Ran across an interesting question on Twitter a few weeks ago: Writers, have you ever faced harsh criticism?

I must admit that question strikes a chord with me. Oh, not necessarily from something that happened here at Middle Zone Musings or anything. I’m happy to report that, since I started writing here at the Zone, there have only been a couple of instances when someone decided to, er, let me have it.

What was it about, you ask? Well, suffice it to say, said criticism had absolutely nothing to do with my ability to write, if you get my meanin’. Thankfully, things have pretty much always been fairly even-keeled around here. I suppose, in a way, it’s a welcome vindication of my goal that the Zone appeal to as many folks as possible.

Anyhoo, getting’ back to the subject…

Lookin’ a mite further back, though, I remember all those English teachers I faced from grade school on up through college. But I suppose we all wrestled with them as we grew up. Par for the course, right? So, on the whole, I’d say I’ve done OK.

Ah, but what about undeserved criticism vis a vis your writing ability? Now that’s a critter of a different hue, wouldn’t ya say? I remember this one, um, professor (imagine the word forced out through clenched teeth – but don’t worry; I’m over it now) from my first year in college…

Firm Foundation

Now ya gotta understand, y’all; I started reading at an early age and loved it. Back when I was a kid (that’s human, not goat), while everyone else was outside playing in the sandbox, you’d more than likely find me over in a quiet corner somewhere reading a book.

Even back then science fiction was my favorite (and still is, for that matter). Not that one type of reading matter is better than any other type, mind you, but I’ve always believed reading sci-fi stories is what helped jump start a broad technical vocabulary, not to mention help point me towards my current career in engineering. (At least that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.)

Well, once I grasped the fundamentals of writing (somewhere along about High School) I always got good grades on writing assignments. Plus, along the way I discovered writing was sorta fun – especially when I was allowed to let loose my imagination, y’know?

Suffice it to say, then, that I was fairly confident in my ability to string words together in a way that not only managed to say what I wanted to them to say, but I could say it in a way that would satisfy pretty much anyone. Until, as I said, I started college.

Rude Awakening

My first-year encounter with college was quite an adjustment, I’ll tell ya! Not only was it my first time living away from home, but it wasn’t long before I ran smack dab into a particularly hard truth about college life. The fact is, the word school took on a whole new meaning for me. See, up until then, going to school wasn’t really a choice, y’know? I mean, I had to go whether I liked it or not.

I quickly discovered, however, that now I was surrounded by folks who had actually chosen to be there. (Imagine that!) And I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say that put a whole ‘nuther hump on the camel, if you get my meanin’.

Even the teachers (oops, professors) were different. Although most of them genuinely seemed to like what they were doing, there were a few who sorta, er, stood out from the herd – both good and bad. And I’ll tell ya; nobody was worse than… Dr. Dead! (flash of lighting, crack of thunder, sound of terrified scream)

Dr. Dead

Now, at first blush you may be thinkin’ to yerself, Hey, that’s a pretty harsh moniker to give a college professor! Where’s the respect, Bubba? But hear me out, my friends; hear me out as I relate to you what happened on that fateful first day in English 101.

Here’s the scene: It’s your typical college classroom, complete with room-spanning blackboard at the front (yes, we used blackboards back then – and please, no snide “age” comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much) along with a wooden teacher’s desk that had obviously seen better days. About 25 of us were seated in metal and/or wooden student’s desks, back packs at our feet, freshly-scrubbed faces eager and ready for our first exposure to, y’know, what we laughingly refer to as “higher eddicashun” (that’s “education” for you upper-crust types).

Anyway, once we all got situated, an old man tottered in and headed for the desk at the front. (Yes, he really “tottered”. Seriously.) Upon reaching the desk, he turned around, sat down on the edge and crossed his legs like a talk show host. Then he crossed his arms as well, all the while giving us the once-over with his steely gaze. (For you “body language” gurus: what would that posture tell you?) Then:

“Good morning; my name is (name redacted to protect, er, me),” he began in his thin, reedy voice. “This is English 101, and for those of you who may have heard this is a tough class… well, they are quite correct.”

He continued in this vein for a few minutes, and I could see the other students’ eyes reflecting the same sense of impending doom I was beginning to feel. After a while, he began to talk about his “style”, and that’s when it started getting a mite, um, surreal.

“Now some of you may consider yourselves to be good, or even excellent at your use of the English language.” He paused to survey the room, making sure he had all our attention, then – well, that’s when he lowered the ol’ boom on us. “I want you to understand this fact: I will be the sole judge of your ability to write. It doesn’t matter what you think; my opinion is the only one that matters here. I am sixty-four and one-half years old, and only six months from retirement, so we’re going to do this class my way, and my way only!”

There was more, but I’m tellin’ ya, at this point it was so quiet a dropped pin woulda sounded like a 30-car pileup; I don’t think any of us even dared breathe for a few moments. I mean, what the heck was this? It was after that first class when I overheard a couple of other students use the name, “Dr. Dead”. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for that little gem to stick.

He Lived Up To His Name

I’ll tell ya, when he told us his way was the only way, he wasn’t kidding! Our first paper was due the very next class (and for those of you who don’t know, English 101 is pretty much ALL writing “papers”) and I knew it was going to either make or break me as far as this class was concerned. Although I admit my confidence was a mite shaken, at that point I wasn’t too worried. I mean, I had already proven I was pretty good at it, right? (He said, nervously.)

Well, I turned my paper in on time (of course). When we met next, I was running a bit late, so by the time I arrived Dr. Dead was already handing out our graded papers. As he delivered each one I tried to see if there were any clues as to the results.

Yup, sure enough. It was kinda like watchin’ wallpaper fade (albeit a mite faster). Each face reflected the same sequence of reactions. First, there was a widening of the eyes in surprise (when they saw their grade), followed by a silent snort of disgust (or its equivalent) as they immediately compared it with their neighbor’s grades. Finally, there was a rolling of the eyes as they realized EVERYONE was as shocked as they were.

I was therefore not too surprised that my own grade was, er, less than stellar; I mean, I’d already seen the movie, if you follow me. Even so, I couldn’t help myself; as soon as I got mine, well, my eyes widened, I snorted – ah, you get the picture, right?

But it wasn’t that the grade starin’ me in the face was, to put it mildly, less that what I expected. I mean, that was bad enough. No, it was the fact that, right up there at the top of the page, there was a big, fat “F”! And in red ink, no less!

What the heck was this!?! I mean, I put my heart and soul into that paper – just so he would know I was better than the average writer, y’know? And this was my reward!? To say I was shocked is something of an understatement.

From Bad To Worse

Well, the class continued along those lines for pretty much the rest of the semester. And on every single paper, no matter what I did, I got almost the same results. (Although I did manage to pull out a “D” on one. I partied for a week.)

To say I was frustrated would be a major insult to the word “frustrated”, I’m tellin’ ya! I had conferences with the man several times, and each time he merely repeated his initial statement: his way or nothing. As the semester ground on, I even met with the Dean of the English Department to complain. Unsurprisingly, I got no help there.

I finally ended up dropping the class in hopes I could retake it with a different professor the next semester. And, although I passed it that second time, suffice it to say that by then my love of writing had pretty much been snuffed out like Smokey the Bear stomping out an unattended campfire in the woods.

I’ll tell ya, folks; I knew when I was beaten. As I look back on it now, I’m sure this little episode went a long way towards squelching my secret boyhood dream to eventually become a successful, rich and famous (not to mention loved by fans everywhere) sci-fi author. Sad, but true. (Not to lessen my own personal responsibility for makin’ the choice, mind you.) But to tell you the truth, I never wrote anything for fun again – until I took up blogging back in 2006.

A Hard Lesson

Well I’m not ashamed to admit I learned a hard lesson from this, y’all, and sad to say, it don’t necessarily paint ol’ yours truly in the best of lights, if you get my meanin’. My only defense, as pitiful as it may be, is that I was younger (and presumably more, well, let’s tell it like it was: stupid) than I am now.

The hard fact is, I’m the one who allowed that professor to dictate how I felt about my own writing – and about myself. In fact, I’ll go ever farther and say this: whether or not I was a good writer was irrelevant to the fact that I let someone else tell me how to feel about myself!

Friends, listen to an old cowboy and learn somethin’, won’t ya? Don’t do that!

As I’ve discovered the hard way, how we feel about ourselves is the one thing we’re pretty much in control of in this life, y’know? This incident, and others like it, taught me how easy it is to take someone else’s self-esteem down a notch or two.

And it doesn’t stop there. No, this sort of thing can have long-term consequences as well. It took quite a few years before I was again willing to risk having someone else read anything I wrote – in my case, 34 years. Yeesh, what a waste! But not to worry, I think I’ve finally gotten over it.

In fact, nowadays it’s gotten to where it’s kinda hard to shut me up. But then, that’s a dog of a different spot, wouldn’t ya say?

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Photo credit: F, by duncan

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Last Monday, I posted a list of questions that seem to have no reasonable answers. (‘Course, if you’d be willin’ to settle for unreasonable answers – hey, we got plenty of those.)

Out of Place

The other day I drove by one of our neighborhood U.S. Post Offices and, well, if you’ll glance at the photo you’ll see what I saw. Yeah, I know; there’s nothing particularly special about the place with its somewhat uninspired architecture, concrete parking lot, and boring landscaping. But… something seemed to jump out at me as, I don’t know, a bit out of place.

A little later I drove by the same spot and took the time to really check out the scene again. Finally I spotted what was bothering me. That tiny white spot the big, black arrow is pointing at is a mailbox. Wait – what? Yep, there it is; embedded in that short, square brick pillar, located right outside the post office door.

Now I ask you: Why would a post office need an external mailbox? Seems like a somewhat superfluous addition, don’cha think? I suddenly had an urge to mail a letter to the branch’s Postmaster, just to see if a mail carrier had to bring it outside and put it in the box. If I can just find a stamp. And paper. And, uh, a pen. (Naah, just kidding. I still remember how to actually hand write a letter (although my penmanship was never all that great), and I even know where Mrs. MZM keeps the stamps.)

(Sound of Dull Thud)

Anyhoo, as I wrote this post, it suddenly hit me! (sound of dull thud) In fact, it’s so obvious, I’m almost embarrassed to confess this. It seems like, after all these years of tellin’ y’all there are lessons to be learned from life pretty much everywhere – well, I sorta forgot that little detail for a bit. Call it a decade moment of insanity.

So there I was, taking note of this odd little architectural detail, wondering just what the heck it was all about. So what did I do? Took this photo, hopped into my car, drove home and wrote this post, right?

Now I ask ya: What’s wrong with this picture. (No, not that picture up there; this whole cotton-pickin’ episode.) Yep; you guessed it in one! Why didn’t I just go up there and take a look at the thing and find out why it’s there? As you can see from the photo, there’s obviously a plaque of some kind on top of that structure. Probably explaining exactly why it’s there and what it means.

All it would have taken was just a tiny little bit of time – to actually, y’know, look.

So gettin’ back to imponderable questions… Now the imponderable question is this: How come I didn’t take the time to go find out for myself? I mean, I was already there!

I hate to admit it, but for that one I have no answer.

Assignment for the Day Life

Awright y’all; now’s the time to learn from my mistake.

Your assignment, should you decide to accept it, is to take 5 minutes sometime today, find a good comfy spot, and take the time to observe the world around you. And don’t just be at rest; I want you to really look. Pretend you’re a recording device capturing everything around you in full fidelity. Listen to the sounds, smell the smells. Experience those minutes as fully as you can.

Now, write down as much as you can remember about what you noticed. Be as detailed as you can. If you really want to get something out of this exercise, do this every day for a week, writing down everything you can possibly remember.

And most of all – should you, like I did, see something that raises a question in your mind, don’t just wonder about it (like I did) – take an extra minute and go over there and find out the answer!

I’m tellin’ ya; you may be surprised at what you’ll discover!

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I don’t know about you, but chances are fair to middlin’ at least some folks developed at least one or two false impressions about you (or your business) at some time in your life, right? Hey, it happens. Sometimes folks just flat out misunderstand what you said – or meant – or did – and the lines of communication get all snarled up like a fishing reel that’s gone haywire.

Hey, it’s bad enough when your customers get the wrong impression of you or your business. At least when you have a relationship with your customers, you might (at least, hopefully) get the chance to explain.

But what about when your customers give others the wrong impression? What the heck can you do then?

Bus Driver for Hire

Back when I was a starving student at Texas A&M, for spending money I drove shuttle buses around the campus. I’ll tell ya; that was one great job: flexible hours, good pay, and when you got right down to it, pretty easy work.

Probably the hardest part of the job was navigating through the sometimes narrow streets on campus. Generally speaking, that wasn’t too bad a problem – unless, of course, some bonehead parked their car where it shouldn’t have been. Many’s the time I wished we had a handy, er, dozer blade on the front of the bus. But I digress.

Anyway, one day my supervisor asked some of us if we wanted to earn a little extra income by working on an upcoming Saturday. Naturally we all perked up at that – until, that is, we heard what the job actually was. The task, he told us, was to drive the local Jewish elementary school’s children (about 200 or so of the little darlings) from College Station to downtown Houston. Turns out they had arranged a special showing of the stage version of Fiddler on the Roof for the kids, and the best way to get ‘em all there was using our buses.

Well, let’s see… on the one hand, the mental image of driving to Houston with 50 or so screaming elementary kids on my bus for approximately 3 hours – each way – was, well, a mite daunting. (For those of you familiar with the drive, what would normally take a little more than an hour-and-a-half or so would take at least twice as long for this trip because rules required us to drive no faster than 50 miles per hour.) Still, after due consideration, the lure of that extra spending money convinced four of us to finally throw caution to the winds and say, What the hey!

What’s This Got to Do with Beer?

By now you’re probably wondering just what the heck this image of assorted beer bottles has to do with this story. Hey, I’m glad you asked! The fact is, whenever I remember this particular day, it’s the only thing I can think of.

That’s because, for the entire 3-hour drive from College Station to Houston – and then again for the entire drive back – the kids sang what I consider to be the Worlds Stupidest Song: “99 Bottles of Beer”! Just in case you’ve lived under a rock your entire life and have never heard it (congratulations!), it goes like this:

99 bottles of beer on the wall,

99 bottles of beer –

You take one down,

And pass it around -

98 bottles of beer on the wall!

98 bottles of beer on the wall,

98 bottles of beer –

You take one down,

And pass it around –

97 bottles of beer on the wall!

97 bottles of –

Well, you get the picture, right? No kidding, y’all; they sang the entire stupid song down from 99 bottles to 1 – and then started over again. And again. And… again. I’ll tell ya; by the time we arrived at the Music Hall in downtown Houston, I was sorely tempted to let ‘em out – and then leave ‘em all there! Yeesh!

While the kids were inside watching the show, we four drivers found a coffee shop to hang out in. As I sat there, silently contemplating the trip back (with no small amount of dread), one of the other drivers finally broke the silence and asked, “Did your kids… uh, sing any songs on your bus?”

That was when the awful truth was revealed: it wasn’t just my group, but all of ‘em were singing that stupid song! What gives with that, we wondered. Just what the heck were they teaching those kids at that school, anyway?

Getting the Wrong Idea

After about 3.5 nanoseconds, though, I realized it wasn’t really the school’s fault their elementary-aged kids seem to have a fixation on, well, beer. Hey, kids are kids; they’ll do all kinds of things you won’t expect. Nature of the, er, beasts, if you follow me. And I reflected a moment or two on how easy it was to think of the school as bein’ the problem.

It’s really funny sometimes just what kind of impression your customers give of you, isn’t it? I mean, when you get right down to it, that’s something you really don’t have too much control over. Oh, sure; you can do your best to influence, mitigate, or even try to direct the conversation – but when you get right down to it, they’re pretty much gonna do what they’re gonna do.

If you were the principal of this particular school and just read this story, what would you be thinking along about now?

So the question is, how do you handle it when folks get the wrong idea about your business. Or even worse – what if the wrong impression is all about you?

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This is my entry for this month’s “What I Learned From Children” groupwrite project. Hey, you’re welcome to join us – all you have to do is follow this cute little link and read all about it!

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Every Ingredient is Important

You know what a recipe is, don’t you? A few cups of this, an ounce of that, and throw in a handful of those for that little something extra. Then, you mix it all together, put it in the oven and bake for 18-22 minutes or until golden brown. (Sheesh; just writing this and my mouth is watering already!)

It’s something so familiar to most of us we even use the metaphor in other ways as well. For instance, let’s say you have some particular project in mind. What’s your plan – your recipe – for making it happen? See what I mean?

The problem comes when something goes wrong. Either you fail to follow the recipe exactly, or maybe get a bit confused about what to do when. That’s sorta what happened to me the other day.

There’s a particular show I love to watch on one of the cooking channels. The host not only teaches you how to make this or that, but he often laces his shows with why certain things work the way they do. It’s almost like an impromptu chemistry lesson – only it has to do with cooking and stuff. Very informative, and always fun to watch.

It’s fascinating how each ingredient in a recipe has a certain function, too. Although some are obviously just for flavoring or coloring, others perform in certain ways that, had they been left out, would seriously compromise the end result. Sometimes, a simple mistake turns what was supposed to be deliciously scrumptious into a colorless, tasteless blob of glop. (Trust me, this is experience talkin’ here. *sigh*)

It Seemed So Simple

Anyhoo – the other day I decided to make some pumpkin bread. (Yeah, you already know where this is going, don’t you?) That seemed like a simple enough thing, right? All I had to do was preheat the oven, open the box, dump said box’s contents in a bowl, add a few simple ingredients, mix, pour into the pan, and slide it into the waiting oven. Nothing to it. He said.

As it turned out, though, it wasn’t – quite – that simple. But it’s not my fault! Who knew the box had not one, but two different recipes on the back?

First of all, you could use the same mix for either pumpkin bread or pumpkin muffins. Wow, tough choice, I’ll tell ya – they’re both yummy. But, I started out making pumpkin bread, so I figured I might as well finish with it. Or so I thought.

The first thing that went awry was, after I dumped the specified amount of milk into the mix, that’s when I discovered the milk was for muffins, not for bread. Apparently I was supposed to use water instead. Hmph.

OK, I said to myself, I’ll make muffins then! Problem solved, right?

Then I realized I’d used the wrong amount of oil as well, getting them reversed as I did the milk. This time, though, the amount I actually used was right – for the bread, that is. It was, unfortunately, way too much for the muffins. Grbl grbl.

So what was I making, anyway? I wondered. The answer, it seemed was, Who knows? Still, I’ve successfully substituted milk for water before in other concoctions with good results, so I figured, still not a problem.

Finally, just for the heck of it, I threw in a cup of cranberries. Why? Hey, I like cranberries! Seemed like a good idea at the time, anyway.

A Little Minor Detail

The next question was a little more fundamental: which cooking time was the correct one? See, muffins are supposed to bake about 18 minutes (when in muffin cups, of course), but for bread, it was a surprising 40 to 45 minutes! So again, the question of what the heck am I making seemed to be relevant. (I had visions of pulling a smoking, black brick out of the oven here.)

Unfortunately I had no ready answer: was I making cranberry pumpkin breaffins, or pumpkin-cranberry muffibread? Or something never before seen on the planet? Only Heaven knew, it seemed and – at least so far – they weren’t talkin’. (Probably just as mystified as I was.)

Since there was really no way to know, I decided to set the timer for 20 minutes, then just watch and test the dough until the result was done. I poured the mix into a bread pan, popped it into the oven, and set the timer. Whew! Never have I  had so much trouble baking a simple little treat!

Nevertheless, in spite the annoying speed bumps, I finally managed to get the job done. My spirits lifted as I silently contemplated the tasty result. And that’s when I noticed that pesky little detail. You see those two eggs there in the photo? Well, after poppin’ my bread in the oven, I turned around and, still sittin’ there on the counter were those two eggs!

Time stood still for a moment as I contemplated – very briefly – just letting it go. But no, I was determined to eat something delicious this morning, whatever the cost. So I pulled the pan out of the oven, dumped it all back into the bowl and tossed in the eggs (minus their shells, of course!)

Back in the oven it went and finally it was well and truly time to sit back and wait to see what happened. I mean, after everything that had gone wrong so far, I would have been happy to just be able to eat whatever came out of the oven, y’know?

The Oven Test

Well, 30 minutes passed, and it was rising nicely – but not done yet. 35 minutes, 40 minutes, 45 – still not yet; a clean knife driven through the heart of the loaf (reminiscent of that gruesome shower scene in the movie Psycho) still came out with uncooked dough on it. Either this thing was going to end up light and fluffy – or that smoking black brick I had visualized earlier, I wasn’t sure which.

Finally, after 49 minutes, I dragged it out of the oven and set it on the rack to cool. Hmmm. Well, although it looked almost overdone, still, it wasn’t too bad. I gotta say though; it smelled wonderful! Maybe there was hope for it after all.

Well, I won’t keep you in suspense; my Frankenstein concoction actually turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself! Despite the violence done to the original recipe, the bread turned out moist and full of that delicious, spicy pumpkin flavor. And the cranberries I tossed in added just that little something extra I’d hoped for. Even I was surprised at how well it turned out; particularly considering all the things that went wrong.

Ah well, all’s well that ends well, I always say!

What Making Pumpkin Bread Teaches Us About Life

But wait! After all this discombobulation, you may be wondering just what the heck did it all mean, anyway? Was there, in fact, a lesson or two to be learned from such a zany turn of events? I mean, is there anything life has to teach us when what is supposed to be a dead simple recipe gets twisted up and all topsy-turvey?

And the answer is (all together now): why yes there is! In fact, there are several things we can learn when our so-called well-laid plans don’t quite go as we expect:

1. Read the Directions! All right; chances are you probably thought of this one just as soon as you started reading this little adventure. Yup; I guess the best lessons are usually the most obvious, aren’t they? I must admit I didn’t read the directions first but started out throwing this and that into a bowl. Even a cursory look at the box and I would’ve seen the two different recipes, and maybe none of this would have happened. Oh, I suppose, like a politician, I could always blame the box for messin’ me up here. But not even the box would be fooled on that score, right?
2. Every ingredient has its function. Sometimes it ain’t so easy to tell exactly what a certain ingredient adds to the final result. Oh, most folks know eggs are necessary for almost any baked good – but do you know why? It sometimes helps to know that sort of thing, just in case something goes wrong, y’know? Makes it easier to fix. As in life, I might add. My advice: don’t just do things “because”; do them because you know why you’re doing them.
3. Be flexible. One of the arguably more valuable things I’ve learned from life is the fact that, even when if things go perfectly (Q: have they ever?), something almost always happens you didn’t expect. Yep; that’s life all right, and it’s a laugh a minute, I’ll tell ya! The best way to cope with that sort of thing, though, is to be flexible enough to work with whatever comes your way. Sometimes you’ll have to make a few quick changes, or even be prepared to modify your expectations a bit (like my decision to *sigh* finally give up on bein’ a Spaceman). Just remember this: the only thing that stands a chance of rescuing even the most screwed-up outcome may be your flexibility.
4. Don’t leave an important step out! OK, like I said, some lessons are obvious. But despite the temptation to forge ahead anyway, lemme just say this: If you did forget something, then it’s definitely worth the trouble to take a step back and put what’s missing back in! I mean, there’s no telling how this thing would have baked up without those two eggs in it – but I’m absolutely positive it wouldn’t have been edible. I’d have probably ended up with something along the lines of that pumpkin-cranberry flavored brick I mentioned earlier. Sure it was a hassle; but it was worth it. Sometimes you gotta go backwards in order to go forwards, y’know?
5. Don’t forget to learn something! I’ll tell ya one thing; I’m not gonna make this mistake again soon! This was supposed to be a simple, easy treat, but it turned into an aggravatin’, teeth-grinding, trial of errors! I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I was about fit to be tied when I noticed them eggs sittin’ there, starin’ at me. Probably laughing at me behind my back, too. Well Bubba, it won’t happen again! I’ve learned my lesson quite well, thank you very much: know the recipe, follow the plan. Simple it is, but let’s keep it simple, shall we?
6. Don’t forget to laugh about it later. Hey, when everything is said and done, the fact is, more is usually said than done. And if you can’t get a chuckle or two out of it (given time, of course), then what’s the point, I ask ya? No matter what happens, you’ve got to keep a sense of humor about you or all is lost, y’know? Besides, when you’re a writer like me, it just makes a good story! Just sayin’.

Well, there you have it, folks. How I learned a few valuable lessons when a seemingly simple task turned into a near-disaster (at least, for my taste buds, anyway). To quote that great American philosopher, Captain John “Hannibal” Smith from The A-Team: “I love it when a plan comes together!”

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You ever get the feeling someone, somewhere, is just waitin’ for an opportunity to make you look like an idiot?

Yep; been there, my friends. The worst part about it is, I find I’m often subconsciously working in cahoots with that mysterious stranger; handing ‘em all the ammunition they need. You ever felt like that? Naah; not you.

Anyhoo, today’s thought is just that: a thought about what happens when something completely unexpected happens.

Take, f’rinstance, this scene from The Lake House I saw on TV. I mean, I’m almost positive Sandra Bullock didn’t expect anyone to paste their obtrusive advertising message across her, um, nether regions like this. And just to make it even more ironic, it happened to be this particular message!

So what do you do when, right there in front of the whole world, the unexpected happens to you?

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Too Close For Comfort

Sometimes important lessons lurk in the most innocuous places, y’know?

Take a look at this photo, for instance. Don’t worry; no marauding alligators lurking in here this time! Nope, this time it’s just a… (sound of terrified scream) spice rack.

Let’s see… ya got your ground cinnamon, a large can of sea salt, one of those rectangular cans of nutmeg, a little tiny (yet somehow, ridiculously expensive) bottle of vanilla extract…

But here’s the deal. Right next to the ground cinnamon on the top rack there’s a bottle of chili powder. Anyone see the danger? I mean, it’s a bottle of cinnamon (ooh, sweet!) right next to an almost-identical bottle of (aack!) chili powder!

Can you say “catastrophe”?

They Say It’s the Thought That Counts

Let’s say, as a surprise for my beloved Mrs. MZM, I decided to make a nice, hot batch of chocolate-chip cookies. (Unfortunately, thanks to the diet we’re on, this is only an imaginary scenario. *sigh*) Now I ask you; what’s the absolute best thing to top a big ol’ plate of fresh-baked cookies? You guessed it – a light dusting of ground cinnamon! (I’m tellin’ ya, folks – even as I write this, my tummy is doin’ somersaults!)

But lemme ask ya: What if I were to accidentally grab the chili powder instead of the cinnamon? Hey, it’s not so far-fetched – they’re right there next to each other, y’know? Can you picture the potential for disaster?

An Evening Filled With Promise

Now, imagine the Mrs. and I are parked on the bear skin rug in front of the fireplace for a nice, romantic evening. (By the way, we don’t actually have a bear skin rug. But it makes a nice scene, don’cha think? Besides, I don’t think I could stand having the thing stare at me accusingly, y’know?)

Anyhoo – the lights are low; there’s a candle or two lit for ambiance. A couple of glasses of chilled sparkling water fizz quietly on the table, their gently rising bubbles catching the candlelight provocatively. The sweet sounds of gentle jazz on the sound system soothes the day’s stress away.

Now for a final surprise, I bring out my just-baked batch of cookies for that little extra “somethin’special”. Mrs. MZM’s eyes light up in delight at the unexpected treat. She smiles delightedly as she reaches for a still-warm golden delight and gently places it upon her tongue.

- then her eyes grow wide in shock as she begins to violently choke! Do ya think the accidental use of chili powder instead of cinnamon might, well, ruin the mood? Yup; pretty much like that iceberg sank the Titanic!

Pay Attention!

Anyhoo – my point is, there’s little surprises like this one all over the place. I mean, life if full of ‘em, y’know? So what’s a body to do? Hey, there’s actually a pretty simple solution: you just gotta pay attention.

How many times have you suddenly discovered you’ve been on autopilot for the last 10 minutes while your brain took a short holiday and wandered around on its own? It usually happens when you’re doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, like driving to work, or watching the weather. (Here’s a typical conversation at our house immediately after the weather forecast: “Dear, what did he say the weather was going to be like tomorrow?” “I don’t know, Honey, my mind wandered off for a minute and I missed it.”)

So consider this a friendly little reminder, y’all! Pay attention to the stuff around you – especially the small stuff! Hey, you never know when a seemingly insignificant detail could make a really, really BIG difference! Just sayin’.

What About YOU?

So when was the last time you narrowly avoided a disaster of epic proportions by noticing a seeming “small” detail? What was it, and how did you manage to catch yourself before something, um, undesired happened? Did you learn anything from it?

Enquiring minds want to know!

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I was in the grocery store the other day when, turning a corner, I was greeted by a stack of those big sacks of dog food. You know the ones, right? The kind Marmaduke the Great Dane would make a light snack of.

Anyway, take note of the brand name: Old Yeller.

Well, I don’t mind tellin’ ya folks; I was a mite taken aback!

Notice the brand name just above the word “Old”. My first thought was, those folks over at the Mouse Kingdom oughtta know better! I mean, doesn’t anybody remember: the dog died at the end!

Sheesh.

Anyhoo; it made me think about how brand names, no matter how appropriate – or ridiculous – come about.

Oh, sure; most likely there had to be some sort of testing done. ( I have this vision of a room full of dogs. The tester says, “Doggie Bits”, then counts the number of barks it generates. “OK, four. Now, how about ‘Old Yeller’? Aha; 10 barks! ‘Old Yeller it is!”)

Awright; maybe they were people instead of dogs. But I gotta wonder; did anyone in that group ever see the movie? Most likely, if they were from my generation they probably did. But younger folk may not have – and subsequently not know about the sad – and if you’re a kid, rather traumatic – ending.

Who would want to remember that every time they fed their faithful family pet? It’s kinda like sayin’, “Here ya go, Rufus; eat up, ’cause tomorrow you die!”

What about it? Anyone else thinkin’ the same way as me, or am I, er, barkin’ up the wrong tree? (Sorry.)

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Photo: Old Yeller Dog Food, by Robert Hruzek

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Have you ever heard this expression: “engraved in stone”? Generally speaking, it refers to something so sure, so predictable, it’s practically a foregone conclusion.

For example, it’s almost a sure thing that every time I drive by a certain well-known national chain ice cream parlor, I have to wrestle with the steering wheel on my car to keep the danged thing from pulling into their drive. Mrs. MZM would say that behavior is practically engraved in stone, y’know? (Alas, that’s a tough one to break; it’s, er, part of how I lost my *ahem* youthful figure – and ended up on this here diet!)

Anyhoo; the thing is, that behavior didn’t just happen overnight. Nope; I had to build it over time.

Building a Bad Habit

Back in 1985, when we first lived in Greenville, South Carolina, the road that took me from home to the office passed right by one of those aforementioned ice cream places. No big deal, you say? Well, this one had something we’d never seen at one of these things before: a drive-through window!

Alas, it was a recipe for disaster! (Well, I gotta admit, the inclination was already there.) All it took to cause me make a bat-turn in the middle of the road and slide up to the window, tires squealing like a stunt driver’s take a left instead of heading straight home after work was that extra little convenience.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the results began to show up on the ol’ waistline, y’know?

But that’s the way bad habits work, don’t they? It may be something subtle at first, but you know how it goes, right? Before too long, it’s become a habit and you’re hooked! The problem, as we all know, is that once formed, bad habits can be oh-so-hard to get rid of. That’s because the behavior that produced the habit has become ingrained in our life.

What to do? Well, the best way to avoid the problem is to keep the bad habit from forming in the first place, right? So how do you head those pesky little things off at the pass?

How To Avoid Bad Habits

Here’s a couple of tips you can try. You just have to, y’know, do ‘em.

Know Yourself – Probably the most important weapon in your arsenal is to know your own strengths. And while you’re at it, get to know your weaknesses, too. I  mean, if you don’t even like ice cream, then Bubba, you ain’t got no problem at all when the ol’ Ice Cream Angel calls your name, right? Alas, most of us don’t fall into that category, so consequently have to admit that particular temptation has legs. But as they say in practically every guide to problem-solving I’ve ever read, the first step to solving a problem – is admitting there’s a problem! That ol’ sayin’, “forewarned is forearmed” has never been more true!

Know Your  Goals – The thing is, when it comes to this particular brand of ice cream, well, let’s just say if one of my goals was to become the World’s “Biggest” Project Manager and get my name in the record books, then I was certainly on the right track! However, since it, um, wasn’t, then obviously it wasn’t gonna help, y’know? Most of the time, all it takes is just a little thought to realize what’s good for your goals – and what’s not. Then all you have to do is, y’know, do the right thing.

Know Your Decisions Ahead of Time – Here’s the best weapon of all, and trust me on this, it’s something we can all do. Knowing that ice cream parlor was there (and I was pretty much forced to drive by it every day) well, I had to make the decision to NOT turn in – before the place was even in sight. I know it sounds simple, and it is. But the fact is, decisions of this nature just naturally are so much easier when you’re not in the midst of the battle, so to speak. Just decide , right now, what you’re going to do. Then, when it comes time to actually do it, you’ll find it so much easier!

Are There More Ways?

So what about you guys? How do you avoid bad habits? I’ve only listed three things; there’s bound to be lots more. Leave your suggestions in the comment box and let’s all have a big belly laugh learn something!

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Photo: Engraved in Stone, by Robert Hruzek

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Have you ever tried to ignore trouble? Yeah, thought so. (No need to raise your hand; you know who you are.)

Doesn’t work, does it? Somehow, it has a way of finding you anyway.

Aruba, 1994

Back in the summer of 1994 I spent about 4 months working at a refinery in Aruba. (Yeah, yeah, I know; it’s a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.) Without going into a long, drawn-out explanation of just exactly how it happened, Mrs. MZM and I decided to rent a house instead of me staying in the company-supplied trailer.

Anyhoo; what you see in this photo is a view from our back porch, looking out toward the, uh, “lawn”. Now, in Aruba (which is essentially a desert island), water is incredibly expensive, so growing grass was pretty much out of the question unless you had the water budget of a large hotel. However, as you can see, we still had plenty of bushes and trees to liven up the place and give it that homey quality. Bananas, papayas, limes; it was a fruit-lover’s paradise, I’m tellin’ ya!

However, all wasn’t sweetness and light, mind you. One drawback to livin’ on a Caribbean island are the (ugh!) ever-present iguanas. Them critters are pretty much everywhere – especially around where people live. I remember once laying out my towel on the beach at the Marriott (anyone can use any beach; it’s a law), and having an attendant quickly run up and warn me against laying on the sand. Doing so, it seemed, would likely result in an iguana tiptoeing across my tummy! They highly recommended using one of the zillions of chaise lounges to elevate my body off the sand. Apparently, iguana claws can cause some serious cuts!

Like I said, iguanas were everywhere, and our backyard was no exception. But they weren’t the only animals wandering around. Oh, no! There are herds of wild burros wandering around, checking out the trashcans whenever they can. (In fact, heaven help you if you didn’t chain your trash can lids down on trash day. You’ll be wandering around for hours tryin’ to find ‘em otherwise, ’cause those sneaky burros know how to knock the lids off  of the cans. Then, of course, the wind’ll blow the lids down the street for blocks!) Oh, and not to mention scads of loose dogs and cats…

Trouble Approaches

One day, Mrs. MZM happened to observe this little drama playing out in the yard. If you look closely just to the left of center in the photo, you’ll notice that horizontal line there. It’s an iguana, about three feet long. And, just to the right of him, about three or four feet away, is a cat. Although it looks like he’s unaware of the approaching lizard, he was actually sorta watching the iguana approach out of the corner of his eye, while pretending he hadn’t a care in the world.

Now think about it for a moment, won’t you? Here’s this… well, living dinosaur approaching, and the cat sits there, pretending there’s no problem! I mean, I’ve always considered cats to be pretty smart critters, but maybe this particular cat really IS stupid, y’know?

So lemme ask ya: If that iguana and cat ever get together, who do you think will be the most likely winner of that particular battle of wills? Yup; my money’s on the lizard.

Plan Ahead!

Yep; trouble is like that. If you see it comin’, you’d best do something about it before it arrives. You know why? Because once trouble has dropped in, you’re likely gonna be a mite too busy to decide what to do then, y’know? Far better if you make your important decisions ahead of time.

Just sayin’.

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Photos:

Who’s Stalking Who, Anyway? by Robert Hruzek

Who’s Stalking Who, Anyway? Detail

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Can a tiny little bit of resentment really be all that bad? I mean, it’s so small, and that – well, let’s call it anger ’cause that’s what it really is – is just a lil’ tiny thing, ain’t it? Besides, sometimes holding a little anger in can be kinda delicious, can’t it?

But over the years I’ve come to realize that no matter how teeny tiny that anger starts out, it can still have an amazing grip on my heart. Here’s what I mean…

Lord of My Domain

There’s just something about owning your own home, you know? Please forgive me if I come across as all that, y’all. I dunno; maybe it’s a sortof “lord of your domain” kind of thing when you “own” a patch of God’s green Earth for yourself, y’know?

Anyhoo – I derive a certain satisfaction standing on my front porch, looking out over the small patch of land I owe so much money on own. Having performed this exercise more than a few times, I’ve gotten rather familiar with my own property. What’s more, it’s pretty easy to tell when there’s something not quite right. A disturbance in the force, perhaps? An object that didn’t belong?

Suddenly I spotted the offensive element – right at my feet! Oh, the horror! There in my front garden – right next to the walk where any visitor could see it – was a (sound of terrified scream) weed! Well, it really wasn’t all that big. In fact, it was only about 2 inches tall. But set against our dark brown mulch, the bright green leaves made it easy to see.

OK; now you’re probably thinkin’ to yourself, What the heck is the big deal? I mean, it’s only a weed, right? I mean, it’s not like it was a triffid or anything. And you’d be correct up to a point. After all, when you have a garden, finding a weed here and there is pretty much a given. (Find a triffid, on the other hand, and you’d better run for your life! Just sayin’.)

Anyway, I did what any self-respecting homeowner woulda done: I reached down to gently, er, rip the little booger outta the ground (you have to do it just right or you don’t get the roots out, you know), only to find… the darned thing wouldn’t budge! Harumph.

Now, that kinda surprised me, since this particular weed was so small. I mean, how deep could the roots be, anyway? And how strong? After all, I’m a big, giant man – and I’m ‘waaay stronger than any puny little ol’ weed! So I bent down, got a better grip on the weed’s stem, and started pulling, gently but firmly. With fairly steady pressure, it would eventually let go.

At first, nothing happened. Finally, I saw it slowly coming loose. The only thing was, a surprisingly large patch of the garden was coming up with it! My eyebrow lifted in a remarkable imitation of Mr. Spock, and I’m almost sure I heard the word, “Fascinating” in the whisper of the breeze.

Sheesh, I thought, what’s this thing wrapped around? Those dang roots must be down somewhere near China! I had visions of unearthing a misplaced treasure chest filled with lost pirate’s gold or something. And now I had to pull that out along with the offending weed.

Finally, I got it completely out of the ground, and was rewarded with my Catch of the Day: a two-inch weed attached to a big clump of dirt – and a four-inch piece of wood! I’m tellin’ ya; that weed wasn’t gonna give up without a fight!

Anyway, having come out the victor in this particular battle of wills, I sneered in my best Jimmy Cagney impression, “Nyah; thought ya had me, ya little weasel! But I showed ya who was boss here, didn’t I! Nyah!” (Hey, sometimes I gotta be my own entertainment.)

Needless to say, that little weed never stood a chance against someone as big as me (not that I’m, er, big, mind you!) But what surprised me was the way the roots of that little guy managed to get such a good grip on that piece of wood – not to mention the sizable clump of dirt it brought out with it.

The thing is, roots can be like that, can’t they? They work their way into the tiniest of crevices in dirt, rocks or whatever, and can be heck to completely get out. And wow, they can have quite the deathgrip, if you know what I mean.

The Root of Bitterness

There’s an interesting statement in the Bible (actually, it’s in Hebrews, chapter 12, verse 15, if you care to look it up) that uses a word-picture combination that has always stuck with me. Here’s the verse:

See to it that no one comes short of the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springing up causes trouble, and by it many be defiled…

… and the words of interest are right there in the middle: root of bitterness.

What’s a root of bitterness, you may ask? Well, it’s a fair question. A root of bitterness is what the writer of Hebrews calls that little, angry, resentful feeling you get when you don’t like bein’ disciplined for your own good.

Remember when you were a little kid, and you did something stupid, or wrong, or mean? Chances are good that your parents, or your teacher (or hopefully someone appropriate) laid some discipline on ya, right? It happens all the time, even when we’re grown up, too.

Everywhere we turn, life, the universe, and everything tends to discipline us when we do stuff that’s out of line, doesn’t it? Oh, it might not be right away. I mean, you may think you’re getting away with it. But I’m tellin’ ya; sooner or later, she all comes home to roost, if you get my meanin’.

Here’s where the rubber meets the road, though. If you’re still teachable (hopefully that includes you!), then that discipline actually serves to make you a better person. But if you’re not… well, you may just end up a bitter, angry person. Hey, you know it’s true, right?

I find the choice of those particular words “root of bitterness” fascinating, don’t you? It describes perfectly what’s happening down inside your heart. Even the tiniest bit of anger, just like that tiny little weed, can get quite a grip on the fabric of your soul. Once there, it can be pretty tough to root out, y’know?

What to do? Well, it’s pretty simple, really. Just deal with whatever the situation is that caused the anger. And whatever you do – don’t  let it fester or it’ll get worse! Roots have a way of growin’ deep when you ignore ‘em. I’m just sayin.

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Photo: Tiny weed, by bishib70

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[Note from the Proprietor: In addition to being my entry for this month's What I Learned From... groupwrite project, today's post was also prompted by an interview I had the other day with my favorite journalist (and, in fact, the only one I know personally), Anita Bruzzese. I was featured in an article Anita wrote for the Salt Lake Tribune. Tip o' the hat, Anita! I'm lookin' forward to my 15 seconds of fame. Although... come to think of it, I'd rather be remembered for something wonderful instead of, y'know, this!]

Hey, if you’re like me (sound of terrified screaming), you’ve had your share of embarrassing moments. Or even worse, maybe some outright shameful ones – y’know, the ones you’d rather not ever see the light of day again, right?

Ah, but what are such episodes in one’s life without (c’mon, say it with me, y’all) lessons learned? For instance…

My First Real Job

‘Waay back in 1974, I got my first real job working as a draftsman in a large engineering firm here in Houston.

[Further note from the Proprietor: By "real", I mean a job other than slingin' ice cream at the local Dairy Doodle, or takin' tickets (or pouring sodas) at the Funtastic 4 multi-cinema. Not that there's anything wrong with those - or any job - mind you; but let's face it, how many folks expect to choose those occupations as a lifetime career? Not many! (And a big ol' hat tip to those who do!)]

Anyway, it was my first experience with “9-to-5″ type employment, y’know? With all of my previous jobs, bein’ the sort of jobs they were, the working hours tended to be somewhat variable, if you get my meanin’. But this time, I was finally up there with the adults! It was a heady feeling, I’ll tell ya!

Unlike the current economic climate (where jobs are a mite harder to come by), back then, most firms were hirin’ to beat the band, and there simply weren’t enough bodies to go around. So although I didn’t know it (bein’ my first real job and all), it was really a great time to get into the business. Lucky for me, as it turned out.

9 to 5? (sound of laughing)

The horsefly in the pudding, as far as I was concerned, was the fact that my imagined “9-to-5″ working hours actually started at 7 AM – in the morning! (sound of groaning) Yeesh, can you believe it? I mean, who in their right mind was up at that ungodly hour of the day, anyway?

That’s when I discovered the Ugly Truth about the engineering biz: here in the Central Time Zone (of the U.S.), they ALL started work at 7 am. BUT (and that’s a BIG ‘but’) over in the Eastern Time Zone, they started at 8 am. That way, companies with offices in both time zones could work the “same” hours. (Man, who knew? I immediately started plotting to move East.)

Now, having just recently abandoned college life (where I did my best to avoid classes before 10 am), I have to admit, getting up around 5 am, driving to work, and showing up bright and shiny at 7 am was just downright ridiculous! In fact, during my first three months at the new job, I got to work late more often than I care to count. It was a tough adjustment, I’ll tell ya, and I was, um, less than enthusiastic about it, to say the least.

The thing is, I really didn’t see anything all that wrong with showin’ up a little late every now and then, y’know? I mean after all, I showed up, did my work, and otherwise earned my keep. Hey, I felt like they should have been happy with that, at least!

Gimmie a Break!

Question: Have you ever felt like maybe the world owed you a break? Yup; thought so. Don’t worry; you’re not alone. I think we all go through this stage at some time or another. The smart ones grow out of it. (The rest grow up on welfare. Or sumpin’. Just sayin’.)

The thing was, all during those first three months (and totally missed by oblivious little ol’ me) was the fact that someone really was payin’ attention to all those late morning arrivals. And when it came time for my first job performance review (sound of really terrified scream), well Bubba, those bad habits kinda sorta all came home to roost, if you get my meanin’.

See, because business was so strong at that time, raises were pretty regular things. And it wasn’t unusual for an new employee’s first raise to be a real humdinger, y’know? I’d heard that some were getting as much as 40-50% increases for their first raise (really!), and I was expecting good things.

So, when my boss and I sat down in that little room to talk things over, I wasn’t too concerned. I remember thinkin’ something along the lines of, Hey, it’s only a review, right? Who cares what they thought about me? Just show me the money, Bubba!

Well… I think you can see where this is goin’, right? As you may have surmised by now, I was in for a rather rude awakening!

Time to Face the Music

As my boss worked his way through the review (hey, who decided to call these things “reviews”, anyway? They’re more like Judgments From Above!), I suddenly realized all was not as peachy-keen as I had so blithely thought. In fact, as he proceeded to point out all the late mornings and “slow starts”, it was startin’ to sound kinda, well, dire, if you follow me.

In fact, it almost sounded like… well, the prelude to getting fired!

Yikes! Suddenly, memories of all those times I hit the “snooze” button on the alarm clock that “one more time” hit me smack-dab between the eyes. I’d just had my first encounter with Real Life, and I’m tellin’ ya folks; I didn’t like it one bit! No sirree!

The kicker was when he showed me how much of a raise I had coming. (Just shows how badly they needed people – they actually didn’t fire me!) How much was it, you ask? Well, lemme get ya a cup of coffee first. (sound of pouring cup) Now, about that raise… actually, that coffee was the raise! Seriously; after taxes, what was left was not quite equivalent to a cup of coffee a day!

Three Hard Truths about the World of Work

As I walked staggered back to my desk, for the first time in my young, inexperienced existence I realized several hard truths about Real Life and the World of Work, among which are:

I Was Being Watched – Yep; I found out the hard way. Everyone in the firm is probably watching you, all the time. It’s far too easy to think those “little things” (whatever they are) will either be missed, get overlooked, or don’t really matter. But in fact, they can add up to quite a large “thing”, if you get my meanin’. These days, you can’t afford to slack off a bit; unfortunately, when the firm you’re workin’ for is lookin’ for reasons to let someone go, they’ll all come out in the wash – and then where will the leg you were attempting to stand on be? Somewhere outside the front door, no doubt.

I Had to Police Myself – I admit; this shoulda come as a “no-brainer”! (And by that I don’t mean one with no brain!) When you get right down to it, the one responsible for your actions is that person starin’ right back at ya in the mirror each morning. Not your boss, or your mother, or your spouse, best friend, or mentor, either. Nope; only you are responsible for you. So suck it up and do the things you know you’re supposed to be doin’! It’s that simple. Besides, as unpleasant as it may be to face the truth and straighten yourself out, it’s far better than havin’ someone else do it for you! Trust me.

I Had to Choose – It was a sobering fact, but after thinking about what I’d just been through, I realized something very important. The company didn’t want to fire me! (That actually costs them money.) Before I was ready to jump for joy at that revelation, though, I carried the thought a bit further. Suddenly I understood: they were sorta “encouraging” me to leave the company on my own. So it was time to choose: make a change – or move on.

Y’know, if all goes well, there comes a time in everyone’s life when they truly realize what they get out of life is a direct result of what they put into it. Oh, sure; it can be a pretty rough lesson on occasion. But it’s all the more rewarding for havin’ learned it, I’ll tell ya! And as for me – well, this was that moment.

The Choice

I knew I had a choice – the easy way or the hard way: to relax, accept a mediocre lifestyle, and go find somewhere else to play – or straighten up my act and become the person I needed to be. It was a simple, clear choice, and I had no illusions; it had to be made!

OK, by now you’re wonderin’ which way did ya go, right? Well, wonder no more: I chose the hard way.

Yep; I actually knuckled down and started showing up for work on time, every day. I did my work with renewed vigor and interest, learning as much as I could, from whoever I could find to teach it.

And never again did I assume anything about how the boss perceived my performance! I learned to ask for feedback at critical junctures, such as when completing an assignment or meeting a deadline. In fact, I finally began to act like a valuable employee.

All that work paid off, too. By the time the next review rolled around, I actually got the raise I should have had the first time – had I,um, deserved it, of course. And it’s a lesson that’s stayed with me for a long, long time; I daresay it’s even become a lifestyle.

The truth is, I’d really rather forget about this particular incident. But hey, sometimes ya just gotta own up, y’know? (Well; let’s scratch that word “sometimes” and put in “always”, OK?) Besides, I learned a powerful lesson I’ll never forget. And hey, ain’t that the best kind?

Spotlight On… YOU!

So what about you? Have you ever learned something from an embarrassing, shameful moment that frankly, you’d just as soon forget ever happened? You don’t necessarily have to give details (not like me, anyway!) but if it’s something you think we can all learn from, then dare to share, why don’cha?

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[Even further note from the proprietor: I'd like to send some appreciation Anita's way for using my story in her article, so to speak. Y'all do me a favor won't you? Would ya drop by and read Anita's article in the Salt Lake Tribune? And send your friends there, too! They'll see the incoming visits. Hey, a tip o' the hat to ya!]

[And yet another note from the proprietor: As I mentioned at the top there, this is my entry for this month's What I Learned From... groupwrite project. It's still open for entries, and we'd love to have you join us. Just follow this link and read all about it! We're accepting entries through Sunday night, July 12. Just sayin'.]

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Have you ever been flying? Well I have!

And not just in airliners; I’ve had an adventure or two while taking flying lessons in a small plane a while back (see Fear of Flying). Besides, that’s not that big a deal, right? Lots of folks have floated above ol’ Terra Firma in everything from hot air balloons to spacecraft

But I’m not talking about flying in an airplane - or actually, a flying machine of any kind. No, I actually learned to fly ‘waaaay sooner than that! In fact, I was still just a kid.

The Summer

To be honest, I really can’t remember how old I was at the time; seems like I must have been somewhere around 10 or 11; maybe as old as 12. Back then, we lived in the town of Bellaire, one of the many small cities that exist like a seed within an orange, completely inside the boundaries of the huge city of Houston, Texas.

Anyway, this was during the summer, when kids of all ages spend their summer vacations just doin’… well, in my case, a whole lotta nuthin’. But it was a fun lotta nuthin’, that’s for sure, especially with the herd of boys I ran around with.

Lessee now… what did we do, anyway? Well, we hung out in the big, empty, corner lot down the street, where, among other things, we built several big wooden platforms high up in the boughs of the largest trees. (Mine was always the highest one because at the time I was the ‘lightest’ kid. Not necessarily the smallest one; just think: very, very thin.)

We also discovered how to make and use an old-world sling (slingshot) like David (of David and Goliath fame). I’m tellin’ ya; it was astonishing how far a rock would go with one of those things! One kid accidentally (no, really!) knocked out a school window over a hundred yards away. Who knew it would go that far! (He ‘fessed up, though. It was one of those times when, even though it got him into trouble, the truth was so spectacular he had to tell it.)

Oh, and I’ll never forget an afternoon spent playing “base-bee”. It’s sorta like baseball, except… well, here’s how it worked. You find a big, blooming wisteria bush and position yourself about 30 feet away. Then you entice bumblebees to fly at you by throwing big rocks into the bush. A bee would note the direction the rock came from (how they did that was anybody’s guess) and immediately come flyin’ out, right towards you. Meantime, you’re holding a board (sorta like a cricket bat), and, at the last minute, you neatly sidestep the oncoming bee and whap! The poor hapless bee would go flyin’ away like a home run knocked outta the park! (Oh, did I mention I was both young – and stupid?)

And then there was the aforementioned Day I Went Flying.

The Hill

One of our favorite activities (when we got tired of doing the above) was go exploring on our bicycles. Hey, if I could add it up now, I bet we rode our bikes for thousands of miles! Seriously. So when the mood struck us, we’d travel far and wide without hesitation – or at least as far and wide as a pre-teen kid could, anyway.

Now, this was back in the days when Houston was building some of the first major freeways around town, including what is now the Loop 610 and I- 59 intersection. (It’s one of the busiest freeway interchanges in Houston these days, but I was there when it was first bein’ built.)

Naturally, in order to build the overpasses necessary for such a major interchange, they needed lots of, well, giant piles of dirt. And, as we all know, giant piles of dirt – hills, really – had the power to attract small boys with about the same inevitability with which Anakin Skywalker was attracted to the Dark Side.

Anyhoo, on this particular day, the most enterprising of our number expressed the following thought out loud: “Gee, I wonder how fast you would go if you rode a bicycle down the side of one of those hills? Wow, it would be kinda like riding down the Hill of Doom!”

Instantly, the whole herd of us became embroiled in a lively debate on the relative merits of such a stupendous idea. The phrase, “Wow, that would be fantastic!” was heard, along with various other, less enthusiastic responses, such as “You’d be goin’ a million miles an hour at least!”, “I don’t think it would work,” or “You wouldn’t get me to do it!”

By the time the dust settled, though, I think the general consensus settled into something along the lines of, “You’d probably kill yourself, you idiot!”

The Dare

As you know, in any random group of folks there’s bound to be someone who fits the category of “will do anything on a dare”, right? Alas, it’s also true that groups of kids tend to have a somewhat larger than average share of ‘em. (Probably because they haven’t lived long enough to fear spending the rest of their days in a wheelchair.)

So, as we looked around at each other, wonderin’ who would be the first to actually do it, our eyes turned towards the oldest one of us to blaze the trail. (I had secretly sworn to myself that it would most certainly not be me!) You had to admire him, though; pushed into a corner and realizing the inevitability of the situation, he bravely accepted the challenge – if not wholeheartedly, then at least willingly. (Besides, there’s no pressure like peer pressure, is there?)

The rest of us arrayed ourselves at the bottom, each silently making bets as to whether or not he’d survive the ordeal. We watched as he laboriously climbed up the hill, pushing his bicycle all the way. (Have you ever tried to walk up one of those things? They’re really steep!) Finally, he reached the top. He took a few minutes to regain his breath, then settled himself firmly onto the seat. Time seemed to stand still as he stood poised at the brink of the precipice. We held our collective breath as he leaned forward…

It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen in my entire young life!

The Plunge

He quickly gathered speed – literally flying down the hill like a lightning bolt and hangin’ on for dear life. I don’t remember if he screamed or not (he was probably too terrified to do anything but hold on), but I can tell you for sure the rest of us were enthusiastically shouting for all we were worth!

After zinging by us like a rocket sled on steroids, he finally managed to slow down and turn around. Pedaling back our way, he took a well-deserved victory turn around our little band of brothers like the champion he was that day. It was stupendous! It was amazing! I’m tellin’ ya; it was the best day ever!

Once the celebration died down, though, the discussion got down to who was going to be next. Some kids absolutely refused to do it at all. But for some strange reason, I found myself volunteering for the job. I truly don’t exactly know why I decided to try it (believe me when I tell you I wasn’t the most daring of souls – then or now), but I soon found myself up there at the top of the hill.

It’s amazing how looking up a certain distance never seems as far as looking down the same distance. Although it didn’t seem quite so far when I was at the bottom of the hill, the view from up at the top looked like it was about a million miles down. From this height I could see all my friends arrayed like little ants – no, wait; those were ants – but my friends appeared really, really small as well.

Yeesh, what had I gotten myself into? I mentally promised never to volunteer for anything, ever again. (Who knows, maybe that’s why I never joined the Army.)

The Choice

Standing up there, facing impending doom and practically certain I was about to breathe my last, I realized there were only three – no, only four possible outcomes.

1. I could choose NOT to do it. Yep; I could have just said the heck with it (when I was a kid, heck was the absolute worst word I could think to use in these situations) and walked back down the hill, to the inevitable catcalls and razzing of the other boys – from then until the end of time. It was a tough choice; on the one hand, I’d probably never live the ignoble episode down. On the other hand, at least I’d be, y’know, alive.
2. I could ride down the hill, killing myself in the process. Yeah, it was pretty easy to imagine all sorts of dire things happening on my way down the mountain: the wheel could fall off, my seat could come loose, I could get a foot caught in the chain… with the inevitable result: I’d tumble off the bicycle and roll endlessly downhill, to wind up a horribly mangled pile of pulp. (Imagination is easy to a kid, you know.) Oh, well, at least they would be able to talk about how brave I was there at the funeral. Small consolation, that.
3. I could ride down the hill and live to tell the tale. Way down there near the bottom of my mental list of possible – no, better make that probable – outcomes, there was the slightest chance I could actually do this thing. I’ll tell ya; I had to squint pretty hard to see it, but there it was. I knew if I could do this, I’d really have something to talk about among my peers. I could visualize myself, a giant among men (or at least, boys), one who could always point to this incident and say, “No, I’m not going to wrestle that giant man-eating cobra, saving that gorgeous babe in the process and earning her everlasting appreciation – but at least I rode down that hill on my bicycle back when we were kids!” To which they would always have to shuffle their feet in remembered shame because they, y’know, didn’t.
4. I could be killed by a falling meteor. I know, I know. Besides, even a billion-to-one chance was at least a chance, right? At least I’d go out in a blaze of glory.

Anyway, since I obviously lived to relate this sordid tale, then neither #2 or #4 happened. So which option did I choose, you ask? Well, it’s like this…

The Flight

Yessir, ladies and gentlemen, I actually did muster up what little courage I had and (sound of terrified scream) down the hill I went! I must’ve broken the sound barrier within moments, the wind howling so loud past my ears I couldn’t hear a thing. The pedals spun around so fast they became invisible, and I had to just lift my feet up, gripping the bicycle with only my hands and my, er, butt cheeks. (You’d be surprised how effective that can be – particularly when your butt’s continued existence depended upon it!)

I was at the bottom within a matter of seconds (perhaps six, or maybe seven at most), and microseconds before I got there, I realized something important. The one thing I hadn’t thought about was that sudden transition from down to horizontal. It looked… well, kinda abrupt, if you get my meanin’. I mean, there were probably a few places I could have selected that had a somewhat smoother curve to ‘em, but if so, well, the spot I was gonna hit wasn’t one of ‘em!

No, in my case the bicycle (and, of course, me too) changed direction so fast it compressed my whole body down onto the bicycle seat far enough to flatten the seat’s springs. (Good thing it had a thick metal plate in it; things might’ve been pretty unpleasant otherwise!)

Now, you’re probably familiar enough with the expression, “what goes up, must come down”, right? Well, my friends; I can tell you – and from personal experience, yet  – the opposite is also true: “what goes down, must come up”!

Yep; when all that downward energy was released, it literally catapulted my body upward in such a way that I suddenly became airborne! Luckily (and probably the only reason I’m still able to talk about it today), I barely – just barely, mind you – managed to hang onto the handlebars.

The surprising result was that, instead of completely wiping out, for a spectacular few seconds I executed a rather incredible handstand over the handlebars as I zinged past my stunned audience. Then, in a Grand Finale performance worthy of Cirque du Soleil, my butt neatly plopped right back down on the bicycle seat! It happened so quickly – and smoothly – it was as if I’d planned the whole thing all along. I’ll tell ya; there’s no doubt in my mind my Guardian Angel was workin’ overtime that day!

Folks, that was one of the most frightening – and exhilarating – events of my life (and that includes the time I accidentally answered a, uh, former girlfriend’s question, “Do these pants make me look fat?”) I’m almost sure my heart stopped beating as soon as I left the top of the hill. I’m positive I didn’t take another breath until I was able to start braking down to a speed that was something less than insane.

The Challenge

So what does careening uncontrollably down the Hill of Doom on a bicycle – nearly meeting my Maker in the process – have to do with life, anyway? Well, it’s sorta like this.

There’s no doubt about it, y’all. These days, folks all over are facing things they’ve never had to face before. It’s like they’re tearing along in one direction, then – maybe even through no plan or fault of their own – they suddenly changed direction and found themselves launched headlong into space! What’s more, they’re so busy lookin’ for a soft place to land, they haven’t even got time to figure out what to do.

I’ll tell ya, friends; I’ve been there more times than I want to remember!

So here’s your Questions for the Day:

What do you do when you inadvertently go flyin’ into the wild blue yonder? What can you do? How do you handle it when something comes along that literally takes the planet right out from under you? Can you truly prepare for the unknowable?

C’mon, what do you think?

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Photo: untitled, by Jon Hanson

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I’ll tell ya; I was watching the national (U.S.) news last week, and I couldn’t help but stare in awestruck wonder (sorta like the same way you just can’t tear your eyes away from a train wreck) by the absolutely ridiculous linguistic gyrations being paraded out for us by a supposedly smart woman. Now c’mon, y’all; wasn’t that the most insultingly convoluted attempt at circumlocution you’ve ever seen? (It’s funny how dangerous things always travel in packs, ain’t it? Lessee… there’s a pack of wolves, a pack of cigarettes… oh, and a pack of lies..)

Why is it, I wondered, when we do something dumb, the very first impulse always seems to be something along the lines of ‘at all costs, avoid responsibility and deny everything’?

But forget about U.S. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (who has now managed to usurp Bill Clinton’s spot as the poster child for that sort of thing) and the big, giant pickle she’s gotten herself into, I actually asked that question because of something that happened to yours truly the other day.

In fact, the reason this subject comes up at all is, well, I guess the best thing is to go ahead and confess to it right up front: My name is Robert, and I’m a (sound of anguished scream) cookie-killer. Go ahead, bring on the handcuffs; I’ll go quietly, officer.

See, it was like this…

It’s Snackin’ Time!

The other evening, Mrs. MZM and I were winding down from a rather strenuous day of… well, whatever the heck we do all day. Now, we’d just snuggled into our favorite spot on the couch when she looked up at me and said “Want something?”

I knew what she meant, of course. After all, when you’ve been married for 27 years, spending that much time together means at least some of our conversations have been honed down to a nub, if you get my meanin’. My stomach, knowing exactly what she meant, immediately perked up and gronked in reply.

After a brief discussion of the options (no need to repeat it here; our brand of shortspeak probably wouldn’t make all that much sense to you anyway) the judge’s decision, by a considerable margin, was: cookies!

Now don’t get me wrong, y’all; “having” cookies around our house ain’t that easy! I mean, it’s not like our pantry is loaded up with the things. And we’ve never been a big fan of those store-bought packages, either – none of those pre-baked, vacuum-bagged pretenders for us! (Mrs. MZM requires me to mention one exception: Girl Scout Thin Mints.)

Nope; around our house, when thoughts turn to cookies, we have to actually, y’know, bake ‘em ourselves. Well, to be honest – something we always strive for here at the Zone – we use those pre-made cookie dough things you keep in the fridge and just pop on a cookie sheet. Hey, we’re not total purists around here; too much work.

Anyhoo – hey, we have cookie-preparation down to a science around here: preheat the oven, carefully place the little doughballs (chocolate chip for the Mrs., and Oatmeal Raisin for me – both enhanced with a touch of cinnamon) on a cookie sheet, pop ‘em in the oven, set the timer, and… wait.

(That last is always the hardest part, isn’t it? The delicious smell of cinnamon quickly grows so powerful, by the time they’re actually ready to eat you’re practically gnawing on the furniture.)

The Call of the Wild (Cookie, that is)

Finally (!) that little timer thing on the oven lets off with it’s characteristic (and by the way, quite annoying) electronic signal. C’mon, admit it – it’s sorta like the Call of the Wild, ain’t it? And just like Pavlov’s dogs, at the sound of the tone my mouth instantly began watering in anticipation as I catapulted outta the couch like I was launched from an aircraft carrier calmly stood up and went to the kitchen to retrieve our little golden delights (surreptitiously smoothing over those unsightly chew marks on the sofa).

Here’s where the crucial event occurs. (Better gird your loins for this, folks; it ain’t pretty.)

I picked up a hot pad, opened the oven door (while inhaling the sweet, delicious aroma of hot, fresh-baked cookies – YUM!), grabbed a corner of the piping hot cookie sheet, pulled ‘em out of the oven, and proceeded to dump the whole shebang – cookie-side down, mind you – smack dab on the floor!

WHAP!

The sharp metallic sound of metal on tile reverberated around the kitchen for a few moments, then… a stunned silence filled the void. (Insert moment of stunned silence here.)

Yeah, I know; you’re probably as shocked I was at this appalling turn of events. I’m tellin’ ya; my heart just about stopped! It was an absolute travesty. It was criminal. It was… like in that movie The Day the Earth Stood Still, when the Earth, y’know, stood still. I half expected to look up and see ol’ Gort shaking his big, metallic head in dismay as he prepared to laser me into oblivion.

After about 5 seconds of this, Mrs. MZM’s voice wafted gently in from the other room, an ominous tone clearly detectable: “Did what I think happen – just happen?”

Uh-oh.

My panicky brain started to flounder as the connection between it and my tongue momentarily broke down. For a few seconds, the recurring phrase sense of impending doom was the only thing that circled through my poor befuddled mind. The flight reflex instinctively rose from its deep, dark lair, while sweat began to bead upon my troubled brow.

To top it off – and I kid you not – I distinctly remember thinking, Now, how can I plausibly claim, ‘It’s not my fault’?

Time to Pay the Piper

OK, rhetorical question here (which does not mean something Rhett Butler would have asked):

Have you ever done something stupid? Oh, I’m not just talkin’ about murdering a tray of poor, defenseless cookies; I mean, have you ever done something dumb and then immediately thought to yourself, Now how on Earth could I have ever done such a bone-headed thing?

No; no need to raise your hand or anything. I’d say the chance of anyone NOT pulling a boner at least once in their lifetime is roughly on the order of, well, that of ol’ Adam and Eve convincing God it “wasn’t them” who took the apple off that Tree of Life . After all, who else could it have been, y’know?

But what surprised me most was that little reflex thought that scampered through my brain. In spite of the clear and undisputable facts, right? I mean, there was no way I could deny that it was, y’know, my fault. The evidence, after all, was right there on the floor for all to see. (OK, it was just me and Mrs. MZM – and no, there is no, er, surviving photographic evidence.) There was absolutely no way to credibly deny it was me, and me only, that did the low-down dirty deed.

So what did I do? Well, own up, of course! Hey, I just never quite got a good grip on the edge of the cookie sheet as I lifted it out of the oven, with the inevitable result. End of story.

Almost.

The Rest of the Story

OK, by now you’re probably wondering if I’ve been sent up the river to do hard time by a jury of my peers, and I’m writin’ this post with a little tiny stub of a No.2 pencil on a long sheet of toilet paper smuggled into my dingy cell. So what sentence, you’re sayin’ to yourself, did Mrs. MZM throw at you for ruining a perfectly good snack?

Actually, she was remarkably cool and collected about the whole thing. (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: What a woman!) In fact, after collecting the bodies of the dear departed and sharing a moment of silence (not to mention a tear or two), she even helped me clean up the mess. Later, humor – and practicality – won out, of course: we immediately baked another batch.

This time, I offered to let her retrieve ‘em from the oven, but she just shook her beautiful head and smiled. “Ya gotta get back on that horse,” she said with a smile – and a hint of steel.

But I have to say, it was a remarkably interesting lesson. And if – no, make that when – you do something like I did – something that just ain’t right – c’mon, just admit it and move on! I mean, how hard a lesson can it be, right? It’s a simple one, to be sure; easy to say, too. And after all, you’d think anyone with even an ounce of sense woulda figured that out before the age of five.

But I’ll tell ya; every time I watch the news these days, it becomes obvious there are some folks – folks who definitely should know better – that just don’t seem to get it. The truth is, they ain’t foolin’ nobody.

All I can add is, don’t you choose to be like that. I’m just sayin’.

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Hey, quick question: Considering the economic climate we’re probably going to face over the next several years, what would you say is the one key ability we all need more than anything else?

To my mind (which admittedly is a very strange and interesting place), the one key ability you’re lookin’ for is the ability to be, at all times, alert. (Besides, the world needs more lerts, right? Bwa-ha-ha-ha! Er, sorry.)

Alert for what, you ask? Hey, I’m glad you asked! It’s because you never know when opportunity is gonna, y’know, knock.

OK, got it? Alert. Yup… always stay… y’know, alert.

Why Does the Chicken Cross the Road?

During my year in Aruba, there was this spot we frequently, er, frequented. (Humph; my spell checker says that’s actually a word – so who am I to argue?)

Anyway, it’s a sortof combination shopping mall/restaurant row in downtown Orangestad (Aruba’s Capital). It also happens to be one of the busier tourist areas of the island. The thing is, the best parking for that center also happens to be on the other side of the busiest street on the island.

Unfortunately, crossing this particular street during “rush” hours (well, as rushed as things gets in Aruba, anyway) is a difficult proposition at best. That’s because the traffic consists of a more-or-less continuous stream of cars at any time of day or night, filled with both commuters and tourists (along with the occasional gecko or two).

Luckily (or due to good planning – hard to believe, but you never know), there’s an actual pedestrian crosswalk with one of these familiar “walk/don’t walk” signs, similar to the one pictured here. Thus, when you want to cross the street, you simply push the button, wait a minute or two – and when that odd-lookin’ little man with no hands or feet lights up – ya cross the street.

Easy as pie! (But then again, how easy is pie, anyway?)

Now, with that kind of a straightforward, clearly defined, and easy to execute procedure available for getting’ across a road, hey, you’d think even a chicken someone as clueless ever-vigilant as yours truly would have, y’know, no problemo, right?

No Problemo!

Lemme just start off by sayin’… it’s not my fault! Honest! See, there were extenuating circumstances…

First of all, workin’ in the engineering business as I do, the concern for one’s personal safety – both on AND off the job – is absolutely paramount. (That’s no joke, y’all; it’s an extremely serious and sensitive issue.) That means when in a plant environment, we have to pretty much live and breathe safety or things could turn, well, dicey rather quickly, if you get my meanin’.

Therefore, one of the primary things you learn in an industrial environment is Bubba, ya better watch where you put your feet! And for most of us in the biz, that sorta thinking is pretty much ingrained, y’know? So naturally, I tend to keep at least one eye on the ground when I’m walkin’ in unfamiliar territory. Gotta watch for debris, holes, and in Aruba’s case, little (and occasionally, BIG) scaly critters and stuff, y’know.

Another important detail is the fact that in Aruba, it’s always a windy day! And believe me, the winds are pretty much non-stop. That’s cause bein’ that close to the Equator (about 8º N Latitude) means the island is subject to what sailors call the Trade winds.

Now, because of that – and this is crucial – I couldn’t wear my trademark cowboy hat. (If I had, it would no doubt have ended up in Venezuela.) And so (yes, I finally got around to makin’ my point) I had to settle for a regular ol’ baseball cap instead. I know, I know; sad, but true.

And as the final piece in this particular tale – see, there was this, um, hole…

The Challenge

As I crossed the street, ol’ eagle-eyes here noticed that right there, right where the painted crosswalk ended and where the support pole for that crossing sign was, there was a big giant hole, right there in the sidewalk! Yikes!

Sure enough, my safety-aware brain immediately lasered right in on that sucker like a guided missile. I said to myself, Now that’s an accident waiting to happen! I could easily imagine some poor unsuspecting shlub tourist, paying little or no attention to where he was going, and stepping right into it. Possibly even spraining an ankle – or worse.

Anyway, as my highly-trained mind began to plot alternate routes around the danger, it immediately presented me with two alternatives: Option one: I could step to the right of the hole. Or option two: step to the left. Simple, huh? (Honestly, sometimes the solution can be that simple! He said.)

But my brain didn’t stop there! Oh, nooooo – that would have been ‘waaaay too easy! Instead, that big ol’ gelatinous mass of little grey cells up there under the hat forged rapidly ahead, quickly evaluating the available choices.

Choose Wisely

First up, option #1 – stepping to the right. A survey of the area quickly revealed this path would add several extra steps to my journey (hey, it was a big hole). Near panic ensued. Good heavens! Extra expenditure of energy? Based upon that analysis, this was, um, a less than optimum choice, to say the least.

Now on to option #2 – stepping to the left. At first blush, this path also seemed a bit hazardous, because it would force me to come a bit closer to the light pole (the one the aforementioned pedestrian crossing sign was mounted on). But still, there appeared to be adequate space between pole and hole. I decided I could easily navigate that without too much trouble. And besides (he said, blithely), anyone can dodge a pole, right?

Anyhoo – after extensively evaluating the two alternatives (all this happened within milliseconds, mind you), I made my decision (sound of a slot machine hitting three-of-a-kind) and chose option #2.

Forge Ahead

Now, having settled upon a viable plan, I adjusted my path slightly so it would take me between the pole and the hole. (Gee, that sounds almost poetic, doesn’t it?) I kept one eye focused on the dangerous obstruction, while still keeping the other eye on traffic, passing pedestrians, and the occasional seagull surprise (after all, the Caribbean was just 50 feet away).

Approaching the curb, I made sure my footing was sound, stepping up lightly (well, as lightly as I can, anyway) and placed my left foot precisely where it needed to be – exactly equidistant between the pole and the hole (it’s starting to flow trippingly off the tongue now, isn’t it?) Everything was going exactly according to plan.

Along about now you’re probably thinkin’ to yourself, “I’m tellin’ ya; there’s got to be some fly in this here soup! Nothin’ this Bubba does ever goes that smoothly!”

School of (Resoundingly) Hard Knocks

Alas… you’d be right. Lemme just say that, in my lifelong quest to live up to the motto: Always Avoid Personal Responsibility, I blame the baseball cap.

See, just as I set my foot down in the proper spot, and because my head was looking down, and because I was wearing that baseball cap, and because of that annoying bill on the front of said hat that, y’know, mostly blocks the view of what’s above you… Well, my head hit the, shall we say, “unfortunately low” pedestrian crossing sign hanging off the pole! (sound of resounding whannnnng!)

Yup; you read it right – in my quest to safely avoid stepping in a hole, I hit the stupid sign with my head! And as an extra-special bonus, I hit it hard enough to see stars! (Ooh – lookit all the pretty colors!) Hey, about the only thing I can add is, it’s extremely lucky it was my head because there’s very little possibility of, y’know, major damage…

It wouldn’t have been so bad – except for, um, that amazingly loud WHAANNNNNGG! (sound of… well, you know). I mean, just about everybody within 100 feet of me heard it clearly, and turned to see me rebounding from my, er, close encounter. Sheesh, talk about embarrassing!

You know how, when you do something incredibly (and of course, publicly) stupid, sometimes the most prudent course is to act like nothing happened and just keep goin’ – while pretending you really meant to do that? Yup; it was sorta like that.

All I could do was keep walkin’ – pointedly ignoring the looks, the pointing, the suppressed giggles (not to mention the outright guffaws) goin’ on behind my back. I mean, what the hey, when you have no dignity left…

Anyway, the lesson learned (and I gotta tell ya; this was one lesson really driven home, uh, hard, if you get my meanin’) was pretty simple: Hey, no matter how important it may seem, don’t get so narrowly focused on that ‘thing’ that you lose track of everything else around you! I mean, you never know what delightful lesson the School of Hard Knocks has in store for ya…

Oh, and just so ya know – I just got notified by the NSoL (National Society of Lerts). Looks like I’m in.

OK, Enough About Me

So… have you ever tried so hard to be on the alert… but no matter how focused you thought you were, something (that in hindsight was absolutely obvious) waltzed right up and smacked you right upside the hatrack?

Has anything even remotely similar ever happened to you? C’mon, y’all; now’s your chance to come clean. Hey, we’re all friends here, right? (Er… just sorta ignore the fact that anything said on the Internet is, y’know, forever…)

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Photo: Aruba Hat, by Robert Hruzek

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[Fair Warning: Although the Middle Zone is, and always will be, G-Rated, I should still warn you; this post contains elements of a rather, um, manly nature. It's about an incident that occurred in a men's room. I'm just sayin'.]

It has been said, no doubt ad nauseum, that those who ignore the lessons of the past are doomed to repeat them. The good news, though, is that most of the time, when we make mistakes they aren’t all that big a deal, you know?

For instance, making a right instead of a left on the way to the store, forgetting to feed the cat – or even wearing white after Labor Day – well, you have to admit those are pretty innocuous. And in the long run, they simply don’t matter a whole heck of a lot. (Although wearing white after Labor Day may take a bit longer to get over.)

On the other hand, that time you forgot your spouse’s birthday, accidentally ran into that major client’s car in the parking lot, or when boarding a plane you asked the flight steward to hang up your “light jacket” and they thought you said “hijack”; well, stuff like that can get a little dicey, if ya get my meanin’.

One thing’s for certain, though; those are the kind of mistakes you’d better learn from the first time! Which brings us to the subject of today’s post… cell phone use and/or abuse.

Hey, all I can say is, whatever happens, don’t do this! Just sayin’.

My First Cell Phone

I got my first cell phone back in 2001. (Yes, I’m a slow adapter. So what’s your point?) Oh, it wasn’t because I really wanted to join the already vast hordes of the “instantly connected”, believe me. It was more like an emergency use thing, you know?

However, now that I had one hangin’ on my belt, I figured I might as well use it. So I decided to finally throw caution to the winds and give it a try. The honor of being the first victim recipient (after than Mrs. MZM, of course) would go to a good friend of mine whom I knew wouldn’t mind a getting a totally pointless call from me.

Now at the time, I was working in a rather cramped office building; one of those businesses you’ll find crammed into a somewhat dilapidated warehouse-like building. (It wasn’t the best place I’ve ever worked, but I’d been unemployed for awhile, and hey, it was a job!)

My first problem was finding a private spot to make the call. Like I said, we were crammed in there pretty tightly, so there wasn’t anywhere except the men’s room that had even a semblance of privacy. The only problem with that was, well, you know.

After wandering around the office for a while, though, I concluded there was simply no good spot available in the building. With no options inside, I did the next most obvious thing and headed out the front door. Alas, no joy there either. Unfortunately, our building happened to be right next to a major freeway, and the noise level was only slightly less than that of a jet airliner taking off.

The Echo Chamber

Finally, I gave up and said to myself, OK; the men’s room it is, and headed that way.

First thing, of course, was to make sure I was alone. Lesse now… nope; no feet showing under any of the stall doors. Although I felt like a first-class idiot, it had to be done. OK; so far, so good. Y’all still with me?

The other problem with using this particular location is the fact that every surface in the place is like it’s, well, specifically intended to reflect and magnify sound. To tell you the truth, it’s kinda embarrassing, really. If you walk in with, say, hard soled shoes on, the resulting multiple echoes always make it sound like an army came in the door with you. It’s distracting, to say the least.

Anyway, having ascertained the coast was clear, I pulled out my (sound of scream) cell phone and punched the speed dial. (Hah! Gotcha, didn’t I?) Wonder of wonders, it worked perfectly! Within moments, I was speaking with my friend.

Naturally, I didn’t mention my, er, current location. Yeah, I know; it’s not like cooties could somehow reach through the airwaves and, you know, get him or anything. But I’m guessin’ some folks are kinda weird about that sort of thing, so I sorta figured I’d keep that little factoid to myself.

Bad Habits

Unfortunately, the conversation went on… and on… and on… and I was dismayed to find that I suddenly had, you know, the urge.

Anyway, even that would have been no big deal (and he’d never have been the wiser) except for the fact that (and I promise, it was entirely out of habit) when I was finished, I reached up easy as you please and, well, flushed the danged thing! (sound of EXTREMELY LOUD WHOOSHING NOISES)

When it was over, I could clearly hear the stunned silence on the other end of the line.

My first inclination was to hit the “off” button. But after a moment’s thought I decided not to, figuring it would sound like I’d accidentally flushed the phone. Then, I thought about faking those hissing noises you’d hear when the connection starts to break up. Alas, by then several seconds had passed and I figured the damage was already done.

Finally, I hit upon the only solution possible, considering the, er, circumstances: Once the noise died down, I just picked up the conversation again as if nothing had happened.

Although I know he knew what had happened, my friend kindly played along. (What a pal!) And to this day, we’ve never spoken of “the incident”. But still; I knew he knew, you know?

Lessons Learned

I have to admit; that’s one lesson I’ll never forget! So what the heck; I’ll pass that one, and perhaps a couple more, on to you regarding cell phone use and abuse:

• Make the effort to find a quiet spot (preferably with little or no echo). It may take a while, but believe me, it’ll be worth it!

• Be aware of any background noises. Although you may not notice it, that jackhammer in the background may completely cover up that stock tip you’re tryin’ to pass along.

• While on the phone, use your inside voice. I’m constantly amazed at how many people are guilty of this one. C’mon; give those around you a break!

• And finally, er, whatever you do, please do not call me from the restroom!

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[NOTE: This post is my entry for my most excellent good buddy Brad Shorr's "Cell Phone Users and Abusers" contest. And, although I tell you this at great personal expense (because frankly it may reduce my chance of winning!), if you'd like a chance to win one of several cash prizes (up to $500!), then Bubba, you'd better click on that cute little link and read all about it!

P.S. If you decide to join the party, feel free to steal this badge!]

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Photo Credits:

No Cell Phones at Leland Inn Liquor, by John Kannenberg

Silence Cell Phones, by Lulu Vision

Ashes of Rude Cell Phone Users, by seamy @ flikr

Weird bald guy screaming on phone, by – I have no idea!

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