying to place names on the different sizes for that region of the male anatomy.

The cup was much more size-appropriate than mine was back in the day, and it was better contoured and even semi-flexible. Mine was like shoving an empty tuna can down your pants. Things have come a long way since I was a kid playing little league. Although, some things won’t ever change, I guess. It was promptly removed from the package and placed over the nose and mouth, like a strange miniature flight attendant giving a really weird safety briefing.

“Take that off your face!”

“But, I’m pretending to be a jet pilot. It’s my oxygen mask.”

“It is not a mask! Take it off your face!”

Well, the new cup technology and the “classic peewee briefs” did their jobs last season, keeping Son Number One safe and sound on the field, and making it difficult for him to walk in a straight line. We’re getting ready for another season now, and Son Number Two is moving up into the cup leagues this year. We were talking about cups the other day, and how he would need one this year, and Son Number One decided, due to his vast experience on the subject, to handle the explanations for me.

“It protects your penis.”

They both thought that was endlessly funny, and I just left it at that, because I didn’t really have the energy to get into the discussion about the rest of its job.

My wife just went shopping at the sporting goods store again, this time without bringing the boys with her, and she came home with a brand new cup and brief combo set. However, as will happen with siblings and articles of clothing, the new one was the next size up, and it was for Son Number One again. She handed it to him and told Son Number Two, “You get his old one.”

Some hand-me-downs are a little weirder than others.

“Take that off your face!”

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Hoodlums

Apparently, there is something very honest-looking about your forehead and ears, because when you hide them, you look like a criminal. At least, I do.

Ever since I lost the majority of the hair on top of my head, I have been either too cold or too hot. I need to wear a hat outdoors for almost 10 months of the year just to remain at a reasonable temperature. Most of the year a baseball cap works just fine, but for the brutal 15 days of winter here in California, I need something a little warmer on top of my exposed dome.

I got out of the car the other night at Chipotle -- where I was picking up a very nutritious dinner for my wife and I, while our kids were at home with her, eating leftovers and complaining that they didn’t get Chipotle -- when I saw my reflection in the window. I had on my winter beanie cap, and as usual it was pulled down over my ears. If I was the guy at the register inside Chipotle and had seen me coming, I would have assumed I was there to rob the place. I simply look like a ne’er-do-well when I wear a beanie cap.

Women tend to be able to pull the beanie cap look off a lot better than men, but it’s not universal. Most women look cute in a beanie, but occasionally on the wrong woman it can backfire and make her look either homeless, or like your uncle Frank. The beanie doesn’t work on guys at all. There is something about covering up a guy’s ears with a woolen hat that makes them look either untrustworthy, or at the very least, unmotivated. Those are really the only two choices for guys. If you want warm ears you are bound to look like a total slacker or a total hoodlum.

And speaking of hoodlums, let’s not forget the origin of that word. There is also something about your ears that makes you identifiable, or at least recognizable, because in the old days, wearing a hood was all you had to do to conceal your identity during a robbery.

“What did the scoundrels look like?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see their ears.”

The term “hood” has never once been used to describe anything good, except maybe the hood over your stove. Those are handy. In describing people and places, it is less than complimentary. I even dislike the word “hoodie.” It has always left a bad taste in my mouth. It’s another hip shortening of a perfectly good word or term, like “vacay” instead of vacation, or “froyo” instead of frozen yogurt. Are we really so lazy or so busy now that we need to shorten “frozen yogurt” to save time? In my mind, that hipster language is indicative of the disturbingly numerous twenty-something slackers I see walking slowly, iPod ear bud cord protruding from under their hoodie, head down, slack-jawed, skinny jeans hanging low, with an eight-dollar cup of coffee in their hand. Half the time I can’t honestly tell if the particular societal all-star is male or female. Stand up straight and watch where you’re going! But I digress…

I had never owned a hooded sweatshirt until my mother-in-law unknowingly bought me one last Christmas. I politely said thanks while thinking, “Oh great, a ‘hoodie.’ What am I, an unemployed 20-year-old?” I was planning to give it to my wife to sleep in (she gets very cold when the house dips below 68 degrees), but on a whim, I tried it on first. Suddenly I could see -- or I should say, feel -- what all the fuss was about. My neck was really warm. I didn’t even have to be wearing the hood, and it still kept my neck warm. None of my other clothes had ever done that before. Put the hood all the way on, and forget about it! Total head and neck warmth, all in one. It’s like a balaclava without the terrorist undertones.

The warm factor is great and all, but I still don’t really like wearing the hood. It cuts off all my peripheral vision, and I can’t stand that. Plus there is the hoodlum factor. Literally. I look even more like a criminal in a hoodie than in a beanie. In fact, in a hoodie, I look downright menacing, like I might be there to rob you, or I might be there to Taser you and steal your spleen to sell it on the Chinese black market. It’s not a good look for me. If I were to combine the hoodie with a goatee, I would expect any rational police officer to arrest me on general principle.

My kids, on the other hand, love hoods. Apparently they have not been blindsided by enough fast moving objects yet to fully appreciate their peripheral vision. They don’t look nearly as menacing as I do with the hood up, but they can’t escape the inevitable, so I have a strict “no hoods indoors” rule. It’s partly out of good manners, like “no hats at the dinner table,” but mostly to get them into the habit of removing their hoods before going inside so when they grow up and look like me, they don’t get tackled in the bank lobby.

Speaking of that, have you seen the new trend in kids’ hoodies? They now come with built-in masks. You can zip them up to your neck, and they look just like a regular sweatshirt, but the hood has two front flaps made out of mesh, so if you put the hood up and keep zipping, the hood closes up completely over your head with the mesh front panel completely covering your face. Apparently, based on my observations at the playground, the kid can see just fine out of the mesh mask, but you cannot see their face. The masks and sweatshirts have designs on the front to make the wearer look like a skeleton or a zombie when it is zipped all the way up. What drug cartel or gang syndicate came up with these? Talk about the perfect accessory for your next bank robbery. No more having to borrow your girlfriend’s Pantyhose, or sweating inside an itchy ski mask in July. Perfect for a night on the town, or an impromptu carjacking. Get yours today!

They even have a version that has a Mohawk sewn into the top of the hood. My boys have expressed great interest in the masked hoodies. Not gonna happen, kid. I’m trying to raise you to look less like a criminal, not more. Trust me, son. When you get to be my age, you don’t want ladies pulling their kids away from you and security guards reaching for their can of pepper spray every time you walk by.

As for me, both my beanie hat and my hoodie are black, the universal color of the bad-guy dress code. Maybe a lighter color would help?

Probably not.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

About the Author

I thought we should start the New Year off with a little meet and greet. Just a Smidge has gained quite a few new readers in 2012, so I thought an "about the author" segment would be helpful. I am the 40-year-old husband of an amazing woman, and father of three boys, affectionately known as Son Number One, Two and Three, currently ranging in ages from eight to four years old. My beautiful wife and I are raising/corralling them in Northern California, where we were both born and raised.

I think we should really start with my name. The following is a segment from “The Name,” the very first Just a Smidge post I ever wrote, way back in June of 2008. It is also the forward of my latest book, The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories.

I am a fourth-generation American who was born and raised in California, but you would never guess that when looking at my name, so I really feel like I should start with an explanation. It's spelled Schmatjen. It's pronounced "Smidgen", like a smidgen of this, and a smidgen of that. No one in the family knows why. It's German, but some kind of strange hill-people German that were more Austrian, or more Swiss, or more drunk than regular Germans.

So we all went by "Smidge." Once you pronounce it for people, that's your nickname. No getting around it, and all in all it's a pretty good deal for a kid. If you're destined for a certain nickname, it's nice to know ahead of time that it's going to be palatable.

In the Schmatjen clan, there is a general rule that because of the last name's inherent spelling and pronunciation issues, the first names had better be fool-proof. So, inexplicably, my folks named me Marc with a "C." I'm not sure what they were thinking at the time, but looking back on it, it seems ill-advised. I have always liked it, but it invariably adds an extra dimension to the name-explaining process that we Schmatjens constantly go through.

So that’s the story on the name. Now, here are 23 other facts that you should know about me:

1) My wife thinks I am a great driver.

2) My grandpa killed General Patton's dog.

3) Bright sunlight makes me sneeze.

4) I am related to a U.S. president, but I forget which one. I think it's either Grover Cleveland or Woodrow Wilson. I don't care. I would only be excited if it was Teddy Roosevelt, and it isn't.

5) My favorite movie is a tie between Romancing the Stone and Fletch.

6) Until I was in my teens, I thought that coffee really would stunt your growth, and that drinking alcohol made your beard grow faster, because in the movies, when guys would wake up hung-over, they always had a five-o’clock shadow.

7) I cry at the end of Rudy.

8) I am slightly over six feet tall, I weigh just over 200 pounds, and I have the bladder capacity of a four-year-old.

9) My two favorite flavors are slightly burnt pepperoni and toasted sesame seeds.

10) I swam 100,000 yards in one week when I was in high school.

11) I can remember movie quotes and song lyrics from 20 years ago, but I can't remember what my wife just told me three minutes ago.

12) I did a flying squirrel off of a 60-foot-tall rock into Lake Havasu, and I have very mixed feelings about my kids ever trying something like that.

13) I constantly get my left and right mixed up. It makes driving directions with my wife difficult.

14) My favorite joke of all time is: A guy walks into the psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but underwear made out of Saran wrap. The psychiatrist looks at him and says, "Well, I can clearly see you’re nuts."

15) My basic math skills leave something to be desired.

16) I cannot stand cantaloupe. Fruit salad that contains cantaloupe is completely ruined.

17) I was born without the ability to have any sympathy whatsoever for stupidity.

18) I have had the controls of an airplane for about 10 seconds. I was not good at flying straight or level.

19) I crossed into Switzerland underground briefly while in a salt mine, but I have never been there above ground.

20) My favorite place to be is on a boat.

21) I have never wanted to be younger.

22) I truly like almost everybody I meet.

23) My wife is still laughing right now about #1.

So there you have it, folks. You now know everything you need to know about me. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming next week.

Happy New Year, everybody!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Christmas Issues

Christmas can be a challenging time for a dad. There are the physical events, like tree wrestling and overhead decoration storage box lifting. Then there are the mental events, like light string outage troubleshooting and trying to keep all the lies straight about Santa Claus.

“I want a Wii for Christmas.”

“Sorry, son, Wiis are too expensive.”

“No problem, I’ll just put it on my list in my Santa letter.”

“What makes you think Santa would bring you an expensive Wii?”

“You said Santa’s elves can make anything, so why can’t they just make us a Wii?”

“Uh… Your mom and I already talked to Santa and told him no electronics. You get enough screen time as it is. Go play outside.”

Wii or no Wii, there are always financial challenges to Christmas as well, and it usually takes a few months in the austerity wing at the hospital to recover from the wallet-ectomy procedure that Dr. Retail performs on you every year.

I found this year that my two personal Christmas Eve challenges came as a direct result of Santa Claus. That jolly old elf and I need to have a chat. I know he is supposed to have a busy night, but he has caused me to stay up way too late on the night before Christmas.

A few years back, possibly after one or three too many Christmas Eve beers, I accidentally started a tradition. We were celebrating Christmas at my in-laws’ house, and the kids had all made “reindeer food” out of dried oats and glitter. (As if any animal, magical or otherwise, wants to eat glitter! What are kids thinking?) Anyway, after an elaborate and mentally taxing explanation of how Santa would be gaining entry to a house in a California beach town that doesn’t have a fireplace, it was decided that the obvious place to put the reindeer food would be all over the front walk. After the children were all snug in their beds (presumably with visions of toys or puppies dancing in their heads, since no one knows what the hell a sugar plum is), it was up to me to make sure the reindeer food was “eaten.” Out to the front walk I went with the broom and dust pan, and while sweeping up glittery oats, I unfortunately had a brilliant idea. I went and found a bucket, and with some water and dirt, fashioned muddy reindeer hoofprints on the front walk as evidence that Dancer and Prancer had gobbled up their treats.

It went over really well on Christmas morning, so guess what I do every Christmas Eve now? My wife won’t let me stop. Even when we’re at our own two-story house with a fireplace, and we’re leaving carrots for the sleigh team, it is still suggested through a wild series of parental lies and childish imaginations that it makes perfect sense that Santa would land on our roof, come down our chimney, eat his cookies and drink his milk, grab the carrots, head for the front door, throw the carrots out onto the front lawn, and whistle to the team to come down and have a treat, but to make sure to gobble them down quickly and get back up to the roof to meet him when he’s done with all the stocking stuffing. All I can say about that is be careful what traditions you start, or you might find yourself on your hands and knees out in the dark and cold with a handful of mud, smearing hoof tracks on your concrete while your wife is warm and cozy in bed.

My other challenge came after I had cleaned up and thawed out my hands well enough to hold my beer again. Son Number Two had spent more than a few hours creating a masterpiece poster-sized drawing that was a gift for Santa. It was a full-color depiction of Santa’s castle, complete with fortifications and gun turrets. I guess the North Pole is as rough a place as any. You never know when the elves will need to lay down suppressing fire to keep the invading hordes at bay. Anyway, it really was a great piece of six-year-old artwork, and it had spent the last few weeks rolled up and tied with a green pipe cleaner, leaning next to our fireplace with a note for Santa, explaining that it was for him to take back to the North Pole.

So here’s the dilemma: Santa has to take this picture back to the North Pole. Therefore, the picture has to disappear from our house. We cannot risk keeping it, but simply throwing it away wouldn’t work either, because through some unforeseen trash spilling incident, the picture could be discovered, and a six-year-old’s heart would be broken into a million pieces. So after I took a picture of it with my phone for posterity, I shredded it. On Christmas Eve, I was up in my office shredding a picture that my son spent hours creating for Santa. Talk about feeling like a Scrooge! Like punishment for bad behavior, or administering bad-tasting medicine, it was done out of love, but that rarely makes you feel any better about it.

It was most likely guilt from shredding the beautiful 4-foot-long poster that led me to the idea of having Santa leave him a thank-you note. Now, I imagine the real Santa probably writes notes on scrolls of parchment with an ink-dipped quill, and seals them with the Cringle family crest stamp in red wax, but since I didn’t have any of those things, I used Son Number Two’s very own construction paper and one of his Sharpies. I knew he wouldn’t recognize the materials, but he might recognize my all-capitals handwriting, so I had to disguise my penmanship. I spent the next half-hour trying to learn how to write in cursive again. I hadn’t even attempted a curvy letter that wasn’t part of my signature in 25 years. Even my signature doesn’t really have cursive letters anymore, except for a capital M. From there it has degraded to a short wavy line, a swirl meant to be a capital S, and a longer wavy line with a flourish on the end. It has actually gotten so bad over the years that I really don’t even know why I bother signing things anymore. I might just start using an X to save time.

Anyway, after five practice letters that I also had to shred, I was able to produce a pretty good thank-you note from the big man. He was very appreciative of Number Two’s efforts, and promised to take the poster back home to show Mrs. Claus who would surely love it. I admired my handiwork, and decided that Son Number Two would most likely frame the note after he read it in awe 19 or 20 times. Here’s how it went the next morning:

Son Number Two finds the rolled-up, scroll-like construction paper note in his stocking.

He mumbles, “What’s this?” and throws it over his shoulder to get it out of the way of the loot.

I stop him and say, “That looks like a note from Santa, buddy. You might want to read it.”

He says, “OK,” and unfurls it, attempts to decipher my cursive for a few seconds, then gives it to his mother to read to him.

She reads aloud the magical, personalized note from the most famous and sought-after gift-giver in the entire world, to which he responds, “Cool,” and goes back to tearing open gifts.

Hmmm… Feeling a little underappreciated, here, fellas.

“Did you guys see the reindeer hoofprints on the walkway?”

“Yeah, that was cool.”

Santa and I really need to have a talk. Between his existence and my brilliant ideas, we’re creating a lot of work for me here, with very little payoff in return. I put most of the blame squarely on his shoulders, but he’s hard to pin down to reason with. I was able to stick it to him a little, though. I ate all his cookies and drank his milk. That’ll teach him!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The 2012 Do-it-Yourself Christmas Letter

Once again, you have procrastinated in writing the dreaded Christmas letter, and once again, ol’ Smidgey Claus is stepping in to save your bacon. I have created yet another handy do-it-yourself template to help you create your 2012 Christmas letter in no time flat. As with previous years’ templates, just fill in your last name(s) in the blank and circle the appropriate choices, and you're in business.

Christmas 2012

Greetings from the ________________ house. We had another (wonderful/pathetic) year around here!

Dad is really (enjoying/fed up with) retirement, and continues to (volunteer/gripe) at the local (food bank/AA meetings). The folks down there are (grateful for/sick of) him, and he gets endless satisfaction from (helping/annoying) them. A few people have even hinted that he should (join the board/start drinking again). We’ll see.

Mom divides her time between her (book club/favorite bar), the (ladies auxiliary/track), and her (charity/court-mandated) work with (the orphanage/highway clean-up). Her (infectious/incredibly toxic) attitude and general (zest/contempt) for life is a (blessing/curse) to us all. She never misses an opportunity to ask us about when she’ll be seeing some (grandchildren/beer money).

Sister and her (husband/boyfriend) were on TV this year! They were featured on an episode of (HGTV/Cops) for their (amazing/illegal) conversion of their (old barn/double-wide) into a (teakwood spa/meth lab). It was (exciting/depressing) to see them on television. They even filmed them in their (bathing suits/underwear), (lounging by/running through) the (hot tub/trailer park). They were both looking (tan and fit/pale and skinny)! Their project was (fun/ill-conceived), and besides the (exciting/unfortunate) TV appearance, it definitely increased the (value/toxicity levels) of their property and put their (neighborhood/trailer park) on the (map/DEA watch list).

For Little Brother, this year was one big (adventure/pain). He and his (girlfriend/chain gang) traveled up and down the highways (sightseeing/breaking rocks) in (their new RV/the blazing sun). They never had a (dull moment/moment’s rest) as they (explored/toiled) all across (this great land/the Arizona desert). I think he will (never/always) regret selling (his business/all that stolen property). He has been (having/doing) (a great/hard) time ever since.

As for me, I continue to work as a CPA, but I have (happily/begrudgingly) switched positions. The (local bank/Renoso cartel) (hired me away/bought my gambling debts) from the (big city firm/Gambini family). I certainly (don’t miss/regret) all the time I spent (commuting/at the track)! I don’t want to (brag/self-incriminate), but I have innovated the (home foreclosure/drug distribution) process, making it easier for (homeowners/dealers) to get low-interest loans that can help them stay in (their homes/business) during these tough economic times. While the big (banks/cartels) don’t traditionally like to negotiate with struggling (families/biker gangs), I managed to convince my organization of the value of helping our clients stay afloat until they get back on their feet. I like to say, “It doesn’t make much sense to just (foreclose/go all medieval) on everyone the first time they miss a payment. If we work with them, we have a much better chance of getting paid in the long run. Getting our clients a (loan modification/hundred pounds of product) with a 60 or 90-day float is sometimes all they need to turn it around. We can always (foreclose on them/waste everyone) down the road if they don’t live up to their obligations.” What can I say, I’m (an innovator/a hostage)!

We hope this letter finds you doing (as well as/much better than) we are. Here’s to a (productive/felony-free) and (fruitful/less depressing) New Year!

Merry Christmas!

You’re welcome! Now just sign, copy and send. You’re all set.

Get it to them quick, though, because Friday is the deadline. I guess this will be my last post ever, since the Mayans have said the world will be ending on Friday the 21^st. It was nice knowing all of you.

See you on the other side,

-Smidge

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Decoding the Christmas Letter

The season of the Christmas letter is upon us. You may have heard the term “humble brag” used to describe some folks’ Christmas letters. That’s where people who are kicking butt in life try to tell you how awesome they are as tactfully as possible. In my own personal Christmas letter, I never do the humble brag. I brag about my life very openly, and not at all humbly.

On the other hand, there are those folks that muster the effort to write a Christmas letter not because they want to brag, but because they want to whitewash the disappointing truth. There is no special term for these types of letters, so we will simply call them “The Smith’s Christmas Letter.” This is your handy guide to decoding them. It was my pleasure. Don’t mention it.

What they wrote:

Dear Friends and Family,