Recent Splats according to Miz Yank

The right way to talk turkey on Thanksgiving

Commentators discussing the 2016 presidential election have said things like, “The people spoke.”

Really? That strikes me as an overly euphemistic turn of phrase. From where I sit, we didn’t so much speak as let loose a big, ugly, collective hurl, one whose nasty contents spilled far beyond our polling places.

Frankly, we should’ve seen it coming. For more than a year our information diet consisted of gut-roiling junk, much of it doled out 140 characters at a time or in Facebook posts, because we didn’t demand anything of substance. After eating all that garbage, of course we got sick.

It’s going to take a long time to clean up this toxic mess, of course, but we shouldn’t let it touch Thanksgiving (or “Yanksgiving,” as I like to call it). This holiday should be about community, kindness, gratitude, and charity, and a meal that celebrates those things. My family will be celebrating the fact that I’m not cooking the turkey this year, for example. But I digress.

Right now a lot of people are asking how, if they’re surrounded by turkeys, they can make sure the only turkey that gets the stage on Thanksgiving is the bird on the table?

I offer two pieces of advice, the first of which was given to me by a dear friend: “When you least feel like giving is when you most need to give.” The friend in question said this when we were in the middle of an argument and the only thing I felt like giving him was a knuckle sandwich, but you know what? He was right then, and he’s still right. I forced myself to give, he forced himself to give, and slowly but surely, the giving created a positive loop and things began to get better.

What did we give each other?

  • The benefit of the doubt
  • Our full attention
  • Smiles
  • Gratitude
  • Calm
  • Kindness

We checked our snark at the door, ate humble pie, and generally acted like the adults in the room. And that’s what you should do, too.

HAHAHAHAHA! I’m sorry, I just cracked myself up, there, with that whole “adults in the room” thing. Who am I kidding? The only room we’re in right now is Romper Room, and the lone adult, Miss Sally, has gone on the lam.

Which brings me to my second piece of advice: get ready to channel your inner Mad Libber. No matter how hard you try to avoid it, someone might bring up one of those other turkeys, and when they do, you’ll need a diversionary tactic. You can’t just get up from the table – what if the pie hasn’t been served yet? – but you can change the subject, and this construction works well:

“LOOK, a [absurd noun]!”madlibs

For example, “LOOK, a UFO!” (I have another friend to thank for that one – it was his default response to any declaration of love.)

Speaking of alien life forms, “LOOK, Kanye West!” would probably work too. The more absurd, the better.

If you really want to sell it, as you’re mad-libbing, be sure to gesticulate wildly in the direction of the nearest door or window. And then steal the last bit of stuffing while no one’s looking. Go ahead, you earned it.

So you’ll survive Thanksgiving just fine. But unless you’re aiming for a career in politics, you can’t hide behind Mad Libs and diversionary tactics forever.

If you want to feel better in the longer-term, try that first piece of advice, and also consider cleaning up your information diet. Go out and get quality content yourself; don’t rely on others or social media to feed it to you. Find out where your information is coming from before you consume it. Check not only your source but your source’s sources. Not all purveyors of information are purveyors of fact, and even reliable sources get it wrong sometimes. Make your diet balanced, eat slowly, and take time to digest. And for Pete’s sake, if someone hands you a Twinkie, don’t let ’em tell you it’s kale.

Where do things go when they can’t go to the dogs?

When things weren’t going well, people used to say the country was going to the dogs. In another clear sign of the times, we can’t even seek refuge in that idiom anymore. Based on two items in the past week’s news, now we’re going to the squirrels.

Last Thursday, the Washington Post reported that a squirrel that had evidently gone off its nut bit an innocent bystander outside a retirement community in Florida. Not content to stop at a bite-and-run, the squirrel kept its dental grip on the victim and refused to let go. In fact, its teeth might still be sunk into that poor person’s flesh had the squirrel not paused to announce which scholarship it had chosen to accept from the law schools that had lined up with offers,

Okay, fine, that’s not exactly how things went. Desperate and panicked, the squirrel-bitten person ran inside the retirement home for help, squirrel still firmly attached. Once inside the facility, the animal was immediately mistaken for Donald Trump’s hair and avenged the insult by going “on a rampage.”

Okay, fine, that’s not exactly how things went, either.

Technically only the rampage part is true (though the squirrel’s defense attorney ought to be taking notes, here). The squirrel really did go on to bite and scratch three or four more people before a quick-thinking resident managed to capture and toss it outside. I find this particularly impressive, considering retirement homes are not usually known as hotbeds of quick thinking.

The victims were later treated for their bites but no rabies shots were administered, consistent with this guidance from the Center for Disease Control’s website:

Small mammals such as squirrels, rats, mice, hamsters, guinea pigs, gerbils, chipmunks, rabbits, and hares are almost never found to be infected with rabies and have not been known to cause rabies among humans in the United States. Bites by these animals are usually not considered a risk of rabies unless the animal was sick or behaving in any unusual manner and rabies is widespread in your area.

As the dedicated reader who sent me this article noted, we’re all fortunate this animal wasn’t behaving in an unusual manner, “like, for instance, terrorizing an old folks’ home.” Still, it’s probably best the squirrel wasn’t put down, what with it being a voter in a swing state and all.

The second squirrel news item came on Sunday, courtesy of the National Football League. During the third quarter of the Indianapolis Colts – Green Bay Packers game, a free agent squirrel outran its coverage and went sprinting across Lambeau Field.

Recognizing a golden opportunity to address its well-publicized viewership problems and reach the nation’s ADHD segment at the same time, the NFL immediately signed the squirrel to a multi-year contract.

Actually, they didn’t. But they knew a ratings bonanza when they saw it, so they cued up the “Born Free” soundtrack and let the squirrel run. This not only added some excitement for those of us at home but also gave mainstream media outlets like CBS Sports the opportunity to work phrases like “we got some varmint action” into their online reporting and fulfilled Phil Simms’s lifelong dream of doing in-depth rodent commentary (which you really oughtta watch, so I’m putting it right here).

So here it is, election eve, and we’ve gone to the squirrels. Probably because the dogs wouldn’t have us.

 

 

We all have reason to vote, and to vote with reason

The 2016 presidential election has left me feeling like an unseasoned drinker at a New Year’s Eve party who, on taking in way too much toxic garbage way too fast and way too soon, gets sick before the main event and doesn’t even care to witness it.

I’m far from alone: a survey conducted in August by the American Psychological Association found that more than half of the country is stressed out by this election. That was in August, folks. A whole two months ago. So anyone who’s surprised to learn that there’s a full house in the proverbial powder room just hasn’t been paying attention. This election has exposed rampant ugliness and intolerance, giving us little to cheer about and plenty of cause for disgust. Unlike a New Year’s Eve bash, though, we can’t avoid the nausea by choosing just to sit this election out: it’s way too important.

I always vote, but I belong to no party and I’m not thrilled with my current choices (sounds suspiciously like my dating life, doesn’t it?). If you’re in the same boat — wondering how to decide which button to push when both candidates are pushing your buttons, dismayed that you can’t vote with your heart because your heart isn’t in it, wanting to pull the rip cord instead of the lever — here’s what worked for me when I voted this afternoon: pure, simple reason.

We haven’t seen much of reason during this election — evidently it didn’t make the guest list, and I don’t blame it for not wanting to crash this particular party –but I forced it to join me in the voting booth today. I’m glad I did, too, because reason reminded me that competence matters more than likability, and so does sanity. Reason encouraged me to tune out false equivalences, like the notion that stability equals status quo, or that experience equals establishment. Reason likewise recognized that both candidates have shown susceptibility to influence-peddling (as have nearly all politicians) and prompted me to reject that as a basis for comparison. Reason also warned me that, if I really mean it when I say this election is important, I shouldn’t make my vote irrelevant by casting it for an independent or write-in. In short, reason made my choice easy, if not fun. I suspect it could make a lot of people’s choices easy, if only they’d let it.

The one thing reason didn’t do was call me an Uber so I could leave this awful party. And I really want to go home now, because something tells me we’re all in for a long, nasty hangover.

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“Think before you speak” might be good advice, but it makes for very dull stories

We’ve all said things we wish we could take back.

One of my all-time doozies came up last night while I was having dinner with my friend, “Eric,” who’s going through a divorce. Eric and I agreed that, even when everyone involved knows divorce is the right answer, it’s still a miserable soul-grinder of an experience. Experts often liken it to a death, complete with the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance (though all five do not necessarily occur, nor do they happen in a particular order). That comparison has always made sense to me, I think divorce can also involve a sixth phase: decency. During the decency phase, one or both parties make a concerted effort to be cordial, if not pleasant, and to resist the urge to malign the other person. As with the other phases, this one can only last for so long, and it can be baffling.

My divorce had a decency phase. As I told Eric, it happened early and, like the marriage itself, was startlingly brief. The Lawnmower and I had separated in late July of 2011, on terms that were, how shall I say, suboptimal. But we had a house to sell together –through the For Sale By Owner process, of course, because using an agent would have inflicted an insufficient amount of real estate misery for a special occasion like divorce –and a property agreement to negotiate. If decency could help us unload the Yuppie Prison and knock out a contract, I was all in favor of it. I gave it my best shot, but aspiration proved much easier than execution.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband and I were barely two weeks into the decency phase when the Lawnmower’s birthday rolled around. This presented me with a decency dilemma: should I say something? On the one hand, we had separated and were preparing to divorce, so the etiquette gods would surely show me mercy if I chose to stay silent. On the other, I knew it was his birthday, and he knew that I knew it was his birthday. I remember the birthdays of my immediate family and significant others unassisted, and separation hadn’t erased his entry in my mental calendar. Just the opposite, in fact. As I thought about unwinding our joint life, the days that used to hold special meaning for us hovered in the front of my mind like floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Even if I managed to pop them, they’d take a while to deflate.

Since I couldn’t claim with a straight face that I’d forgotten the LM’s birthday, ignoring it could seem intentional, an insult. The decency campaign might not survive that kind of threat to its existence. I needed to keep it alive, so I decided to say something. But what?

I typed, “Happy birthday, Mark.” On my laptop screen it didn’t even look sincere. That period was fatal. Delete.

“Happy birthday, Mark!” Nope. The exclamation conveyed exuberance, which reflected either tone deafness or a very bad attempt at irony. Neither interpretation would help my cause. Maybe a greeting was a terrible idea.

My brain kept chewing on it and then, as only a lawyer brain could do, took that terrible idea and made it worse by adding a comma and a dependent clause.

“I wanted to wish you happy birthday, under the circumstances,” I typed. Before I could second-guess it, I clicked “send,” ending my internal debate. An email from the LM arrived moments later.

He’d written, “Thank you, under the circumstances.”

Eric howled with laughter when I got to the punchline. Even though that email hadn’t done me any good when I sent it five years ago, it helped Eric last night, so I was glad I brought it up. It was, after all, only the decent thing to do.

I’d have been better off sending him this, slice removed and all.

 

For crying out LOUD!

Parkinson’s Disease is a thief and a jerk.

It purloins capabilities its victims have relied on every day for their entire lives — fine motor skills for buttoning shirts, flexible face muscles for smiling, a steady hand for writing –and when it does, those people know they’ve been robbed. But they might not notice when the disease starts to make off with their voice; PD steals it in tiny increments and so masterfully they can’t even detect what they’re losing.

My father was diagnosed with PD in 2007, and a few years ago, Team Yank began to observe a gradual softening in his speech. That really troubled me, because a booming voice had always been one of Dad’s trademarks. The boom wasn’t something he achieved on his own, mind you: my siblings and I spent our formative years helping him hone it to perfection, inspiring him to create at-home classics like, “ARE YOU DEFYING ME?” and the soccer field favorite, “GET THE LEAD OUT!“. When the four of us got the lead out and went to college, the boys of American Legion Post 176 carried on our tradition, giving Dad a chance to share his gift on the baseball field. He’s been doing that for more than twenty years, and he hasn’t let PD stop him, but it’s been a while since I’d heard him challenge anyone’s defiance. I’ve missed that boom.

A friend suggested we look into a PD-specific form of speech therapy called LSVT LOUD.

LSVT LOUD improves vocal loudness by stimulating the muscles of the voice box (larynx) and speech mechanism through a systematic hierarchy of exercises. Focused on a single goal “speak LOUD!” – the treatment improves respiratory, laryngeal and articulatory function to  maximize speech intelligibility. The treatment does not train people for shouting or yelling; rather, LSVT LOUD uses loudness training to bring the voice to an improved, healthy vocal loudness with no strain.

Treatment is administered in 16 sessions over a single month (four individual 60 minute sessions per week). This intensive mode of administration is consistent with theories of motor learning and skill acquisition, as well as with principles of neural plasticity (the capacity of the nervous system to change in response to signals), and is critical to attaining optimal results. The treatment not only simulates the motor system but also incorporates sensory awareness training to help individuals with PD recognize that their voice is too soft, convincing them that the louder voice is within normal limits, and making them comfortable with their new louder voice.

“You’ll see instant improvement,” my friend said.

A bold claim, indeed, and one my father has decided to test. But as you may have gathered from the description above, there’s no such thing as “LOUD lite.” You have to go all-in. When I try to put myself in Dad’s shoes, I imagine taking on LOUD requires some serious guts, not to mention commitment. Fortunately, Dad has both of those in spades and he started last week.

Team Yank never sends anybody out on the field solo, so Mom has gone with him, listening and taking notes at every session. Because it’s always a good idea to have a reliever on your staff, I joined them today. I went not because they needed me in the bullpen but because phone conversations with Dad had proven my friend right  –the results have been immediate and impressive –and I wanted to see what makes the magic happen.

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This graph gives the PD person a visual way to compare how they sound to their own ears against how the world hears them.

What makes it happen, I learned, is effort, patience and perseverance, on the part of both the patient and the instructor. Dad’s instructor, Matt, kicked things off with several rounds of “Ahs” and “Yahs.” It’s a quasi-singing exercise that encourages the mouth muscles to open wide and helps strengthen breath support so that volume reaches and stays within the 70-80 decibel range. Attaining and maintaining 70 dB – normal social conversational volume –is no small feat if PD’s had you operating at 60 dB (which is about as loud as air being pushed into a room through a healthy HVAC unit). The computer screen showed Dad his volume so he could get used to the level of effort 70-80 db requires. After that, Matt transitioned Dad to repetitive pitch exercises and more quasi-singing. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is if you’re Dad and your singing up to this point was limited to command performances of img_0182“Happy Birthday.”

Dad warned me, “It’s the worst singing you’ll ever hear,” but I reminded him that we still have my sister Lynne, and that gave him enough reassurance to keep going.

Speaking of pitch, that’s a baseball term to Dad. So when Matt told him during a Week 1 session that he needed to work on his pitch, Dad started to move the office chairs aside so he could wind up his fastball unimpeded. Matt must have thought he was about to witness an interpretive dance routine. They cleared up the confusion in short order, but the comic relief was welcome.

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The Valley View voiceover copy. I can’t blame Dad for busting out the red pen.

I wasn’t treated to any of those wacky hijinks today, but I did get to hear Dad do multiple readings of the advertising copy for Valley View, a car dealership trying to move some SUVs. The idea is to generate lots of enthusiasm, consistent with the genre, and practice inflection. My father is not a form-over-substance kind of guy, so he could not resist making some copy edits as he went.

The best part of the whole thing for me was hearing Dad practice over and over again some of the sayings my three siblings and I have been hearing ever since we can remember, like, “Is the Pope Catholic?””Does a wild bear poop in the woods?” and my personal favorite, “You’re still in the top four.” He sounded like himself, and tears threatened to form as I thought about how proud I am of what he’s doing and who he is. And if he keeps this up, he’ll be booming at me again in no time.

As we walked out of the office and to our cars, I asked Dad to say one more thing for me, loud. He nodded, happy to oblige.

“Make sure you get your next car from Valley View Automotive!”

Yep, that sure sounds like Dad.

 

 

 

I won’t judge you…unless you’re wearing a costume

I live in a cohesive community that reminds me in all the best ways of Orange Hunt, the neighborhood where I grew up. As in good ol’ O.H., neighbors here know one another and people take care of each other. But my current neighborhood has something O.H. didn’t: a community-owned park at the end of a street. That’s where I once again judged the annual Halloween costume contest, which took place today.

My neighborhood brought me back by popular demand, if we count as a demand last night’s neighborhood-wide email blast seeking people who are “interested and highly qualified. Or reasonably qualified.” I volunteered before they lowered their standards to “reasonably alive.” But I did it with some reluctance because my 13 year-old niece, Emily, couldn’t come. She had joined me last year in a zebra outfit and under the pretense of taking notes, but really, I wanted her there for backup in case things broke bad.

Though I didn’t have my backup zebra this year, I didn’t have to go it alone after all. As I was walking out the front door, I ran into Sue, my neighbor’s mom. She had come to town to see her granddaughter walk in the parade and nobly answered the call to the reasonably qualified. I was happy to see her. I like Sue a lot, but more importantly, she’s smaller than I am and was wearing a homemade ghost costume whose eye holes tended to rove. I felt certain I could outrun her if the crowd turned on us.

At 10 a.m., the parade got underway, led, as your better parades are, by a Jeep-driving Captain Hook. Behind him walked an inflated T-Rex, princesses, a ballot box with legs, Kraft Macaroni-n-Cheese, superheroes, a donut, George Washington, Greek goddesses, a punk rocker, french fries, a president, a farmer and his barnyard animals, Harry Potter and Hermione, a UPS crew, the entire cast of Toy Story, owls, a cheeseburger, and scores of other costume-clad revelers. The Arlington County police lent their support by dressing up as themselves and clearing traffic from the parade route. The parade culminated in the park, where the other judges and I circulated to get a closer look at the costumes that piqued our interest. Forty-five minutes later, the judges huddled to determine the winners.

As I’ve said before, wearing an inflatable shows extraordinary costume commitment.

As in Olympic figure skating, we scored based on presentation, required elements, and the ability to stay vertical while wearing an absurd outfit. After three minutes of agonizing deliberation–twenty seconds of which was spent rearranging Sue’s eyeholes–we had our winners

Captain Hook took to the dais (French for “unoccupied picnic table”) and silenced the crowd so the head judge could announce our results.

The winners I remember are:

  • Kraft Mac-n-Cheese: Were the creators going for irony with a homemade costume depicting America’s favorite processed powdered cheese side dish? We didn’t know and we didn’t care. Like most people, we love mac and cheese in any form.
  • The cast of Toy Story: they had it all, and it looked like they’d made it all. Or at least most of it. It’s hard to get close enough to inspect for “Made in China” labels without committing a serious personal space violation.
  • A family of monkeys: This looked to me like a faithful rendition of life in a zoo, or family mealtime. Either way, a few hurled bananas would have upped the authenticity.
  • The farm: We overlooked the fact that this farm’s chicken was strapped into a stroller –so much for free range eggs –because the cow and pig were so darned cute.
  • A graveyard bride: dressed all in grey and black, I imagine this is how I look when I haunt my ex-husband’s dreams. Mwahahaha.
  • The UPS crew: On person’s Amazon trash is another person’s UPS truck, loaded up with all kinds img_0161of cargo and a pig in the passenger seat. The driver, a toddler who lives on my street, refused to get into the truck. I don’t blame him; I’d be grumpy about working Saturdays, too.
  • The ballot box: By the time we announced the results, she was nowhere to be found. Either she’d gone off to stuff herself or she’d walked off with the election. We’ll never know.

And though he didn’t win, my personal favorite was this one:

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Yep, that’s an “A” that flashes on and off, making him…A-blinkin’.

I texted this pic to my family, eliciting responses that reflect the national mood right now.

L.J.: “Is he running for President? Because if he is, I’ll write him in!”

Lynne: “Me too! He has my vote!” She didn’t even ask about his email protocol.

Suzi: “At this point I would even vote for the UPS truck or the mac and cheese!!” Perhaps she thinks the mac and cheese would better represent us than the current orange candidate. I cannot disagree.

L.J.: “UPS delivers the goods!”

Like this annual event, that slogan is a real winner. Now if only we could find the ballot box.

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Me and Sue. She calls it a costume, I call it the Judge Protection Program.

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Like my creds?

If you can’t follow your heart, try following some people on Twitter

I have really come to appreciate Twitter lately, but not for the reasons you might think. Sure, this social media outlet breaks vital news the instant it happens (#NewGrumpyCatVideo) and is the only medium that moves fast enough to keep pace with every newly hatched Trump election conspiracy in real time (#RiggedBigly). But that’s not why I’m on it. I love Twitter for “Who to follow,” the helpful feature that suggests other Twits, Tweeps, or whatever term the kids use for people whose feeds might interest you.

Twitter pays attention to the company I keep and often points me to writers, podcasters, and people promoting important new products like the Catterbox, a collar device that translates your cat’s meows to human speech. Those people are right in my wheelhouse.

(You just went to Catterbox.com, didn’t you? I don’t blame you one bit; I don’t see how you couldn’t. Perhaps you, like me, were disappointed to see that all it has are a bunch of videos showing the device in action. Nobody cares about that. What we really want to see is footage of owners trying to affix the Catterbox to their cats. Anyway, no need to thank me for bringing this to your attention in plenty of time for holiday shopping.)

But Twitter has also given me a bunch of less obvious suggestions. Those people seem to fall into one of the following five categories:

  • Mommy bloggers
  • Venture capitalists and entrepreneurs
  • Travelers
  • Psychics (is that a sub-genre of “Travelers”?)
  • Bots and Trolls

I have to say, I don’t quite get it.

The mommy bloggers seem to be lovely people, but once you get past the blogging, we don’t have all that much in common. Yes, there was that time recently when my niece’s eye scare gave me a whopping dose of vicarious parenting. Beyond that, though, I don’t write about how to make vegetables go incognito at dinner, nor have I ever lactated. And I doubt all that many mommy bloggers care to read about my niche speed-dating episodes gone bad. If these moms are following me, they’re probably keeping their distance.

I’m also not sure why Twitter thinks I should follow venture capitalists and entrepreneurs. I don’t want my capital to venture; other people’s capital can go wandering off like a high school student in a gap year, but I want mine to stay put. And while I admire entrepreneurs, given my ongoing and possibly unhealthy addiction to a regular paycheck, I’m more likely to start lactating than start a business.

As for traveling, I enjoy it very much, as evidenced by my recent trip to Italy with Mom. But most of the travelers Twitter suggests aren’t like me; they travel full-time and got their gigs by selling everything. I don’t know about you, but I travel to go on vacation. Traveling full-time while keeping an eye on my funds as they dwindle like hourglass sand sounds suspiciously like work, that thing that pays for the trips I take to escape it.

The psychics and paranormals are so entertaining that I don’t really care why Twitter thinks I should follow them. For example, here’s the profile for Adrian Lee, a guy who checks all the otherworldly boxes and then some:

Acclaimed author, founder of (TIPS) The International Paranormal Society, psychic, and host of the ONLY paranormal news quiz show – More Questions than Answers.

A paranormal quiz news show called “More Questions than Answers”? If there’s a better game show name out there, I don’t want to know about it. Though it would also be a great name for a show about my dating life. (You can find MQTA here. You know you can’t resist.)

And speaking of my love life, to the bots and trolls, I say thanks but no thanks. That’s what online dating is for.

 

The image of this happy cat is brought to you by Gadgetgo.com http://gadgetgo.info/2016/05/10/catterbox-is-a-cat-translator-collar/

The image of this happy Catterbox model is brought to you by Gadgetgo.com 

 

To write off, or not to write off? That is the (dating) question

As co-hosts of a podcast about dating and relationships, Philippa and I sometimes receive messages from listeners seeking advice. To show that we take these questions seriously (a statement we can’t always make about the answer), I’ll address in this forum one we received recently. But first, a little background.

Our listener, “Lisa,” was visiting friends out of town when she met a Person Of Interest (“POI.”). Though they didn’t get to spend a lot of time together, Lisa and the POI really hit it off and agreed they wanted to see each other again. When Lisa returned home, she and the POI texted. During one of those exchanges, Lisa mentioned she’d found cheap airfare and could easily arrange a trip to the POI’s town. The POI said he’d like that but didn’t ask about dates or show other signs of enthusiasm. She volunteered a date. The texts began to decrease in both frequency and verbiage –he’d been busy, he wrote. He had not spoken of the proposed date. Then, a week or so after they’d last seen each other, he called her. It was a bold escalation in medium (or an act of aggression, if you ask Philippa). That date Lisa had suggested? Not good. He offered a vague excuse and, instead of proposing another date for her trip, said he’d figure out a time to come and see her.

Lisa is in her 40’s and not a dating novice, so she interpreted this to mean he’s seeing someone where he lives. The drop in text frequency and quality fit that theory, and she was ready to chalk it up as a loss. (I would have, too.)  Then, last Friday night at 9 or so, the POI sent her a “hey hot stuff” text. That might not have been weird if his other messages had been like that, but they hadn’t. In fact, there hadn’t been many other messages at all, so she figured “hot stuff” referred to someone else –I would have, too –and didn’t respond.

Two hours later, he texted again: “Nothing? I figured I’d at least get a laugh.”

A laugh? Why? Because she’s not hot stuff? Lisa scratched her head and responded that she was at dinner with a friend. Almost exactly 24 hours later, POI sent another erudite text: “hey hot stuff.” I suspect by then Lisa was hot. She didn’t respond. (I wouldn’t have, either.) He texted Sunday night to ask if she’d written him off.

She saw it when she woke up Monday morning and, before her caffeine had a chance to kick in, wrote, “No, just didn’t think those texts were meant for me.” She probably expected an explanation of some sort in response. (I would have.) Instead, she got: “How are you today?”

She wrote, “OK, *now* I’m writing you off.” Actually, she didn’t. That’s what I would have written. She’d already responded with a benign, “Fine, thanks” before she turned to us, so that golden opportunity was blown. Leaving that aside, the fact that Lisa came to the two of us for counsel -one of us a humorist and the other such a ghosting expert someone once referred to her as “Casper Hughes” –tells you a lot, namely: she came to the right place.

As a human being, I feel obligated to give her practical advice: I don’t think she owes the POI anything, not the benefit of the doubt or responses to future texts. They’ve spent little time together and don’t have the same level of interest in keeping something going, so it seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth. Let it die of natural causes.

But as a humorist, I say: KEEP THE TEXTS ALIVE! And respond only in haiku, releasing one line at a time, every few hours. Had she followed that advice, she’d have responded to “how are you?” like this:

Fine! How you doing?

Wait, I meant *who* you doing?

Wait, who are you, yo?

So, Lisa, thanks for asking. We wish you the best of luck in dating, and remember those three little words: hey hot stuff.

Some things are classics, like Jane Austen, The Beatles, and…’80s Prom fashion

For Christmas a few years ago, my brother gave me a book called 642 Things to Write About. I interpreted it as a loving gesture intended to help me hone my craft. He may have meant it as a way to get me to stop writing about my family, in which case he should’ve known that I’m not one to pick up on subtle hints. Besides, I’ll be happy to stop writing about them just as soon as they stop generating material.

But it was a fantastic gift –I’m gonna keep some of these questions in reserve for first dates — and today, Philippa and I are blog-dueling on one of my favorite of the 642 prompts:

What did you wear to Prom? How did you get your outfit, and what happened to it? 

In 1989, when I was a senior at Lake Braddock Secondary School, Prom was a rite of passage; nearly everyone wanted to go, including me. But wanting to go wasn’t enough: I needed a date. With no boyfriend and all of my guy friends spoken for, I started to stress. My good friend Kevin, aware of my situation, did some work behind the scenes and arranged for his pal “Bob” to ask me. Bob and I were acquaintances–  I’d always thought he was cute and nice –so I said “yes” and shifted the focus of my stress to getting a dress.

Fashion was not my forte, but it was one of the multitude of things my eldest sister, Suzi, did perfectly. She was always on point, even when the point seemed to have no point. (Popped collars, anyone?) Her sartorial skill even earned her the nickname “Fashion Plate” from my father. Though I didn’t exactly know what that kind of a plate was, I inferred that if Suzi was a plate, I was a bucket. A bucket with a massive hole at the bottom. The Plate, who was in her fourth year at UVA in Charlottesville, sensed my plight and offered to take me shopping without my even having to ask. I had only one criterion: I didn’t want my dress to look like everyone else’s.

“Then come down to C’ville and we’ll go shopping here,” she said. So I did.

Together, we went to Fashion Square Mall, affectionately referred to as “Fashion Scare,” and visited every store that carried dresses. Whatever allotment of patience was supposed to have been spread across me and my three siblings, Suzi got all of it, never seeming to tire of coming up with candidates for me to try on. To my untrained eye, though the dresses tried to combine different elements – sleeves poofed in direct proportion to the wearer’s bangs, bows capable of covering not just a butt but an entire zip code, ruffled bottoms – they all wound up looking the same. And they came in shiny, saccharine-sweet pinks, greens and blues that made my teeth hurt. I didn’t exactly know what my taste was, but I knew it wasn’t that. Suzi knew it too.

Eventually we wound up at an all-dress joint whose name escapes me, where my sister managed to pluck from the masses something my eyes would have skipped right over: a long, straight, black, strapless number with white piping along the top and a black and white skirt-like, slightly ruffled thing at the waist. Suzi informed me the functionally irrelevant skirty thing was a peplum (coincidence that it bears a close phonetic resemblance to “pablum”? I think not.). I guess the dress needed something to help it compete with my shelf of bangs. Regardless, Suzi nailed it. She’d found a dress that was not only different but made me feel grown-up and somewhat sophisticated.

Remember these?

On Prom night, Mom helped me get ready and then she, Dad, my brother and I went to the living room to take pictures while we waited for the limo bearing Bob and four of his friends to show up. Little did we know we would have had time not only to take photos, but to drive to the nearest Fotomat and have the film developed while we waited because, two hours after the appointed time, Bob still hadn’t arrived.

Am I being stood up?, I thought, just as my father said, “Do you think you’re being stood up?”

Mortification caused me to spontaneously combust, so now you know what happened to the dress.

I’m kidding, of course. Spontaneous combustion was a prayer that had gone cruelly unanswered.

I got the phone book and called one of the other girls, who said, “You mean Bob didn’t call to tell you they just left Scott’s house?” Uh, no, he didn’t.

When Bob finally arrived, I vaporized him on the spot. I’m kidding, of course. Vaporization was just another unanswered prayer. (For Bob too, if I had to guess.) Our group went to dinner and made it to Prom just before it ended. It still counted.

It took me a little while to thaw out, but after graduation, Bob and I stayed friends and went off to UVA. The dress did, too. I wore it to a formal in the Spring of 1990, with my then-best friend, Paul, as my date. Say what you will about the dress, but that particular friendship never went out of style.

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As my friend Michelle put it, “Your dress is the least offensive by far.”

 

MRIs and other good vibrations

I recently wrote about seeking medical treatment for pain in my neck. During the appointment I had last week, the doc took X-rays and explained that dehydrated discs were causing several of the vertebrae in my neck to rub together. He explained that this is not good, using technical language that I translated it as, “Your spine was designed by someone who stinks at Jenga.” He then referred me for an MRI to get a better look at what might be causing the pain.

That post drew an outpouring of heartwarming concern from kind readers, along with an offer from my father to put me out with the trash. I decided to go for the MRI and keep that offer in reserve.

For the uninitiated, MRI stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. According to WebMD, it is a “test that uses a magnetic field and pulses of radio wave energy to make pictures of organs and structures inside the body.” It sounds vague, but benign, the precise combination I aim for in my legal writing. In reality, you basically lay on a stretcher inside a gigantic magnet, wearing an antenna contraption that bears some resemblance to the halo your mom attached to your angel Halloween costume when you were four.

Golly, why would this inviting machine make anyone nervous?

MRI exams make some people anxious and claustrophobic, an understandable reaction to an experience akin to a 45-minute test-drive in a coffin with limited stereo options. Don’t worry if you’re one of these people and find yourself fighting the urge to flee; the lovely MRI people have straps to help keep you still. And as we all know, nothing puts an anxious, claustrophobic, coffin-bound person at ease like a nice set of restraints.

Fortunately, I didn’t require those. Having spent a fair amount of time in mascot suits, I am not prone to claustrophobia. And if you want to make me anxious, you’ll have to come up with something a lot scarier than MRI, like marriage. In fact, the MRI I had in 2011 triggered not anxiety or claustrophobia, but narcolepsy. Yes, I fell asleep. The technician hadn’t been happy about it at the time- I guess I didn’t stay entirely still while asleep, and maybe he couldn’t hear the machine over my snoring.

So I went into this MRI determined to stay awake. As the scan got underway, it seemed the coffin’s radio was tuned to the “Sounds of VDoT” station, on which a band comprised entirely of jackhammers was performing a cover of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” A few minutes later, and without my consent, the station changed to “1980’s Arcade Game Noises.” PEW PEW! PEW PEW!

No sooner had my Space Invaders craving been ignited than the coffin switched stations again, this time to “Zoo Instrumental Classics.” For five minutes straight, I listened to what sounded like a monkey banging on a coconut with a ball peen hammer.

For the finale, the coffin landed on “Trapped Underwater,” featuring the dulcet song of a humpback whale in distress. No wonder I fell asleep last time; it was a defense mechanism.

I’ll get the results on Monday afternoon, which is perfect because the trash goes out on Tuesday.